Tom Slade at Temple Camp | Page 3

Pee-wee. "Footsore and
weary--that's the way folks talk in books!"
"We might be caught in the rain," said Roy, soberly. "We might have to
pick our way along obscure trail or up steep mountains."
"You ought to go and take a ride in a merry-go-round," cried Pee-wee,
sarcastically.
"In short, it is fraught with peril," said Roy.
"You got that out of a book, too," said Pee-wee, disgustedly, "fraught
with peril!"
"I think it is too much of an undertaking," said Roy, ignoring him. "We

can get round-trip tickets."
Pee-wee almost fell off his chair.
"But, of course," continued Roy, soberly, "a scout is not supposed to
think of himself--especially a Silver Fox. I am a Silver
Fox--sterling--warranted. A scout is a brother to every other scout. He
ought to be ready to make sacrifices." (Mr. Ellsworth began to
chuckle.)
"He ought not to stand by and see a fellow scout in danger. He ought
not to stand and see a poor Elk go headlong----" (Hisses) "He ought to
be ready with a good turn regardless of his own comfort and safety."
(Hoots and laughter) "I am ready with a good turn. I am ready to
sac----" (Jeers) "I am ready to sac----" (Jeers) "I am----" (Cries of
"Noble lad!") "I am ready to sac----"
"Well, go ahead and sac, why don't you?" shouted Pee-wee in disgust.
"You're a hyp----"
"Hip--hooray!" concluded several scouts.
"You're a hyp--hyp--hypocrite!" Pee-wee managed to ejaculate amid
the tumult.
"I am ready to sac----"
"Oh, go on, sac and be done with it!"
"I am ready to sacrifice myself for Tom Slade," finished Roy,
magnanimously. "Tom," he added, extending his hand across the table
with a noble air of martyrdom, "Tom, I will go with you!"
The meeting broke up gaily, Mr. Ellsworth saying that he would
certainly communicate Roy's generous and self-sacrificing offer to
National Headquarters as a conspicuous instance of a memorable and
epoch-making good turn.
"He gets my goat!" said Pee-wee to the scoutmaster.

"I am very glad," said Mr. Ellsworth, soberly, "that our summer begins
with a good turn. The Silver Foxes should be proud of their unselfish
leader." Then he turned to Doc. Carson and winked the other eye.
He was a great jollier--Mr. Ellsworth.
CHAPTER II
[Transcriber's Note: An Indian scout sign drawing was inserted here.]
The old Indian scout sign, which is the title of this chapter, means
There is nothing new along this trail and it brings you back to the same
place. If you are already acquainted with Tom Slade and his friends
you will be safe in skipping this chapter but, otherwise, you would
better read it for it will tell you a little of Tom's past history and of the
other scouts with whom you are to become acquainted in this volume.
To know just how all this election business came about we must go
back a year or so to a time when Tom Slade was just a hoodlum down
in Barrel Alley and believed with all his heart that the best use a barrel
stave could be put to was to throw it into the Chinese laundry. He had
heard of the Boy Scouts and he called them "regiment guys" and had a
sophisticated contempt for them.
Then all of a sudden, along had come Roy Blakeley, who had shown
him that he was just wasting good barrel staves; that you could make a
first-class Indian bow out of a barrel stave. Roy had also told him that
you can't smoke cigarettes if you expect to aim straight. That was an
end of the barrel as a missile and that was an end of Turkish Blend
Mixture--or whatever you call it. There wasn't any talk or
preaching--just a couple of good knockout blows.
Tom had held that of all the joys in the mischievous hoodlum program
none was so complete as that of throwing chunks of coal through
streetcar windows at the passengers inside. Then along had come
Westy Martin and shown him how you could mark patrol signs on
rocks with chunks of coal--signs which should guide the watchful scout
through the trackless wilderness. Exit coal as a missile.

In short, Tom Slade awoke to the realization not only that he was a
hoodlum, but that he was out of date with his vulgar slang and bungling,
unskilful tricks.
Tom and his father had lived in two rooms in one of John Temple's
tenements down in Barrel Alley and John Temple and his wife and
daughter lived in a couple of dozen rooms, a few lawns, porches,
sun-parlors and things up in Grantley Square. And John Temple stood a
better chance of being struck by lightning than of collecting the rent
from Bill Slade.
John Temple was very rich and very grouchy. He owned