THE MARKED ARTICLE
Here then was one undoubted fact; the deer had been shot by two
different guns. Ira cogitated upon this fact and tried to make up his
mind what he would do next, or whether he would do anything. And
probably he would not have done anything if it had not been for the
newspaper which he delivered to Aunt Mira. She did not give him this to
read for she still maintained a demeanor of coldness toward this
arch-seducer. But he found the paper on the sitting room table and read
the marked article.
“BRIDGEBORO SCOUTS CONTEST FOR ROTARY CLUB AWARD,” the heading declared.
The article below ran:
“Great excitement prevails among our local scout troops as a result of
the splendid offer of the Rotary Club of our town to send a scout to
Yellowstone National Park next summer. This rare opportunity is offered
to the scout of Rockvale County who, in the opinion of the Club’s
Committee, performed the most conspicuous good turn during the past
summer. Each of the three troops in Bridgeboro has elected a scout for
this contest. All of the deeds presented for the league’s consideration
reflect great credit on the young heroes who performed them.
“The First Bridgeboro Troop, our oldest and largest local unit, presents
Warde Hollister as candidate for the rare treat of a trip to the
Yellowstone. Warde did a great stunt at Temple Camp during the summer
involving both prowess and generous spirit and the First Troop scouts
are moving heaven and earth to secure for him the award which will be a
reflected honor to their splendid organization.”
On the same page with this article was a blank area surrounding an
advertisement and availing himself of this space, Westy had written:
Dear Aunt Mira:—
Maybe you’ll be sorry I can’t go to Yellowstone Park because
I had to do something else with my money. Dad says for me to
forget about going to Yellowstone. This article shows you
how, sort of, I will go anyway probably. Because in a scout
troop all the scouts are sort of like one scout so if Hollie
goes it will almost be the same as if I went, and I’ll hear
all about it anyway. So please don’t feel sorry because I
can’t go to the Yellowstone. I had a dandy time at the farm.
Give my regards to Ira.
Westy.
When Ira had finished his unauthorized perusal he lighted his pipe. Ira
could smoke and do anything else at the same time—except read. Reading
required all his effort and when he read, his pipe always took advantage
of his preoccupation to go out. When he had relighted it, he stuffed his
hands as far down as possible in his trousers pockets and went out and
gazed at the landscape. But he did not care anything about the
landscape.
“He’s—one—all round—little—prince,” he mused aloud. “_He’s jes one
nat’ral born little prince!_ They don’t make ’em, that scout club, them
as is like that jes has ter be born that way. By gol, I’d like ter know
what the little rascal act’ally did do.”
He came to the conclusion that what the little rascal had actually done
was to collaborate with Luke Meadows in the adventurous exploit of
killing the deer and then allowed himself to be frightened into assuming
all the guilt and paying the fine. Ira was artless enough, and ignorant
enough of scouting, to believe that this in itself would constitute a
claim upon the Rotary Club of Bridgeboro.
“I ain’t gon to see no kid gon out to the Yellowstone without them gents
knowin’ ’bout this here,” mused Ira. “I’m a-gon ter look inter this mess
summat. I ain’t satisfied with the looks o’ things.”
For a few minutes longer he stood, his back against the house, smoking
and considering. Then, delving into the abysmal depths of his trousers
pocket he disinterred a formidable nickel watch which was innocent of
chain or cord. He had exchanged a carved whale’s tooth for it in some
oriental sea town and it was his pride and boast. If Ira himself had
always been as regular as this miniature town clock no one would have
complained.
“I got jes about enough time ter ketch the six-twenty from Dawson’s,” he
said. “I’m gone ter hev a look at this here Bridgeboro.”
This was as far as he was willing to commit himself. He would go in the
rôle of idle tourist. There remained only one thing to do and that was
to saunter out to the kitchen porch and reach his outlandish felt hat
down from the peg which had been intended for a milk pail. If he had
been going to South Africa, he would have done no more than this. But he
did pay Bridgeboro the tribute of banging his hat against a porch
stanchion to knock the loose dust out of it. Then he sauntered up the
road toward Dawson’s.