low hair into his eyes and
about his ears, blowing the fringe at his knees and elbows, billowing
the big shirt till his ribs were fanned, and setting to wave gayly all
those pink rosebuds and their green leaves.

The wind did more: warm as it was, it calmed his thoughts and steadied
his brain, so that he was able to see the whole matter of the birthday
bouquet clearly, and reach a new and better decision in regard to the
flowers. Now he understood perfectly that in spite of whatever might
happen to him when he got home, he could not sell Mr. Perkins's gift. No
boy who intended to be a scout could do such a things--then return, even
with the large sum of one whole dollar, and expect Cis to speak to him
again. And how could he ever bear to admit such a sale to Mr. Perkins?
or to One-Eye?

"I'd rather fall down and die!" he vowed. "'Cause it'd show 'em all that
I ain't gittin' made over a bit!"

But if he did not dispose of the flowers to some one, as the
longshoreman had ordered, what then? Should he turn around and go
straight back to the flat--now? He halted for a moment, thinking. To go
back would, of course, mean a beating, perhaps with the buckle end of
the strap! (A thought that made him shiver as he stood there, on a hot
pave, in the summer sun.) Oh, was there not some way by which he could
keep the bouquet and yet not suffer punishment? Suppose he gave the
roses away? to the first old lady he met? and then reported to Big
Tom--with tears!--that a gang of boys had snatched the flowers out of
his hands? But that would be telling a lie, and a lie would be as bad,
almost, as taking money for Cis's blossoms. No, he would not lie, though
not so long ago, before he met the scoutmaster, and read the Handbook,
he would not have hesitated; indeed, he would have rejoiced in cheating
Barber, and complimented himself on thinking up such a clever story.

Suppose, however, that he were to sell the flowers for a dollar, keep
the money, and not return to the flat at all? For a moment this plan
seemed such a good one that he started off briskly, his look searching
the faces of passersby. Another moment, and he came short again. How
could he cut himself off from Mr. Perkins? For if he did, his hope of
being a scout, when he was twelve years old, would be gone. Also, there
was that wedding; he had set his heart on attending it, and walking the
red carpet between lines of envious onlookers. No, this was no time to
be leaving the f