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Now, I have to tell you about how we floated the house-boat down to Bridgeboro River, and maybe you'd better look at the map, hey? Oh, but first I want to tell you about the name we gave it. Some name! We christened it with a bottle of mosquito dope. It's regular name was all rubbed off, so we decided we'd vote on a new name. This is the way we fixed it.
I've only been here a couple of days. Yesterday was the only time I was in Bridgeboro. I was going to give it up. I didn't have any supplies and I didn't know who to get to help me I was mighty glad that friend of yours came up yesterday and said he'd tell you fellows it was all right." "He's our scoutmaster," said Pee-wee. "He's all right, only you've got to know how to manage him.
And the outcome of all this business was another article in the Bridgeboro Record: CRIMINAL TENDENCIES CAUSED BY CRACKED SKULL? A delicate operation was performed yesterday on the skull of Darrell, the Canadian fugitive who is recovering from injuries in the Bridgeboro hospital.
He had an awful red face and white whiskers and I guess he must have been used to ordering people around anyway, he looked that way. He said, "Here I am on the down tide, the water going out every minute and got to run up to North Bridgeboro yet. It's a " he said what kind of an outrage it was, but I wouldn't tell you. Oh, he was hopping mad.
"You're right they are," said Tom, thinking of the troop's motor boat away home in Bridgeboro. "Of course, I don't mind the walk down there," he added, "only it seemed kind of funny " "It's tragic for some of these lame fellows." "Who is the chief engineer," Tom asked. "Oh, he's a kid that was a despatch rider, I think. Anyway, he's wise to motorcycles.
At the express office Roy arranged for the shipment of the canoe back to Bridgeboro, and then they started along the road toward Nyack. It was on this part of their journey that something happened which was destined materially to alter their program.
The belt, drawn absurdly tight around the thin little waist, was a quite sufficient mark of identification. It was Skinny McCord, the latest find, and official mascot of the Bridgeboro troop, one of the crack troop of the camp. Alfred was his Christian name.
He owned the Bridgeboro National Bank; he owned all the vacant lots with their hospitable "Keep Out" signs, and he had a controlling interest in pretty nearly everything else in town except his own temper. Poor, lazy Bill Slade and his misguided son might have gone on living in John Temple's tenement rent free until it fell in a heap, for though Mr.
The dug-out stayed where it was on account of being pushed in among the reeds and oh, jiminety, it was nice sitting there. I thought maybe the creek would empty out again into Bridgeboro River and I could tie up there and, go home. But I had a big surprise waiting for me, you can bet.
I guess maybe it was a hundred years old and you can see it now, if you ever come to Bridgeboro, because it's in the Museum of our Public Library and you'll know it because it's got "Presented by 1st Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A.," on it.
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