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Updated: June 15, 2025
The bunch told me not to beard the lion in his den, but I'm not afraid of lions. Here I am and you can't get rid of me now. I'm up against it, Slady, and I want a few tips. They say you're the only real scout since Kit Carson. What I'm hunting for is a wild animal, but I haven't been able to find anything except a cricket, two beetles and a cow that belongs on the Hasbrook farm.
Tom Slade looked straight ahead of him and said never a word. "It's it's a knockout, Slady, and you win. You can go down and tell old Uncle Jeb the whole business," he fairly sobbed, "I won't stop you. I'm sick and discouraged I might as well take my medicine I'm I'm sick of the whole thing you win Slady. I'll wait here I I won't fool you again not once again, by thunder, I won't!
And for a few moments there was silence again, save for the distant sound of splashing down at the lake's edge, where scouts were swimming. "Slady listen, Slady; as sure as I sit here ... Are you listening, Slady? As sure as I sit here, I'm going to tell you the truth every gol darned last word of it." "I never said you lied," Tom said, never looking at him. "No? I tried not to tell many.
Tommy, old boy, as sure as you sit there I don't know any more about the boy scouts than a pig knows about hygiene. So now you've got my number, Slady. What is it? Quits?" "If you knew anything about scouts," Tom said, with the faintest note of huskiness in his voice, "you'd know that they don't call quits. If I was a quitter, do you suppose I'd have stuck up here?"
"I don't mind having things go wrong," Tom said, with a kind of pathetic dullness that must have gone straight to the other's heart. "As long as I got a friend it doesn't make any difference what one I mean who he is. Lots of times the wrong trail takes you to a better place." "Do you know where it's taking you this time? It isn't a question of who I am. It's a question of what I am Slady.
"You're not?" the other asked. "It don't make any difference as long as you're my friend, and you helped me." The other looked up at him in surprise, surveying Tom's stolid, almost expressionless face which was fixed upon the distant camp. "You're solid, fourteen karat gold, Slady," he finally said.
"Somebody in a book called the oriole Orestes, because that means dweller in the woods," Tom ventured. "He dwells in a sky-scraper, that's what I say," Hervey commented. "In a hall bedroom upside down, twenty floors up." Tom tried again. "What do you mean to do with her now that you've got her?" he asked. "I'm going to turn her over to you, Slady.
But he did reiterate in that dull way of his, "You got to tell me who you are." "I'm going to tell, Slady," his friend said, with a note of sincerity there was no mistaking; "I'm going to tell you the whole business. What did you ever steal? An apple out of a grocery store, or something like that? I thought so. You wouldn't know how to steal if you tried; you'd make a bungle of it."
"Slady was right when he said he wasn't so stuck on eagles. He's a queer kind of a duck, Slady is; a kind of a mind reader. You never know just what he means or what he's thinking about. I can't make that fellow out at all.... I wonder what he meant when he said that a trail sometimes doesn't come out where you think it's going to come out...."
"I always said I had no use for geographies except to put mustaches and things on the North Pole explorers and high hats on Columbus and Henry Hudson, but, believe me, I'm glad I remembered about those pearrl-bearing mussels hey, Slady? I hope the Alpine natives don't take it into their heads to come up herre afterr any of 'em just now. I just rooted around in the mud and got 'em.
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