"Good-night," said Roy, and two fanlike swings of the misty column told that it was over. "If they haven't pa.s.sed Westy's yet, we win. Shake, Tom," he added, gayly, "You did fine--you're a fiend at it! Wouldn't you rather be here than at Conny's party--honest?"

"_Would I?_"

"Now we'll rustle down the hill and see the bunch co'me back--if they do. Oh, cracky, don't you hope they do?"

"_Do I?_" said Tom.

"Like the Duke of Yorkshire, hey? Ever hear of him? Up the hill and down again. We'll bring the sign up for a souvenir, what do you say?"

"Mebbe it oughter go back where it come from," said Tom, slowly.

"Guess you're right."

"Ever go scout's pace?" said Roy.

"What's that?"

"Fifty running-fifty walking. Try it and you'll use no other. Come on!

The kind of pace you've always wanted," said Roy, jogging along.

"Beware of subst.i.tutes."

It was just about the time when Roy was showing Tom his camp that a big touring car rolled silently up to the outer gate of the Bennett place.

(The house stood well back from the road.) The car was crowded with young people of both s.e.xes, and it was evident from their expressions of surprise and disappointment that they saw the yellow sign on the gate.

There were a few moments of debate; some one suggested tooting the horn, but another thought that might disturb the patient; one proposed going to the house door and inquiring, while still another thought it would be wiser not to. Some one said something about 'phoning in the morning; a girl remarked that the last time she saw Connover he had a headache and looked pale, and indeed Connover's general weakness, together with the epidemic which prevailed in Bridgeboro, made the appearance of the sign perfectly plausible.

The upshot was that the auto rolled away and turned into the Hillside Turnpike. Scarcely had it gone out of sight when a patch of light flickered across the lawn, the shade was drawn from a window and the figure of Mrs. Bennett appeared peering out anxiously.

Ten minutes out of Bridgeboro, as the big car silently rolled upon the Hillside Turnpike, one of its disappointed occupants (a girl) called,

"Oh, see the searchlight!"

"Oh, look," said another.

The long, misty column was swinging across the heavens.

"Now you see it, now you don't," laughed one of the fellows, as Tom's utterance of "Dot," sent a sudden shaft of light into the sky and out again as quickly.

"Where is it, do you suppose?" asked one of the girls.

"Does it mean anything?" asked another.

It meant nothing to them, for there was not a scout in the car. And yet a mile or two farther along the dark road there hung a lantern on an upright stick, directly in their path, and scrawled upon a board below it was the word, "Stop."

Out of the darkness stepped a figure in a white sweater (for the night was growing cold) and a large-brimmed brown felt hat. One of his arms was braced akimbo on his hip, the other hand he laid on the wind shield of the throbbing auto.

"Excuse me, did you come from Bennett's in Bridgeboro?"

"Yes, we did," said a musical voice.

"Then you'd better turn and go back; there's a message here which says so."

"Back to Bennett's? Really?"

"I'll read it to you," said the boy in the white sweater.

He held a slip of yellow paper down in front of one of the acetylene headlights, and read,

"Stop all autos, send car with young folks back to Bennett's, sure."

(He did not read the last three words on the paper.)

"Did you _ever_ in _all_ your _life_ know anything so perfectly extraordinary?" said a girl.

"You can turn better right up there," said Westy. He was a quiet, uncommunicative lad.

The sign was gone from the Bennetts' gate when the car returned, and the two boys standing in the shadow across the way, saw the party go up the drive and disappear into the house; there was still plenty of time for the festive program.

They never knew what was said on the subject of the sign and the mysterious telegram.

They kept it up at Bennetts' till long after midnight. They played "Think of a Number," and "b.u.t.ton, b.u.t.ton, who's got the b.u.t.ton?" and wore tissue-paper caps which came out of tinselled snappers, and had ice cream and lady-fingers and macaroons and chicken salad.

When Connover went to bed, exhausted but happy, Mrs. Bennett tripped softly in to say good-night to him and to see that he had plenty of fresh air by "opening the window a little at the top."

"Isn't it much better, dearie," she said, seating herself for a moment on the edge of the bed, "to find your pleasure right here than to be tramping over the country and building bonfires, and getting your clothing all filled with smoke from smudge signals, or whatever they call them, and catching your death of cold playing with searchlights, like that Blakeley boy up on the hill? It's just a foolish, senseless piece of business, taking a boy's thoughts away from home, and no good can ever come of it."

CHAPTER VI

HITTING THE BULL'S EYE

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.