“The pleasure is mine,” said Roy, with an elaborate bow.
“But may I ask what a pote is?”
“Sure, a pote’s a scout that writes pomes.”
“I see. And a welk?”
“Well, you see it’s this way,” said Roy, undaunted. “The welkin is the sky, and welk’s short for welkin. Get me? I was just trying to dope out how to fit that in when Pee-wee grabbed me.”
“We shall have to make you poet laureate of the troop,” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“The Bridgeboro Bard,” laughed Garry.
“Do you think if I sent it to Boys’ Life they’d print it?” Roy asked.
“Sure, they would!” yelled Pee-wee.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Ellsworth, cautiously. “I doubt it. You might try. They have printed worse things,” he added.