sometimes, don't you?"

"Very, but I don't get a chance to sleep much with bronze cross scouts
and manual training teachers to keep me on the move."

"Gee whiz, I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Not at all, the pleasure is mine," said Scoutmaster Ned. "I live in a
den of wild Indians; I seldom sleep. And our friend escaped? It doesn't
speak very well for teachers, does it? School--"

"Gee whiz, I'll help anybody to foil a school."

"Good. Come over here, Pee-wee Harris, and let us get at the details of
this adventure; I have a hunch that you and I are going to be friends.
You are a--what shall I say?--a bandit after my own heart. So you have
seven merit badges and the bronze cross, eh? Do you think you could
steal--excuse me--_win_ a silver cup?"

"Can you drink out of it?" Pee-wee demanded.

"Positively--lemonade, grape juice, root beer--"

"Malted milk also. And a sandwich goes with it. I think that cup was
made for a bronze cross scout. Come over here a minute."

Pee-wee went over and stood between the knees of Scoutmaster Ned. "He's
mine, Bill," said Ned to his fellow scoutmaster, "I saw him first."

Meanwhile you should have seen the face of Justice of the Peace Fee. He
sat at his desk, with his long legs projecting through the middle, a
cigar screwed away over into the corner of his mouth, contemplating
Pee-wee with a shrewd, amused twinkle. Not a word did he say as
Scoutmaster Ned asked questions of the Raven's mascot, while the others
listened and laughed.

CHAPTER XXXI

ALONE

But there was one there who smiled almost fearfully, as if doubting his
privilege of mirth in that gay, strange company. He smiled, not as one
of them, but in silent awe, and did not dare to laugh aloud. He hoped
that they would not notice him and tell him to go home. He had dreamed
of some day seeing such wondrous boys as these, and here they were
before him, all about him, in their natty khaki, self-possessed,
unabashed, merry, free. Was not that enough for Peter Piper of Piper's
Crossroads?

Yes, that was enough, more than he had ever expected. It was like the
scene he had "pretended" out in the little barn when he had presented
himself with the fancied signalling badge.

Stealthily his hand moved to his ticking shirt and removed the campaign
button. For there before him was a boy with a real, a _real_, signalling
badge. His eyes were riveted upon that badge; he could not take them
from it. Suppose someone should