“For once I agree with you, Betta,” answered Thistle. “March back to the Chickadee, every Scout of you, and see that you don’t wallow in that mud puddle.”
“But the prince?” inquired Wyn. “Is he to walk through ordinary mud puddles?”
“No. Of course not. You and the other big girl, Treble by name, are to carry him. Avaunt!” ordered the leader.
“Oh please——” protested Nora; but in vain. She was upon the shoulders of Wyn and Treble before she had a chance to finish her useless appeal.
“Put your royal arms around me,” chanted Treble.
“If you don’t you may be dumped,” warned the other slave.
“Listen!” ordered someone. “Here comes the whole camp! Are we out after hours?”
“If we are we can plead emergency,” explained Thistle. “How could we wait for permission when someone was moaning to death?”
They took up the march in real earnest. As faithful Scouts they always kept to regulations and found pleasure in doing so. Only Nora’s call of distress had lured them away as darkness was setting in.
“Please let me walk,” begged Nora. “I know you must get back as quickly as you can, and I am sure I have given you enough trouble.”