“BRIDGEBORO SCOUTS CONTEST FOR ROTARY CLUB AWARD,” the heading declared. The article below ran:
“Great excitement prevails among our local scout troops as a result of the splendid offer of the Rotary Club of our town to send a scout to Yellowstone National Park next summer. This rare opportunity is offered to the scout of Rockvale County who, in the opinion of the Club’s Committee, performed the most conspicuous good turn during the past summer. Each of the three troops in Bridgeboro has elected a scout for this contest. All of the deeds presented for the league’s consideration reflect great credit on the young heroes who performed them.
“The First Bridgeboro Troop, our oldest and largest local unit, presents Warde Hollister as candidate for the rare treat of a trip to the Yellowstone. Warde did a great stunt at Temple Camp during the summer involving both prowess and generous spirit and the First Troop scouts are moving heaven and earth to secure for him the award which will be a reflected honor to their splendid organization.”
On the same page with this article was a blank area surrounding an advertisement and availing himself of this space, Westy had written:
Dear Aunt Mira:—
Maybe you’ll be sorry I can’t go to Yellowstone Park because I had to do something else with my money. Dad says for me to forget about going to Yellowstone. This article shows you how, sort of, I will go anyway probably. Because in a scout troop all the scouts are sort of like one scout so if Hollie goes it will almost be the same as if I went, and I’ll hear all about it anyway. So please don’t feel sorry because I can’t go to the Yellowstone. I had a dandy time at the farm. Give my regards to Ira.
Westy.
When Ira had finished his unauthorized perusal he lighted his pipe. Ira could smoke and do anything else at the same time—except read. Reading required all his effort and when he read, his pipe always took advantage of his preoccupation to go out. When he had relighted it, he stuffed his hands as far down as possible in his trousers pockets and went out and gazed at the landscape. But he did not care anything about the landscape.
“He’s—one—all round—little—prince,” he mused aloud. “He’s jes one nat’ral born little prince! They don’t make ’em, that scout club, them as is like that jes has ter be born that way. By gol, I’d like ter know what the little rascal act’ally did do.”
He came to the conclusion that what the little rascal had actually done was to collaborate with Luke Meadows in the adventurous exploit of killing the deer and then allowed himself to be frightened into assuming all the guilt and paying the fine. Ira was artless enough, and ignorant enough of scouting, to believe that this in itself would constitute a claim upon the Rotary Club of Bridgeboro.