The boys were ready in an instant for anything he might suggest.
"Let's get on all these duds," proposed the rancher, "have a regular scout tramp over to the ranch and surprise dad with a dressed-up parade."
"Bully for you," shouted Fred.
"Can't we borrow a drum somewhere?" suggested Dunk.
"Dad's got one I can get," offered Jerry.
"Jerry's some drummer too," said Fly.
"All right, get a move on you," ordered the southerner. "It's just ten now, and if we start right soon we'll get there about time for dinner."
About a half hour afterwards, Captain Crawford was drawn to his window overlooking the parade grounds, by the martial sound of drum beats.
"Well, I never," he exclaimed to his wife, who hurried to join him.
Filing past the house two by two, in regular order and military step was the new Boy Scout Patrol, uniformed and carrying bright new rifles. Fred, bearing the flag, was slightly in advance, while just behind him was the tall form of their son, dexterously flipping the drumsticks and rolling out rhythmic march time.