“Sure, maybe it’ll be like the shot heard round the world,” said Pee-wee.
“Or like the music of old Ichabod Crane, which they say is still heard in Sleepy Hollow,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Perhaps it will be heard months hence.”
“Blow for him, anyway,” said Roy. “He’ll come some day, you can bet, and we’ll all wish it at the same time, while you’re blowing, Tom. Go ahead!”
Tom raised the bugle to his lips laughing, and as he blew lustily the echo of its attenuated final note was borne back with the freshening night breeze, like a faint answer from the encompassing hills.
“He is here,” said an impassive voice.
They all stood staring, the scouts still at their places and those clustered about Tom, and saw Garry Everson standing in his place in the characteristic attitude which was familiar to them all, one hand on his hip, the other in his pocket.
As they stared at him, Jeffrey Waring, gulping nervously, rose from his seat and stood beside him for a second. Then, at Garry’s nod, he moved around to Tom’s side.
“Tell him your name,” said Garry, smiling, “They’ll want it for the bugle, you know.”
“My name is Harry Stanton,” he said, hesitatingly, but seriously.
“And you fellows,” said Garry quietly, “had better take him home to his mother and father before you make any other plans. I’m not going to do your work for you. I’ve done my part. It’s for you to take him back. May I look at that bugle?”