It was not likely that Warde Hollister would forget his note book, for his habit of keen observation and a knack he had for full and truthful description had won him the post of troop scribe which Artie Van Arlen’s duties as Raven patrol leader had compelled him to relinquish.
“If it’s seven miles there,” said Warde, plainly elated at the thought of accompanying them, “all I’ll have to do is to write my little description when I get back and there you are.”
“A first class scout,” said Pee-wee, quite as delighted as his friend.
“It says fourteen miles there and back,” said Roy. “Maybe it’ll be seven miles there but we don’t know how far it will be back. Sometimes it’s longer one way than another. You never can tell.”
“You make me tired,” said Pee-wee.
“All right, you’re so clever,” said Roy; “how far is ten miles?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You’re crazy,” Pee-wee shouted.
“Answer in the affirmative,” said Roy. “There’s a grasshopper, get out your note book.... Do you know what he did once?” he asked, turning to Warde. “He wouldn’t jot down a fountain in Bronx Park because he didn’t have a fountain pen–”