The Honor Troop was composed mostly of small boys and all
except the little boy who was Garry's especial charge were in Tom's
tracking class. He used to put them through the simpler stunts and then
turn them over to Jeb Rushmore. Apparently, they did not share the
general prejudice and he liked to be with them.
One afternoon he returned with three or four of these youngsters and
lingered on the hill to chat with Garry. He had come to feel more at
home here than anywhere else.
"How's the kid?" Tom asked, as the sandy haired boy came out of the
cabin and passed him without speaking.
"Fine. You ought to see him eat. He's a whole famine in himself. You
mustn't mind him," he added; "he has notions."
"Oh," said Tom, "I'm used to being snubbed. It just amuses me in his
case."
"How's tracking?"
"Punk. There's so much dust you can't make a track. What we need is
rain, so we can get some good plain prints. That's the only way to teach
a tenderfoot. Jeb says dust ought to be good enough, but he's a fiend."
"He could track an aeroplane," said Garry. "Everything's pretty dry, I
guess."
"You'd say so," said Tom, "if you were down through those east woods.
You could light a twig with a sun glass. They're having forest fires up
back of Tannerstown."
"I saw the smoke," said Garry.
"There's a couple of hoboes down the cut a ways; we tracked them today,
cooking over a loose fire. I tried to get them to cut it out; told 'em
they'd have the whole woods started.
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