It was the first time that Tom Slade had grasped anyone’s hand in many a day.
“Tom—Tom Slade,” he said, hitching up his suspender.
“So? Mine’s Ellsworth. Come up to the Library building and see us some Friday night—the boys, I mean.”
“Oh, are you the boss o’ them regiment fellers?”
“Not exactly the boss; scouts we call ourselves.”
“What’s a scout? A soldier, like?”
“No, a scout’s a fellow that does stunts and things.”
“I betcher you kin do a few.”
“I bet I can!” laughed Mr. Ellsworth; “you said it! I’ve got some of those boys guessing.” Which was the plain truth.
“Drop in some Friday night and see us; don’t forget now.”