The red-haired boy opened his eyes wide.
“The Scout Master knows you!” he said, defiantly.
“Sure!” said Jamie. “The trouble with me is that I don’t know the Scout Master.”
At that minute a badly battered wooden sword circled through the air.
“Attention! Scouts to order!”
The boys lined up and saluted beautifully.
“Ready!” came the order of the Master. “Tell the world the name of your Scout Master!”
The boys squared themselves and paused ready. The eyes of each of them were focussed on the point of the sword.
“Altogether now!” said the Scout Master. The sword waved through the air and in unison, at the tops of their voices, the boys began, each letter bitten off with a snap that fairly hurled it in the face of Jamie: “T-H-E, The. L-I-M-I-T, Limit—The Limit!”
They saluted and dropped back and the Scout Master stepped before Jamie, sheathed the sword, straightened the right hand down the seam of the pantaloons, laid the left across the breast, and the figure swayed forward in a profound bow. Jamie knew exactly as much as he did at the beginning—slightly more, for he saw that the Scouts really were obedient and really were well trained.
Then the Scout Master addressed Jamie: “The Bee Master lets us fight Indians here.”
“All right,” said Jamie.
“Whatever he allowed goes with me.”
