The Cubs put out the fire, covering the smoking coals with loose dirt. Their knapsacks loaded, they soon were ready to hit the trail.
“Now remember, boys,” Mr. Hatfield warned as the group approached the Jones dwelling, “even if you are suspicious, don’t make any accusations. Jack already is in a bad spot.”
“If we complain that he stole our food, Mrs. Jones might send him straight back to the Institute,” added Brad. “We ought to be dead sure of our ground before we open our lips.”
Smoke curled from the chimney of the widow’s house, so the Cubs knew someone was at home. The yard remained untidy, reminding them that they still had a Saturday task before them.
However, there was evidence that someone had been doing considerable work. Kindling wood had been cut and cord wood neatly sawed and stacked by the sagging porch.
Mr. Hatfield rapped on the door. In a moment, Mrs. Jones appeared in her kitchen apron, smiling as she saw the Cubs.
The Cub leader politely told her he had come to inquire how Jack Phillips was getting along.
Immediately Mrs. Jones looked troubled. “That boy!” she exclaimed. “If I haven’t had a handful!”
“I hope he hasn’t been giving you a bad time,” Mr. Hatfield returned.
“Well, yes, and no. There’s good stuff in the lad, but he’s a problem.”