“Well, that don’t apply to Tallerico,” remarked Harry Ritter. “He has applied and he wants to get in.”
“I can’t say I want him either,” declared Cavanaugh stubbornly. “What does a wop like that care about scouting, I’d like to know.”
Ritter pursed up his lips. He rarely lost a chance of arguing.
“None of us knew much about it when we first joined,” he returned. “We picked it up afterwards. He doesn’t seem half bad to me, even if he is a foreigner.”
“That’s just it!” Cavvy caught him up hotly. “He is a foreigner. What do you s’pose he knows or cares about the flag, or patriotism or anything like that? Those fellows don’t give a hang about this country. Dad says they all come over here just because they can make more money than at home. As soon as they’ve saved up enough they hustle back to spend it over there. They’re not Americans and never will be, even if a few of them do get naturalized. We don’t want that kind in the troop.”
A brief silence fell upon the boys, some of whom looked convinced, others doubtful. Jim Cavanaugh’s statements, even when slightly illogical as at present, frequently carried the crowd, for he was the type which dominates by sheer force of temperament. Besides, his father was superintendent of the iron mines, and one whose opinion carried weight. Nevertheless, Ritter refused to relinquish his stand so readily.
“Maybe that’s true of some of them, but why shouldn’t this fellow be an exception,” he persisted. “I was talking to him last night and he doesn’t seem like a foreigner. He speaks English all right, and he’s got some good ideas about scouting. Besides, you know what Mr. Wendell said.”
Cavvy frowned impatiently. He had an uncomfortable feeling of being somehow in the wrong, but opposition always roused all that was stubborn and contentious in his disposition.
“Of course I do,” he snapped. “I was there, wasn’t I? You’ll remember, perhaps, that he also said the troop was our own and that we have the right to take in or keep out whoever we choose. Of course you fellows can do as you please, but I know what I’m talking about and how I’m going to vote. Come ahead, Micky; the whistle blew five minutes ago.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned away and with Bill McBride, walked briskly down the street. His temper was distinctly ruffled, the more so, perhaps, from the realization that his arguments had been far from strong. He was also annoyed and disgruntled at Mr. Wendell for having brought up the subject at all, and particularly for the attitude he had taken. For a time he walked on silently. Then he glanced at his companion.