"Tom," he finally managed to say, "I—I came alone because—because I wanted to come alone. I wanted to meet you all alone. I—I know all about it, Tom—I do. None of the fellows will bunk in these cabins till you—till you—come back—they won't. Not even Barnard's troop. I'm sorry, Tom; I see how I was all wrong. You—you can't get away with it, you can't Tom—because I won't let you—see? You have to come back—we—we can't stay there without you——"
"I told you you wouldn't lose anything," Tom said dully.
"Yes, and it's a—it's a lie," Roy almost sobbed. "We're losing you, aren't we? We're losing everything—and it's all my fault. You—you said we wouldn't lose anything, but we are. Can't you see we are? You've got to come back, Tom—or I'm going home with you—you old—you old brick! Barnard wants you, we all want you. We haven't got any scoutmaster if you don't come back—we haven't."
Tom Slade who had chopped down trees and dragged them up the hill, found it hard to answer.
"I'll go back," he finally said, "as long as you ask me."
And so, in that pleasant afternoon, they followed the trail back to camp together, just as they had hiked together so many times before. And they talked of Peewee and the troop and joked about there not being anything left to eat when they got there, and Roy said what a fine fellow Barnard was, and Tom Slade said how he always liked fellows with red hair. He said he thought you could trust them....
Let us hope he was right.
The Tom Slade Books
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of the ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS