Tom Slade at Temple Camp | Page 4

the
Bridgeboro National Bank; he owned all the vacant lots with their
hospitable "Keep Out" signs, and he had a controlling interest in pretty
nearly everything else in town--except his own temper.
Poor, lazy Bill Slade and his misguided son might have gone on living
in John Temple's tenement rent free until it fell in a heap, for though
Mr. Temple blustered he was not bad at heart; but on an evil day Tom
had thrown a rock at Bridgeboro's distinguished citizen. It was a
random, unscientific shot but, as luck would have it, it knocked John
Temple's new golf cap off into the rich mud of Barrel Alley.
It did not hurt John Temple, but it killed the goose that laid the golden
eggs for the Slades. Mr. Temple's dignity was more than hurt; it was
black and blue. He would rather have been hit by a financial panic than
by that sordid missile from Barrel Alley's most notorious hoodlum.
Inside of three days out went the Slades from John Temple's tenement,
bag and baggage.
There wasn't much baggage. A couple of broken chairs, a greasy
dining-table which Tom had used strategically in his defensive
operations against his father's assaults, a dented beer-can and a few
other dilapidated odds and ends constituted the household effects of the
unfortunate father and son.
Bill Slade, unable to cope with this unexpected disaster, disappeared on
the day of the eviction and Tom was sheltered by a kindly neighbor,

Mrs. O'Connor.
His fortunes were at the very lowest ebb and it seemed a fairly safe
prophesy that he would presently land in the Home for Wayward Boys,
when one day he met Roy Blakeley and tried to hold him up for a
nickel.
Far be it from me to defend the act, but it was about the best thing that
Tom ever did so far as his own interests were concerned. Roy took him
up to his own little Camp Solitaire on the beautiful lawn of the
Blakeley home, gave him a cup of coffee, some plum duff (Silver Fox
brand, patent applied for), and passed him out some of the funniest
slang (all brand new) that poor Tom had ever heard.
That was the beginning of Tom's transformation into a scout. He fell
for scouting with a vengeance. It opened up a new world to him. To be
sure, this king of the hoodlums did not capitulate all at once--not he. He
was still wary of all "rich guys" and "sissies"; but he used to go down
and peek through a hole in the fence of Temple's lot when they were
practising their games.
Mr. Ellsworth said nothing, only winked his eye at the boys, for he saw
which way the wind was blowing. Tom Slade, king of the hoodlums,
had the scout bug and didn't know it.
Then, when the time was ripe, Mr. Ellsworth called him down into the
field one day for a try at archery. Tom scrambled down from the fence
and shuffled over to where the scouts waited with smiling, friendly
faces; but just at that moment, who should come striding through the
field but John Temple--straight for the little group.
What happened was not pleasant. John Temple denounced them all as a
gang of trespassers, ordered them out of his field and did not hesitate to
express his opinion of Tom in particular. Mr. Ellsworth then and there
championed the poor fellow and prophesied that notwithstanding his
past the scouts would make a man of him yet.
After that Tom Slade came out flat-footed and hit the scout trail. He

was never able to determine to whom he should be most grateful, Roy
Blakeley or Mr. Ellsworth, but it was the beginning of a friendship
between the two boys which became closer as time passed.
There is no use retelling a tale that is told. Tom had such a summer in
camp as he had never dreamed of when he used to lie in bed till
noontime in Barrel Alley, and all that you shall find in its proper place,
but you must know something of how Temple Camp came into being
and how it came by its name.
John Temple was a wonderful man--oh, he was smart. He could take
care of your property for you; if you had a thousand dollars he would
turn it into two thousand for you--like a sleight-of-hand performer. He
could tell you what kind of stocks to buy and when to sell them. He
knew where to buy real estate. He could tell you when wheat was going
up or down--just as if there were a scout sign to go by. He had
everything that heart could wish--and the rheumatism besides.
But his dubious prophesy as to the future of Tom