"Garn! it's not using soap what's made your neck that colour, dirty little. . . ."
Splosh! Somebody got a wet flannel in the eye that time.
"Now, then, what's up?" cries a Sixer, coming up to the group. Quite a little crowd collects.
"He says my neck's dirty," wails the small Cub, "and really it's the sun. . . ."
Someone has a bright idea: "Let's ask Miss."
So Akela comes out, and scrubs the neck in question with soap and flannel. It turns out to be nearly all sunburn, with just a little dirt.
The sun is shining, and the sky is full of "flocks of sheep"—those tiny, steady white clouds that stretch in close rows across the sky in fine weather. The dew on the grass is nearly dry already when the Cubs get to the field.
"Prayers!" calls Akela, and the Cubs come up quietly and form a kneeling circle.
I haven't told you what the morning prayers of the Cubs were, so I will tell you now.