As he resumed his way through the woods he presently heard a cheery, but
rather exhausted, voice behind him.
"Have a heart, Slady, and wait a minute, will you?" Tom's pursuer
called. "I'm nearly dead climbing up through all this jungle after you.
Old Mother Nature's got herself into a fine mess of a tangle through
here, hey? Don't mind if I come along with you, do you? Look down there,
hey? Pavilion looks nice. I've been wondering if I stand any chance of
being called up on that platform on Saturday night. Looks swell with all
the bunting over it, doesn't it?"
The speaker, who had been half talking and half shouting, now came
stumbling and panting up over the edge of the wooded decline where the
thick brush had played havoc with his scout suit but not with his
temper.
"Some climb, hey?" he breathed, laughing, and affecting the stagger of
utter exhaustion. "I bet you knew an easier way up. 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. Don't mind if I stroll along with you a little way, do you? My
name is Willetts--Hervey Willetts. I'm with that troop from
Massachusetts. I'm an Eagle Scout--_all but_."
"But's a pretty big word," Tom said.
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