Gordon was conscious of the suggestion of “jollying” in these remarks, and his answer was not altogether tactful; but he had been touched in a sensitive spot, for he could tolerate no question as to Harry’s all-round proficiency.
“He can do anything he tries,” he said vehemently. “He’s been down Long Island Sound in a canoe; he lived in a lumber camp—he was lost in the Canadian woods once—he knows all about South Africa—he swam three hundred miles, I mean yards—and shot the rapids—and—and—he can make a rice pudding!” That was the best he could do for Harry on the impulse of the moment, and he paused to take breath.
“Did he use his rifle when he shot the rapids?” asked one boy, quietly.
“He’s been on a log jam, too,” shouted Gordon.
“That anything like currant jam?” inquired another.
“He can lick any scout in—”
“Let up,” said Al, still pacing the ground thoughtfully, and the whole thing went up in a general laugh. It was Gordon’s fate always to be jollied, which meant (if he had only known it) that everybody, especially older boys, liked him. And on the present occasion it was done largely to relieve the suspense of waiting.
Suddenly, however, Al paused and addressed the group: “Scouts, I suspect Walter has been robbed—by whom I don’t know. I shouldn’t like to say that I suspect any one in particular, but it looks funny. If the things our friend here noticed mean anything, they mean that whoever tampered with the bridge and then went through Walter’s pockets after he fell, came in this direction till he reached the road on the other side of the hill. If there had been any trail over the hill, I think our young friend here would have found it. Now, if somebody turned into the road and went north, he’s making a long circuit to Dibble Mountain. There’s no crossroad, and he’ll come out on the road where this fellow’s friend—”
“He’s patrol leader of the Beavers,” said Gordon.
“Yes,—where the Beavers’ patrol leader is supposed to be waiting.”