“That’s pretty nice lettering you do, Heinie,” I said, pausing to watch him.
“Och, I don’t got no good light,” he complained, intent on his work.
“I don’t see how you can hold your brush steady, reaching so far,” I observed.
“Dot I got no troubles mitt. On life-boats I could paint names when der oashun iss big mitt wafes all rough. But diss, no. I don’t got no good light.”
“Tenderfoot Rest” I read aloud. “Tom’s full of ideas, isn’t he?”
“Ideas, yess,” said Heinie as he worked: “but efficiency, not.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said, rather resentfully.
“I know about it; diss he didn’t got. Nice boy, good scout—sure. But⸺”
And Heinie shook his head.
“Why, look what he’s done here,” I said. “He’s inspired us all to hustle—even me. Look at the camp—all these cabins. I don’t think you ought to speak like that, Heinie. Tom likes you; he says you’re a wonder.”