“Still, it’s just as Mr. Wendell says,” remarked Clay Marshall. He was tall and rather quiet, and took his new position as leader of the Owl Patrol very seriously. “They’ve never had a chance.”
“They’ve never asked for one,” returned Cavanaugh. “This—er—Tallerico is the first one I ever heard of who showed the slightest desire to belong.”
Bill McBride laughed.
“Well, I don’t know as you can blame them for that. You know how much the fellows run in sets in this town. I don’t suppose even those chaps would try and push themselves in where they think they’re not wanted.”
Cavvy frowned impatiently.
“That’s not the point,” he retorted. “They haven’t tried; anyway they’re not the sort we want. Can you imagine Red Garrity a scout?” he added triumphantly.
There was a momentary silence and into the minds of those present there flashed a picture of the ragged, red-haired, pugnacious young tough in question. A leader of his kind, he smoked and swore and lost no chance to jeer openly at the scouts whenever they crossed his path.
“Humph!” grunted Ted Hinckley. “At present he don’t seem very promising. But I’ll tell you this, old man; if he ever got the scout bug, he’d make a crackerjack.”
“You make me sick,” sniffed Cavvy. “He’d never get the scout bug, as you call it—never in a thousand years.”
By this time they had reached the center of the town and paused in front of the Post Office.