Gaylong said, “The trouble with us fellows is that we started our great and glorious troop during the war. Everybody was organizing troops—France, Germany, Uncle Sam, Italy—and we got lost in the shuffle. Too much competition. We’ll land rightside up yet. But when I look over that scout magazine and see all the ads of things scouts want, it sort of makes me discouraged. Knives, cameras, bicycles, canoes, magic lanterns, toy steam engines, tin railroads, fancy memorandum books, electric motors! I suppose I’m behind the times, but just about all we want is a little place to meet in, and our scoutmaster back again and the price of a welcome for him, that’s all. That, and the woods.” “You said it,” I told him. “You should worry about all those ads; they have nothing to do with scouting. All they’ve got to do with scouting is that they’re good to kindle a camp-fire with. Scouting doesn’t cost anything when you once get started.” “It would cost about ten dollars a minute if some people had their way,” he said. “Sure,” I said, “they’d have you looking like Santa Claus. You should worry.” “But I ought not to kick,” he said; “because I’m to blame for this wild goose chase. You see I wanted to get the kids out of doors. I wanted to get their minds off patent sleds and go-carts, and goodness knows what all. I was brought up in the country and I wanted them to have a taste of adventure—the kind of stuff that isn’t advertised, you know.” I said, “You bet I know; and I have to admit you’re right, too.” “Of course, there wasn’t any chance of finding that fellow, Chandler,” he said; “but what’s the difference? We had about seven dollars, and the kids wanted to buy one of those moving picture machines, ‘_Boy Scouts, Attention! Here is just what you want!_’ You know. So I just took the seven plunks and brought them up this way on a hike. Something they _really did_ want. I thought maybe there was one chance in twenty of finding that Chandler, but I didn’t say so. I let them think the chance was fair. Anyway, we had a hike. We were out for adventure. They forgot about the cornets and the clock-work gew-gaws that they really _didn’t want_. We’ve been scouting. We’re broke, but we’ve been scouting. We hiked up to a remote village after a missing person. Romance! Adventure! We’ve been _scouting_. Hurrah, and a couple of bravos! That fellow Donnelle has the right idea; and he’s a brick.” “Believe _me_, that’s the biggest compliment you ever paid a brick,” I said. “So here we are,” he said; “cleaned out and happy, and living on our scout brothers. That’s the idea, isn’t it? Brothers? Poor relations, hey? But we’re real, honest-to-goodness, scouts. None genuine unless labeled _Church Mice_. Boy Scouts, Attention! Here is something you _really_ want. Hiking! Adventure! Some day or other we’ll stumble into fifty or a hundred dollars, but by the Big Dipper we’ll get it _scouting_. That fellow Donnelle has the right idea; he’s a peach.”