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Updated: June 10, 2025
It's Blythe's picture, isn't it?" "You're patrol leader and I'm a second class scout," said Warde. "What do you say to do?" "What do you mean, a second class scout?" Roy demanded, his voice full of feeling. "I don't want any better scouts in my patrol than you. I'm asking you what we're going to do." "All right, I'll tell you," Warde said. "We're going to keep still until we're dead sure.
There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances! "What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars.
"Blythe's coming to have the front room next as soon as Cross Eyes can pink-wash it " Her eyes glimpsed the box, she fairly ran for it, "That's Maman's," she exclaimed, "How did you find it?" She hugged it delightedly; she opened it "Even its emptiness smells nice," she sighed. "Oughtn't there to be a secrud pocket in it, m'loidy? With the missing will and the dagger he stabbed her with?"
He was the son of a physician, which fact had doubtless helped to raise him to proficiency in that splendid part of scouting. It was one of Blythe's most noticeable characteristics that he got the names of the scouts confused in his mind. Almost the only name which he consistently pronounced correctly was Will Dawson. And he pronounced Carson the same as he pronounced Dawson.
"As he stooped to pick up a box a can went rolling under Blythe's makeshift bed. As he reached for the can a bag of beans burst like a sky-rocket, pouring a shower down his neck and into his pockets and over the floor. "Now you see!" he yelled. "The eggs are sliding down!" "Help, help!" called several scouts. Pee-wee picked up two cans of sardines and sacrificed a bag of rice.
Surely, the boys thought, Artie could not have spoken of Blythe's identity over the 'phone, yet following the ambulance came the touring car of Bridgeboro's police department with the chief in it, the policeman chauffeur, a couple of other men, and county detective Ferrett.
Had the thought occurred to her she would have considered it absurd when she was not yet seventeen and Irene was twenty. But it was the truth. Irene was just what she had been a year ago just what she would always be. Rilla Blythe's nature in that year had changed and matured and deepened.
Willard Geddie and Paula cantered past him with the coolest of nods, returning from their daily horseback ride along the old Indian road. Keogh passed him at another corner, whistling cheerfully and bearing a prize of newly-laid eggs for the breakfast of himself and Clancy. The jovial scout of Fortune was one of Blythe's victims who had plunged his hand oftenest into his pocket to aid him.
"I kind of hope he does die," Grove Bronson said. "Just after being a hero," Connie added. This was too much for Roy. It brought poor Blythe's heroism and his own rescue home to him with vivid force, his eyes filled and everything about the old familiar scene glistened. "Come on, let's get ready," he finally said. "Let's get away from here."
As a consequence of this, Detective Ferrett and a young doctor from the hospital called at the homes of several of the older scouts and questioned them about Blythe's demeanor at camp. The boys had tried to tell the detective of their companion's peculiarities but he had not condescended to listen. He listened now.
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