to
good luck,

One for courage
One for spunk
One to take aim
And then----

Suddenly he bethought him of an improvement. Sticking the remnant of
tomato on the end of his stick, he swung it carefully.

One for courage
One for spunk
One to take aim
And then--_KERPLUNK!_

Those magic words were intended, especially, for use in despatching
tomatoes and they never failed to make good. There, upon the bulletin
board was a vivid area which looked like the midday sun. From it
trickled an oozy mass, down over the list of uncalled for letters,
straight through the prize awards of yesterday, obliterating the
_Council Call_, and bathing the list of new arrivals in soft and pulpy
red. The "hike for to-morrow," as shown, was through a crimson sea.

Hervey approached for a closer glimpse of his triumph. No other
incentive would have taken him so close to that prosy bulletin board. He
had vaulted over it but never read it. But now in the moment of supreme
victory he limped forward, like an elated artist, to inspect his work.

There, in front of him, with a little red river flowing down across the
middle of it, was the ominous sentence.

Hervey Willetts will report _immediately_ to his scoutmaster at
troop's cabin upon his return to camp.
WM. C. DENNY.

CHAPTER XIX

HERVEY SHOWS HIS COLORS

"_If_ I hadn't fired the tomato I wouldn't have known about that," said
Hervey. Which fact, to him, fully justified the juicy bombardment. "That
shows how you never can tell what's going to happen next." And this was
certainly true of Hervey.

But to do him justice, what was going to happen next never worried him.
He took things as they came. He was not the one to sidestep an issue.
The ominous notice signed by his scoutmaster had the effect of directing
his ambling course to that officer's presence, on which detour, he might
encounter new adventures. To reach his troop's cabin he would have to
pass the cooking shack where a doughnut might be speared with a stick.
All was for the best. He would as lief go to troop cabin as anywhere
else....

In this blithe and carefree spirit, he approached the rustic domicile
which he seldom honored by his presence, singing one of those snatches
of a song which were the delight of camp, and which rounded out his role
of wandering minstrel:

Oh, there is no place like the old camp-fire,