Percy K. Fitzhugh

It happened in Barrel Alley, and it was Tom Slade, as usual, who did it. Picking a barrel-stave out of the mud, he sidled up to Ching Wo's laundry, opened the door, beat the counter with a resounding clamor, called, "Ching, Ching, Chinaman!" and by way of a grand climax, hurled the dirty barrel-stave at a pile of spotless starched shirts, banged the door shut and ran.

Tom Slade hoisted up his trousers, tightened his belt, and lounged against the railing outside the troop room, listening dutifully but rather sullenly to his scoutmaster. "All I want you to do, Tom," said Mr. Ellsworth, "is to have a little patience-just a little patience." "A little tiny one-about as big as Pee-wee," added Roy. "A little bigger than that, I'm afraid," laughed Mr. Ellsworth, glancing at Pee-wee, who was adjusting his belt axe preparatory to beginning his perilous journey homeward through the wilds of Main Street. "Just a little patience," repeated the scoutmaster, rapping Tom pleasantly on the shoulder. "Don't be like the day nursery," put in Roy. "All their trouble is caused by having very little patients." "Very bright," said Mr. Ellsworth.

The Bridgeboro Troop, from the home town of the camp's generous founder, Mr. John Temple, would arrive sometime in the after noon with bells on according to the post card which little Raymond Hollister had brought up from the post office the day before.

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