“And let me tell you, son,” said the gentleman to Billy, when the latter had for the fourth time leaned far down and filled the green cup for him to empty, “this clear cold water that bubbles up out of the pure white sand is a thousand times more healthful for us all than anything brewed or distilled by human hands, I care not what it may be. Yes, and although I’ve drunk water from a thousand wells, often in African deserts where it meant life itself, none ever tasted sweeter than this does to me now, taken from a primitive cup made out of a big leaf.”
He lay back to rest a while, and Hugh thought it well not to hurry him. They had another stretch of nearly a mile before the road could be reached, where in case of necessity they could find some farmer who would be willing, for a consideration, to hitch up and carry the gentleman, and, perhaps, Hugh himself, the balance of the way to town.
And as he thus took his ease in the shade of the forest trees, Mr. Perkins presently became interested in watching a little thing that happened. Having just learned how scouts are ever on the watch for ways to do a good turn, either to man or beast or even smaller living creatures, he was beginning to study boy nature as it had never before occurred to him to do, with most pleasant results.
Bud had apparently discovered something that interested him, for he lay on his stomach, boy fashion, with his head held up by his hands and both elbows planted on the ground.
Hugh had also observed his attitude, for presently he called out:
“What have you struck there, Bud, that makes you forget you’ve got three good chums close at hand? I’ve asked you a question several times, and you have never so much as given me an answer.”
“Oh! excuse me, Chief,” replied Bud, without even turning his head or changing his attitude the least bit; “you see, I’ve been watching about as game an exhibition of pluck and determination as you’d ever expect to find anywhere; and when I am stuck fast on anything like that, I’m next door to deaf.”
“What might it be?” asked Arthur, busy with his camera strap, which he was shortening to rid it of a worn place.
Mr. Perkins knew, for he chanced to be close enough to discover what it was at which Bud was gaping with eager eyes.
“Why, you see,” remarked the other scout, just as if it might be the most natural thing in the world for him to show such an interest in small things about him, “it is one of those big black ants. He has a pack about three times as large as himself, which he wants to carry up a sand hill about six inches high that leads to his home, I guess. And I’ve counted eleven times now that he has made a balk of it.”