He was a scout and he could not reconcile himself to the commonplace device of going to someone's house and asking for shelter.

His scout training had taught him self-reliance and resource, and here was the chance to apply them, to go home, to find his way without anyone's help.

The lonely road called to him more than the dark houses did.
But how about the car?
Mr.Bartlett's stolen car?
Would it be the way of a scout to go home and tell about that?
He had come in the car, Providence had made him its guardian, and he would take it back again and say, (or words to this effect) "Here is your super six Hunkajunk car, Mr.Bartlett; they tried to steal it but I _foiled_ them! I was disguised as a buffalo robe." There was only one difficulty in the way of this heroic course and that was that he could not run the car.

Never again would he touch one of those frightful nickel things on the instrument board.

So, wishing to handle this harrowing situation alone, with true scout prowess and resource, he kicked around among the ruins of that tyrannous and fallen empire, and tried to devise some plan.
Suddenly he heard a sound near him.