“We’ll come again to-morrow or the day after, Harold, and teach you more ‘stunts’; I mean some other things, besides knot-tying, that a boy ought to know how to do,” said Nixon as a filmy haze hovering over the edges of the woods warned them that it bore evening on its dull blue wings.
“Aw right!” docilely agreed Harold; and though he shuffled his feet timidly, like the “poltron” or craven, which Toiney had in sorrow called him, there was a shy longing in his face which said that he was sorry the afternoon was over, that he would look for the return of his new friends, the only boys who had ever racked their brains to help and not to hurt him.
Before their departure he had learned how to tie three knots, square or reef, bowline and the fisherman’s bend. He had likewise admitted two more persons within the narrow enclosure of his confidence—the two who were to liberate him, the éclaireurs, the peace scouts of to-day.
And, for the first time in his life, he had awkwardly lifted his cap and saluted the flag of his country as it waved in miniature from the planted staff.
That afternoon was the first of several spent by Scout Warren and his aide-de-camp, Coombsie, on the little farm-clearing in the woods, trying to foster a boyish spirit in Harold, to overcome his dread of mingling with other boys, to awaken in him the desire to become a boy scout and share the latter’s good times at indoor meeting, on hike, or in camp.
When the date of the second meeting drew near at which seven new recruits were to take the scout oath and be formally organized into the Owl Patrol, they had obtained the promise of this timid fledgling to be present under Toiney’s wing, and enlist, too.
“I wonder whether he’ll keep his word or if he’ll fight shy of coming at the last minute?” whispered Nixon to Coombsie on the all-important evening when the other recruits led by their scoutmaster marched into the modest town hall, a neutral ground where all of diverse creeds might meet, and where the members of the local council, including the doctor and Captain Andy, had already assembled.
“If he doesn’t show up, Nix, you won’t be able to pass the twelfth point of test for becoming a first-class scout by producing a recruit trained by yourself in the requirements of a tenderfoot,” suggested Marcoo. “You’ve passed all the active tests, haven’t you?”
Scout Warren nodded, keeping an anxious eye on the door. Having been duly transferred from his Philadelphia troop to the new patrol which had just been organized in this tide-lapped corner of Massachusetts—where it seemed probable now that he would spend a year at least, as his parents contemplated a longer stay in Europe—he had already passed the major part of his examination for first-class scout before the Scout Commissioner of the district.