?" The big fingers plucked blindly at the
strings of a tobacco-bag, for Big Tom did not take his eyes from the
younger man.

"I've been giving the boy setting-up exercises," explained Mr. Perkins.

"Y' have!"--sarcastically. "Ain't that sweet of y'!" Then with an
impatient gesture that scattered tobacco upon the floor, "Exercises!"
Big Tom cried wrathfully. "_Exercises!_ As if he can't git all the
exercises he needs by doin' his work! I have t' feed that kid, and feed
costs money. He knows that. And he earns. Because he ain't no grafter."

In sheer amazement, Johnnie's look strayed to Mr. Perkins. He had
expected mistreatment and insult for himself, and here he was receiving
praise!

"There's a difference in exercising," said Mr. Perkins. "Johnnie gets
one kind while he's doing his work. But his work is all inside work,
out of the fresh air that every boy needs. And certain of his muscles
are not developed. I've been correcting that undevelopment by giving him
the regular setting-up that we give all boy scouts."

"Shucks, your boy scouts!" sneered Big Tom. "We got no time for 'em.
We're poor, and we're busy, and we got a' old, sick man on our hands.
That's scoutin' enough!"

"Many men who have boys think as you do," acknowledged Mr. Perkins,
serenely. "That is, at first."

"I think it first and second," returned Big Tom, raising his voice. "And
also I know it."

"I promise you that it won't hurt Johnnie," urged the scoutmaster.

"Yeh? But I know what _would_ hurt Johnnie, and that's growin' up t'
look like _you_!"

At that, Mr. Perkins burst out in a laugh. It was both good-natured and
amused. "Well, my looks suit me," he declared.

"Which is more'n _I_ can say of 'em," retorted Barber. "They don't suit
me a _little_ bit!"

Mr. Perkins laughed again. "Sorry," he said, but his tone entirely
contradicted his assertion.

Barber kept on: "Your looks don't suit me, and neither does your talk.
You're altogether too slick, too pink-and-whity, too eye-glassy, and
purple-shirty, and cute-socky, and girl-glovy."

"I see."

"T' put it plainer, y' don't look t' me like a real man." Out now came
the underlip, threatening, aggressive.

"Indeed?" Dire as the insult was, Mr. Perkins was still smiling, was
even a trifle bored. "And what kind of a chap _do_ you think is a real
man?"

"Somebody," answered Big Tom, "that's ev'rything you ain't. Why, honest,
you look too nice t' me t' be out in bad weather. Y' know, o