Читать книгу Sure Pop and the Safety Scouts - Roy Rutherford Bailey - Страница 8

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"Bully for Uncle Jack!" cried Bob, a stalwart lad just on the edge of twelve, excitedly waving a letter with a South American postmark. "What wouldn't I give to be with him on his exploring trips! Here, Betty, listen to this part about their fight with the natives!"

"Oh, don't, please!" said his twin, clapping both hands over her ears, but listening just the same. "I'm always so afraid Uncle Jack will get killed."

"Uncle Jack get killed? Hardly! Just listen to what he says:

"'This last scrimmage was one of the liveliest I've ever been up against. The warlike up-river tribes, it seems, mistook our native scouts for a war party and lay in ambush for us. Might have been worse, though. Our losses were two men killed and seven wounded—but of course that's only a fraction of what you wound and kill every day back there in the States.'"

"Why, what does he mean by that?" wondered Betty. "There's no war going on in this country, is there?"

"Not that I know of." Even Brother Bob looked puzzled for a moment. "No Indians left to fight! But say, Betty, Uncle Jack's life is just fairly dripping with adventure! Think of it—every day chock-full of thrills and narrow escapes—and adventures every time he turns around! Well, it won't be many years now before I can be a scout and explorer myself."

A yell from their playmates outside brought the twins to the street in a hurry. Bob's legs were longer, but Betty, quick as a cat, got there first.

"You're it, Bob!" "Bob's last, so he's it!" Like a band of savages the screeching boys and girls scuttled across the car tracks and around the corners, while Bob counted up to five hundred "by fives."

"Four hundr' nine' five, FIVE HUNDRED!" yelled Bob, and started to dash across the tracks, for he had caught a glimpse of Jimmy West's new red boots disappearing under his grandmother's porch across the street. The sound of the wind in his ears as he ran drowned out the roar of the coming street car, and of course he had eyes only for those tell-tale red boots.

Another jump and Bob would have been under the wheels—but a strong little hand on his shoulder stopped him. The street car roared by with a startled clang of its gong, for the motorman had seen Bob too late to throw off the power.

Bob gasped in relief—then whirled around to see what had stopped him. And what do you think he saw, right there beside him in the street? Was it a scout—or a pygmy—or what?

He was old and snowy haired, but as fresh as a daisy and as spry as a cricket. His cheeks were as ruddy as Spitzenberg apples and his only wrinkles were the laughter wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. And such eyes! They were big and clear, and so bright that Bob could only look at them a moment and then turn away. It was like trying to stare at the sun.

He was tiny, but straight as a ramrod in his natty khaki uniform. And he was holding up his right hand just like the big policeman on the corner downtown. As he dropped it to shake hands with Bob, there was a sudden flash of green.

"Why, hello there!" Bob could scarcely believe his eyes. "Where on earth did you come from? And who—who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Sure Pop!" answered the scout in a clear voice, like the note of a bugle. "I've dropped in on the United States on my second tour of scouting duty, and I hear you are thirsting for adventure. Well, you've had one, at any rate; if I hadn't grabbed you just in the nick of time—" He shuddered and hustled Bob back to the sidewalk.

"Thanks, old scout!" stammered Bob. "I didn't know there was a car coming, and you see I was in such a hurry—"

"I see!" said Sure Pop, dryly. "I see, Bob, but you didn't. How do you suppose a wee chap like me ever gets across the busy streets downtown?"

"Give it up!" said Bob, "unless you can fly!" And he gave a sly glance at the scout's square little shoulders, half expecting to see wings.

Sure Pop grinned. "No more than you," he chuckled. "So I keep my eyes and ears open. Folks who have no wings must use their wits."

Bob felt a bit uncomfortable to have his mind read so easily, and promptly changed the subject. "What a funny name you have—'Sure Pop'!"

"Well, 'tis a funny one, sure pop! That name was wished on me by a crowd of Borderland folk, and then His Majesty gave it to me for keeps."

"His Majesty—do you mean your King?"

"Right—the King of the Borderland." The two had been walking toward the Dalton house as they talked. Now Sure Pop followed Bob up the steps and curled up in the big porch chair to tell him all about it.

"Once upon a time, some years ago, when I was a younger man than I am now," began Sure Pop, "I was standing on a corner in the largest city in the Borderland. It was noontime, and crowds of horsemen and chariots were dashing up and down the street.

"Suddenly I saw a youngster start over to my side of the street without looking either way. There was a chariot almost upon him when I held up my hand, as I did to you now, and yelled, 'Look sharp!' He stopped short—and those thundering wheels missed him by about an inch.

"He picked his way across the street, then, and held out his hand. 'That was a close shave,' he said. 'You've saved my life, Mr.—Mr.—' For of course he didn't know my name from Captain Kidd's.

"'That's all right!' I said. 'But you should always look before you cross.'

"'Do you?' he asked, with a sudden sharp glance.

"'Sure pop!' I told him. 'Safety First!'

"By this time quite a crowd of Borderland folk had gathered around us, and they all laughed and cheered and called me 'Sure Pop.' And one bold-eyed rascal threw up his pointed cap and shouted, 'Bully for Sure Pop!' and ran off to tell the King. At that all the rest of the crowd clapped their hands, for though they laughed at the name they knew I had the right idea."

"Ha!" said Bob. "So that's how you came by that comical name of yours?"

"Sure pop!" answered the Safety Scout with a twinkle.

Folks who have no wings must use their wits.—Sure Pop