go to visit the Bee Master. He had set the hour for their starting at two o’clock. It was fifteen minutes past two when the little fellow swung over the high board fence and came racing down the walk. Jamie was rather surprised. He had expected, from the casual and business like manner with which the little Scout had conducted the fight with the Indians, that equal promptness and executive ability would be displayed in keeping a date.
He was waiting on the bench under the jacqueranda when the small figure sailed over the fence. Scanning the little Scout closely, Jamie thought he detected traces of recent tears. The eyes were suspiciously red of rim; the cheeks smeared with the indisputable evidence of childish grief. Instantly Jamie’s heart went out in protest. Who had any business to hurt the little Scout? What was it, beside the sting of a bee, that could bring tears to so valiant a small soul? Without taking time for thought, Jamie stretched out both hands. Without an instant’s hesitation, the little Scout walked straight into his arms and laid a confiding head on his breast, and Jamie’s arms closed up tight.
“You didn’t have a fall and hurt yourself, did you?”
Jamie could feel the shake of negation on his shoulder and the gulp in the throat.
“I’m sorry,” said Jamie, “but if we’re not to keep the Bee Master waiting, we must clean up your face and be on our way.”
The little Scout instantly stood erect.
“Clean up! Clean up! Can’t you tell by one look at
