Doc. Carson, who was of all things observant, noticed a set appearance about Tom’s jaw and a far-away look in his eyes as if he neither knew nor cared about any of those present.
“I s’pose if we was to search ye we wouldn’t find nothin’ on ye t’ shouldn’t be thar?”
“I am a scout of the sec—I am a scout,” said Tom, impassively. “No one will search me.”
It would be hard to describe the look in Mr. Ellsworth’s eyes as he watched Tom. There was confidence, there was admiration, but withal an almost pathetic look of apprehension and suspense. He studied Tom as a pilot fixes his gaze intently upon a rocky shore. Tom did not look at him.
“Ye wouldn’t relish bein’ searched, I reckon?” the constable said with an exasperating grin of triumph.
Then the thunderbolt fell. Calmly Tom reached down into his pocket and brought forth the little class pin.
“I know what you want,” he said. “I didn’t know first off, but now I know. You couldn’t search me—I wouldn’ leave—let you. I could handle a marshal, and I’m stronger now than I was then. But you can’t search me; you can’t disgrace my patrol by searchin’ them—or by searchin’ me —’cause I wouldn’t lea—let you. Get away from me!” with such frantic suddenness that they started. “Don’t you try to take it from me! I’m a scout of—I’m a scout—mind! Where’s Roy?”
“Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, his voice tense with emotion.
“Where’s Roy?” the boy asked, ignoring him.
Roy stepped forward as he had done once before when Tom was in trouble, and they made an odd contrast. “Here, Tom.”