“Oh, we intend to use it,” Fred assured the group of admirers. “We’ll play Indian games and act out pioneer stuff. Maybe put on a little play.”
The Cubs were a bit impatient for the singing, the promotion ceremonies and other events to end. Eyeing the array of chocolate, angel food and spice cakes on the long supper table, they scarcely could wait until the moment came to eat.
Dan noticed that Chub seemed rather downcast. Sidling over to the younger boy, he asked him what was wrong.
“Nothing,” Chub mumbled.
“You’re not having a good time.”
“Yes, I am,” Chub insisted. “Wonderful!”
“Well, you don’t act like it. Your face is as long as a roller towel. What’s eating you?”
“Nothing,” Chub said again. And then he went on hurriedly: “It’s only that—that all the other Cubs have a mother and Dad here tonight. I’m all alone.”
“Sure, I know how you feel.” Dan clumsily flung an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. “But don’t you care.”
He very much wanted to ask Chub about his mother and father. But recalling Mr. Hatfield’s advice not to ask questions, he remained silent.