“Proceed,” I said with quiet dignity.
“Now what do you say to that place for a scout camp? You’ve heard a lot of talk—Mr. Temple himself started it—about a training camp for scoutmasters. There’s the spot, made to order! What I want you to do is talk to Mr. Temple about it, so as he’ll talk with the local council—maybe the national council.”
I am afraid that I must have looked very practical and sober to poor Tom. I remember laying my open hands finger to finger with the first fingers against my pursed lips as I contemplated him rather dubiously. “Want me to speak to Mr. Temple?” I queried ruefully.
“Sure, why not?”
“Hmph,” I mused. “But tell me, Tommy boy, why does Mr. Harrison McClintick, the leather king millionaire, want to sell his romantic camp in the wilderness?”
“Now you’re talking,” said Tom. “Listen⸺”
“Let’s go indoors and listen,” I said, rising.
“There was a tragedy up there,” Tom said.
“Well!” I commented. And then, happening to glance out toward the street, I said, “Do you know that man standing near your car, Tom?”
“He looks like a hobo,” Tom said.