“That’s easy, sir. And we must teach all the scouts to stop sleeping with their windows shut, too, mustn’t we?”
“Alas!” said Mr. Rogers. “I thought I had. I guess we’ve got to teach the mothers and fathers to let them open the windows. And that’s not easy, Tom.”
“I s’pose not. Funny how afraid some folks are of fresh air. Well, old Joe’s going to get plenty. I’m going to set up my tent in his yard this afternoon.”
“Not your new tent, Spider, it might spoil it,” said Joe.
“Spoil your grandmother,” Tom retorted. “I guess it’s my tent and I can do what I please with it, can’t I? You go home and drink a tumbler of cod liver oil.”
“I’m going with him, and have a talk with his mother,” said Mr. Rogers. “You can bring the tent after dinner, and if you need a cot bed for it, stop at my house and get my folding camp cot. That’ll be my contribution.”
“Sure, we’ll fix him up so he’ll never want to move into the house again,” cried Tom, hurrying off toward his house.
His tent, a Christmas present from his father and mother, was Tom’s proudest possession. It was made of balloon silk, very thin and light, but water-proof. It could “sleep” two occupants comfortably, and had mosquito netting screens for the flaps, and a little screen curtain for the rear window. It could be erected either on poles or on a rope strung between two trees. Yet the whole tent could be rolled up into a bundle which you could tuck under your arm, and it weighed but fifteen pounds. It cost a considerable sum of money, for Tom’s parents, while not rich, wanted to make Tom a good present that last Christmas as a reward for his improvement in his school work. We might as well tell the truth about it, for a story that doesn’t tell the truth is sure to get found out. Tom, in his sophomore year in the high school, had been a pretty poor student. He was “bright enough,” as his teachers said, but he would not study. He had got interested in so many things that seemed more worth while to him than books—trapping, building a cabin in the woods, football and baseball, and especially the scouts. But after his sophomore year was over, and the summer vacation, too, was nearly done, Mr. Rogers called him into the studio one day and had a long talk with him. The result of that talk was that he came out pretty well ashamed of himself. Here he was a patrol leader in the scouts, Mr. Rogers pointed out, and right end on the high school team, with the prospect of being captain his senior year—in other words, one of the leaders among the boys. It was up to him, then, to set the rest a good example. Besides, he wanted to go to college, did he not, or to a forestry school? Did he not know that there were examinations to be passed? And what good was a surveyor or an engineer or a forester who did not know his business? Did Tom think you could know your business without studying? And that did not mean beginning to study some time in the future—it meant beginning now! Mr. Rogers ended up by telling him he was a bad scout, a bit of a slacker, which got to him more than anything else that was said.
He went out of the studio very sober, and he began to work that fall term as he had never worked in school before. Of course, he soon found out that if he got his lessons every day, it was really very much easier to keep along than it had been when he used to let them slide for two or three days at a time, and then try to catch up. In fact, it was really no trouble at all, and from almost the tail end of the class, he suddenly moved up to number four. His father and mother were so delighted that they gave him the balloon silk tent for Christmas.
As soon as dinner was over, he got this tent out of his closet, wrapped in its canvas bag, took his scout axe and some sticks from the wood-shed to make pegs with, and started for Joe’s house. On the way he stopped for Mr. Rogers’ folding cot bed. He found Joe sitting on the back porch, in the sun, and he made him stay there, though poor Joe wanted to come down and help set the tent up.