“Good night!” I said to Pee-wee, “what kind of rags do you call those?”

“Didn’t you ever hear of noble rags?” he yelled; “that shows how much you know about story writing.”

“Are they any relation to a dish rag?” I asked him.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you,” he said; “do you know what a hero is—a ragged hero?”

“Sure, a hero is a male shero,” I told him; “you learn that in the third grade. Just the same as a cowardice is a female coward.”

“You make me sick!” he yelled.

“I’ve heard of gasoline rags and dish rags and wash rags,” I kept up, “but I never saw any noble ones. Have your own way. I should worry.”

“It’s a good name for a chapter,” he said.

“I wouldn’t know a noble rag if I met one in the street,” I told him.

So that’s how this chapter got its name, and I don’t know what it means any more than you do. I suppose the next one will be called “Trash Paper,” or something like that.

Well, anyway, I stood on that doorstep for a few minutes, because I didn’t know what to do next. I was sure the fellow went in there, but I didn’t know where he went and anyway, I didn’t have any excuse to hunt him out because I was only tracking him for a stunt. Anyway I went in and when I got upstairs one flight I saw just a sign of that print in the hall just in front of a door. The hall was all dirty and greasy like.

So by that I was pretty sure he had gone in there and you see how I tracked him all the way from Marshtown landing. Then I made up my mind that he sure wouldn’t be mad if he knew I did it just for a stunt and I’d tell him I was scouting. For just a minute I was scared, then I gave a rap on the door.

Oh, but it was dark and it smelled bad in that hall. I guess they ought to tear down that row of tenements. Pretty soon I rapped again, and I felt kind of funny, because I didn’t know what I ought to say—especially if a woman opened it. All of a sudden it opened very soft, and, good night! who should be standing there but—who do you think?

Westy Martin.

Jiminety, but wasn’t I flabbergasted! Even as surprised as I was, I looked down at his feet and sure enough he had on scout shoes, almost new. Talk about plots growing thicker! This one was getting so thick you couldn’t drive a nail into it.

“Well—what—are—you—doing—here?” I gasped out just like that.

“Shh,” he said, “keep quiet; come in, but keep quiet.”

So I went in, all flabbergasted and there was a room with the paper all falling off the walls and no carpet on the floor, but anyway the windows were wide open, that was one good thing. And over in the corner was an old cot without any sheets or anything and, oh, gee, it looked bad because I’ve got a dandy bed up in my den—all brass and filigree work—you know.

But, crinkums, I didn’t notice the cot much because there was a fellow on it and as soon as I looked at him I knew who it was, even though he looked worse than he most always did. It was Skinny McCord.

“You waked him up by knocking,” Westy said.

“It isn’t the first knocking I did to-day,” I said, “but I guess I can see how it is now—I guess I can.”

“It’s only a good turn,” he said; “he did you a good turn, and so I had to do one for him, that’s all. It’s for the scouts too, and I don’t care what they say.”

Then I happened to notice a catching mit and a baseball over on a table near Skinny, where there was some medicine too. And then, all of a sudden, everything seemed to glisten like, especially when I blinked my eyes. Gee, I know how easy it is for girls to cry, but a fellow—anyway—when I saw Westy sit down on the edge of that cot and not pay any attention to me, only to Skinny, I couldn’t speak at all. I only just happened to think to do something and I’m glad I thought about it. I just raised my hand and made Westy Martin the full scout salute. Patrol leaders don’t do that mostly to the fellows in their patrols, but I should worry about rules and things like that.

“You’re taking care of him?” I said as soon as I could, and I felt all foolish sort of. “I tracked him, but I never thought”—and I just couldn’t say any more.

But even still Westy didn’t speak to me, only he said to Skinny, “Here’s a real patrol leader come to see you—that’s a big honor, that is, and he just made you the full salute. You remember it in the Scout Handbook?”

“I made that salute to you,” I said to Westy, all choking, I have to admit it, “and I meant it too.”

“You’re a great tracker,” he said; “wouldn’t you like to be as good a tracker as he is, Skinny?” And I could see that all he cared about was amusing Skinny.

“Don’t talk about me,” I said; “I’m a big fool, that’s what I am, but tell me all about it.”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” said Westy, “except that Skinny always wanted to be a scout, but he didn’t have any money and all like that. But anyway, he got the Handbook and studied it all up and it got him.”

“Same as it gets any fellow that looks inside of it,” I said.

“And the part that interested him most of all was tracking and signalling. You see how he carved the tracking emblem on one of his shoes——”

“You needn’t show it to me,” I said, “I saw it.”

“Last night,” Westy said, “he read that smudge signal, because he learned the Morse Code out of the Handbook, and he knew that somebody might be coming up the river with the false report. He didn’t know just what he ought to do and I guess he was scared to go up to your house because he didn’t have any good clothes. So he ran down through the marshes and waited at the landing, because he knew Jake Holden would be coming up stream. Jake’s one good friend to him, and he often took him out and he wasn’t afraid of Jake.

“Pretty soon he heard Jake’s boat coming up the river and saw the light and he just waited there and when Jake come up alongside the float, the first thing Skinny heard him say was, ‘Roy Blakeley is dead’—didn’t you, Skinny?”

But I could see that Skinny’s eyes were shut now and he didn’t hear. “Go on,” I said.

“So Skinny told him it wasn’t true, and told him about the signal. Jake didn’t pay much attention because he thought Skinny was just a little crazy on account of being so poor and hungry and all that and not having a good home. So he was going up to your house anyway and Skinny cried and hung onto him, and begged him not to. I guess he went on kind of crazy, but he said he was sure because he knew the Morse Code. Anyway, just to humor him, I guess, Jake promised him he’d wait till early in the morning, and meanwhile you came home. Do you see?”

Honest, I couldn’t answer him.

“Skinny was the one who did it,” he said. “That accounts for his tracks, don’t you see?”

I shook my head to show him I understood. But I couldn’t say it.

“And that’s how tracking and signalling have brought the three of us together—see?” Westy said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how it brings the three of us together here in this tenement house.”

“How did you come here?” I said.

“I was just starting for the house-boat this morning early, when I met Skinny’s mother. She was going to do her day’s washing. And she told me how she had to leave him sick in bed, and she asked me if I’d go and stay with him till she got back. I went back and got the ball and mit because I thought maybe he’d like them. She said he got a bad cold in the marshes and he was all excited and kind of crazy from the way he’d hung onto Jake and begged him not to go up to your house—what did the fellows think when I didn’t show up?”

“You—you should worry,” I just blurted out.

“Anyway I don’t care so much about the troop or Mr. Ellsworth either,” he said, “and even if I cared about Skinny it wouldn’t do much good, because he’s going to die—the doctor says so. But I care a lot about you and he did you a good turn. I was afraid he might die before you had a chance to pay him back. So I just sort of tried to pay him back for you——”

All the while he was talking I could hardly hear what he was saying and there was one word ringing through my head.

It was the word slacker.