“Neither you nor any other man can break up this movement.”
“As long as there are jails—”
“As long as there are woods and fields. But I see there is no room for discussion. We will not trespass again, sir; Mr. Blakeley’s hill is ours for the asking. But you might as well try to bully the sun as to talk about breaking up this movement, Mr. John Temple. It is like a dog barking at a train of cars.”
“Do you know,” said the capitalist, in a towering rage, “that this boy hurled a stone at me only a week ago?”
“I do not doubt it; and what are we going to do about it?”
“Do about it?” roared John Temple.
“Yes, do about it. The difference between you and me, Mr. Temple, is that you are thinking of what this boy did a week ago, and I am thinking of what he is going to do to-morrow.”
The boys had the last word in this affair and it was blazoned forth with a commanding emphasis which shamed “old John’s” most wrathful utterance. It was Roy Blakeley’s idea, and it was exactly like him.
He invited the whole troop (Tom included) up to Camp Solitaire and there, before the sun was too low, they printed in blazing red upon a good-sized board the words
TRESPASSING PROHIBITED
UNDER PENALTY OF THE LAW