"Somebody's wised him to de game, all right," whispered the irrepressible Sparrer to his neighbor as his sharp eyes took note of the fact that Pat had saluted quite as if accustomed to it. "Mebbe he belongs to some rube patrol."
There was a nudging of elbows and here and there a half smothered giggle as the youngsters sized Pat up and noticed the awkward fit and rough material of his "store suit," the celluloid collar and the flaming red four-in-hand clumsily tied. In the eyes of his young critics he was branded by these things quite as much as if he had worn a placard "Just from the Country."
"Green goods right from the farm," whispered Chick to Sparrer. "I dare you to ask him how the caows are."
Whether or not Sparrer would have taken the dare will never be known, for at that instant Upton introduced the big stranger, and the effect was magical to say the least. "I want you fellows to shake hands with some one you already know all about, Corporal Malone of the Lone Wolf Patrol, which had the honor of finding Lost Trail last fall, and one of the best guides in the North Woods," said he. "He and Harrison, whom you all know, are going with us on the hike this afternoon, and if you chaps feel as I do about it you know that we are the luckiest patrol in New York City. Pat, shake hands with Assistant Leader McNulty."
Then in turn the others were presented, ending with Sparrer. Pat's blue eyes twinkled as his big hand closed over the little one put out to him. "'Tis Irish ye be," said he, "and 'tis the same blood flows in me own veins. Pwhat iver would the wor-rld do widout the Irish? The Blue Tortoise Patrol should be proud thot it has a son av St. Patrick."
"It is," laughed Upton. "Now, fellows, the Blue Tortoise yell for the best Scout I know—Pat Malone!"
The yell was given with a will and caused many a head to turn in the hurrying throng, and many a smile, for the trim uniformed youngsters, faces alight with eagerness for their afternoon outing, were good to see. Laughing and joking the patrol squeezed into the crowded subway express and they were off for Bronx Park, the wonderful great playground where for a five cent fare one is lifted as by magic from the heart of the city to the heart of the country.
As the train roared through the great tunnel Pat scanned the individual members of the patrol with manifest approval. They were a clean-cut, sturdy looking lot of boys ranging in age from thirteen to sixteen, McNulty, the assistant leader, being the only one of that age. And they were a representative lot. Two were the sons of well-to-do merchants, one was the son of a broker, another was from the modest home of a patrolman on the police force, a fifth was the son of a subway guard, and the remaining two were Bernstein, whose features unmistakably stamped him as a Hebrew of the upper class, and Sparrer Muldoon, newsboy and street gamin.
Pat's interest promptly centered in the latter, and he took the first opportunity to ask about him and how he happened to be associated with others seemingly so far above him in the social scale. Upton smiled.
"There isn't any social scale among Scouts, you know," said he.