was kidnapped," Pee-wee vociferated.

"Only his initials are A. H.," Tom answered dully.

"No sooner said than stung," piped up one of the scouts.

"What'll we do with him? Keep him?" asked another.

"What good is he?" Tom said, apparently on the point of scaling the
turtle into the lake. "Some scout or other cut his initials here, that's
all. I don't see any use in keeping him; he isn't so very sociable."

"Lots of times you crawl in your shell and aren't so sociable, either,"
Pee-wee shot back at him. "I say let's keep him for a souvenir."

"We'll have a regular Bronx Park Zoo here pretty soon," a scout said.
"We'll have to give him a name just like Asbestos."

Tom set the turtle on the ground and everybody waited silently. But the
turtle was not to be beguiled out of his stronghold by any such
strategy. He remained as motionless as a stone. Pee-wee gave him a
little poke with his foot but to no avail. They turned him around,
setting him this way and that, they tried to pry his tail out but it
went back like a spring.

They moved him a few yards distant in hopes that the change of scene
might make him more sociable. But he showed no more sign of life than a
fossil would have shown. So again they all waited. And they waited and
waited and waited. They spoke in whispers and went on waiting.

But after a while this policy of watchful waiting became tiresome.
Apparently the turtle was ready to withstand this siege for years if
necessary. Disgustedly, one scout after another went away, and others
came. Tempting morsels of food were placed in front of the turtle, in a
bee line with his head.

"Gee whiz, if he doesn't care for food what _does_ he care for?" Pee-wee
observed, knowing the influence of food.

That settled it so far as he was concerned, and he went away, saying
that the turtle was not human, or else that he was dead. Others, more
patient, stood about, waiting. And all the famed ingenuity of scouts
was exhausted to beguile or to drive the turtle out of his stronghold.
At one time as many as twenty scouts surrounded him, with sticks, with
food, and Scouty, the camp dog, came down and danced around and made a
great fuss and went away thoroughly disgusted.

The turtle was master of the situation.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE WANDERING MINSTREL

With one exception the most patient scout at Temple Camp was Westy
Martin of the interesting Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Troop. He could sit
huddled up in a bush