"Norris can drive the other car back if I get mine," interrupted Scoutmaster Ned. "He has a license; now are you all satisfied?"
They saw that under his persistent good nature he was worried and preoccupied, and like the good scouts they were, they said no more about going. They knew the pride he took in his Hunkajunk auto. They knew that his one thought was of that now.
Yet Scoutmaster Ned Garrison's sense of humor was ever ready, even in anxiety or disappointment. It was that which endeared him to his troop, whom he was forever denouncing and contemplating with a kind of mock despair. He called them an infernal rabble and they loved him for it. He was a new kind of a scoutmaster. And I honestly believe that when Scoutmaster Ned thrust that leather case containing his revolver down into his pocket, if he could only have known that it was for the purpose of shooting Pee-wee Harris, he would have laughed so hard that he would have capsized the rowboat.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ON THE TRAIL
The boat glided swiftly through the dark water.
"Nick will get the silver cup for that stunt," said Norris.
"He'll get a punch in the eye if he doesn't have a car for us," said Scoutmaster Ned.
"I wonder how he did."
"Town hall," said Scoutmaster Ned; "that kid thinks quick. If he'd only learn to tie a knot he'd be a scout. Vernon's a pretty good kid, though; he's better than Mount Vernon anyway. Pull on your left a little, Bill. What's the matter; got the sleeping sickness? Pull straight for that light."