“You said it,” vociferated Spiff. “I’d like to stay here with you, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“We’re not taking any boarders this season,” said Brent, then added in an undertone to Tom, “It wouldn’t be half bad having him around at that.”
Tom arose, stepping over to the boy, and in a humorous, friendly way lifted the four-jewelled pin out of the youngster’s scarf. “Here, Kid,” said he; “you put this in your pocket, you don’t need to wear it. One, two, three, four—four stones⸺”
“They’re glass,” said Spiff.
“Yep, and do you know what they stand for? Four means help; see? Four blasts of a whistle, four blasts of a horn, four flashes of light, four signs of any kind, says HELP. Four letters, H-E-L-P. That’s a rule we have up where I camp sometimes. Guess you never heard of it here? Now, I don’t think,” Tom added good-humoredly, “that you need to bat around with a call for help stuck up in front of you, do you? You put that lemon-drop pin in your pocket and get your sweater on and come along with me; I’m going to set you on the trail.”
The boy gazed at Tom, bewildered, fascinated. “To Sloatsburg?” he asked.
“No, back to camp. You’re going to go back and beat that game just as you licked the two fellows in Jersey City. You’re going to read your little book and find out just what you have to do to win badges. Then you’re going to do those things. And you’re going to have that whole crowd eating out of your hand, you fresh little rascal! Here, wear the pin if you want to; I was only kidding you.”
But Spiff Henshaw held the gorgeous ornament tight in his hand and would not replace it in his scarf. “I wouldn’t let anybody say I wear a call for help—geeeee, you don’t know me!”
“Here, slip your sweater on,” said Tom, “You’re going to bang around into the enemy’s country, and after you’ve read your little book—handbook, they call it?—why, you’ll have them on their knees begging for an armistice.”
“Shall I chuck the pin?” Spiff asked, with an air of manly independence.