Brent Gaylong understood Pee-wee, and he understood Temple Camp. The next day, as if by accident, he fell in with Billy Simpson. Gaylong had a kind of genius for falling in with people by accident. Billy was scrutinizing a rock along the trail which went up through the woods to the main road.
“Scout signs?” Brent queried.
“Looks like a turn to left sign,” said Billy, still absorbed in it; “but I don’t see any trail to the left, do you?”
“Why don’t you get one of the fellows to help you, Simpson? I mean, to show you the trails around here. Any one of them would be glad to. Must be kind of hard, doping things out by yourself.”
“I guess that’s the way I’m made,” said Billy.
“You know, Simp—”
“That’s a good name for me, I guess.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” said Brent, lifting himself lazily onto a stone wall in a familiar, friendly way. His very manner of doing this encouraged Simpson to do the same.
“You know, Simpson, you can’t expect two hundred fellows to run after you. You’re only one; you’ve got to run after them.”
“Don’t rub it in,” said Simpson, “I know I’m not popular.”