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.

In short, Tom Slade had the Scout bug; he could not escape it now. He had thrown it off once before, but that was a milder dose. As luck would have it, that very afternoon he had an amusing sidelight on the scouting business which gave him his first knowledge of the “good turn” idea, and a fresh glimpse of the character of Roy Blakeley.

Inside Temple’s lot the full troop was holding forth in archery practice and Tom peered through a knothole and later ventured to a better view-point on top of the fence.

When any sort of game or contest is going on it is absolutely necessary to the boy beholder that he pick some favorite whom he hopes to see win, and Tom lost no time in singling Roy out as the object of his preference.

It was not a bad choice. As Roy stood sideways to the target, his feet firmly planted, one bared brown arm extended horizontally and holding the gracefully curving bow, and the other, bent but still horizontal, holding the arrow in the straining cord, he made an attractive picture.

“Here’s where I take the pupil out of the Bull’s-eye,” he said, and the arrow flew entirely free of the target.

“No sooner said than stung!” shouted Pee-wee Harris.

“Oh, look who’s going to try,—­mother, mother, pin a rose on me!” shouted another boy.

“Mother, mother, turn the hose on me,” called another.

“Stand from behind in case the arrow goes backwards!”

“I bet he hits that fellow on the fence!”

Tom could not help laughing as Mr. Ellsworth, with unruffled confidence, stepped in place.

“Oi—­oi—­oi—­here’s where Hiawatha turns over in his grave!”

It surprised Tom quite a little that they did not seem to stand at all in awe of the scoutmaster. One boy began ostentatiously passing his hat around.

“For the benefit of Sitting Bull Ellsworth,” said he, “highest salaried artist in Temple’s lot—­positively last appearance this side of the Rockies!”

But “Sitting Bull” Ellsworth had the laugh on them all. Straight inside the first ring went his arrow, and he stepped aside and gave an exceedingly funny wink at Tom on the fence.

Tom changed his favorite.

Presently Roy sauntered over to the fence and spoke to him. “Regular shark at it, isn’t he?”

“Which one is Westy?” Tom asked.

“Westy? That fellow right over there with the freckles. If you get up close you can see the Big Dipper on his left cheek. He’s got Orion under his ear too.”

“O’Brien?”

“No, Orion—­it’s a bunch of stars. Oh, he’s a regular walking firmament.”

Tom stared at Westy. It seemed odd that the invisible being who had caught that message out of the darkness and turned the car back, should be right here, hobnobbing with other mortals.

“Come over here, Westy,” shouted Roy, “I want Tom Slade to see your freck—­well, I’ll be—­if this one hasn’t shifted way over to the other side. Westy’s our chart of the heavens. This is the fellow that helped send you the message last night, Westy. He ate two plates of plum-duff and he lives to tell the tale.”

“I understand Roy kidnapped you,” said Westy.

“It was fun all right,” said Tom.

“Too bad his parents put him out, wasn’t it?” said Westy.

“Did you ever taste any of his biscuits?” asked another fellow, who sauntered over. They formed a little group just below Tom.

“We’ve got two of them in the Troop Room we use for bullets,” he continued.

“What do you think of Camp Solitaire?” Westy asked.

Tom knew well enough that they were making fun of each other, but he did not exactly know how to participate in this sort of “guying.”

“’Sall right,” said he, rather weakly.

“What do you think of the Eifel Tower?”

“’Sall right.”

“Did he show you the Indian moccasins Julia made for him?”

This precipitated a wrestling match and Tom Slade witnessed the slow but sure triumph of science, as one after another the last speaker’s arms, legs, back, neck and finally his head, yielded to the invincible process of Roy’s patient efforts until the victim lay prone upon the grass.

“Is Camp Solitaire all right?” Roy demanded, laughing.

“Sure,” said the victim and sprang up, liberated.

Tom’s interest in these pleasantries was interrupted by the voice of Mr. Ellsworth.

“Come over here and try your hand, my boy.”

“Sure, go ahead,” encouraged Westy, as the group separated for him to jump down.

“I couldn’ hit it,” hesitated Tom, abashed.

“Neither could he,” retorted Roy, promptly.

“If you let him get away with the championship,” said another boy, indicating the scoutmaster, “he’ll have such a swelled head he won’t speak to us for a month. Come ahead down and make a stab at it, just for a stunt. You couldn’t do worse than Blakeley.”

Everything was a “stunt” with the scouts.

Reluctantly, and smiling, half pleased and half ashamed, Tom let himself down into the field and went over to where the scoutmaster waited, bow and arrow in hand.

“A little more sideways, my boy,” said Mr. Ellsworth; “turn this foot out a little; bend your fingers like this, see? Ah, that’s it. Now pull it right back to your shoulder—­one—­two—­three—­” The arrow shot past the target, a full three yards shy of it, past the Ravens’ patrol flag planted near by, and just grazed the portly form of Mr. John Temple, who came cat-a-cornered across the field from the gate.

A dead silence prevailed.

“I presume you have permission to use this property,” demanded Mr. Temple in thundering tones.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Temple,” said the scoutmaster.

“Good afternoon, sir. Will you be good enough to let me see your authority for the use of these grounds?” he demanded frigidly. “If I gave any such permission I cannot seem to recall it.”

“I am afraid, Mr. Temple,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “that we can show no written word on—­”

“Ah, yes,” said the bank president, conclusively, “and is it a part of your program to teach young boys to take and use what does not belong to them?”

The scoutmaster flushed slightly. “No, that is quite foreign to our program, Mr. Temple. Some weeks ago, happening to meet your secretary I asked him whether we might use this field for practice since it is in a central and convenient part of town, and he told me he believed there would be no objection. Perhaps I should have—­”

“And you are under the impression that this field belongs to my secretary?” asked Mr. Temple, hotly. “If you have nothing better to do with yourself than to play leader to a crew of—­”

Here Mr. Ellsworth interrupted him.

“We will leave the field at once, sir.”

“When I was a young man,” said Mr. Temple, with frosty condescension, “I had something more important to do with myself than to play Wild West with a pack of boys.”

“There were more open fields in those days,” said the scoutmaster, pleasantly.

“And perhaps that is why my wealth grows now.”

“Very likely; and the movement which these boys represent,” Mr. Ellsworth added with a suggestion of pride in his voice, “is growing quite as fast as any man’s wealth.”

“Indeed, sir! Do you know that this boy’s father owes me money?” said Mr. Temple, coldly indicating Tom.

“Very likely.”

“And that the boy is a hoodlum?”

Mr. Ellsworth bit his lip, hesitatingly. “Yes, I know that, Mr. Temple,” he said.

“And a thief and a liar?”

“Don’t run, Tom,” whispered Roy.

“No, I don’t know that. Suppose we talk apart, Mr. Temple.”

“We will talk right here, and there’ll be very little talking indeed. If you think I am a public target, sir, you are quite mistaken! You clear out of this lot and keep out of it, or you’ll go to jail—­the whole pack of you! A man is known by the company he keeps. If you choose to cast your lot with children—­and hoodlums and rowdies—­I could send that boy to jail if I wanted to,” he broke off. “You know he’s a vicious character and yet you—­”

The Scoutmaster looked straight into the eyes of the enraged Temple, and there was a little prophetic ring in his voice as he answered.

“I’m afraid it would be hard to say at present just what he is, Mr. Temple. I was thinking just a few minutes ago, as I saw him dangling his legs up there, that he was on the fence in more ways than one. I suppose we can push him down on either side we choose.”

“There’s a right and wrong side to every fence, young man.”

“There is indeed.”

“As every good citizen should know; a public side and a private side.”

“He has always been on the wrong side of the fence hitherto, Mr. Temple.” Mr. Ellsworth held out his hand and instinctively Tom shuffled toward him and allowed the scoutmaster’s arm to encircle his shoulder. Roy Blakeley elbowed his way among the others as if it were appropriate that he should be at Tom’s side.

“I have no wish to interfere with this ‘movement’ or whatever you call it,” said John Temple, sarcastically, “provided you keep off my property. If you don’t do that I’ll put the thumb-screws on and see what the law can do, and break up your ‘movement’ into the bargain!”

“The law is helpless, Mr. Temple,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Oh, it has failed utterly. I wish I could make you see that. As for breaking up the movement,” he continued in quite a different tone, “that is all sheer bluster, if you’ll allow me to say so.”

“What!” roared John Temple.

“Neither you nor any other man can break up this movement.”

“As long as there are jails—­”

“As long as there are woods and fields. But I see there is no room for discussion. We will not trespass again, sir; Mr. Blakeley’s hill is ours for the asking. But you might as well try to bully the sun as to talk about breaking up this movement, Mr. John Temple. It is like a dog barking at a train of cars.”

“Do you know,” said the capitalist, in a towering rage, “that this boy hurled a stone at me only a week ago?”

“I do not doubt it; and what are we going to do about it?”

“Do about it?” roared John Temple.

“Yes, do about it. The difference between you and me, Mr. Temple, is that you are thinking of what this boy did a week ago, and I am thinking of what he is going to do to-morrow.”

The boys had the last word in this affair and it was blazoned forth with a commanding emphasis which shamed “old John’s” most wrathful utterance. It was Roy Blakeley’s idea, and it was exactly like him.

He invited the whole troop (Tom included) up to Camp Solitaire and there, before the sun was too low, they printed in blazing red upon a good-sized board the words

TRESPASSING PROHIBITED
UNDER PENALTY OF THE LAW

When darkness had fallen this was erected upon two uprights projecting above the top of Temple’s board fence.

“He’ll be sure to see it,” commented Roy, “and it’s what he always needed.”

When a carpenter arrived on the scene the next morning to put up such a sign, as per instructions, he went back and told John Temple that there was a very good one there already, and asked what was the use of another.

It was the kind of thing that Roy Blakeley was in the habit of doing—­a good turn with a dash of pepper in it.

Chapter VII