“Scout suits?” he asked, reaching that point.
“One floor down, in the boy’s clothing.”
Near the stairway they encountered a friendly looking man in black, standing with his hands clasped behind him.
“Hey, mister,” said Roy, “we are boy scouts and we’re lost. It’s getting late and we have to get back to our boat before dark. We can’t seem to hit the right trail and we’re afraid we’ll starve if night comes on. We want to find the place where they sell scout suits.”
The man laughed pleasantly and resting his arm over Roy’s shoulder, went part way down the stairs with them and pointed to a scout suit on a wooden form at the other side of the store.
“There you are,” he said, smiling.
“We thank you,” said Roy.
“Don’t lose sight of it,” suggested Artie.
“We’re all right now,” said Tom.
Reaching the elusive spot, they found themselves at last at the haven of their desire, for there was the wooden boy scout facing them, his stiff arm raised and his painted fingers sticking upright in the scout salute, as if to greet the tired wayfarers, who sank down, panting ostentatiously, upon a bench close by.