“Good shot!” he heard a cheery voice call.
Gordon turned, and there, as sure as you live, stood Arnold.
There was no doubt about it. There was the blue flannel shirt with the double row of pearl buttons. There was the thin book-strap for a belt, and there was the full scout’s badge, not on his sleeve, but on the front of his hat. There was the seamanship badge on his right arm. There was the Beaver neckerchief tied in the celebrated Beaver knot. There was the leather wristlet. It was Arnold, all right.
“H-hello, Harry,” gasped Gordon; “what—where did you come from?”
“Where did I come from? Why, from the station—on a fool hunt after you. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Just throwing stones.”
“Do you know you’ve missed the train?”
“I knew that fifteen minutes ago.”
“Well, you’re a—”
“No, I’m not, Harry,—now just hold on a minute,—I started down—”