“They don’t have to ask, they can see it,” said Warde.
But it befell that the three boys had something else to think about when they adjourned to the spacious, spotless room that had been reserved for them. For scarcely had they entered it when in came Mr. Willison, the gentleman connected with one of the camps who had assumed the responsibility of receiving the trio and “having an eye to them,” as he had said, during their sojourn in the Park. He was active in scouting and an enthusiastic Rotarian.
A fine, genial man he was, who caught the boys’ mood of raillery toward the natural wonders they were to see and was not at all inclined to line up the customary “sights” before them like a school lesson. With him was Mr. Wilde, hat on back of head, hands thrust down in trousers pockets, whimsical, efficient, sophisticated. He seemed buried in a kind of worldly, practical rumination.
“Well, how are the back-yard scouts?” he asked, with a kind of surly cordiality, as he seated himself on the edge of one of the beds. “You went and did it, didn’t you?” he added, turning to Westy. “You satisfied?”
“Are you satisfied?” Westy asked.
Mr. Wilde scrutinized him shrewdly. “Uh huh,” he finally said.
“Then I’m satisfied,” said Westy.
Mr. Wilde glanced sideways with a skeptical, knowing look at Mr. Willison. That gentleman exhibited an air of silent confidence. An acute observer might have surmised that he and the thoroughly worldly Mr. Wilde had some sort of bet pending. It was not in Mr. Wilde’s nature to deal in compliments, but no one could have failed to interpret his sagacious, approving, amused look at the boy who stood, ill at ease, leaning against the dresser.
“So you’re satisfied, huh? I suppose you think you’re a regular feller now—regular scout!”
“I think I’m pretty tired,” said Westy.