GORDON PENLEY
MEN’S OUTFITTER
BUFFALO
N. Y.
“So he came from Buffalo,” said Tom. “That’s a blamed funny thing, that is!”
He sat on the rear seat of the Ford, resting and enjoying for a few moments the dim cosiness of the little ramshackle enclosure. It wasn’t half bad in there—a pretty nifty little bunk, he thought. He contemplated the hat where it lay on his knee. “A blamed funny thing.”
He did not mean that there was anything funny about the owner of the hat coming from Buffalo. What astonished him was that this young man, evidently a camper and one of the great scout fraternity, should flee from the auto upon the approach of someone. This fellow was too old to be a scout. A boy (Scout though he be) might prowl and investigate where he has no business to, and run if discovered. Boys do those things. But a scout official? A camp manager? Or a scoutmaster? Hardly.
This fellow was evidently of the scoutmaster age; that is, he was a young man. He would knew the scout laws (Tom knew them) and the scout standard of honor. Yet he had escaped and fled when discovered. Why? He did not seem to have done anything wrong. Tom had (and I shall be glad if he reads this) an easygoing though fine sense as to the point of honor. He certainly would not have thought it wrong for a stranger to take shelter under the protecting drapery of his old Ford. He’s a pretty good sort of sport, Tom is.
So that is why he gazed at the hat and mused. “That’s a mighty funny thing when you come to think of it.”