It used to be risky; now it
is no more so than riding on a railroad train."
"You say it well!"
The words were spoken in good English, seemingly in a boy's voice,
and Jimmie peered through his audience in order to catch a glimpse
of the speaker. Presently, above the heads which surrounded him,
the boy saw a hand and arm extended. The palm was out, the thumb
and little finger flat and crossed, the three remaining fingers held
straight out. The full salute of the Boy Scouts.
"Say, you!" the lad cried out, greatly pleased at finding a Boy
Scout there. "Where did you get that?"
"Scouted for it!" was the reply.
"What does it read?"
"Be prepared!"
"Where from?" was the next question.
"Fox Patrol, Chicago."
"You must be pretty foxy," Jimmie laughed, "to get away off here."
The member of the Fox Patrol now made his way through the crowd and
extended a hand to Jimmie.
"You don't look as if it paid to be a Fox," laughed the latter.
The boy certainly did look like a tramp. He was a lad of about
sixteen, well formed as to figure and attractive as to feature, with
bright blue eyes, long, fair hair, and a complexion which would have
been perfect only for the grime upon it. He blushed as Jimmie
looked him over, and involuntarily turned his eyes down to his
ragged clothing and broken shoes.
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