"Go on, you started to tell me about it." It was very pleasant and cosy up there in the sniper's perch where Roscoe had gathered the thinner branches about him, forming a little leafy lair, in which his agile figure and his quick glances about reminded Tom for all the world of a squirrel.

He could hardly believe that this watchful, dexterous creature, peering cautiously out of his romantic retreat, was the same Roscoe Bent who used to make fun of the scouts and sneak upstairs to smoke cigarettes in the Temple Camp office; who thought as much of his spotless high collar then as he seemed to think of his rifle now.
"I got to thank you because you named it after me," said Tom.
"And I _got to thank you_ that you gave me the chance to get it to name after you, Tommy.

Well, you see it was this way," Roscoe went on in a half whisper; "there were half a dozen of us over here in the woods and we'd just cleaned out a machine gun nest when we saw this miniature forest moving along.

I thought it was a decorated moving van." "That's the trouble with them," agreed Tom; "they're no good in the woods; they're clumsy.

They're punk scouts." "Scouts!" Roscoe chuckled.