We had to laugh, he looked so funny in that striped jacket; but anyway it was a pretty lonely road and we weren’t likely to meet anybody. Pretty soon we began passing houses, and Brent took the jacket off and threw it back into the van through the little window in front. In about five minutes we came to a village. I said, “Go slow or you’ll run over it.” The village was almose right underneath the van. The main street of that village was all black and sticky from tar and oil that they had been sprinkling on it and pretty soon we came to the sprinkler, standing still right in the middle of the road, with a couple of men near it. We had to stop because we couldn’t get past, so we just sat there on the seat, watching them. The sprinkler wouldn’t work and they were trying to fix it. One man was sticking a piece of wire into all the little holes along the pipe that ran crossways at the back of the big tank. Brent said, “They’ll never fix it that way. Maybe some of those holes are clogged up, but not all of them.” Then he called down to the man and said, “What seems to be the trouble? Won’t she sprinkle?” “Mixture’s too gol darned thick, I reckon,” one of the men called back. “Well, it wouldn’t clog up all the holes,” Brent said; “probably the feed pipe is clogged up.” The man said, “Well, I don’t know how we’re ever going to get at that unless we take the whole bloomin’ thing apart.” Then I heard Brent say, under his breath kind of, “I could fix that in five minutes.” “Then you have to do it,” the kid shouted; “you have to do a good turn.” “Look and see if there isn’t a turn cock on the feed pipe,” Brent called down; “maybe it joggled shut. That sometimes happens on an auto.” The two men got down under the sprinkler and began looking and feeling around, but they couldn’t seem to find anything. After a couple of minutes Brent climbed down and said, “Let’s take a look at this.” I guess they could see that he was a pretty good mechanic, all right. Anyhow they stepped out of the way and Brent crawled down under the sprinkler. He lay on his back part way underneath it and we all watched him. “He’ll find the trouble,” Pee-wee said to the man; “he’s head of a scout troop, he is, and he’s resourceful. A scout has got to be resourceful. Don’t you worry, we’ll do you a good turn, all right.” The men kind of smiled, and one of them said, “All right, sonny. So yer fer doin’ good turns, hey?” “Sure,” Pee-wee said; “that’s one of our rules. If anybody’s in trouble we’ve got to help them out—no matter how much trouble it is. You see a scout can always help you out, because he’s resourceful.” One of those men said, “Oh, that’s it, is it?” “Sure,” the kid shouted; “all you have to do is come to us. Even Uncle Sam came to us when he wanted to sell Liberty Bonds; we helped him out.” The man said, “I bet he was tickled to death.” I said to Pee-wee, “Shut up; don’t be shouting so much about good turns. Actions speak louder than words.”