Jamie sat down in the shade of a live oak and put one arm around the Scout Master and the other around Angel Face, and saw to it that there was room for Ole Bill and the Nice Child; and while the buns were being toasted and the onions fried, and the wienies split and browned and the mustard beaten smooth and the dill pickles sliced, and the pop brought from the ice, he told the boys something about what scouting meant when a man started on a night as black as a hat, on his stomach, crawling over shell holes big as a house, through broken rock and the débris of a sodden battlefield with a rain of shells and shrapnel bursting over him, trying to get close enough to steal a secret from the enemy, searching for the odour that attached to a beloved Buddy, hunting for the body of an officer.
The Nice Child and Cle Bill came and pressed close to Jamie’s knees. The Scout Master leaned the Dutch head against the wound on his breast and trained unblinking eyes on him and Angel Face laid violent hands on his arm and paid not the slightest attention when the stand man said: “Your hot dogs are ready!” and the popping of corks began.
“Tell us some more!” they shouted in unison. “Tell us some more!” And Fat Ole Bill kicked the olive shin of the Nice Child and said: “Gee! we never got a chance like this before, did we? He’s been where the ground’s all soggy with real blood and swords things cuttin’ into him, and shootin’ goin’ on above him! Gee! ain’t he wonnerful?”
