“What would you call a good turn?”
“Oh, now you’ll have to find out for yourself,” Gaylong drawled; “scouts are supposed to be resourceful, you know. There are big scouts and little scouts. Harris is a big one—tremendous. I could name you a fellow pretty near six feet high who’s a little one. If you drop a cent he’ll pick it up for you and jot it down in his scout memo. book. You can’t expect me to tell you what’s a good turn. I’m just a kind of an observer here—war correspondent. Only if you’re filling little Harris’s place be sure you do fill it. Then we’ll all live happily forever after. Poke her nose in toward shore, what do you say? They’re all around the camp-fire. Looks pretty, doesn’t it, reflected in the water. Well, it’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”
“I’m not going to weaken,” said Billy Simpson.
CHAPTER XXII—THE VOICE OF SCOUT HARRIS
Billy Simpson did not immediately follow Brent Gaylong to the camp-fire but stayed to haul the canoe up and put the paddle and lazy-back in the locker. He was very particular to disabuse his mind of the remotest thought that this was a good turn. Brent Gaylong had started him thinking, as Brent Gaylong had a way of doing. Brent had not even offered to attend to this trifling duty. Billy paused a moment, paddle in hand, pondering. He could see the ambling figure of his friend, visible as in a spotlight, as he approached the campfire. He heard a chorus of merry voices greet him.
“Here’s old Brent!”
“Look who’s here; old Grouch Gaylong!”
“Tell us a yarn, Brent.”
“Go on, tell us a funny one.”
“Good old Brent! Sit down here with us; take this milk stool.”