“Don’t call to him,” said Ed. “As long as we haven’t got our fire started yet, what’s the use calling? He likes to be alone, sometimes; I know Westy all right. Don’t call.” It was this consideration on the part of Ed for the mood and nature of his friend that saved Westy at the moment. And incidentally it saved Warde and Ed themselves from discovery. Westy knew his peril, but they did not know theirs.
Ed stood at the brink of the stream fishing, his partly unraveled sweater tied around his waist, giving a Spanish touch to his appearance. It was a funny habit of his to wear clothes the wrong way. He was always springing some ludicrous effect by freakish arrangement of his apparel. Warde was gathering sticks for their fire.
“Here’s another killie,” said Ed. “Small, but nifty. That makes seven so far, and about ’steen of these other kind, whatever they are. Don’t call till you have to. Westy had this little lonely stroll coming to him ever since Mr. Wilde West sprung that stuff on us. He likes to communicate with Nature, or commune or commute or whatever you call it. He’s imagining he’s hundreds and hundreds of miles off now—I bet he is. He’s thinking what a punk scout he is. He likes to kid himself; let him alone, don’t call.”
“There’s one thing I want to say to you,” said Warde, “now we’re alone. I guess you never quarreled with a fellow, did you?”
“Here’s another killie—a little one,” said Ed.
“Well, all I wanted to say was,” said Warde, “I’d like to let you know that I think you’re about as good an all-round scout as any there ever was,............