The expression rang in Harry’s ears. It was the scouts’ own motto.
He pressed his way through the crowd and stood, face to face, with his scoutmaster and several members of the committee.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly; “we are prepared.”
You could have knocked Red Deer down with a feather. As for Walden and Charlie Greer and “Brick” Parks—you should have seen them. Vinton, the Hawks’ corporal, stood gaping like an idiot. Then the sudden appearance of Gordon broke the spell and turned the whole thing into a laugh.
“Did you come up in that yacht?” asked the astonished Red Deer.
“Yes,” said Harry. “We’ve been tramping around the country, looking for you. How’s Mac—what’d he do, just faint? Hello, Burt, how’s everything? Morrel, you’ve got your octagon staff along, haven’t you?”
“Do you wish to enter this fellow?” some one asked, while the crowd clustered about.
“Will you try it, Harry?” asked the doctor.
“What do you suppose we came up in a private yacht for?” asked Gordon, who, being, as you might say, mascot of the troop, enjoyed the special privilege of “talking up” to the scoutmaster. “There’s a magnet on that yacht.”
“A what?” said Dr. Brent.