“Everything is literal to Tom, Chief; he sees only two colors, black and white.”
There was another pause.
“Why don’t you eat a little something, Chief?”
“No, not to-night, Roy. I can’t. If that thing is true—if there’s no explanation, why, then my whole structure falls down; and John Temple is right.” His voice almost broke. “Tom is either no scout at all or else——”
“Or else he’s about the best scout that lives,” interrupted Roy. “Will you ever forget how he looked as he stood there? Hanged if I can! I’ve seen pictures enough of scouts—waving flags and doing good turns and holding staves and looking like trim little soldiers——”
“Like you, Roy,” smiled Mr. Ellsworth.
“But I never saw anything like that! Did you notice his mouth? His——”
“I know,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “he looked like a martyr.”
“Whenever you see a picture of a scout,” said Roy, “it always shows what a scout can do with his hands and feet; he’s tracking or signalling or something like that. There was a picture that shows the other side of it. You never see those pictures in the books. Cracky, but I’d like to have gotten a snap-shot of him just as he stood there with his mouth set like the jaws of a trap, his eyes ten miles away and his hand clutching that battered old Handbook.”
“I’m glad you dropped in, Roy, it cheers me up.”