“Sure, go ahead,” encouraged Westy, as the group separated for him to jump down.
“I couldn’ hit it,” hesitated Tom, abashed.
“Neither could he,” retorted Roy, promptly.
“If you let him get away with the championship,” said another boy, indicating the scoutmaster, “he’ll have such a swelled head he won’t speak to us for a month. Come ahead down and make a stab at it, just for a stunt. You couldn’t do worse than Blakeley.”
Everything was a “stunt” with the scouts.
Reluctantly, and smiling, half pleased and half ashamed, Tom let himself down into the field and went over to where the scoutmaster waited, bow and arrow in hand.
“A little more sideways, my boy,” said Mr. Ellsworth; “turn this foot out a little; bend your fingers like this, see? Ah, that’s it. Now pull it right back to your shoulder—one—two—three—” The arrow shot past the target, a full three yards shy of it, past the Ravens’ patrol flag planted near by, and just grazed the portly form of Mr. John Temple, who came cat-a-cornered across the field from the gate.
A dead silence prevailed.
“I presume you have permission to use this property,” demanded Mr. Temple in thundering tones.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Temple,” said the scoutmaster.