BORROWERS' LUCK
With something of an effort, Bunny wrenched his gaze from the back of the disappointing automobile and turned to Specs.
"No, not everybody," he said, striving hard to be cheerful. "There's the peddler, you know; he isn't busted any more—quite!"
"What peddler?" The farmer lifted an inquiring head.
Everybody squirmed uncomfortably. It was the code of the Black Eagle Patrol not to talk about the good turns it did, because that sounded like bragging. But the farmer was persistent. Bit by bit, with question and guess and prompting, he pieced out the story: how the boys had found the peddler on the road, with his second-hand wagon that had come to grief; how he had confessed he had no money for the necessary repairs; how the boys, because they were Scouts and it was their duty to do a good turn when they could, had given him their last cent and sped him on his way rejoicing. When the last scrap of confession had been dragged from them, the farmer held out his hand to Bunny.
"So you are the patrol leader, are you, Payton? Well, I am glad to know a boy like you. Jenkins is my name; Alfred Jenkins."
Gravely, Bunny introduced the other Scouts. "And this is young Prissler," he concluded. "He is training to be a tenderfoot, and just as soon as there is a vacancy in the patrol he will be taken in."
"So?" Mr. Jenkins nodded understandingly. He scratched at his beard. "I reckon," he added, "you get a lot of satisfaction doing good turns like that. By ginger, I'd like to have that feeling myself. If the old 'bus would only run—"
"What's the matter with it?" demanded the practical Specs.
Mr. Jenkins spread his hands helplessly. "I wish I knew. But I'm no mechanic. She's just dead; dead on her feet, you might say. Won't go. Won't even start."