“Maybe somebody laid a frankfurter there,” suggested Gordon.
“More likely it was an oily rag out of a motor-boat. Now, kindly keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen; the show is not over.”
But Gordon, heedless, had taken a flying leap, and was sniffing the spot with inquisitive enthusiasm.
“I smell it! I smell it!” said he. “Oh, Harry, I smell it! It’s gasoline! Eureka! Excelsior! or whatever they call it!”
“I think not,” said Harry, quietly. “It was a wipe rag. Probably the engine went on strike—as it naturally would if Walden monkeyed with it. I never thought Walden’s bungling would be any use, but I believe he’s done us a good turn here. Let this be a lesson to you, my son, never to smoke cigarettes.”
“Harry,” said Gordon, dramatically, “I never shall. But kindly tell me what that’s got to do with a motor-boat—or with Walden, either—he doesn’t smoke.”
“No, nor any other scout. And you show me a fellow that smells an oil stain in the open air after two days of rain, and I’ll deduce for you whether he smokes cigarettes or not. You can take that little sermon from your patrol leader, and if you don’t believe me, ask Red Deer.”
“If I ever see him again, Professor Arnold.”
“You’ll see him again, all right,” said Harry, examining the grease spot. “Do you understand Latin?”
“I can tell if there’s any quinine in a prescription, Harry.”