MOUNTAINS OF ICE CREAM FOR A NICKEL!
And then they came in sight of the cove. There behind the grocery box sat Willie Rivers ready for the mad rush for tickets. Howard Delekson, armed with an enormous stick and looking very much afraid, was strutting around the float to keep off trespassers. And Scout Harris stood upon the rescued keg amid a very carnival of signs, some tempting, others threatening, shouting at the top of his voice.
He had seen barkers displaying dollar bills held between their fingers and spreading out like fans to catch the public eye, and an “inspiration” had seized him to use a large piece of raisin cake as a kind of flaunting bait. To make this the more piquant, he took a large bite occasionally, for advertising purposes only.
“Here’s where you buy your tickets!” he screamed, taking a huge bite. “It costs you only a nickel—five cents! Remember scout regulation seven! It means you! It means everybody all the time, no matter what. Trespassers will be persecuted. No trespassing—absolutely, positively. Anybody that trespasses on this private property without paying five cents gets his name sent to Tom Slade. To-day is ice cream day, don’t delay! Five cents to cross this float! This is the path to three desserts as long as you stay! Follow the black line! Get your foot off this float—go on! Your nickel is safe, the cooking shack is in back of us—”
“I don’t see it,” called a voice.
“I mean financially about food,” Pee-wee shouted. “Tickets honored at messboards or your money back! Hey, Howard, rap any scout in the shins that sets foot on this float. The cost of desserts has come down! The problem has been solved by engineering skill. We may go away from here any time. Now’s your chance!”
There was no doubt about the bridge. If the desserts were as substantial as the bridge there would be no cause of complaint. And there were two things (both printed in black) which the scouts of camp respected. One was regulation seven, the other was Chocolate Drop. Chocolate Drop was absolutely solvent. The cooking shack was as good as the Bank of England.
“Your nickel is safe!” shouted Pee-wee. “Right this way! There’s where you buy your tickets—get your foot off this float, you North Carolina scout. Hit him a crack with the stick! Stand back! Private property! There’s only one way around! The cooking shack is with us! Maybe the price will go up to-morrow! Maybe it will go up in five minutes!”
This last thundered warning brought the hesitating misers to their senses, and financial transactions started on an unprecedented scale. The surging, clamoring throng in the Stock Exchange was nothing to it.
“Hurry up, lend us a nickel.”