sibilant hiss that was intended for a warning to silence struck his ears. Leaning forward, softly, a step at a time, one hand thrust outward for balance, one thrust back for caution, the little Scout crept in a crouching attitude down the walk, eyes fixed straight ahead. Leaning over to get the alignment, Jamie saw a big bumble bee clambering over the entrance petal to the horn of a trumpet flower. He saw the little Scout measure off a certain distance, crouch, and then quick, quicker almost than he could sense what was happening, a stream of saliva shot straight and hit the bee, knocking it off its moorings. The little Scout sprang into the air and uttered a whoop that would have startled an Apache on the war path. Wildly whirling and shouting, with beating hands, the child, in a shrill, boyish voice, cried, “Hit him! By Golly! I hit him! Knocked him ping!”
Then, turning, the small figure made a rush toward Jamie and a hand gripped each of his knees.
“Say, if I bring Fat Ole Bill and the Nice Child and Angel Face, will you tell ’em? Will you say I did it? We got a bet. I’m two bits to the good. I’ll lick the hide off ’em if they don’t take my word, but I could put up a heap bigger swank if you’d tell ’em you saw me.”
Jamie finally got his mouth arranged in a position in which it would speak recognizable English.
Then he said, “Surely! Any day you want me to, I’ll meet your pals and I’ll testify that fairly and squarely you hit the bee.”
