Take another case, to show the Boy Scouts’ power. You are a City merchant, and, arriving at the office one morning in a bad temper, you proceed to cure yourself by taking it out of the office-boy. He says nothing, apparently does nothing. But that evening, as you are going home in the Tube, a burly working-man treads heavily on your gouty foot. In Ladbroke Grove a passing hansom splashes you with mud. Reaching home, you find that the cat has been at the cold chicken and the butler has given notice. You do not connect these things, but they are all alike the results of your unjust behaviour to your office-boy in the morning. Or, meeting a ragged little matchseller, you pat his head and give him sixpence. Next day an anonymous present of champagne arrives at your address.
Terrible in their wrath, the Boy Scouts never forget kindness.
The whistle of a Striped Iguanodon sounded softly in the darkness. The sentry, who was pacing to and fro before the camp-fire, halted, and peered into the night. As he peered, he uttered the plaintive note of a zebra calling to its mate.
A voice from the darkness said, “Een gonyama-gonyama.”
“Invooboo,” replied the sentry argumentatively “Yah bo! Yah bo! Invooboo.”
An indistinct figure moved forward.
“Who goes there?”
“A friend.”
“Advance, friend, and give the countersign.”
“Remember Mafeking, and death to Injuns.”
“Pass friend! All’s well.”
The figure walked on into the firelight. The sentry started; then saluted and stood to attention. On his face was a worshipping look of admiration and awe, such as some young soldier of the Grande Armee might have worn on seeing Napoleon; for the newcomer was Clarence Chugwater.
“Your name?” said Clarence, eyeing the sturdy young warrior.
“Private William Buggins, sir.”
“You watch well, Private Buggins. England has need of such as you.”
He pinched the young Scout’s ear tolerantly. The sentry flushed with pleasure.
“My orders have been carried out?” said Clarence.
“Yes, sir. The patrols are all here.”
“Enumerate them.”
“The Chinchilla Kittens, the Bongos, the Zebras, the Iguanodons, the Welsh Rabbits, the Snapping Turtles, and a half-patrol of the 33rd London Gazekas, sir.”
Clarence nodded.
“‘Tis well,” he said. “What are they doing?”
“Some of them are acting a Scout’s play, sir; some are doing Cone Exercises; one or two are practising deep breathing; and the rest are dancing an Old English Morris Dance.”
Clarence nodded.
“They could not be better employed. Inform them that I have arrived and would address them.”
The sentry saluted.
Standing in an attitude of deep thought, with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind him, and his chin sunk upon his breast, Clarence made a singularly impressive picture. He had left his Essex home three weeks before, on the expiration of his ten days’ holiday, to return to his post of junior sub-reporter on the staff of a leading London evening paper. It was really only at night now that he got any time to himself. During the day his time was his paper’s, and he was compelled to spend the weary hours reading off results of races and other sporting items on the tape-machine. It was only at 6 p.m. that he could begin to devote himself to the service of his country.
The Scouts had assembled now, and were standing, keen and alert, ready to do Clarence’s bidding.
Clarence returned their salute moodily.
“Scout-master Wagstaff,” he said.
The Scout-master, the leader of the troop formed by the various patrols, stepped forward.
“Let the wardance commence.”
Clarence watched the evolutions absently. His heart was ill-attuned to dances. But the thing had to be done, so it was as well to get it over. When the last movement had been completed, he raised his hand.
“Men,” he said, in his clear, penetrating alto, “although you have not the same facilities as myself for hearing the latest news, you are all, by this time, doubtless aware that this England of ours lies ‘neath the proud foot of a conqueror. It is for us to save her. (Cheers, and a voice “Invooboo!”) I would call on you here and now to seize your hockey-sticks and rush upon the invader, were it not, alas! that such an action would merely result in your destruction. At present the invader is too strong. We must wait; and something tells me that we shall not have to wait long. (Applause.) Jealousy is beginning to spring up between the Russians and the Germans. It will be our task to aggravate this feeling. With our perfect organisation this should be easy. Sooner or later this smouldering jealousy is going to burst into flame. Any day now,” he proceeded, warming as he spoke, “there may be the dickens of a dust-up between these Johnnies, and then we’ve got ‘em where the hair’s short. See what I mean, you chaps? It’s like this. Any moment they may start scrapping and chaw each other up, and then we’ll simply sail in and knock what’s left endways.”
A shout of applause went up from the assembled scouts.
“What I am anxious to impress upon you men,” concluded Clarence, in more measured tones, “is that our hour
