I knew he was going to do some crazy fool thing, how could I stop him? I could see that Tripler, or whatever his name was, was kind of nervous, but Hervey had him following like a little dog. That’s Hervey. He went sauntering up through Cabin Lane, swinging his stick and shouting:
“Early to bed and early to rise,
And you’ll never meet any regular guys.”
I could hear sounds of scouts moving in the cabins, but a lot he cared. By the time he got to Official Bungalow there were about a dozen sleepy looking scouts with us, with their clothes all endways and their hair all rumpled—they were a wide-awake looking lot, I think not.
“What’s he up to now?” one of them gaped.
Gee williger, Hervey looked like a what-do-you-call-it, one of those knights of old standing in front of a castle.
“Search me,” I said to one of the fellows. “He reminds me of Sir Building Lot, or whatever they call him, in the tales of King Arthur.”
“Mr. Arnoldson!” Hervey shouted. “Oh, you Mr. Arnoldson, come out here and apologize to me before I start home! Wake up, you old boob!”
“Cut it out,” I said to Hervey; “you mind what I tell you now.”
He just kept shouting, “Come on out if you’re not ashamed to face me! Come on out till I put it all over you! Oh, you Arnoldson; come on out and take back what you called me! Come on out if you want me to accept your apology! Come on out if you want me to apologize your acceptance! Don’t be afraid of the dark! Come ahead out! Oh, you-u-u-u, Mr. Arnoldson, come on out; it’s nice and foggy!”