Читать книгу Westy Martin on the Old Indian Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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Benny’s eyes were aglow when he burst into the living room of his home. His father and mother were sitting quietly there, listening to the radio.

He threw his scout hat upon the divan, his face radiating joy. Mr. Stein nodded and smiled. “You’re glad to be a scout. Eh, Sonny?”

“Sure,” Benny answered. “It’s beautiful. Patriotic by your country and your mama and papa. Only me—I was nervous. But Westy says he’ll show me that I shouldn’t be like that.”

“And they were all nice to my Sonny?” Mrs. Stein inquired, anxiously.

“Mama,” Benny answered, happily, “any better they couldn’t be to me. I thought I was a president how they all shook hands with me afterward. And just now coming home in Mr. Hollister’s car, Westy got me an invitation to go on the Mohawk Trail before even Mr. Hollister knew he was going to ask me.”

“Dat’s nice, Benny,” Mr. Stein said, pleased.

“You should help out with camping things, huh?”

“Sure,” Benny answered. “It’s no piker they’ll say I am, anyhow.” He turned and fixed his eyes upon his mother. “Everything’s been so nice. Westy is my friend. On a big hike I’ve already got an invitation. It’s only that I shouldn’t turn out to be a dumb scout to change my good luck as yet.”

“You won’t be a dumb scout, Sonny,” his mother assured him. “With that nice Westy boy taking care of you—it’s sure you won’t!”

At that very moment, Warde and Westy were discussing Benny. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of Warde’s house where Mr. Hollister had left them. Warde had said something about taking a tenderfoot in wild, mountainous country.

“Are you hinting that I shouldn’t have asked Benny along?” Westy asked, indignantly. “Do you mean you don’t want him—that he’s not good enough or something?”

“Gee whiz, Wes,” Warde implored, “there’s nothing to get fussed up about. I didn’t say anything about not wanting Benny. And I wasn’t hinting either.”

“What did you mean, then?” Westy demanded to know.

“Oh, gosh,” Warde answered with something like despair in his voice, “you’re too touchy. You fly right off the handle before a fellow can explain. Benny’s your friend, isn’t he?”

Westy uttered a vehement, “Betcha!”

“Well,” Warde went on, “and you’re a friend of mine, too. Aren’t you?”

“You know I am,” Westy grunted.

“If you had any sense then,” Warde continued, “you’d know that I like Benny on account of that. But no, right away you get up in the air because I said I wondered how he’d get along on the trail when he’s only a tenderfoot. He said himself he’s never been in real country like it must be up on the old trail.”

“Don’t worry,” Westy assured Warde, “Benny’ll get along all right, no matter how wild the country is. Even if he is a tenderfoot he has brains. Why, he’s ahead of any of us in school.”

“That’s it,” Warde said, “maybe he’s not sure of himself as a scout, because he likes to read and study best.”

“Well, anyhow,” Westy said, insistently, “he’ll learn scouting as well as he’s learned everything else. He’s not dumb as a scout at all. He thinks he is, but he’s proved already that he’s not.”

With that, Westy sprinted the length of two lawns and reached his own. Warde stood where he was for a few minutes. “Dumb?” he asked himself, at length. “Well, he seemed to get everything twisted tonight—saying the scout laws backward and all. Still, Westy may be right—you can’t always sometimes tell.”

Warde left it at that and went into the house.