“Maybe it’s true; there’s many a true word spoken in a jest,” a hopeful voice called.
“There’s many a bunk bunked by a pest, you mean,” shouted Roy. “I was happy till he put the idea of three desserts in my head. He shall suffer for this—and his official lemonades too! That’s what comes from being a free lance. He got out of the Ravens and now he’s wished onto the whole camp. There can be no peace while he lives. He’s crazy with his three desserts; I would have been satisfied with four before he went west and sent us a message by Western Onion. The whole thing is a Ford, I mean a fraud. Don’t be fooled, scouts! He’s always talking about mysteries and foiling people with tin-foil; he’s a tin-foil scout. Let’s start an exhibitionary force to-morrow and make him vaccinate the place, or evacuate it or whatever you call it. We were just going to turn in for the night when he starts us thinking about desserts. Can you beat it? If that isn’t like a raving Raven. Once a Raven, always a Raven if not more so!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted a score of voices, while several trustees and half a dozen scoutmasters stood about smiling.
“Where? Where?”
“Hear, hear!”
Several of the Ravens pushed the barrel out from under the irrepressible Silver Fox and down he went, sprawling on the ground.
“There! There!” called a dozen laughing voices.
“I may be down but I’m never out,” said Roy; “come on, let’s turn in. To-morrow’s the big day—the puny exhibition.”
“You mean punitive expedition,” said Artie Van Arlen.
“I should worry about what I mean,” said Roy.