91)]

"Just one more shot to finish him," he said. It sounded just exactly
like a pistol.

"There he is," Warde said; "and he'll never frighten good little boy
scouts again. Nobody will ever get another prize for hitting him in the
eye with a baseball. His glorious career as a target is over. Step up,
lads, and take a look at him."

Oh, boy, I guess we never felt so silly in our lives. Poor bandit, he
was just one of those figures that sit in a chair and are pelted with
baseballs, three shots for a dime. "_Every time you hit the nigger!_"
That's what the man used to call. When some one hit him a good hard
crack he'd topple off the seat and then the man would give you a kewpie
doll or maybe an ash-tray. The poor old wooden "nigger" had been packed
away and all we had seen was his black face sticking up above some old
boxes.

I said to Warde, laughing good and hard, "You knew it all the time,
didn't you?"

He just said, "A scout is observant. Do I get the Gold Cross?"

Westy said, "I don't think you get the Gold Cross, but we ought to get
leather medals, I know that. We're a fine outfit of scouts not to know
an old 'hit-the-nigger' target from a bandit."

Warde just kicked the poor old black man. I guess the black man didn't
care, because he was used to being pelted in the face. I wouldn't want
that job.

Then Warde said, "Scout Harris is to blame for this horrible murder. Did
you ever hear of mental suggestion?" Gee, that fellow's smart.

"Is that what you killed him with?" I said.

He said, "If you're hunting for a thing, everything looks like that
thing. Harris had bandits on his brain, so one look at this thing was
enough for you fellows."

"If you're looking for--for--a piece of pie," Pee-wee piped up, "will
everything be pie?"

"Posilutely," I said. "Just the same as when you're in Hamburg
everything looks like ham. It's the same only different. Just the same
as all the buildings in Paris are made of plaster of paris. Just the
same as the raving Ravens are afraid of wooden dummies. What's the
answer?"

"Answer to what?" he shouted.

"Anything," I said. "It depends on what the question is. Warde Hollister
is a better scout than any of us. Deny it if you dare, quoth I. He has
performed the most heroic act since Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of
the Ravens, killed a couple of hours waiting for a train for Temple
Camp. They don't care what they kill, those scouts."

We put the baseball target back