"Bunny!"
"Yes?"
"Would—would he train me?" gasped Prissler. "I—I think I am just beginning to understand you Scouts, and—and"—the words came out in a torrent—"and—Oh, Bunny, I want to be a Scout!"
Bunny jumped up and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Why, Bonfire will be tickled to death to train you; yes, sir, plumb tickled to death! Do you mean it, Prissy?"
The sick boy could only nod dumbly, but there was undeniable happiness in the eager bobs of his head.
For ten minutes more, the two were deep in the intricacies of Scoutcraft. When Bunny finally rose to go, the patient was breathing rapidly, and his cheeks were flooded with color.
A day or two later, Bunny met Doctor Maxwell on the street.
"I don't pretend to understand young Prissler's case," the physician said; "but he's taken the most marvelous turn for the better. He will be out of the hospital in a week now. As nearly as I can diagnose the improvement, something has aroused his interest in the outside world again. Something has restored his faith in mankind, and made him want to live and help and be helped. I suspect—" And the man laid an approving hand on Bunny Payton's shoulder and left the sentence unfinished.
"By the way," he added, "what about Hallowe'en? I forgot all about it, and nothing in the way of results happened to remind me of the occasion. Didn't you boys get out? Or was the night a failure?"