to begin with, how old are
you?"

Johnnie opened his mouth--but held his tongue. He guessed that age had
something to do with being a scout. But what? Was he too old? But the
boys who had marched past him were as tall as he, if not taller. Then
was he too young? Taken unaware, he was not able quickly to decide what
the trouble might be. But he had not lived five years at Tom Barber's
without learning how to get himself out of a tight corner. This time,
all he had to do was tell the absolute truth. "I don't 'xac'ly know," he
answered.

"Mm!" Mr. Perkins thought that over. Presently, adjusting his glasses,
he looked Johnnie up and down, while anxious swallows undulated
Johnnie's thin neck, and about his knobs of knees the long fringe of the
big trousers trembled. "But we can find out how old you are, can't we?"
Mr. Perkins added, with a sudden smile.

"I guess I'm ten goin' on 'leven," capitulated Johnnie.

"Ten going on eleven! That's splendid! It's the best age to begin
getting ready to be a scout! The very best!"

"Gee! I'm glad!"

"So am I! You see, it takes some time to be a scout. It'll take every
spare minute you've got to get ready. It's something that can't be done
in a hurry. But here you've got more than a year to prepare yourself."

"More'n a--a _year_?"

"All scouts are twelve."

"Oh!" A shadow clouded the gray eyes.

"But a year means that you can get yourself in dandy condition. And
would you mind showing me how fit you are now?"

Johnnie spread out his hands deprecatingly. "That's the trouble," he
declared, looking down at his big, old clothes. "They don't fit."

But when he understood just what Mr. Perkins meant, in a twinkling he
had slipped Barber's shirt over his head and was standing bared to the
waist, all his little ribs showing pitifully, and--as he faced square
about--his shoulder blades thrusting themselves almost through a skin
that was a sickly white. "Ain't I fine?" he wanted to know. "Don't I
look good'n strong?"

The glasses came tumbling off Mr. Perkins's nose. He coughed, and pulled
out the white handkerchief again, and fell to polishing the crystal
discs. "Fair," he said slowly. "But there's room for improvement."

Johnnie sensed a compassionate note in the answer. "Course I ain't fat,"
he conceded hastily. "But when Mrs. Kukor gives me filled fish I can see
a big diff'rence right away!"

"Fat isn't what a boy wants," returned Mr. Perkins. "He wants good
blood, and str