After he’d been at camp three or four days, Harry Donnelle said to me, “Skeezeks, are you game for a real hike—you and your patrol?”

I said, “Real hikes are our specialties—we eat ’em alive.”

“I don’t mean just a little stroll down to the village or even over as far as the Hudson,” he said; “but a hike that is a hike. Do you think you could roll up a hundred miles?”

“As easy as rolling up my sleeves,” I told him. “We’re so game that a ball game isn’t anything compared with us. Speak out and tell us the worst.”

He said, “Well, I was thinking of a little jaunt back home.”

“Good night,” I told him, “I thought maybe you meant as far as Kingston or Poughkeepsie, But Bridgeboro! Oh boy!”

“Of course, we wouldn’t get very far from the Hudson,” he said, “and we could jump on a West Shore train most anywhere, if you kids got tired.”

“The only thing we’ll jump on will be you—if you talk like that,” I said; “Silver Foxes don’t jump on trains. But how about the other fellows—the Elks and the raving Ravens? United we stand, divided we sprawl.”

He said, “Let them rave; I’m not going to head a whole kindergarten. Eight of you are enough. Who do you think I am, General Pershing?” And then he ruffled up my beautiful curly hair and he gave me a shove—same way as he always did. “This is not a grand drive,” he said, “it’s a hike. Just a few shock troops will do.”

“We’ll shock you all right,” I said, “but first you’d better speak to Mr. Ellsworth (he’s our scoutmaster), and get the first shock out of the way.”

“I think I have Mr. Ellsworth eating out of my hand,” he said; “you leave that to me. I just wanted to sound you and find out if you were game or whether you’re just tin horn scouts—parlor scouts.”

“Well, do I sound all right?” I said. “Believe me, there are only two things that keep us from hiking around the world, and those are the Atlantic Ocean and the Pacific Ocean.”

“Think you could climb over the Equator?” he said, laughing all the while. And he gave me another one of those shoves—you know.

Then he said, “Well then, Skeezeks, I’ll tell you what you do. You call a meeting of the Foxes and lay this matter on the table——”

“Why should I lay it on the table?” I said; “you’d think it was a plate of soup. I’ll stand on the table and address them, that’s what I’ll do.”

He said, “All right, you just picture the hardships to them. Tell them that for whole hours at a time, we may have to go without ice cream sodas. Tell them that we’ll have to penetrate a wilderness where there is no peanut brittle. Tell them that we’ll have to enter a jungle where gum drops are unknown. Tell them that we may have to live on grasshoppers. Tell them about the vast morass near Kingston, where you can’t even get a piece of chocolate cake; miles and miles of barren waste where the foot of white man has never trod upon a marshmallow——”

“Sure you can find marshmallows in the marshes,” I said. “We should worry.”

“You ask Willie and Tommy and Dorrie and the others if they are prepared to make the sacrifice—and I’ll do the rest. I’ll speak to Mr. Ellsworth. But remember about the heartless desert with its burning sands just above Newburgh. Now go chase yourself and round them up. I guess you know how to do it.”

So I got all the Silver Foxes into our patrol cabin and gave them a spooch. I guess I might as well tell you who they all are. First there’s me—I mean I. Correct, be seated. You learn that in the primary grade. I’m patrol leader and it’s some job. Then comes Westy Martin; he’s my special chum. My sister says he has dandy hair. Then comes Dorry Benton—he’s got a wart on his wrist. Then comes Huntley Manners—Badleigh, that’s his middle name. Sometimes we call him Bad Manners. Then comes Charlie Seabury and then comes Will Dawson and then come Tom Warner and Ralph Warner—they’re twins. They’re both better looking than each other—that’s what Pee-wee Harris said. He’s a scream—he’s in the raving Raven patrol. Thank goodness he isn’t in this story—not much anyway. Ralph says Tom is crazy and Tom says Ralph is crazy and Will Dawson says they’re both right. I guess we’re all crazy. Anyway, Ralph and Tom came from Maine, so they’re both maniacs, hey?

This is the speech I spooched:

Good night! They all began shouting separately. Then I said:

“Why can’t we put them in our duffel bags?” Westy shouted.

“Did you think we’d take them in our feet?” Dorry yelled.

Then they all began shouting, “Aye, aye, aye!” even before I told them about the forests and morasses and jungles and deserts and things. Honest, you can’t do anything with that bunch.