“What?” Edgar inquired derisively, catching up with him. “You’re going to be bounced, that’s what,” said the bass irritably. “Aw, come off! I ain’t either!” “Well, you ought to be, the whole pack of you,” the bass continued decidedly. “Bag and baggage! And a good riddance, too. No choirboy camping-out _this_ summer!” Edgar dropped behind and mused. “Who told yer?” he called. “Ask Fellowes—and if he don’t lick you, I will!” retorted the bass, making a quick grab, which Edgar easily evaded. He summoned his mates immediately; the question was laid before them. Had they heard that they were to be bounced? Did they believe that the two weeks’ camping-out, the object of all their endurance and loyalty, the prize of their high calling, was to be discontinued? Tim was deputed to inquire on Saturday afternoon. He returned disconsolate; they shoved each other significantly. “What’d he say? What’d he say?” “He says mos’ prob’ly not. Says it costs too much. Says maybe a picnic——” “Aw! old chump! Goin’ to bounce us, too?” “I dunno. I guess so. I didn’t ask him that. I just says to him, ‘Aw, say, Mr. Fellowes, ain’t us boys goin’ campin’?’ An’ he says, ‘I guess not this year, Tim, mos’ prob’ly. Maybe a picnic——” [Illustration: “’_Well, I bet he don’t bounce me!_’”] “Well, I bet he don’t bounce me! I betcher that, I betcher, now!” Edgar strutted before them. They regarded him with interest. “Whatcher goin’ to do?” they asked respectfully. “What’ll I do? I’ll—I’ll bounce myself!” he called over his shoulder, as he strode home.