It was now the ambition of his life to be a Second Class Scout; he thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, and he wrestled with a dogged persistence with those things in which he was not skillful because they were not in his line.
It was in the interest of this ambition that he joined Mr. Ellsworth one morning as the latter was starting out from camp on one of his “auto confabs,” as the boys called his strolls, for on these he was wont to formulate new policies and schemes and, as a rule, he went alone.
“Come along, Tommy boy,” said he cheerily. “Got something you want to say?”
“Yes, sir. I think I can do that tracking stunt in Paragraph Four an’ if I do an’ make it a good one, I was wondering if—I s’pose—would you—would you think those potatoes I cooked yesterday were all right?”
“Very fair, Tommy.”
“Would it pass for Test Eight?”
“Oh, I think maybe so; we all have our specialties, Tom.”
“I’m a little shaky on first aid.”
“I guess you can get away with that all right.”
“Well then,” said Tom, “there’s only one thing to prevent—that is, if I do the tracking stunt.”