In Scottsville the dinner hour was at noon. While most of the perspiring scouts were engaged at this meal, several of them received telephone calls from their leader.
“They’ve come!” was the excited announcement. “I got a letter. We’re accepted for the Boy Scouts an’ they’s a certificate—‘Scottsville Patrol No. 1—Wolves.’ The uniforms mebbe is at the express office now an’ the books. Hurry up an’ come to my house.”
“Don’t forget to tell the boys,” said Mr. Trevor to his son, immensely pleased over the interest the boys were showing in his plan, “that the sick boy was hungry this morning and ate a little broth. I don’t know whether one’s good wishes can help another but if they can, the Wolves ought to make our patient get well.”
“You bet we’re a-pullin’ for him all the time. Say, father,” exclaimed Art, “when Bonner gets well why couldn’t he be a Boy Scout if he stays here? He ain’t too old.”
Mr. Trevor’s face showed surprise and then the surprise turned into a smile.
“There isn’t any reason, if he wanted to, and you boys selected him and liked him. I don’t believe he has ever had a real home or any boy life. However, I wouldn’t suggest it to the other boys until he is much better.”
But the eager young scouts had to content themselves with their charter that day. The eagerly awaited uniforms did not come. In the late afternoon discouraging news from the sick room reached those in the garage, where aeroplanes were again under discussion. The sick boy had begun to show some temperature, a bad sign, and both doctors were “going to operate.” But it wasn’t quite so bad as that.
A small fragment of a spruce upright had been taken from young Bonner’s back. Both doctors made another examination of the injury. As they feared they discovered a second splinter which was only removed after an incision had been made. It was exhausting to the suffering boy, for an anesthetic was not administered, and those in the garage below could hear the sounds of his suffering. But from that time the boy began to mend.
All the Wolves were at the depot the next morning when No. 28 came in. There it was, dumped off the express car as carelessly as if it had been ordinary merchandise—one large box for “Mr. Alexander Conyers.” The driver of the express wagon knew what it meant and with a grin promised immediate delivery at Connie’s home. On the corner of the big box was a glorious label. It read: