as westy went about the hotel in his tattered attire and thought of shining sun, the indian boy, unnoticed and occupied with his business quarrel, it seemed to him that the world was upside down.
wherever the award boy went, people looked at him, and as for boys, of whom there were many about the place, they followed him around, besetting him again and again for details of his adventure. some of the more shy ones contemplated him with a kind of awe as if he had come from mars, asking questions about bloodhound pete which, of course, westy could not answer.
he found himself a real hero, with no essential of that thrilling role lacking. gentlemen patted him on the shoulder, telling him that he was “some boy,” and one girl begged that before he changed a single stitch of his perfectly adorable attire, he let her take him with her kodak. in the dining room all faces were directed to the table where the three award boys ate. and indeed it was worth while watching them eat, for, as ed observed, “nobody ever ate like this before.”
“the tables are turned, that’s sure,” said warde.
“maybe we can continue at another table,” said ed.
“i mean westy’s the real scout after all,” said warde.
“my error, i was thinking of dining tables,” said ed. “i can’t seem to think of anything else. that girl over at the third table, wes, the one that’s eating a cruller; she’s the one that took your picture, isn’t she? i want to collect a dollar and a half from her as your manager.”
“she ought to take your picture in that crazy sweater,” westy said.
“that will cost her fifty cents and the war tax,” said ed. “that sweater saved your life, young scratch-on-the-arm, full-blooded new jersey boy scout. that’s a good name, hey, warde?”
“yes, and you ought to be called red sweater or bent safety-pin,” laughed warde.
“and you ought to be called warde’s cake,” said ed. “you seem to have the plate all to yourself.”
“i can’t stop eating while people are watching me,” said warde.
“let them look,” said ed, “it’s no disgrace to eat. pass the pickles will you, scratch-on-the-arm? when are we going to start seeing the park, anyway?”
“to-morrow morning,” said westy.
“we’re going to see cleopatra’s terrace,” said warde.
“i don’t want to go where she is,” said ed. “i had her in the fourth grade; she and i don’t speak.”
“there are a lot of terraces,” said westy.
“if they want to bring them in, i’ll look at them,” said warde. “the rest of to-day i’m going to rest.”
“and i’ve got to get hold of my baggage,” said westy.
“maybe you could borrow a cutaway suit from tarnished sun,” said ed. “i’d like to see the devil’s kitchen to-day anyway; i never knew he could cook.”
“i’ve tasted some things i think he must have cooked,” said warde.
“we have to see orange spring, too, while we’re here,” said westy.
“i heard that was a lemon,” said ed.
“there’s one spring i would like to visit,” said warde.
“the bed spring,” said ed. “right the first time. let’s all visit the wonderful bed springs and drop in on satan for breakfast.”
“already you’re thinking about breakfast,” said westy.
“sure, i am,” said ed. “in about an hour i’ll be asleep and i can’t think of it then, can i? i’m good and tired if anybody should ask you.”
“they don’t have to ask, they can see it,” said warde.
but it befell that the three boys had something else to think about when they adjourned to the spacious, spotless room that had been reserved for them. for scarcely had they entered it when in came mr. willison, the gentleman connected with one of the camps who had assumed the responsibility of receiving the trio and “having an eye to them,” as he had said, during their sojourn in the park. he was active in scouting and an enthusiastic rotarian.
a fine, genial man he was, who caught the boys’ mood of raillery toward the natural wonders they were to see and was not at all inclined to line up the customary “sights” before them like a school lesson. with him was mr. wilde, hat on back of head, hands thrust down in trousers pockets, whimsical, efficient, sophisticated. he seemed buried in a kind of worldly, practical rumination.
“well, how are the back-yard scouts?” he asked, with a kind of surly cordiality, as he seated himself on the edge of one of the beds. “you went and did it, didn’t you?” he added, turning to westy. “you satisfied?”
“are you satisfied?” westy asked.
mr. wilde scrutinized him shrewdly. “uh huh,” he finally said.
“then i’m satisfied,” said westy.
mr. wilde glanced sideways with a skeptical, knowing look at mr. willison. that gentleman exhibited an air of silent confidence. an acute observer might have surmised that he and the thoroughly worldly mr. wilde had some sort of bet pending. it was not in mr. wilde’s nature to deal in compliments, but no one could have failed to interpret his sagacious, approving, amused look at the boy who stood, ill at ease, leaning against the dresser.
“so you’re satisfied, huh? i suppose you think you’re a regular feller now—regular scout!”
“i think i’m pretty tired,” said westy.
“you going to send an account of it to the boy scout magazine?”
“no, i’m not.”
“no?”
there followed a pause. then mr. wilde very deliberately pulled out the memorable wallet, placed it flat on his lap and laid it open.
“was everything all right—all there?” warde asked.
no answer. westy leaned against the dresser, kicking one foot nervously. somewhere within easy hearing an orchestra was playing the three o’clock in the morning waltz. it seemed odd to be hearing this in the wilds of the rocky mountains. westy could hear the sound of dancing. he felt tenderly of the long scratch on his bare leg. he dropped the towel which lay over his shoulder. ed carlyle sat up on top of the high dresser, his legs dangling. warde, sitting on the edge of another bed, kept time with the plaintive music, drumming with his fingers.
oddly enough, westy felt almost as nervous and apprehensive as when he had let himself silently down out of the big elm. no one spoke. every one seemed to be waiting.
and mr. wilde was distressingly slow and deliberate.
