till the old man gits t' fussin';
and"--as she gathered the roses up and made slowly toward the
door--"don't do no howlin' on the street, or folks'll think y're crazy."

She halted and turned her tear-stained face toward him. "People _will_
think I'm crazy!" she sobbed. "A girl like me selling flowers on the
street of a Sunday morning!"

"Wait!" That had changed his mind. "Give 'em t' Johnnie."

Johnnie went to her. But for a moment he did not take the roses, only
looked up, twisting his fingers, and working a big toe. His teeth were
set hard. His lips were drawn away from them in a grimace of pure agony.
Scouts were brave. Did _he_ dare to be brave? Cis had not held out
against the order, and he had blamed her in his heart for her weakness
as he vowed to himself that he would rebel. But now--! Could he turn and
speak out his defiance? Could he tell Barber that he would not sell the
flowers?

The next thing, he had taken the bouquet into his hands. He did not mean
to; and he did not look at Cis after he did it, because he could not.
His head was bowed like hers now; his heart was bursting. But not solely
on account of the roses. He was thinking of himself. He was a little
coward--there was no use denying it! Yes, he was as cowardly as a girl!
Here he had been given his chance "to face danger in spite of fear," "to
stand up for the right"--and he had failed! He understood clearly that
this was not the time to be obedient, and that he could not offer
obedience as an excuse. No boy should carry out an order to do what was
wrong.

"Git along!" It was Big Tom again, fuming over the delay.

Hatless, barefooted, in his flopping, too-big clothes, and with
seventeen rosebuds clasped to his old, soiled shirt, Johnnie went slowly
out, black shame in his soul.

"I--I couldn't say it!" he mourned. "I wanted t', but it jus' wouldn't
come out! I s'pose it's 'cause I ain't a reg'lar scout yet." Going down
the stairs, he saw no one, though several of the curious (having learned
about the big box that had gone up) saw him. But, strangely enough, they
watched him in silence, their speech stayed by the misery in his lowered
face and bent shoulders. "After a while I'll be better, maybe," he told
himself hopefully. "But now 'bout all I can do, seems like, is keep my
teeth clean."

CHAPTER XXIV

FATHER PAT

AN energetic, hot, and dust-laden wind caught at Johnnie as he came out
upon the street, whipping strands of his yel