Perhaps Hervey was not the ideal scout, but there was something very fascinating about his blithe way of going after a thing, getting it, and burdening his mind with it no more.  He lived for the present.  His naive manner of asking Tom for a tip as to a trail had greatly amused the more experienced scout, who now could not understand how Hervey had used the handbook so much and knew it so imperfectly.

“Didn’t you ever see one before?” Tom asked.

“Not while I was conscious,” Hervey shot back, “but if he likes to live that way it’s none of my business.  He’s inside taking a nap, I guess.  He had some rocky road to Dublin coming down.  I wonder what he thinks?  That wasn’t the right kind of a trail, was it?”

“Wasn’t it?” Tom queried.

“No; I want a trail along the ground.”

“Still after the Eagle, huh?  Do you realize what you have done?”

“I’ve torn my suit all to shreds, I know that.  Right the first time, hey?  I’d look nice going up on the platform Saturday night?  Good I won’t have to, hey?”

“I thought you were going to,” Tom said soberly.

“So I am,” Hervey shot back at him; “trails up in the air don’t count.  Never mind, I’ll find a trail to-morrow.  It’s my troop I’m thinking of.  I’ll land it, all right.  When I get my mind on a thing....  Hey, Slady, what in the dickens is that streak of red in the nest?  Is it a trade mark or something like that?  You’re a naturalist.”

“It’s an oriole’s nest,” Tom said, with just a note of good-humored impatience in his voice.  “I thought you’d know that.”

“You see my head is full of the Eagle badge just now,” Hervey pleaded, “but I’m going to look up orioles.”

Tom smiled.

“I’m going to look up orioles, and I’m going to get Doc to put some iodine on my leg, and I’m going to do that tracking stunt to-morrow.  There’s three things I’m going to do.”

Tom paused, seemingly irresolute, as if not knowing whether to say what was in his mind or not.  And presently they started toward the camp, Hervey limping along and carrying the branch.

“An oriole picks up everything he can find and weaves it into his nest,” Tom said; “string, ribbon, bits of straw, any old thing.  He likes things that are bright colored.”

“He’s got the right idea, there,” Hervey said.

Tom tried again to interest the rescuer in this little companion, imprisoned within its own cozy little home, whom they were taking back to camp.  He could not comprehend how one who had performed such a stunt as Hervey had just performed, and been so careful and humane, could forget about his act so soon and take so little interest in the bird which had been saved by his reckless courage.  But that was Hervey Willetts all over.  His heart went where action was.  And his interest lapsed when action ceased.

“Somebody in a book called the oriole Orestes, because that means dweller in the woods,” Tom ventured.