“We’re goin’ to make ’em dance to Miss Ginger!” exclaimed Art defiantly.
“We ain’t goin’ to do anything of the kind,” retorted Connie. “We’re goin’ to give ’em rope like we been doin’ an’ when they get enough—”
“They’ll hang theirselves,” broke in Wart Ware.
“No,” went on Connie. “When they get to the end o’ the string they’ll turn an’ eat out o’ our hands an’ be glad to.”
“What d’you mean?” growled Art.
“I mean they ain’t a bit worse’n we are only they’re dyin’ kind o’ hard.”
“I ain’t settin’ myself up for no goody-goody,” retorted Art. “But I like to be half decent.”
“Then,” laughed Connie, “let’s bury poor little Wolf and forget it.”
Art and Wart Ware were really the only disgruntled boys. The others took the incident as a joke. And by the time the noonday spread was under way even the scouts who had shot the chutes began to forget their chagrin. There was a long loaf after dinner, then an hour in the water, and later the march was resumed to the quarry where the automobiles were waiting for the trip homeward. Art did not tell his parents of the episode of the treasure keg as he had of his purchase of the aeroplane ticket.
The hike to Round Rock River only whetted the appetite of the Wolves. Even on the way home they began discussing the details of next week’s “camp out.” Sleeping in the open overnight, stories and songs by the red camp fire, blankets to snuggle up in when it turned cool just before dawn, the joys of sentinel duty where possibly the solitary picket might have to stand his watch in the soft summer rain—protected of course by his rain coat—were the things that enticed.