Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures Part 8

"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 pa.s.sing 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, hobn.o.bbing 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 p.r.o.ne upon the gra.s.s.

"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 champions.h.i.+p," 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.