w was that
Keekie Joe returned to the island on a week's furlough from his squalid
home. The Barrel Alley gang, which was mobilized in front of Billy
Gilson's tire repair shop, made catcalls at the stranger as the pair
passed along and when they were some yards distant, several of them
summoned Keekie Joe to their loitering conference.

"Hey, Keekie, come 'ere, I want ter tell yer sup'm," one called.

Keekie Joe hesitated and turned. It was a crucial moment in the
history of the new patrol.

"Come on back, Keekie," another shouted.

Then it was that Slats Corbett, imperial head of the gang, did a good
turn for the scouting movement. He picked up a half dry sponge which
was lying in an auto wash pail and hurled it at Townsend Ripley.
Without even turning, Townsend raised his hand, caught it, dipped it in
the mud at his feet, and walking briskly back, smeared the face and
head of the big ungainly bully, leaving him furious and dripping.
Keekie Joe trembled at this rash exploit of his new friend and waited
in fearful suspense for the sequel. It was not long in coming. With a
roar of obscene invectives, Slats Corbett rushed upon the smiling,
slim, quiet stranger, and then in the space of two seconds, there was
Slats Corbett lying flat in the mud. In a kind of trance Keekie Joe
heard a brisk, pleasant voice.

"Any of the rest of you want any? All right, come along, Joe."

And that really was the ceremony that made Keekie Joe a scout. It is
true that they had a kind of formal initiation under the apple tree on
Merry-go-round Island and gave him a badge and had him take the oath
and so on and so on. And had him hold up his hand--you know how. But
it was not when his hand went up that he became a scout. It was when
Slats Corbett went down. That was the clincher.

CHAPTER XXVII

SETTLED AT LAST

And now the wandering career of Merry-go-round Island seemed at last to
have ended and it roamed no more over the face of the waters. On the
contrary, it settled down to a life of respectable retirement on
Waring's reef.

Waring's reef was dry land at low tide, and even at high tide was close
enough to the surface to support the trusty foundation of the fugitive
isle. It stood exactly in the middle of the river at a spot where the
stream was straight and comparatively wide, and commanded a fine view
of the boat-house a mile or so downstream. There was more or less life
down there during the ensuing week