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 that, your trunk is about twice my size, even if it is a steamer.”

Miss Worthington hesitated a minute and then took one end of the trunk and helped to carry it into the Bee Master’s sleeping room. The little Scout looked at the open closet from which Jamie’s clothing had been removed, at the open drawers from which he had taken his belongings, and a wave of anger surged up that very nearly upset the brand of self-possession that the Scout Master was trying to maintain. The thought that was at that minute in the small head was whether fists that were sufficiently hard, muscle that was sufficiently tough, were not equal to the task of pitching this interloper through the window down a particularly steep piece of mountain-side leading toward the sea. But the mentality of the little person spoke up.

“Go on and pitch her! Chances are big soft Jamie would be standing outside and catch her in a blanket and bring her in and put her to bed and stand up all night himself watching to see whether she was going to open that chest or not, and he prodibly wouldn’t stop her if she did. What’s the use if I did pitch her? It wouldn’t get me anywhere. I better just stick around and stay on the job and see what she’s going to do.”

So the Scout Master ran innumerable errands and watched with blood literally at the point of boiling while the house was searched from top to bottom. Drawers were emptied, books shifted on shelves. At last the little Scout lost patience.

“Say, what’s eatin’ you?”