But Tom did not hand him the bugle. He stood rooted to where he stood, staring like an idiot.
Some one stooped and picked up the bugle which had fallen to the ground.
CHAPTER XI
GARRY’S STORY AND HARRY STANTON’S
It was around the glowing camp fire on that memorable night that the wondering boys heard Garry Everson’s simple, unboastful tale of the new kind of first-aid which had helped him to solve the mystery of Jeffrey Waring and put Tom Slade in the way of realizing his fondest dream—that of returning Harry Stanton to his young sister and his home.
“If we looked like beans, I’d say you were trying to string us,” observed Roy, as he sat in his familiar posture near the fire, his knees drawn up and his hands clasped about them. “It beats anything I ever heard. Our beloved scoutmaster will have to go away, way back and sit down.”
Mr. Ellsworth, still half incredulous, shook his head. “The pity of it is,” said he, “that there’s no merit badge for this kind of first-aid. There can be no doubt of the truth of this thing, I suppose?” he added.
Garry laughed good-naturedly. “I wish I could be as sure of his having the boat for his own—now that he’s somebody else. It’s one peacherino.”
“And you suspected that first night, you say?”
“Well, no—not exactly. You fellows have got to remember that my father was an alienist, if you know what that is, and I’ve heard him tell about just such troubles as Harry’s. So I don’t deserve much credit. Only I had to be very careful. You can see yourselves it wasn’t a case for bandages and splints and things.”
“It would be pretty hard to give you too much credit,” Doc Carson said.