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Wall with his paper. "Shucks!" said Tim. "He may have it all mixed up. Look at Andy." The assistant patrol leader of the Wolves was now running toward the Scoutmaster. Two minutes later the Eagle scout came forward reluctantly. "It's fierce," he said in disgust. "It doesn't make sense nohow." The message had been, "A hundred men searched the hills for the Indian."
The newspaper story went on to say that "he, the scoutmaster, and the Air Force knew what he'd seen but he couldn't tell it would create a national panic." He'd also hired a press agent. I could understand the "high brass from the Pentagon" as literary license by the press, but this "national panic" pitch was too much.
He's the one that stopped the car. The cup was in the car and so he saved the cup. It's his. He tried to keep his scouting a secret and he didn't get away with it. He beat Scoutmaster Ned hands down. He left him guessing. Scoutmaster Ned is easy. But this kid can't put anything over on me; I've got him red-handed; he's a scout and he's got us all looking like thirty cents.
"Neither am I," he answered quietly. There was a moment's pause, as the two men, separated by several feet, gazed at each other. Physically, the contrast between them was horrific. Slight, neat, dapper, showing even no ill-temper, Mr. Yet Big Tom was plainly not so cocksure of himself as he had been, while the scoutmaster wore an air of complete confidence.
He comforted himself with reflecting that it would have done him no good had they threshed the coming crisis out. It was a shaken, hollow-eyed, miserable, unbathed little boy that greeted Mr. Perkins when the scoutmaster rapped. And the sight of the latter only made Johnnie's spirits sink lower.
Something besides the heat of midday made Johnnie feel very weak of a sudden, so that he had to sit down. "Now, shush! shush!" comforted the Father. "Shure, and the ogre'll not be eatin' up anny scoutmaster this day. No, no. There'll be nothin' more than a tongue-lashin', so breathe easy, lad dear!" "But Mister Perkins won't come any more!" argued Johnnie, plaintively.
We took a few photos of the area and went back to town. On the way back we talked to the constable and the deputy. All they could do was to confirm what we'd heard. We talked to the farmer and his wife, but they couldn't help. The few facts that the boy scouts had given them before they had a chance to talk to their scoutmaster correlated with his story.
The three messengers wished not to go to Bridgeboro until afternoon because their scoutmaster would be there then. They would feel easier and less contemptible telling this thing to him than to the authorities. After breakfast Blythe was the first at work.
They started home in bunches, as usual, those who happened to live near together naturally waiting for each other. Paul, Jack, and Bobolink walked together. "And just as it happens so many times," Paul was saying, as they sauntered on in the direction of home. "Mr. Gordon is away on the road somewhere, selling goods; so we have to go without having our fine scoutmaster along to look after us."
If this alternating magnetic field can heat metal, why didn't everything the scoutmaster had that was metal get hot enough to burn him? He had a flashlight, machete, coins in his pocket, etc. The answer he wasn't under the UFO for more than a few seconds. He said that when he stopped to really look at it he had backed away from under it. He did feel some heat, possibly radiating from the ground.
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