“I’ll give you a tip,” he called to Billy Simpson; “because I’m not mad at you on account of your joining—”
“He’s more to be pitied than blamed,” Roy Blakeley shouted.
“It’s better than if he was in the Silver Foxes,” Pee-wee screamed. “Hey, Billy Simpson, you look for a bottle with invisible writing and hold it over the campfire, so that proves I’m not sore at you! It’s a mystery.”
“A how?” several called.
“We’re going to make a fortune,” Pee-wee yelled defiantly. “We’re going to be the richest patrol—”
“On the other side of Black Lake,” a laughing voice called.
“You’d better all look at regulation seven,” Pee-wee shouted; “you’d better all look at regulation seven, that’s all I say!”
His mouth now embraced the remainder of his apple in a touching, last farewell. His voice was stifled by the clinging core. Then, in a kind of agony of parting forever, he threw the core from him and it floated through the air like a thrown kiss, and landed plunk in one of the twinkling eyes of Roy Blakeley, patrol leader of the Silver Foxes.
The Hop-toad Patrol was off upon its great adventure.