The small black face went into strange contortions of embarrassment. It tried to hide like the ostrich, but the Scouts in front parted and revealed a little negro boy in Scout uniform with a tenderfoot badge pinned where it should be.
"I'm Smokey," said a faint voice. Then, remembering, he stiffened up, saluted the big man, and amplified:
"Dey calls me Smokey, sir. Dat's all de name I ever has. I'se just a li'l nigger, sir, but dey all's a moughty good bunch and dey don't mek no difference 'cause I ain't white."
There was a little applause and much grinning. The Commissioner of Forests, or Weights—I forget just what he was—stared in a queer way, then went on with his address from where he had left off.
I remember he laid particular stress on the fact that doing one's simple everyday duty was all right, but not just what was called a "Good Turn."
But all the time he was watching Smokey, who stood there drinking in every word and nudging his neighbor, a thin, pallid boy, who also wore a tenderfoot badge.
"What's your name?" the speaker broke off again to ask, pointing at Smokey's neighbor.
"I'm Jimmy," said he. "Smokey's me pal," he added, scrambling to his feet with a belated salute. "We—we likes bein' Scouts, sir."
Smokey wriggled in absolute approval of Jimmy's loyalty and comment.
Again the Commissioner looked puzzled. He went on with his talk, however, and when he had finished and the Scouts had left, he went into the Scoutmaster's office to compare notes with him. But he dismissed the notes pretty swiftly and suddenly said to the Scoutmaster: