“Why do you give it to me, then?”
“Becos you’re a scout, becos Joe a scout, too!” Joe’s unusually stolid features relaxed in a grim smile. “You no un’erstan’?”
Clad only in his pajamas, Alec shivered; but not entirely because of the chill night air on his body. The presence of the man before him, the vague reproach conveyed in Joe’s softly guttural tones, gave, him a curious “creepy” sensation of cold and a weakness in the knees.
“What-what is it?” he questioned, extending his hand.
“Here. You take this.”
Joe handed the boy a small, thin, oblong thing that felt damp and gritty to Alec’s touch.
“What is it? What shall I do with it? Oh, Joe, is it that book of trout flies you promised to sell me?” asked Alec eagerly.
Joe grunted, and gave his broad shoulders an expressive shrug.
“Wait,” he mumbled; “wait and see.”
Whereupon, with another shrug, he turned and strode rapidly away in the direction of his tent.