His indignant musings were disturbed. A new voice, loud and compelling, came in at the window. On the Merrill back porch Bull Jones had added his bulky presence to the group. Joe looked down and scowled. Bull was a bully and a braggart, the ringleader of the other crowd, the evil genius who had so nearly put an end to Camp Peejay, and Joe detested him so thoroughly that the mere sight of him was enough to re-rumple Joe’s brow. But the scowl of dislike gave way to one of incredulity. Bull was outlining in perfectly audible tones a scheme never intended for Joe’s ears! It was plain that none of the three on the porch knew that he was at the window. Perhaps the sunlight’s glare masked him, or perhaps they had not thought to look. That as may have been, Joe acted promptly. He slid swiftly from the box, extended himself full length on the floor, well out of sight, and listened avidly. Fifteen minutes later, the group on the porch having departed, he arose, abstractedly dusted his clothes and seated himself again on the box giving himself over to deep thought. The shaft of sunlight moved backward the space of one dusty floor board before Joe arrived at a course of action. Then, guiltily conscious of wasted moments, he seized his cap from the floor and raced down the stairs and out into the yard. The shortest way to Crown Street was via the side fence and the Martin’s rhubarb patch. This route was attended by some risk, for Mrs. Martin’s ideas on the subject of trespass were extremely narrow, but the present occasion seemed to Joe to warrant risk, and he took it. Reaching the top of the board fence by means of the grape trellis, he landed astride the bursting crinkly head of a rhubarb plant, cast a swift and anxious glance at the kitchen door and dodged under the pear trees to the further side of the yard. For once no strident voice bade him halt, and in a jiffy he had vaulted the privet hedge and was safe. Philip lived a dozen houses southward, and while yet two doors distant Joe knew that Philip was at home. The excruciating wail of Philip’s violin floated sadly forth on the afternoon air. Joe smiled as he heard. Philip’s practice hour ordinarily ended at four, and here it was long after, and the inference was clear that he was prolonging the agony merely because the quarrel with his chum had left him with no better way of spending the time. In front of the Levering house Joe stopped and gazed frowningly up at the open window of the room above the porch. The practice paused for an instant and he raised his voice in the accustomed hail: “_Oo-ee-e-e!_” Philip appeared at the casement and looked down. Joe had made up his mind that if Philip’s face showed triumph over his friend’s capitulation the reconciliation should go no farther. But it didn’t. Philip’s countenance expressed faint surprise, instantly suppressed, and then casual and wary interest. “Hello!” he said. “Hello!” answered Joe.