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Spiffy Henshaw had been washing dishes for two whole weeks. That is, it seemed to him as if it had been two weeks but in reality it was only three times a day for fourteen days.

In answer to his numerous complaints, his scoutmaster had told him that the way of the transgressor was hard and though Spiffy agreed with him the words slipped off his shoulders as lightly as the summer rain.

There had been a new transgression each day of his protracted sentence, until at the end of the week it seemed quite likely that his superiors would inflict another fortnight’s penance upon him. That was to be in the form of peeling potatoes in the large kitchen at Kanawauke.

Therefore, Spiffy immediately sought to retaliate this imminent penalty and succeeded in capturing a muskrat and hiding it between the snow-white sheets of his scoutmaster’s cot. This appeased his hunger for vengeance but added to his duties in the kitchen. He was commanded to sweep it up after every meal.

This long term of punishment was the result of one of Spiffy’s major transgressions. He swam the lake one night in defiance of the camp rules and was sentenced next morning for kitchen duty. This order was to take effect immediately after breakfast but instead, Spiffy had left the waters of Kanawauke far behind him and was intent on reaching his parents’ home in Jersey City rather than expiate his folly in such ignoble pursuits.

His purpose was thwarted however, by Tom Slade, the young camp assistant of Temple Camp at Black Lake, who was on a little adventure that summer in the foothills of Bear Mountain. Spiffy walked into the cabin early in the evening and gave a frank account of himself.

Before ten minutes had passed, Tom had succeeded in making the runaway believe that he wasn’t a quitter and that he would go back to his camp and take what was coming to him. Also he had given up his beloved flashy stickpin that had earned him the famous cognomen that would cling to him for life. Tom had told him that it was a signal for HELP. That brought him to his senses and sent him scurrying back to Kanawauke.

The next morning he was commended for his fine conscience and remanded for sentence, and hardly was the breakfast over before he was standing at the big sink, toiling away at a job that was thoroughly loathsome to him. It was only the thoughts of Tom Slade that kept his impish desires in check.

“Gee, he’s one swell guy,” he said as he rattled the heavy dishes. “He’s not like the scouts around here—gee, I haven’t any use for scouts. None of them, ’cepting that Slade. I liked him right off. Said he came from Bridgeboro. That’s the place where my aunt and uncle live—I’d like to go there some day.”

The chef who was busy at the stove looked questioningly at the mumbling boy and decided that he was just another queer kid. But there was nothing queer about Spiffy at all. He was wilful and stubborn to an alarming degree and when mischief stalked his keen young brain, nothing could stop him. And until his meeting with Tom Slade nothing had.

He was destined not to see Tom again for a long time but he never forgot the little bits of common sense that that young man had imparted to him during their short meeting. His desire to create havoc in the peaceful camp was as strong as ever but he knew that never again would he be a quitter.

And so he started his acquaintance with potatoes after his adventure with the muskrat. When he was at this occupation the thought occurred to him that his superiors might reconsider their sentence upon him if he put a good quantity of dry mustard in with the potatoes. The innocent looking can stood on a line with his sparkling black eyes just under the cupboard and the chef had stepped out of the kitchen for a few minutes.

The peace of Kanawauke camp was indeed threatened that luncheon hour by Spiffy’s latest prank. His scoutmaster and camp manager were at a loss to know just what could be done about him. Punishment seemed to be only another form of mischief, and they at last decided to inform his parents that they might write and order him home.

Their wish was soon realized as Mr. Henshaw sent his son a peremptory note demanding his return home at once. Also a letter of apology was dispatched to the powers that be in Kanawauke, on behalf of this same mischief maker and some money for his carfare was enclosed in care of the scoutmaster to insure his return home.

Spiffy accepted this money humbly and seemed indeed repentant at that moment. He asked permission to stay until the morrow and that same afternoon took a trip into the nearest village and bought a scout suit for a poor member of his patrol. Thus he was without the wherewithal to return home and when his scoutmaster upbraided him for his rash act he simply stood by, innocent looking and smiling. No matter what else was said of Spiffy in those days, no one could do other than admit the power of his smile. And never was he lacking in respect to his elders.

“That’s one scout rule you never break,” said the scoutmaster. “You never fail to be courteous and you never fail to smile. I wish you obeyed the other laws as well. You’d make an A-l scout, Arnold.”

“I don’t want to be an A-1 scout,” Spiffy returned frankly. “I don’t want to be a scout at all—I never wanted to be one but my father made me. I’ll never do things I’m made to do because I don’t like rules. And that’s all the scouts have—rules!”

The scoutmaster frowned. “That’s nonsense, Arnold. Even a baby must obey some law—where would the world be without laws? We’d be like a lot of savages.”

“I’d like to be a savage,” Spiffy said wilfully, “then my father couldn’t make me go home when I didn’t want to go.”

“I thought you didn’t like the scouts?” asked the scoutmaster.

“I don’t, but it’s better than going home to Jersey City and having my father lecture me every day for a week or more,” he admitted. “Gee, the scouts are better than that.”

The scoutmaster smiled patiently. “It’s comforting to hear you admit that much, Arnold. I’m afraid you’ve never been honest with yourself about scouting—you’ve never so much as tried to understand us. Perhaps some day you will, eh?”

“I will when they stop having rules,” smiled Spiffy.

“You will when you learn to respect rules as you do your parents,” the man prompted him.

“Parents are like the scouts,” Spiffy insisted. “Mine are anyway. They’re always making me do things I don’t want to do.”

The scoutmaster shook his head hopelessly. “You’ve a lot to learn, Arnold, but that is neither here nor there just now. Pack up your things. I’m going to buy your ticket and see you safely on the train for Jersey City.”

Spiffy turned obediently and went straight to his patrol cabin. He whistled merrily and packed his bag and when a member of his patrol asked him where he was going, he winked mischievously.