The heavy breathing of deeply interested listeners greeted the end of his story.
“That’s better’n ‘Dashing Charley or the Pawnee Scout,’” exclaimed Sammy Addington. “How many’d they kill?”
“Being a regular scout must be great,” suggested Connie. “But I guess they ain’t no really scouts now exceptin’ soldiers.”
“What’s the matter with this idea?” broke in Mr. Trevor earnestly. “And that’s why I asked you here. Why don’t you boys become Boy Scouts?”
Wider opened eyes and then a babble of voices indicated that the question had made a deep impression.
“You bet!” were the first intelligible words, and these were from Art.
“What’d you have to do?” added Connie. “Can anyone be a Boy Scout?”
“Do they have regular guns?” chimed in Sammy.
“Any boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen,” Mr. Trevor explained. “And all you have to do is to organize yourselves, select a leader and learn and obey the Scout laws. But,” he went on, turning to Sammy, “they don’t have guns. However, they do have a very useful scout staff—good, stout long sticks that come in handy for a lot of things and that are especially good on long hikes. There’s a fine uniform, too, that every boy loves. First there’s the Baden-Powell hat.”