“Why didn’t you take the whole village?” another called.

“Hey, Roly, where are you going with the real estate?” another called.

“I knew you were too heavy for that neck of land,” shouted another.

“Why didn’t you take the whole orchard with you?” a third wanted to know.

“For the love of——­,” another ejaculated.  “Look at the sign, will you!  The place is discovered already!”

Pee-wee did not wait for formal introductions.  “We’re going to start the Combination Scouts of Bridgeboro!” he shouted.  “We’re going to be sea scouts and land scouts all rolled into one!  We took possession and it’s all right!  Old Trimmer can’t say that he owned an island, can he?  We’re going to have our pictures in Boys’ Life and everything and we’re going to have all the apples when they’re ripe and maybe we’re going to call ourselves the Crab-apple Patrol!  Maybe there’s treasure buried here, how do we know?  And we’re going to get one of those things—­a saxophone or whatever you call it—­to take our latitude and longitude with!  We’re going to be better than the Ravens and the Elks and the Silver Foxes and I know how to make apple-sauce!  We’re going to be a new kind of a patrol!”

“In the name of goodness, what’s that, a phonograph?” one of the approaching canoeists called.

“That’s the discoverer,” Roly called back.  “He took possession of the island in the name of the King of Bridgeboro.”

“I thought it was an earthquake,” laughed a tall boy who was stepping ashore.

“Oh, we have those too,” laughed Roly; “all the latest improvements.  That’s Pee-wee; he’s perfectly harmless, step right ashore, you’re all welcome.”

“You’re stepping into the seventeenth century,” Pee-wee shouted, descending precipitately out of the tree.

“The seventeenth century must have been very wet,” said the tall boy as he lifted one foot out of the water only to plunge the other into the ragged, muddy edge of the island, in his efforts to get on shore.  It was very funny to see him wallow In the water, seeking foothold on the submerged tentacles of root, ever slipping, and always with the soberest look on his face.  “This must be the back entrance,” he said.  “Where are we supposed to park?”

This tall boy, who turned out to be a sort of patrol leader and scoutmaster in one, had a kind of whimsical look of inquiry on his face which was his permanent expression, and which was made the more humorous by red hair which he wore decidedly pompadour.  There was that in his look which indicated his taking everything as he found it, his attitude being always quietly humorous and never surprised.

His demeanor, in whatever adventure befell, seemed always that of an amiable victim placing himself at the mercy of his enterprising comrades and going through every kind of outlandish escapade and adventure with a ludicrously sober look on his funny face.  To him everything that happened seemed part of the game of life and he appeared never in the least astonished at anything.