“Yes, but logically he oughtn’t to have succeeded,” laughed Mr. Wade, “and Ethan Allen ought not to have succeeded. There was something wrong somewhere. If I were a military man and had a force of regular soldiers under me in that old fort, do you suppose a pack of undrilled backwoodsmen could land under my very nose, fire off a patriotic speech, and take the fort without the loss of a single life or the shedding of a drop of blood? No sirree!”
They all laughed at his good-natured vehemence, and he laughed himself, for at such times he was no more than a boy among them.
“Oh, but it was great, though!” cried Gordon. Harry said nothing; he was idly whittling a stick, and thinking. He hoped Gordon would not have the same thought, and blurt it out. He was thinking that if this thing could be done once without the shedding of a drop of blood, it could be done again.
“The last two weeks in August,” he said to himself. “I wonder what Red Deer will think of it.”
It was natural enough after this that the camp-fire “yarns” should turn on the history of the famous lake, of the old forts at Ticonderoga and Crown Point, and the story of the reckless, adventurous Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys. Thus the evening passed, the cheerful fire crackling and lighting up the solemn woods and shining upon the faces of the merry company. They sat later than usual, in honor of the two guests who were to bid them farewell in the morning.
Gordon and Harry had the tepee to themselves, and the next day, early, they took their leave of the hospitable camp. But first they went in to see Walter Lee, who was to sit up that day. They had seen but little of Collins, the “First Aid” boy, and now the three sat about the injured scout’s couch and talked. Harry liked Collins immensely. When they rose to go and had shaken hands with Walter, Harry lingered a moment. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. “You remember when you passed us in the train, you made me the full salute? How did you know I was patrol leader?”
Walter’s hand went up to a slightly frayed buttonhole in Harry’s flannel shirt. “I guess that’s where you fasten the lanyard of your patrol whistle, isn’t it?”
Harry smiled. “You’ll do,” said he.
Gordon paused to lean down and speak confidentially to the invalid. “We can’t make him wear a belt,” he said, “and he won’t wear a khaki coat, either. He’s very funny about some things; well, good-by.”
Mr. Wade gave them a letter to be delivered to Dr. Brent, alias Red Deer, and bade them a hearty good-by, with many hints to be used in their search for the needle in the haystack. The three patrols stood together and gave them a great send-off. But not the full troop, either, for seated by the roadside over the hill, they came upon Frankie and his faithful follower, Giant George.