“Yer live in de big house, don’cher?”
“Not fer me; guess again. Nay, nay, my boy, I live in Camp Solitaire, with a ring round it. Anybody steps inside that ring gets his wrist slapped and two demerits. I let the house stay there on account of my mother and father and the cat. Don’t you worry, you won’t get within two hundred feet of the house. The house and I don’t speak.”
Tom, half suspicious but wanting a cup of coffee, shuffled along at Roy’s side. The scout’s offhand manner and rather whimsical way of talking took the wind out of his belligerence, and he allowed himself so far to soften toward this “rich guy” as to say,
“Me an’ our house don’t speak neither; we wuz chucked.”
“Chucked?”
“Ye-re, put out. Old John Temple done it, but I’m hunk all right.”
“When was that?”
“Couple o’ days ago.”
He told the story of the eviction and his companion listened as they plodded up the hill.
“Well,” said Roy, “I haven’t slept indoors for two weeks, and I’m not going to for the next six weeks. And the best way to get hunk on a fellow that puts you out of a house is just to sleep outdoors. They can’t put you out of there very well. Camp, and you’ve got the laugh on them!”