“Well, Connie,” said the scoutmaster, in a half-indulgent tone that was not altogether complimentary, “you’d better come along with us to camp.”
“Will you—will you—see my mother?”
“Ye-es—guess so.”
“He—he won’t die—will he?”
“After forty or fifty years he might,” said the scoutmaster. “Here, walk along with me, and tell me how you came to shoot that rifle.”
[Chapter XVIII]
Mrs. Bennett Comes Across
Connover told him the whole story. In his extremity he felt drawn to Mr. Ellsworth though he showed it in a more effeminate way than Tom had shown it, and the readiness with which he made the scoutmaster a refuge rather jarred upon Mr. Ellsworth. Tom, at least, had never gone to pieces like this.
But the scout movement draws its recruits from every direction, and Mr. Ellsworth was the ideal scoutmaster.
“Well, then you think you wouldn’t like to kill Zulus, after all, hey?”