“You can’t deny that, Roy,” spoke the big heart of Pee-wee Harris. “He’s supposed to look before he leaps.”
Roy smiled. “Well, what are we going to do?” he asked.
“Are you asking me?” Warde queried.
“Sure, I’m asking you. It’s Blythe’s picture, isn’t it?”
“You’re patrol leader and I’m a second class scout,” said Warde. “What do you say to do?”
“What do you mean, a second class scout?” Roy demanded, his voice full of feeling. “I don’t want any better scouts in my patrol than you. I’m asking you what we’re going to do.”
“All right, I’ll tell you,” Warde said. “We’re going to keep still until we’re dead sure. We know what kind of a fellow Blythe is, and they don’t, I mean the sheriff and police and those people. We know he’s a good friend. Sometimes when you look at a picture it reminds you of someone, and the next time you look at it, it doesn’t–”
“That’s right, Roy,” Pee-wee urged with great vehemence, “because once I thought a man looked like George Washington and afterwards I saw he didn’t. So you see.”
“We’re not going to tell about this to-morrow and maybe not the next day,” said Warde. “We’re going to make dead sure. Then if we have to, we’ll have to, that’s all. Blythe isn’t going to run away and I don’t think they’re likely to take that notice down for about forty-eleven years. We don’t want Mr. Ellsworth blowing into that post office; not yet. I’m not worrying about my scout rank, that can wait too. I’m thinking about what we’ve lost–maybe. I’m not thinking about what I wanted to get. Everything–it looks like–everything is changed–all the fun and–what do I care about the old badge?”
Thus spoke Warde Hollister, second class scout.