He just said, “No, when you grow up, make up your mind whether you’re going to be human or not. Don’t try to be two things. Don’t be a question mark. Why away down in my savage, primeval heart, I wouldn’t hurt a kitten. Yet here I am growling and roaring and wrenching at my cage bars and straining at that old chain, and the children and old ladies back up on the street when they see me, frightened out of their lives. I’m not loved by anyone. It’s mighty hard. Either one of you kids got a cigarette about you?” I told him no, that scouts didn’t smoke cigarettes. He said, “Well, drop in and see me down at Poughkeepsie or Newburgh if you happen in when we’re there. You’re always welcome.” Gee, we just couldn’t make heads or tails of that fellow. Anyway, I liked him. And I had to admit that that was good advice he gave me about making up my mind whether to be human or not. CHAPTER XXII BRENT GAYLONG The fellows were all waiting for us when we came out and we hiked out to where those scouts had their camp. There were only five of them, one patrol, and the biggest one was a kind of scoutmaster and patrol leader rolled into one. His name was Brent Gaylong. I walked with him behind the others and he told me all about his patrol and the troubles they had. He was an awful nice fellow, kind of quiet like; but he was funny, too. Christopher, that little troop must have been started on Friday the thirteenth, that’s one thing sure. I said, “What’s the name of your patrol?” “Well,” he said, “we call ourselves the Church Mice, because we’re so poor. First we were going to call ourselves the Job’s Turkeys, but we decided that a church mouse was poorer than Job’s turkey.” I had to laugh. I said, “I’ve heard of most every kind of an animal’s name used for patrols, but never a church mouse. My patrol is the Silver Fox.” “That’s a bully name,” he said. “Anyway,” I told him, “the name hasn’t got so much to do with it. There was a patrol up at Temple Camp named the Pollywogs and they were all nice fellows. But they couldn’t keep still, they were always wriggling. Maybe they’re frogs by this time, hey? A fellow up there told me about a patrol named the Caterpillars and afterwards they changed it to the Butterflies. He said there’s a patrol out west named the Mock Turtles. There’s a lot of crazy fellows come to Temple Camp. One of them said there was a fellow in his troop named Welsh and he was chosen leader of a new patrol and they wanted to call it the Welsh Rabbits. Church Mice is all right, I think.” He said, “It’s appropriate anyway. I’d like to see a camp like that Temple Camp; it must be great. Trouble with us is we’ve had such plaguey hard luck. I guess there’s only one thing harder than our luck and that’s the biscuits we make.” I said, “I can make hard ones.”