Tom Slade

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In Court, the next morning, the judge ruled out all reference to the
disfigurement of Mrs. Slade's portrait as being "incompetent and
irrelevant," and when the "assault and battery" could not be made to
seem "an act done in self-defense and by reason of the imminent peril
of the accused," Tom was taken to the "jug" to spend the balance of the
day and to ponder on the discovery that a "guy" has no right to "slam"
a marshal just because he sets a dirty beer can on his mother's
picture.

His first enterprise after his liberation was a flank move on Schmitt's
Grocery where he stole a couple of apples and a banana, which latter he
ate going along the street. These were his only luncheon. The banana
skin he threw on the pave-ment.

In a few moments he heard footsteps behind him and, turning, saw a
small boy coming along dangling the peel he had dropped. The boy was a
jaunty little fellow, wearing a natty spring suit. It was, in fact,
"Pee-wee" Harris, Tenderfoot, who was just starting out to cover
Provision 5 of the Second Class Scout requirements, for he was going to
be a Second Class Scout before camping-time, or know the reason why.

"You drop that?" he asked pleasantly.

"Ye-re, you kin have it," said Tom cynically.

"Thanks," said Pee-wee, and the banana peel went sailing over the fence
into Temple's lot.

"First thing you know somebody'd get a free ride on that thing," said
Pee-wee.

"Ye-re?" said Tom sneeringly.

"And if anybody got anything free near John Temple's property----"

"Dere's where yer said it, kiddo," said Tom, approvingly.

"So long," said Pee-wee, and went gaily on, walking a little, then
running a little, then walk-ing again, until Tom thought he must be
crazy. Happening just at that minute to finish one of his apples (or
rather one of Schmitt's apples) he let fly the core straight for the
back of Pee-wee's head.

Then a most extraordinary thing, happened. Without so much as turning
round, Pee-wee raised his hand, caught the core, threw it over into the
lot, and then, turning, laughed, "Thanks, good shot!"

Tom had always supposed that the back of a person's head was a safe
target, and he could not comprehend the instinct which was so alert and
highly-tuned that it could work entirely independent of the eyes. But
this was merely one of Pee-wee's specialties, and his amazing progress
from Tenderfoot to Star Scout is a story all by itself.

Tom hoisted himself onto the board fence and attacked the other apple.
Just then along came "Sweet Caporal" demanding the core.

"Gimme it 'n' I'll put yer wise ter sup'm."

Tom made the speculation.

"Wop Joe's around de corner wid his pushcart? wot d'ye say we give him
de spill?"

They were presently joined by "Slats" Corbett, and the "Two Aces," Jim
and Jake Mattenberg, and shortly thereafter Wop Joe's little candystand
was carried by assault.

The gum-drops and chocolate bars which did not find their way into the
pockets of the storming host, were strewn about the street, the whistle
of the peanut-roaster was broken off and Tom went scooting down the
street tooting it vigorously.

This affair scattered the gang for the time, and presently Tom and
"Sweet Caporal" found themselves together. They got an empty bottle
from an ash wagon, broke it and distributed the pieces along Broad
Street, which they selected as a sort of "mine area" for the
embarrassment of auto traffic.

Tom then shuffled into the Public Library, ostensibly to read, but in
fact to decorate the books according to his own theories of art, and
was ejected because he giggled and scuffed his feet and interfered with
the readers.

It would not be edifying to follow Tom's shuffling footsteps that
afternoon, nor to enumerate the catalogue of unseemly phrase and
vicious mischief which filled the balance of the day. He wound up his
career of glory by one of the most contemptible things which he had
ever done. He went up at dusk and tacked his quarantine sign to the
outer gate of the Bennett place.

"Gee, I hope they're all home," he said.

They were all at home and Mrs. Bennett, whom he hated, was busy
with preparation and happy anticipations for her unsuspecting son. That
the wretched plan did not succeed was due to no preparatory omission on
the part of Tom, but because something happened which changed the whole
face of things.

CHAPTER IV

CAMP SOLITAIRE

Tom's visit to the Library reminded him that it was here "them
regiment fellers" met, and since it was near the Bennett place he
decided to loiter thereabout, partly for the ineffable pleasure of
beholding the side-tracking of Connover's party, and partly in the hope
of seeing Mr. Ellsworth again.

So he shuffled around a little before dark and did sentinel duty
between the two places. He wanted something to eat very much indeed,
and he surmised that such a sympathetic fellow as young Mr. Ellsworth
would "give him the lend of a nickel" especially if he were tipped off
in regard to the coming ball game.

Standing outside, Tom heard the uproarious laughter through the
basement windows and wondered what it was all about. Strange that
fellows could be enjoying themselves so thoroughly who were not up to
some kind of mischief.

Presently, the basement door opened and the scouts began to come out.
Tom loitered in the shadow across the way.

The first group paused on the sidewalk bent on finishing their
discussion as to whether "whipping" was as good as splicing for two
strands of rope. One boy insisted that splicing was the only way if you
knew how to do it, but that you had to whittle a splicing needle.

"I wouldn't trust my weight on any double whipping," said
another fellow. "The binding wouldn't stand salt water--not unless you
tarred it."

"If my little snow-white hand is going to grab that loop, it'll
be spliced," said the first speaker.

Another boy came out and said he could jump the gap without any
rope at all; it was only seven feet, and what was the use of a rope
anyway? Then someone said that Pee-wee would do it scout pace, and
there was a great laugh. The group went on up the street.

Then out came the renowned Pee-wee himself in hot pursuit of them,
running a little, walking a little, according to his habit.

Two more boys came out and one of them said it was going to rain to-morrow.
Tom wondered how he knew. Then three or four of the Ravens
appeared and one said it would be a great stunt if they could work that
on the Silver Foxes at midnight.

Tom didn't know what the Silver Foxes were (he knew there were no foxes
in Bridgeboro), and he had no notion what "that" meant, but he liked
the idea of doing it at midnight. He would like to be mixed up in
something which was done at midnight himself.

But his trusty pal, Mr. Ellsworth, did not appear. Whether he was
absent that evening, Tom never knew. The last ones to emerge from the
Library basement, were a couple of boys who were talking about dots and
dashes.

"You want to make your dot flares shorter," one said.

"Shall I tell you what I'm going to say?" the other asked.

"No, sure not, let me dope it out."

"Well, then, get on the job as soon as you reach home."

"All right, then I won't say good-night till later. So long."

"See you to-morrow."

How these two expected to say good night without seeing each other Tom
could not imagine, but he thought it had something to do with "dot
flares"; in any event, it was something very mysterious and was to be
done that night. He rather liked the idea of it.

The two boys separated, one going up toward Blakeley's Hill and pausing
to glance at the quarantine sign on the Bennett house as he passed. Tom
was rather surprised that he noticed it since he seemed to be in a
hurry, but he followed, resolved to "slam" the fellow if he took it
down.

Then there came into his head the bright idea that if he followed this
boy up the hill to an unfrequented spot he could hold him up for a
nickel.

A little way up the hill the boy suddenly turned and stood waiting for
him. Tom was hardly less than amazed at this for he had thought that
his pursuit was not known. When they came face to face Tom saw that it
was none other than the "half-baked galook" Roy Blakeley.

He wore the full Scout regalia which fitted him to perfection, and upon
his left breast Tom could see a ribbon with something bright depending
from it, which seemed to be in the shape of a bird. He had a trim
figure and stood very straight, and about his neck was a looselyknotted
scarf of a silvery gray color, showing quite an expanse of bare
throat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and on one wrist he
wore a leather band.

"What are you following me for?" he asked.

"Who's follerin' yer?"

"You are."

"I ain't follerin' yer neither."

"Yes, you are."

"Yer mean ter tell me I'm lyin'?" shouted Tom, advancing with a
threatening air.

"Sure."

Tom's hulking form was within a few inches' of Blakeley and he thrust
forward his lowered head and held his clenched fist conveniently ready
at his side, but Roy did not budge. On the contrary, he seemed rather
amused. He did not scare worth a cent.

"Yer want me ter hand ye one?"

"No, sure not."

"Well then, was I lyin'?"

"Surest thing you know."

There was a pause.

"Gimme a nickel 'n' I'll leave ye off," said Tom magnanimously.

The boy laughed and asked, "What do you want the nickel for?"

"Fer a cup o' coffee."

Roy paused a minute, biting his lip ruminatively, frankly contemplating
him.

"I can make you a better cup of coffee," said he, "than any lunch wagon
juggler in this town. You're halfway up the hill now; come on up the
rest of the way--just for a stunt. Ever up on the hill?"

Tom hesitated.

"Come on, you're not in a hurry to get home, are you? I'll give you
some plum-duff I made and you can have a belt axe to chop it with if
you want to. Come on, just for a stunt."

"Who's up dere?"

"Just 'Yours sincerely.'"

"Yer live in de big house, don'cher?"

"Not fer me; guess again. Nay, nay, my boy, I live in Camp
Solitaire, with a ring round it. Anybody steps inside that ring gets
his wrist slapped and two demerits. I let the house stay there on
account of my mother and father and the cat. Don't you worry, you won't
get within two hundred feet of the house. The house and I don't speak."

Tom, half suspicious but wanting a cup of coffee, shuffled along at
Roy's side. The scout's offhand manner and rather whimsical way of
talking took the wind out of his belligerence, and he allowed himself
so far to soften toward this "rich guy" as to say,

"Me an' our house don't speak neither; we wuz chucked."

"Chucked?"

"Ye-re, put out. Old John Temple done it, but I'm hunk all right."

"When was that?"

"Couple o' days ago."

He told the story of the eviction and his companion listened as they
plodded up the hill.

"Well," said Roy, "I haven't slept indoors for two weeks, and I'm not
going to for the next six weeks. And the best way to get hunk on a
fellow that puts you out of a house is just to sleep outdoors. They
can't put you out of there very well. Camp, and you've got the laugh on
them!"

"Gee, I thought nobuddy but poor guys slep' outdoors."

"It's the poor guys that sleep indoors," said Roy.

"Don' de wind git on ye?"

"Sure--gets all over you; it's fine."

"My father give me a raw hand-out, all right, and then some
more."

"Well, there's no use fighting your pack."

"Yer what?"

"Your pack--as Dan Beard says."

"Who's he--one o' your crowd?"

"You bet he is. 'Fighting your pack' is scrapping with your job--with
what can't be helped--kind of. See?"

They walked along in silence, Tom's half-limping sideways gait in
strange contrast with his companion's carriage, and soon entered the
spacious grounds of the big old-fashioned house which crowned the
summit of Blakeley's Hill, one of the show places of the town.

"Can you jump that hedge?" said Roy, as he leaped over it. "This'll be
your first sleep outdoors, won't it? If you wake up all of a sudden and
hear a kind of growling don't get scared--it's only the trees."

Under a spacious elm, a couple of hundred feet from the house, was a
little tent with a flag-pole near it.

"That's where Old Glory hangs out, but she goes to bed at sunset.
That's what gives her such rosy cheeks. We'll hoist her up and give her
the salute in the morning."

Near the tent was a small fire place of stones, with a rough bench by
it and a chair fashioned from a grocery box. Before the entrance stood
two poles and on a rough board across these were painted the words,
CAMP SOLITAIRE, as Tom saw by the light of the lantern which Roy held
up for a moment.

The tent was furnished with a cot, blankets, mosquito-netting, several
books on a little shelf, and magazines strewn about with BOYS' LIFE on
their covers. On the central upright was a little shelf with a
reflector for the lantern, and close to the pole a rickety steamer
chair with a cushion or two. The place looked very inviting.

"Now this out here," said Roy, "is my signal pedestal. You know Westy
Martin, don't you? He's patrol leader, and he and I are trying out the
Morse code; you'll see me hand him one to-night. We're trying it by
searchlight first, then, later we'll get down to the real fire works.
He lives out on the Hillside Road a little way."

The signal pedestal was a little tower with a platform on top reached
by a ladder.

"Doesn't need to be very high, you see, because you can throw a
searchlight way up, but we use it daytimes for flag work. Here's the
searchlight," Roy added, unwrapping it from a piece of canvas. "Belongs
on the touring car, but I use it. I let my father use it on the car
sometimes--if he's good.

"Now for the coffee. Sit right down on that parlor chair, but don't
lean too far back. Like it strong? No? Right you are. Wait a minute,
the lantern's smoking. Never thought what you were up against to-night,
did you? You're kidnapped and don't know it. By the time we're through
the eats Westy'll be home and we'll say good-night to him.

"Can you beat that valley for signalling? Westy's nearly as high up as
we are. Now for the fire and then the plum-duff. Don't be afraid of it-you
can only die once. Wish I had some raisin pudding, but my mother
turned me down on raisins to-day."

He sat down on the ground near Tom, scaled his hat into the tent, drew
his knees up, and breathed a long, exaggerated sigh of fatigue after
his few minutes' exertion.

"Let's see, what was I going to ask you? Oh, yes; how'd you get hunk on
John Temple?"

"Put a quarantine sign on Sissy Bennett's house."

"What?"

"Sure; didn't yer see it?"

"What for?"

"He's a rich guy, ain't he?"

Roy looked at him, puzzled.

"Dere's a gang comin' over from Hillside ter s'prise him to-night."

"In a car?"

"Ye-re. An' I put de sign up fer ter sidetrack 'em."

"You did?"

In the glare of the glowing fire Roy looked straight at Tom. "How will
that--what good--" he began; then paused and continued to look
curiously at him with the same concentrated gaze with which he would
have studied a trail by night. But that was not for long. A light came
into his eyes. Hurriedly he took out his watch and looked at it.

"Nine o'clock," he said, thoughtfully; "they must have started back."

He rose, all the disgust gone from his face, and slapped Tom on the
shoulder.

"Ain't he a rich guy?" explained Tom.

"Never mind that," said Roy. "I'm glad you told me--I'm going to show
you something as sure as you're a foot high! You and I are going to
have the time of our lives to-night, and don't you forget it!"

CHAPTER V

CONNOVER'S PARTY

"Quick, now, hand me the light and look out you don't trip on the
wires. If they once get past Westy's house--g-o-o-d-night! Just
inside the garage door there you'll see a switch-turn it on. Here, take
the lantern. If Westy don't get this right, we'll kill him."

Tom, with but the haziest idea of what was to be done, followed
directions. It evidently had something to do with the mysterious "dot
flares" and with his own mean act. These excited nocturnal activities
had a certain charm, and if it wasn't mischief Roy was up to it had at
least all the attractive qualities of mischief.

"You'll see a book just inside the tent--paper covered--hand me that
too, and come up yourself. Look out for the wires," cautioned Roy.

He opened the Scout Handbook to about the middle and laid it flat on
the tower rail.

"That's the Morse Code," said he, "easy as eating ice cream when you
once get the hang of it. I know it by heart but I'm going to let you
read them to me so as to be sure. Better be sure than be sorry--hey? I
hope they don't speed that auto till we get through with them."

"Can he answer?" ventured Tom.

"No, they haven't got a car at Westy's and no searchlight. He brings me
the message all writ, wrot, wrote out, in the morning. They've got a
dandy team there, though. Cracky, I'd rather have a pair of horses than
an auto any day, wouldn't you. Now be patient, Conny dear, and we'll
see what we can do for you."

"It's a long, long way to Tip--Hillside. Do you s'pose Westy's home
yet? Oh yes, sure, he must be. Well, here we go--take the lantern and
read off the ones I ask for and get them right or I'll-make you eat
another plate of plum-duff! Feeding with intent to kill, hey?"

Tom couldn't help laughing; Roy's phrases had a way of popping out like
a Jack-in-the-Box.

He had a small makeshift wooden bracket which stood on a grocery box on
the tower platform, and in this the auto searchlight swung.

"Wait a second now till I give him 'Attention' and then we're off.
Guess you must have seen this light from downtown, hey?"

"Ye-re, I wondered what'twas."

"Well, here's where you find out."

There was a little click as he turned the switch, and then a long
straight column of misty light shot up into the darkness, bisecting the
heavens. Far over to the west it swung, then far to the east, while Tom
watched it, fascinated. Then he heard the click of the switch again and
darkness reigned, save for the myriad stars.

It wac the first time in his life that Tom had ever been charged with a
real responsibility, and he waited nervously.

"That meant, 'Get ready,'" said Roy. "We'll give him time to sharpen
his pencil. Do you pull much of a stroke with Machelsa, the Indian
spirit? She smiles a smile at me once in a while, and if you want her
to see you through any kind of a stunt you just rub your cheek with one
hand while you pat your forehead with the other; try it."

"Can't do it, eh?" he laughed. "That's one of Mr. Ellsworth's stunts;
he got us all started on that. You'd think the whole troop was crazy."

"I know him," said Tom.

"He's the worst of the lot," said Roy. "Well, off we go, let's have S-call
them dots and lines; some say 'dashes' but lines is quicker if
you're working fast."

"Tree dots," said Tom.

Three sudden flashes shot up into the sky, quickly, one after another.

"Now T."

"Line," said Tom.

The switch clicked, and the long misty column rose again, remaining for
several seconds.

"Now O."

"T'ree lines," said Tom, getting excited.

"Now P--and be careful--it's a big one."

"I'm on de job," said Tom, becoming more enthusiastic as he became more
sure of himself. "Dot--line--line--dot."

The letter was printed on the open page of the heavens and down in
Barrel Alley two of the O'Connor boys sitting on the rickety railing
watched the lights and wondered what they meant.

So, across the intervening valley to Westy's home, the message was
sent. The khaki-clad boy, with rolled-up sleeves, whose brown hand held
the little porcelain switch, was master of the night and of the
distance, and the other watched him admiringly.

Down at the Western Union office in Bridgeboro, the operator sauntered
out in his shirtsleeves and smilingly watched the distant writing,
which he understood.

Stop all autos send car with
young folks back to Bennett's sure
not practice serious.

"Good-night," said Roy, and two fanlike swings of the misty column told
that it was over. "If they haven't passed Westy's yet, we win. Shake,
Tom," he added, gayly, "You did fine--you're a fiend at it! Wouldn't
you rather be here than at Conny's party--honest?"

"Would I?"

"Now we'll rustle down the hill and see the bunch co'me back--if they
do. Oh, cracky, don't you hope they do?"

"Do I?" said Tom.

"Like the Duke of Yorkshire, hey? Ever hear of him? Up the hill and
down again. We'll bring the sign up for a souvenir, what do you say?"

"Mebbe it oughter go back where it come from," said Tom, slowly.

"Guess you're right."

"Ever go scout's pace?" said Roy.

"What's that?"

"Fifty running-fifty walking. Try it and you'll use no other. Come on!
The kind of pace you've always wanted," said Roy, jogging along.
"Beware of substitutes."

It was just about the time when Roy was showing Tom his camp that a big
touring car rolled silently up to the outer gate of the Bennett place.
(The house stood well back from the road.) The car was crowded with
young people of both sexes, and it was evident from their expressions
of surprise and disappointment that they saw the yellow sign on the
gate.

There were a few moments of debate; some one suggested tooting the
horn, but another thought that might disturb the patient; one proposed
going to the house door and inquiring, while still another thought it
would be wiser not to. Some one said something about 'phoning in the
morning; a girl remarked that the last time she saw Connover he had a
headache and looked pale, and indeed Connover's general weakness,
together with the epidemic which prevailed in Bridgeboro, made the
appearance of the sign perfectly plausible.

The upshot was that the auto rolled away and turned into the Hillside
Turnpike. Scarcely had it gone out of sight when a patch of light
flickered across the lawn, the shade was drawn from a window and the
figure of Mrs. Bennett appeared peering out anxiously.

Ten minutes out of Bridgeboro, as the big car silently rolled upon the
Hillside Turnpike, one of its disappointed occupants (a girl) called,

"Oh, see the searchlight!"

"Oh, look," said another.

The long, misty column was swinging across the heavens.

"Now you see it, now you don't," laughed one of the fellows, as Tom's
utterance of "Dot," sent a sudden shaft of light into the sky and out
again as quickly.

"Where is it, do you suppose?" asked one of the girls.

"Does it mean anything?" asked another.

It meant nothing to them, for there was not a scout in the car. And yet
a mile or two farther along the dark road there hung a lantern on an
upright stick, directly in their path, and scrawled upon a board below
it was the word, "Stop."

Out of the darkness stepped a figure in a white sweater (for the night
was growing cold) and a large-brimmed brown felt hat. One of his arms
was braced akimbo on his hip, the other hand he laid on the wind shield
of the throbbing auto.

"Excuse me, did you come from Bennett's in Bridgeboro?"

"Yes, we did," said a musical voice.

"Then you'd better turn and go back; there's a message here which says
so."

"Back to Bennett's? Really?"

"I'll read it to you," said the boy in the white sweater.

He held a slip of yellow paper down in front of one of the acetylene
headlights, and read,

"Stop all autos, send car with young folks back to Bennett's, sure."
(He did not read the last three words on the paper.)

"Did you ever in all your life know anything so
perfectly extraordinary?" said a girl.

"You can turn better right up there," said Westy. He was a quiet,
uncommunicative lad.

The sign was gone from the Bennetts' gate when the car returned, and
the two boys standing in the shadow across the way, saw the party go up
the drive and disappear into the house; there was still plenty of time
for the festive program.

They never knew what was said on the subject of the sign and the
mysterious telegram.

They kept it up at Bennetts' till long after midnight. They played
"Think of a Number," and "Button, button, who's got the button?" and
wore tissue-paper caps which came out of tinselled snappers, and had
ice cream and lady-fingers and macaroons and chicken salad.

When Connover went to bed, exhausted but happy, Mrs. Bennett tripped
softly in to say good-night to him and to see that he had plenty of
fresh air by "opening the window a little at the top."

"Isn't it much better, dearie," she said, seating herself for a moment
on the edge of the bed, "to find your pleasure right here than to be
tramping over the country and building bonfires, and getting your
clothing all filled with smoke from smudge signals, or whatever they
call them, and catching your death of cold playing with searchlights,
like that Blakeley boy up on the hill? It's just a foolish, senseless
piece of business, taking a boy's thoughts away from home, and no good
can ever come of it."

CHAPTER VI

HITTING THE BULL'S EYE

What did Tom Slade do after the best night's sleep he ever had? He went
to Mrs. O'Connor's, where he knew he was welcome, and washed his face
and hands. More than that, he attended to his lessons in school that
day, to the teacher's astonishment. And why? Because he knew it was
right? Not much! But because he was anxious not to be kept in that
afternoon for he wanted to go down and peek through the fence of
Temple's lot, to see if there were any more wonders performed; to try
to get a squint at Mr. Ellsworth and Westy.

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