The sick boy was no worse. He was yet so weak that no one was admitted to his room. Morning and night, when the doctor came, there was a report for the Scouts, all of whom had come to look on the sick boy as a personal friend, although not one of them had ever spoken to Bonner and he was not conscious of ever having seen one of them. Yet he had spoken to them. At the first flight of the aeroplane he had called to them gruffly: “Chase yourselves, you kids.”
Each boy recalled this, but with no feeling of ill will. It was now generally agreed that the words were meant kindly. At this time came the first of three moves on the part of the Goosetowners which were to set Scottsville by the ears again. The first action was most unexpected. The Elm Streeters saw at once that the olive branch of peace they had extended was not accepted in the same spirit. Envy and jealousy were too much for Hank Milleson.
Wednesday evening, as the Wolf Patrol was forming for its daily dress parade, quiet Elm Street suddenly resounded with the sound of fife and drum. The clamor came from far up the street and rolled through the leafy tunnel of the grand elms with martial resonance. The patrol line dissolved into listeners and then came together in a knot of indignant, red-faced boys. Straggling along in shiftless formation, with Hank Milleson at their head and a fifer and a drummer just behind him, appeared the entire Goosetown gang in a burlesque of the Wolf Patrol. Behind the drummer and the fifer one of the marchers carried a square of muslin on a lath. On this was the word “KIOTES.” As the marching humorists began to file by the Elm Street crowd, all the bitterness that led to the sycamore-tree fight revived. Without a word to each other the Wolves moved forward. The Coyotes were grinning and attempting some uniformity of step with the aid of a chorus of “hep, hep, hep.” Connie saw that another crisis was at hand.
“Attention, Wolves!” he exclaimed. “Fall in!”
No one moved.
“Patrol, fall in!” came a second, quick command.
A few of the real scouts made a semblance of formation.
“The Wolf who doesn’t fall in on the next command,” whispered Connie with determination, “loses his uniform and is discharged. Attention! Fall in!”
With lips quivering, and white about their mouths, every Wolf did his duty. The line was formed. Then Connie whirled about. With all the dignity of a captain reporting to his superior, not a trace of irritation showing on his face, he brought his right hand to a full salute. Not to be outdone, the head of the Coyotes returned the salute, his followers accompanying the act with snorts of laughter and loud guffaws.
There were eleven boys in the mock parade. Each had made some attempt to add to the humor of the occasion by painting his face, by the use of odds and ends of clothing or by wearing some bit of old uniform, old hat or even feathers in his hair. The marchers were Hank Milleson, Job Wilkes beating an old snare drum, Joe Andrews blowing a fife on which he had no skill whatever, Nick Apthorp carrying the improvised standard, Matt Branson, Buck Bluett, Tom Bates, Pete Chester, Mart Clare, Carrots Compton and Tony Cooper.