“He doesn’t say, I suppose?” asked Becker.
“No; it’s just the curt invitation. He’s hedged it about with all sorts of prohibitions, but still it’s wonderful he should have come around at all.”
“It’ll be corking for the troop!” exclaimed Becker, enthusiastically. “That’s the one thing we’ve lacked, and if–”
At that point Tompkins passed beyond the range of their voices, but he had heard enough to rouse his curiosity. Fortunately this did not have to remain long unsatisfied. After the opening exercises the scoutmaster faced the three patrols, a small sheet of paper in one hand.
“Attention, scouts!” he said crisply. “The troop will be much pleased to learn, I’m sure, that Mr. Grimstone has given us permission to use the north side of his lake for camping purposes.”
For an instant there was amazed silence. Then a bedlam of surprised comment arose, mingled with a torrent of eager questions, which Mr. Curtis did not attempt to quell.
“Well, what do you know about that!” “Hurrah for old Grimey!” “Can we skate there, Mr. Curtis?” “Will he let us swim in the summer?” “Can’t we go out this Saturday?” “How did you work it, sir?”
“One at a time,” smiled the scoutmaster. “I’ll answer the last one first. I didn’t ‘work it,’ as you so pithily express it, Vedder, at all. I’ve failed several times to get this privilege from Mr. Grimstone, and his letter this morning was as much of a surprise to me as to any one. He doesn’t state the reason for his change of mind.”
A shock of sharp surprise sent the blood tingling into Dale Tompkins’s face and clenched his hands spasmodically. “Gee!” he muttered under his breath. “I wonder– Why, it must be! But I never thought of that–not for a minute!” He paused an instant, his gaze growing introspective. “He certainly is one good old scout,” he murmured to himself. “I said his bark was a lot worse than his bite.”
Then he realized that Mr. Curtis was speaking.