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 Into play came the gesture that had now come to be inseparable from the Scout Master’s personality.

“About loving the Bee Master—that’s a thing that it ain’t very good to talk about. That gets down among your feelin’s where you want ’em covered up, where things ain’t much of anybody’s business. If it was anything that would do the Bee Master any good, I’d stand fire and water to do it; but when it’s just nonsense, what’s the use? The Bee Master likes me or he wouldn’t have sent for me, and he never in his life saw me as dolled up as I am right now!”

The Scout Master squirmed, thrust forth a stocking clad leg and a patent leather shoe.

“Look at that now! Wouldn’t it make you sick? What’s legs for if you can’t use just leg? Who invented stockings anyway? Scratchy, itchy things and in a country where you don’t need ’em! I’ll tell the world, I’d ‘a’ shed the socks, too, but I knew I was late. Come on, let’s go!”

Jamie hung up the wash cloth, used the towel, and started to apply the comb. The Scout Master backed away with out-thrown hands.

“No, you don’t!” cried the little Scout. “I’m not allowed to use other people’s combs. They might have tarantulas or Gila monsters or octopuses on ’em!”

Jamie laid back the comb and reached his hand. The Scout Master laid a hard, scarred, wiry hand in his and walked sedately beside him until they passed through the front gate.