“We’ll all volunteer not to hike,” said Roy. “Let the scouts in the books do the hiking.”
“I will,” said Grove Bronson.
“He hasn’t got the railroad fare,” shouted Roy.
“All right,” said Artie, “you and I’ll hike together, Grove; we’ll take the north turnpike—”
“Be sure to put it back when you get through with it,” said Roy, “and give our kindest regards to the animated animal cracker and if you’re going to hike from Deadtown to camp the best way is to follow the Franklin Turnpike as far as Idaho and take the second turn to your left. That’ll take you into the Great Salt Lake. Don’t hurry, take your time.”
“The pleasure is ours,” said Artie.
“If you don’t get to camp till next summer it’ll be all right,” said Roy. “Tell Pee-wee he’ll find us near the lake and we hope he’ll drop in.”
CHAPTER VII—MENTAL TELEGRAPHY
Thus it happened that while Scout Harris, friend and champion of the dumb creatures, was preparing to receive the tribute that was due him, two scouts of his patrol were tramping along the dusty road as the sun went down, on the last part of their long hike to North Deadham. They crossed the frontier of the village unnoticed. The only sentinel there was a rooster on a fence and he was asleep at his post, or rather his perch.
The invading column passed through McCrockett’s Lane and rested under a weeping willow tree, where they kindled a little fire and brewed some coffee and fried some bacon. If the weeping willow could but have known their business it would have laughed rather than wept.