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!”