There’s just one fate for the scout,
And the hayseeds, too,
And when we’re through
They’ll look like all get-out!
There were loud congratulations from the occupants of this launch to the victorious crew, whom they boisterously pulled into their craft. The two heroes, who, it was plain to see, were crack rowers, joined them in a most complicated and idiotic conglomeration of rah, rah, rahs, cisses, booms, and the usual vocabulary of victorious athletes.
But the program had taken on a new interest for Harry and Gordon, and they awaited the next heat with some suspense. To be sure, it was likely enough that a town the size of Plattsburgh would have a troop of scouts, or, for that matter, there might be a troop even in such a little village as Port Henry. But the Oakwood boys had never given this a thought, until now it appeared that a crew of scouts was to row in the second trial.
“That’s a pretty good one on you boys,” laughed Mr. Danforth, referring to the placard. “What scouts do they mean, anyway?”
“You’ve got me,” said Harry. “I don’t know; there must be a troop, or at least, a patrol, organized somewhere round here. They’ll never outrow that blue-sweater crowd, I can tell you that.”
“Well, that’s a good taunt, anyway,” Mr. Danforth laughed.
“I think it’s insulting,” said Miss Crosby; “and it’s perfectly dreadful poetry.”