“You haven’t made another flank move on Connie Bennett, have you?” laughed Roy. They were all familiar with Mr. Ellsworth’s dream of another patrol.
“Connie rests his head on a pine cushion and imagines he’s a Boy Scout,” said Artie.
“He blows the dust off a Dan Dreadnought book and imagines it’s the wind howling through the forest,” said Westy.
“He runs the tennis-marker over the lawn and thinks he’s tracking,” said Pee-wee.
“No, not as bad as that, boys,” laughed the scoutmaster. “Between you and me and the camp fire, I suspect Connie’s got the bug.”
“Haven’t given up hope yet?” said Roy.
“Never say die,” answered Mr. Ellsworth, good-naturedly.
Once, twice, thrice had he made a daring assault on the Bennett stronghold and once, twice, thrice had he been gallantly repulsed by the Bennett right wing, which was Mrs. Bennett. He had planted the Bennett veranda with mines in the form of Boys’ Life and Scouting, but all to no avail. Yet his hopeful spirit in regard to the visionary Elk Patrol was almost pathetic.
The tent of the venerable Raven patrol was pitched under a spreading tree and they retired with their proud and ancient traditions, blissfully unaware of the startling liberty which was to be taken with their historic dignity by those upstart Silver Foxes. Mr. Ellsworth, with a commendable application of his policy of strict neutrality, retired to his own tent to dream of the new patrol.
Never in the history of the troop had a Silver Fox trespassed unknown into the ancient privacy of the Ravens, and never had a Raven condescended to enter the Silver Fox stronghold save honorably and by invitation. They knew the Silver Foxes for a sportive crew pervaded by the inventive spirit of Roy Blakeley, but they had no fear of any violation of scout honor and the obnoxious card hung ostentatiously on the central upright of their tent.