Apparently the turtle was ready to withstand this siege for years if
necessary. Disgustedly, one scout after another went away, and others
came. Tempting morsels of food were placed in front of the turtle, in a
bee line with his head.
"Gee whiz, if he doesn't care for food what _does_ he care for?" Pee-wee
observed, knowing the influence of food.
That settled it so far as he was concerned, and he went away, saying
that the turtle was not human, or else that he was dead. Others, more
patient, stood about, waiting. And all the famed ingenuity of scouts
was exhausted to beguile or to drive the turtle out of his stronghold.
At one time as many as twenty scouts surrounded him, with sticks, with
food, and Scouty, the camp dog, came down and danced around and made a
great fuss and went away thoroughly disgusted.
The turtle was master of the situation.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE WANDERING MINSTREL
With one exception the most patient scout at Temple Camp was Westy
Martin of the interesting Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Troop. He could sit
huddled up in a bush for an hour studying a bird. He could sit and fish
for hours without catching anything. But the turtle was too much for
him.
"We ought to name that guy Llewellyn," he commented, as he strolled
away; "that means _lightning_, according to some book or other. There
was an old Marathon racer a couple of million years ago named
Llewellyn."
"That's a good name for him," Tom admitted.
"You going to hang around, Slady?"
"I'm going to fight it out on these lines if it takes all summer," Tom
said.
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