Hunting Problem

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It was the last troop meeting before the big Scouter Jam­boree, and all the patrols had turned out. Patrol 22—the Soar­ing Falcon Patrol—was camped in a shady hollow, holding a tentacle pull. The Brave Bison Patrol, number 31, was moving around a little stream. The Bisons were practicing their skill at drinking liquids, and laughing excitedly at the odd sensa­tion.

And the Charging Mirash Patrol, number 19, was waiting for Scouter Drog, who was late as usual.

Drog hurtled down from the ten-thousand-foot level, went solid, and hastily crawled into the circle of scouters. “Gee,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time—”

The Patrol Leader glared at him. “You’re out of uniform, Drog.”

“Sorry, sir,” Drog said, hastily extruding a tentacle he had forgotten.

The others giggled. Drog blushed a dim orange. He wished he were invisible.

But it wouldn’t be proper right now.

“I will open our meeting with the Scouter Creed,” the Patrol Leader said. He cleared his throat. “We, the Young Scouters of planet Elbonai, pledge to perpetuate the skills and virtues of our pioneering ancestors. For that purpose, we Scouters adopt the shape our forebears were born to when they conquered the virgin wilderness of Elbonai. We hereby resolve—”

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