“I can’t seem to make up my mind,” Roy went on, studying the tempting printed list. “Aren’t mad, are you?”
“Me?” said the man. “No, indeed, I’m glad you’re so happy.”
“We’re not happy,” said Roy. “We laugh, ha-ha, and dance ha-ha, but we’re not happy. I think I’ll take—let’s see—I’ll take—I think I’ll take—chocolate. Happy thought, that’s my patrol color!”
Tom paid for the sodas and Roy bought some peanut brittle. The man smiled after them as they went out.
“The natives on the island seem to be friendly,” said Roy.
“That’s a good idea,” said Artie, “picking out your patrol color.”
“Sure,” said Roy. “I’m going to write to National Headquarters and tell them to print a rule in the Handbook—next edition.”
“What?”
“Don’t you know what an edition is? You know what a dish is? Well——”
“Rule,” said Artie. “‘Scouts buying sodas should always select their own patrol colors’?”