Tom Slade | Page 8

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