mr. wilde stared. the loitering boys stared. everybody stared. and well they might, for the figure they gazed upon was bizarre to the last degree. around ed’s waist was drawn a sweater like a romantic spanish sash, while sticking ostentatiously in the shoulder of his shirt was a safety-pin, disqualified for its conventional use by much twisting and bending.
but the onlookers had not long to stare. the sound of loud talking outside caused a general rush of the younger element to the great veranda, while their less curious elders looked from doors and windows and wondered.
approaching along one of the walks that bisect the spacious lawn in front of the big hotel was a strange sight. a boy in tattered khaki was approaching, hatless and barefooted, surrounded and followed by a questioning, gaping, shouting, clamorous throng. with him was another khaki-clad boy who was laughing at the excitement they were causing and answering the queries of their astonished escort.
it was no wonder that the boys gazed spellbound at the ragged apparition, nor that the park employees and tourists paused to stare. his trousers were all but in shreds, and not a button remained upon his mud-bespattered and torn shirt which lay open exposing his scratched chest. his hair was disheveled, one rebellious lock depending over his forehead. with one hand he kept continually pushing this back and sometimes effected the same result with a fine toss of his head, which somehow rounded out his picturesque, vagabond aspect. his other hand was firmly buried in his trousers pocket, which bulged with the pressure of something large and flat. it was noticeable that he kept his hand there.
but it was not the name of westy martin that brought every last person out of the hotel, watching eagerly the excited little group. rather was it the awful name of bloodhound pete shouted by an exuberant follower of the award boys.
“he got it from bloodhound pete! he got it from bloodhound pete!”
“let’s see it!”
“yes, you did—not!”
“give us a look!”
“seeing is believing!”
“where did he?”
“when?”
“how?”
“who says he did?”
“this feller did—alone? yaaah!”
“what do you take us for?” one breathless skeptic demanded of warde.
and so, shouting, clamoring, denying, scoffing, questioning and crowding about him and talking all at the same time, the crowd constituted itself a vociferous escort to westy as he passed along the walk and up the big veranda and into the spacious, airy lobby of the mammoth hotel.
he had expected to keep his promise to his poor, fond mother and “wash his hands and face and brush his clothes before leaving the train,” and a few minutes later descend, bag and baggage, from an auto before the portal of his first stopping place in the park. “when you enter a hotel,” she had said, adjusting his collar, “you want to have your hair brushed and look like a gentleman.”
“is mr. madison c. wilde here?” warde asked.
“the movie man?”
“sure he is, he’s in the smoking room.”
“no, he isn’t, he’s in the lobby—he’s mad.”
“come on, i’ll show you where he is, he chased us.”
before mr. wilde had recovered from the sight of ed carlyle, westy stood before him, conspicuous in the clustering, vociferous throng, a fine picture of rags and tatters. warde, standing close to him, had forcibly loosened his comrade’s rolled-up sleeve so that on the loose hanging khaki the stalker’s badge and the pathfinder’s badge were exposed. westy’s other arm, with a long scratch on it where he had let it slide against the bark of the big elm, was at his side, hand in pocket, clutching the treasure that was there.
not so much as one vestige remained about westy of the trim boy scout whom mr. wilde had “jollied” on the train; only his two badges exposed by his patrol mate and rendered clearer to view by ed carlyle as he smoothed down his companion’s wrinkled sleeve.
“mr. wilde,” said westy, pulling his scarred arm out of his pocket, “here’s your wallet; it’s got your money and your permit all safe. i took it away from bloodhound pete and—and——”
“the pleasure is entirely ours,” ed carlyle concluded for him.
