“I wanted to go in for scouting a year ago,” Wilfred said, “but there weren’t any scouts to join. Now I feel kind of—I feel sort of—funny—sort of as if it was just before promotion or something.”
Tom glanced at his protege sideways, captivated by the boy’s sensitiveness and guileless honesty.
“I’m glad it’s a long ride there,” Wilfred added.
“Any one would think you were on your way to the electric chair,” laughed Tom. And Wilfred laughed too.
“Will they all be at the entrance?” the boy asked, visibly amused at his own diffidence.
“No, they’ll all be in the grub shack,” said Tom. “That’s where they hang out; they’re a hungry bunch.”
“Maybe I won’t see so much of you, hey?” Wilfred asked.
“Oh, I’m here and there and all over—helping old Uncle Jeb. He’s manager—used to be a trapper out west. You must get on the right side of Uncle Jeb—go and talk to him. He can tell you stories that’ll make your hair stand on end; says ‘reckon’ and ‘critter’ and all that. Don’t fail to go and talk to him.”
“Will you introduce me to him?” Wilfred asked guilelessly.
“Will I? Certainly I won’t. Just go and talk to him when he’s sitting on the steps of Administration Shack smoking his pipe. Tell him I said for him to spin you that yarn about killing four grizzlies.”