I said, “I never started a world war against a Boys’ Home, inventor, but now that we’re friends we’ll stay friends, you can bet.”
“Maybe I’ll give you that box of matches,” he said.
I said, “Thanks. Give me the book, too, and we’ll start a bonfire.”
He said, “We’ll blow up that Court House.”
I said, “We’re more likely to get blown up ourselves when we get there if we don’t hustle.”
It was about quarter to ten and we were on our way to the Court House. It seemed awful funny to be away from school; there weren’t any fellows around at all. The rest of the scouts in our troop were all in school.
I said to Westy, “If we don’t have to go to the penitentiary, maybe we’ll be out in time to go to school this afternoon—out of the frying pan into the fire.”
“I haven’t given up hope of the penitentiary,” Westy said.
“While there’s life there’s soap,” I said. “We’ll have to get our mothers to write us notes to our teachers, saying we had to stay away on account of being accused of a crime, and that we’ll try not to be late the next time.”
“What do you mean? The next time we commit a crime?” he wanted to know.