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He said that good turns are good investments he says they pay a hundred percent. That's even better than Liberty Bonds. You don't get it back in money, but you get it back in fun what's the difference? Well, we did a good turn, and oh, believe me, there was some come back! One day a tug came up our river on its way up to North Bridgeboro. That's where the mill is.
Moreover, though he was for Bridgeboro, once, last and always, his attitude was uniformly combative toward older boys, high school boys in particular, and toward high schools generally. He would be chary of the privileges he granted to these "big fellers" whom he knew so well how to "handle." But in the light of the camp-fire he saw visions of huge war profits in these impending combats.
He sings in the Methodist Church choir and they say he can throw his voice anywhere. I wish he'd throw it in the ash barrel, I know that. He always wears his belt-axe to troop meetings, in case the Germans should invade Bridgeboro, I suppose. He's the troop mascot and if you walk around him three times and ruffle up his beautiful curly hair, you can change your luck.
For one thing it was of a rich shade of blue, whereas, the inhabitants of Bridgeboro being for the most part dead, their favorite color in autos was black. The car, indeed, was the latest super six Hunkajunk touring model, a vision of grace and colorful beauty, set of with trimmings of shiny nickel.
So there was nothing so strange about that. If there had been, why, Uncle Sam's all-seeing eye would not have missed it. He fell to thinking of Bridgeboro again. And he thought of Adolf Schmitt and A phrase from one of those letters ran through his mind It's the same idea as a periscope.
And Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead, glanced up from time to time at the quiet, trustful stars. And he thanked Archibald Archer, vandal though he was, for, one idle, foolish thing that he had done. The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom and the Scouts had hiked and camped.
He never, never read that message, you can bet on that." "I know! I know!" vociferated Pee-wee. "He had a a inspiration. Give me the doughnut." We need not linger in Bridgeboro, the native haunt of Scout Harris, and of Roy Blakeley and his Silver-plated Fox Patrol, and the other celebrities of Pee-wee's troop. For the adventures of these world heroes may be found recorded by Roy's own hand.
Then maybe it would be kind of like a memorandum to him and he'd come and give it back when he had plenty of money sometime, maybe. But when I went back there wasn't any chance to do that, because all the fellows were still crowding around. I stood up on the edge of the ditch and I heard somebody say that El Sawyer had gone to Bridgeboro.
All the time we could hear that old grouch shouting about Bridgeboro and our river and saying it was Sleepy Hollow and Dopeville, and the river was a mud hole. But it isn't and don't you believe it. "Anyway, I'm going to climb in through the shed window," I said, "and see if maybe Jimmy is sick or dead."
Doc bathed the streaked hair and sterilized the cut which he thought was not necessarily mortal. "Someone will have to get a doctor," he said. He seemed the calmest one present. "Hustle to Dumont or Haworth, one of you, and get to a 'phone. If you can find a doctor send him, but anyway call up Bridgeboro; call up the hospital and tell them someone is hurt up here."
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