It
will be the saving of boys in the city slums if carried out properly."
"Sure it is all to the good," cried the drummer. "A Boy Scout can
find friends wherever he goes--and friends that will stick by him,
too. We get into the game ourselves and do things, instead of sitting
on the bleachers ad smoking cigarettes while others get the exercise."
The little fellow smiled winningly at Jimmie, cast his eyes up the
mountain, and then asked:
"Where did you come from? What patrol do you belong to? I'm Panther
Patrol, New York."
"New York Wolf Patrol," was the reply.
"What you doin' here with the ragged army? Say, but they'd make a
hit on a Bowery stoige, them soldiers."
"What do you know about the Bowery?" demanded the drummer. "Have
you been reading about it in the Newsboy's Delight?"
"I know every inch of the Bowery," was the indignant reply. "When
I walk down to Chatham Square the lamps bow to me. I'm hungry
for it right now."
The drummer threw out his arms in a gesture of approval.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, then.
"I'm editing this end of a detective case," laughed Jimmie.
"All alone?" grinned the drummer. "Where are the others?"
"Lost," cried Jimmie. "Jere! I wish Frank Shaw was here
and had hold of that drum. There'd be something doin'.
He came down here to drum for Uncle Sam, but they wouldn't
have him. They said he was too short an' fat."
"Fatty Shaw!"
The drummer held his sides with his hands while he laughed,
and then dropped down on a convenient rock.
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