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:

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.