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Title: Pee-wee Harris in camp
Author: Percy Keese Fitzhugh
Illustrator: Harold S. Barbour
Release date: November 25, 2023 [eBook #72220]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1922
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP ***
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP
[Illustration: “I’LL CLOSE MY EYES AND TRY TO GO STRAIGHT,” SAID
PEE-WEE.]
PEE-WEE HARRIS
IN CAMP
BY
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS, THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
ILLUSTRATED BY
H. S. BARBOUR
Published with the approval of
THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1922, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
_Pee-Wee Harris in Camp, also in Dutch; also in hot water,
in cold water, on the stage, in politics, and in the
raspberry jam. Including the true facts concerning his size
(what there is of it) and his heroism (such as it is), his
voice, his clothes, his appetite, his friends, his enemies,
his victims. Together with the thrilling narrative of the
rise and fall of the Hop-toad Patrol, as well as other
delectable particulars touching the one time mascot of the
Ravens, sometimes known as the Animal Cracker Patrol. How he
foiled, baffled, circumvented and triumphed over everything
and everybody (except where he failed) and how even when he
failed he succeeded. The whole recorded in a series of
screams and told with neither muffler nor cut-out._
CONTENTS
I HE OPENS THE DOOR, THEN OPENS HIS MOUTH
II HE PLAYS HIS PART
III SUCH IS FAME
IV HE ADVANCES
V HE STORMS THE INNER FORTRESS
VI CARRIED BY A MINORITY
VII MENTAL TELEGRAPHY
VIII A PREDICAMENT
IX PEE-WEE’S PAST REVEALED
X PEE-WEE’S ENTERPRISE
XI BILLY SIMPSON’S CHANCE
XII ADVICE FROM THE VETERAN
XIII AN INSPIRATION
XIV THE AUTOCRAT
XV BON VOYAGE
XVI REGULATION SEVEN
XVII TEARS
XVIII THE BATTLE OF THE BURS
XIX SAIL ON, THOU BOTTLE
XX THE NIGHT BEFORE
XXI SCOUTS AND SCOUTS
XXII THE VOICE OF SCOUT HARRIS
XXIII MOBILIZING
XXIV A PROMISE
XXV BIG BUSINESS
XXVI MAROONED
XXVII RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
XXVIII BRENT AND PEE-WEE
XXIX BRENT AND SIMPSON
XXX THE COMING EVENT
XXXI THE SAND-BAG
XXXII SOMETHING BIG
XXXIII AND SOMETHING BIGGER
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP
CHAPTER I—HE OPENS THE DOOR, THEN OPENS HIS MOUTH
“I’m going to brand a horse with a hot iron! I’m going to brand a double
cross on him! I’m going to brand it on his hip! I’m going to get ten
dollars!”
These were strange words to issue from the lips of a boy scout. Yet they
were uttered by no less a scout than Pee-Wee Harris, the scout of
scouts, the scout who made scouting famous, the only original scout, the
scout who put the rave in Raven Patrol. They were uttered by Scout
Harris who was so humane that he loved butterflies because they reminded
him of butter and who would not harm a piece of pudding-stone because it
aroused his tender recollections of pudding.
“I’m going to brand him to-morrow night!” he repeated cruelly. “Is there
any pie left in the pantry?”
What act of inhuman cruelty he meditated against the poor, defenseless
pie only his own guilty conscience knew. Before his mother was able to
answer him from upstairs he had branded a piece of pie with his teeth.
Pee-wee’s mother did not come down, but she put her foot down.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she called, “but you’re not going to do
it. There is one piece of pie in the pantry unless you have eaten it
already.”
Pee-wee ascended the stairs armed with a dripping slice of rhubarb pie
which left a scout trail up the wild, carpeted steps and through the
dim, unfathomed fastnesses of the upper hall.
“I’m brandhorse,” he repeated, wrestling with a large mouthful of pie,
“I’mgngtendlrs.”
The bite of pie conquered, Pee-wee proceeded to enlighten his mother as
to his latest enterprise.
“You know the--”
“Don’t eat while you’re talking,” said Mrs. Harris.
“You know the Punkhall Stock Company?” Pee-wee continued excitedly.
“They’re coming to the Lyric Theatre next week. They’re going to play
New York successes. They advertised for a boy to brand a horse and I
went to see the man and his name is Rantrnetolme--”
“Stop! Wait a minute; now go on. And don’t take another bite till you
finish.”
“Mr. Ranter he’s manager and he said I’d do and I only have to be in
that one play and I only have to be on the stage one minute and I’ll get
ten dollars and everybody’ll clap and I bet you’ll be glad and
it--anyway, it isn’t a hot iron at all, but it’s painted red so it will
look hot and it doesn’t hurt the horse only it looks as if it did, so
can I do it?” he concluded breathlessly. “You can’t say that red paint
will hurt a horse,” he added anxiously. “Gee whiz, I wouldn’t be cruel,
but red paint can’t hurt anybody.”
“What is the name of this play?” Pee-wee’s mother asked.
“The name of it is _Double-crossed_ and I’ll tell you all about it, it’s
a dandy play, a man has a double cross for trade-mark, see? And he’s a
villain and he gets a kid to crawl through a hole in the fence, it’s out
west in Arizona, and that kid has to brand one of the other man’s horses
so the man will admit the horse belongs to the other man and the other
man can take him, see? That’s what you call a plot. The man beats me if
I say I won’t do it, so I do it and I don’t say anything at all and
after the play is over I get ten dollars, so will you come and see me?”
“Where is the boy who usually does that?” Mrs. Harris asked, rather
ruefully.
“They get a different boy in every town,” Pee-wee said, “because Mr.
Ranter, he says it’s cheaper to do that than it is to pay his railroad
fare all over the country, so can I do it? The iron isn’t really hot. So
can I do it? Roy Blakeley and all the troop are coming to see me and
maybe they’re going to get a flashlight and they’re going to clap a lot.
So can I do it? I’m going to do good turns with the ten dollars so if
you stand up for good turns like you told Mr. Ellsworth, you’d better
let me do it or else that shows you don’t believe in good turns. So can
I do it?”
In the interval of suspense which followed, Pee-wee strengthened his
spirit with a bite of pie and stood ready to take still another upon the
first hint of an adverse decision.
“I don’t like the idea of you going on the stage with actors, especially
with the Punkhall Stock Company,” said Mrs. Harris doubtfully. “What
would your Aunt Sophia say if she should hear of it?”
“How can she hear of it when she’s deaf?” said Pee-wee. “Anyway, they
never hear of things in North Deadham. I only have to be on the stage
about one minute and I don’t have to talk and I’d rather do it
than--than--have a bicycle on Christmas. So can I do it?”
“I hope you don’t impersonate a scout,” said Mrs. Harris, weakening
gradually.
“I’m the son of a cowboy that owns a ranch,” Pee-wee vociferated, “and
his name is Deadshot Dan, and he gave me some peanuts when Mr. Ranter
was talking to me. Gee whiz, you can tell from that that he’s not really
bad, can’t you? Mr. Punkhall was there too, and he said I’d do it fine
and they’ll show me how to do it at a rehearsal to-morrow morning and it
doesn’t really hurt the horse, so can I do it?”
“You remember how scandalized your Aunt Sophia Primshock was when you
kept a refreshment shack by the roadside? We have to think of others,
Walter. Aunt Sophia would be--I can’t think what she’d be if she knew
you joined the Punkhall Stock Company. And your cousin Prudence who is
going to Vassar! I had to listen to their criticisms the whole time
while I was visiting them, and your father thought they were right.”
Poor Mrs. Harris lived in mortal terror of the Primshock branch of the
family which occupied the big old-fashioned house at North Deadham. No
stock companies, no movies even, ever went there. No popular songs or
current jokes or wise cracks of the day penetrated to that solemn
fastness. All that ever reached there, apparently, were the tidings of
Pee-wee’s sensational escapades, his floundering around the country in a
ramshackle railroad car, his being carried off in an automobile, and,
worst of all, his epoch-making plunge into the retail trade when he had
sold and sung the praises of hot frankfurters by the road-side.
“I’m afraid she’d think it--unwise,” Mrs. Harris said in her gentle,
half yielding manner.
“Ah now, Mudgy,” Pee-wee pleaded; “I told those men I’d do it and a
scout has to keep his word, gee whiz, you have to admit that. And Aunt
Sophia doesn’t have to know anything about it and I promise, _I
promise_, not to tell her, and anyway Prudence has joined the Girl
Scouts and maybe by this time she’s got to be kind of wild--kind of; and
anyway I’ll never tell them so they can’t jump on you and if I say I
won’t, _I won’t_ because a scout’s honor is to be trusted. So can I do
it? I won’t buy gumdrops with the ten dollars if you’ll let me do it.”
“Good gracious! Ten dollars worth of gumdrops!” said Mrs. Harris.
“Sure, that’s nothing,” said Pee-wee.
CHAPTER II—HE PLAYS HIS PART
We need not dwell upon Pee-wee’s career on the stage. It was almost as
short as he was. He crawled through a hole in a fence and had no
difficulty in finding the right horse, since there was only one there.
He held the iron (painted red) against the horse’s hip, then withdrew
across the stage and was seen no more. The deed of villainy had been
done, the double cross of the thieving ranchman had been branded upon
the horse he coveted and was resolved to win “by fair means or foul.”
Those were the tragic words he had used.
There was nothing so very terrible about Pee-wee’s new adventure and Mr.
and Mrs. Harris were rather proud of the way in which he acquitted
himself. He broke his ten dollar bill in Bennett’s Fresh Confectionery,
where he treated the members of his troop with true actorish liberality.
Two sodas each they had, and gumdrops flew like bullets in the play.
“Roy’s got your picture,” said Westy Martin; “I hope it comes out all
right. He’s going to hang it in the cellar.”
“How did it seem not speaking for thirty seconds?” Roy asked.
“He timed you with his stop watch,” Artie Van Arlen said. “Did you see
us in the front seats?”
“Now you see, it’s good to be small,” Pee-wee said. “They chose me
because I could get through that hole in the fence. Fat Blanchard wanted
to get the job but they wouldn’t give it to him because they were afraid
he’d get stuck half way through the hole. That horse is awful nice, he
likes being branded I guess; anyway he wasn’t mad about it because he
licked my hand twice.”
“If I had my way I’d lick you a couple of dozen times,” said Roy. “Did
you tell him about how you won the animal first aid badge?”
“Who?”
“The horse; did you tell him how that makes you a star scout?”
“What does the horse care?” Westy asked. “He’s a star actor, that’s
better than a star scout.”
“I guess he had to go on the stage on account of the automobile driving
him out of business, hey?” Roy said.
“Anyway, I like horses,” Pee-wee said.
“Sure,” said Roy, “and you like horse radish and horse chestnuts too. No
wonder you like horses, you’re always kicking.”
“Maybe some day I’ll play--maybe I’ll play Julius Caesar,” said Pee-wee
proudly.
“Sure, maybe you’ll play checkers,” said Roy; “come on home, it’s late.”
“Let’s have one more soda,” said Pee-wee.
“Which one of us will have it?” Roy asked.
“One each,” said Pee-wee; “I’ll treat. The first ones were on account of
my acting in that play, kind of to celebrate, and these will be on
account of my getting to be a star scout. Will you?”
“For your sake we will,” said Roy, as they all lined up again at the
soda fountain. “I hate to think what will happen when you get to be an
eagle scout.”
“We’ll have a soda for every badge, hey?” said Pee-wee, immediately
enthusiastic over the idea.
“That’ll be twenty-one sodas each.”
“Good night!” said Roy.
“And we’ll have chocolate ones on account of that being my patrol color,
hey? Only I’m going to start a new patrol before that and maybe I’ll
have red for our patrol color so we’ll have strawberry sodas, hey?
Because, anyway, I’m going to be an eagle scout next summer.”
“Tell us all about that,” said Dorry Benton of the Silver Foxes.
“I’ve got a lot of plans,” said Pee-wee, between mouthfuls of dripping
ice cream.
“Have you got them with you?” Wig Weigand asked.
“I’m going to start a patrol up at Temple Camp and I’m going to be the
leader of it on account of being a star scout and I’m going to enter one
of my scouts for the marksmanship contest--”
“G-o-o-d night!” interrupted Roy.
“A tall chance a tenderfoot stands of winning that,” Dorry laughed.
“I--I bet you I can think of a way, all right,” Pee-wee vociferated.
“Didn’t I fix it so Worry Chesley could get the gold cross?”
“Yes?”
“Sure; didn’t I fall off the springboard so he could save my life?”
“And the raving Ravens will have to go on raving without their little
mascot?” Doc. Carson asked.
“Sure, let them rave,” said Pee-wee; “gee whiz, I can rave without
them.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Roy said.
“If I’m a star scout that means I’m a hero, doesn’t it?” Pee-wee asked,
his soda glass tilted up so that he might capture the last dregs. “If a
scout has ten merit badges--”
“That means he has to treat to soda ten times,” said Roy; “it’s on page
forty-eleven of the handbook. If he treats to soda fifteen times he’s a
soda scout and he can wear the soda badge, all down the front of his
coat, just like you. Come on, let’s go home, Mr. Bennett wants to shut
up.”
“I wouldn’t shut up for anybody,” Pee-wee said.
CHAPTER III—SUCH IS FAME
Pee-wee’s plans, indeed, were more numerous than the miscellaneous
possessions which he displayed upon his scout regalia and which set him
off like a sort of animated Christmas tree. If his active brain could
have been revealed to view it would have been found decorated with plans
of every description; schemes and enterprises would have been seen
dangling from it, as his jack-knife and his compass and his cooking pan
and his watch and his coil of rope were seen dangling from his belt and
jacket. His mind was a sort of miniature attic, full of junk. An artist
familiar with rummage sales might picture our scout hero in all his
glory. But alas, no artist could picture his brain!
At the time of the beginning of this odd train of happenings, Pee-wee
had cause to be both proud and satisfied. For one thing he had eight
dollars and sixty cents, the rest of his ten dollars having gone to
Bennett’s.
The animal first aid badge which he had lately won, being his tenth
award, had made him a star scout. The badge itself had not yet been
tendered him but this would be done by the exalted powers when he
reached Temple Camp. It would be done with befitting ceremony. It was
not necessary for anyone to tell Pee-wee that he was a hero; he admitted
it. After he had received his rank of star scout all of the pioneer[1]
scouts at camp would rally to his standard, clamoring for admittance to
his new, and altogether unique, patrol. So Pee-wee’s path of glory was
mapped out, as far as it was possible for the human imagination to map
it. The new patrol was to be called the Hop-toad Patrol, because it was
by tracking a hop-toad to its savage lair that Pee-wee had won the
stalking badge, one of the stepping stones to his pedestal of glory.
But the fame of Scout Harris had already gone further than he knew; it
had penetrated to North Deadham, and had appealed to Aunt Sophia
Primshock’s eyes, if it could not sneak in through her ears. On the very
next morning after Pee-wee’s brief career upon the stage he received the
following letter:
_My dearest nephew Walter:_
We were so pleased to see in the Council Fire column of a
newspaper that you have been awarded the scout badge for
first aid to animals. Prudence is so proud of her cousin
that she cannot wait to see you and tell you so. When we
think of all the cruelty that is inflicted on poor dumb
creatures, and sometimes by boys, it makes me very happy to
think that my very own nephew stands as the champion of the
beasts and birds, and will not harm them or allow anyone
else to harm them. That is better than selling sausages like
a pedler, and if it is true that they are made of dogs it
makes one’s heart ache to think of it. We want you to come
here and see us very soon, and you must stay for several
days.
Your proud and happy
AUNT SOPHIA.
Enclosed in the envelope was another missive, rather more formal in
tone, which read:
TO WALTER HARRIS, SCOUT:----
The Humane Committee of the Girl Scouts of North Deadham
invite you to attend their rally on Saturday evening, July
the tenth, and to accept the Black Beauty Cross of Mercy,
for friendship and kindness to dumb creatures. This cross is
given only by the North Deadham organization, to those
rendering conspicuous service in the field of humanity by
championing our dumb friends who cannot speak for
themselves.
Katherine Kindheart
Sympathea Softe
Dorothy Docile
Prudence Primshock
Committee
The hero’s acceptance of this invitation was a little disconcerting, but
it did not dim his glory. On the contrary (so far as his own efforts
were concerned) it increased his glory. He wrote:
_Dear Aunt Sophia and Prudence and that Committee too:_
I got that animal first aid badge so now I have ten badges
only I didn’t get it yet but anyway, I’m a star scout. You
have to have a general knowledge of farm animals and I know
a lot about them and I was kicked by a cow and she spilled
the milk. I like milk too. I know what’s good for colic and
you have to know that and it’s good for a horse. I don’t
mean colic.
Once when I was drowning some kittens I saved two so that
was a kind act to those two and that counts. It counts one
point. I fixed a tin can that was tied to a dog’s tail
because it was tied too tight. I know all about the
different knots, too. Once I grabbed a bat because I thought
it was a dish rag hanging up. I bet most girls wouldn’t be
kind to mice especially rats.
If a horse falls down you have to take off his harness and
the thing that goes kind of alongside his neck comes off
like suspenders. Anyway I like a belt better on account of
wearing my belt axe. Gee whiz I like girls and every kind of
animals, only they’re scared when they get in a rowboat.
I read that story about Black Beauty that your badge is
named after. I like elephants better. If you have a parrot
you better not swear because he learns it. Scouts have to
cut birds up in sections so as to tell the different parts
of them. I’m going to wear that Black Beauty badge alongside
my star badge. I’m going to go on the train that gets there
in time for supper.
With love,
WALTER HARRIS
First Aid
Physical Development
Personal Health
Public Health
Life Saving
Astronomy
Swimming
Forestry
Dairying
Animal First Aid that makes ten.
P. S. I don’t mean you have to cut birds up alive only in
pictures.
Aunt Sophia put on her spectacles and scrutinized this letter curiously,
but in the end her eyes dwelt fondly on the words at the end of the list
of badges. Pee-wee always thus summarized his glories, even in school
examination papers. She gazed at the words _Animal First Aid_ and was
reassured.
As for Sympathea Softe and Katherine Kindheart and Dorothy Docile, they
were greatly edified by the imposing list of Pee-wee’s triumphs.
“_Physical Development_,” said Dorothy, in whispered admiration; “I just
_bet_ he’s tall and dark, with a splendid chest. One can be _big_ and
_gentle_ at the same time.”
“Of course,” said Sympathea, “look at elephants; they’re as _gentle_ as
can be.”
“Oh, I hope he isn’t like an elephant,” said Dorothy; “they’re so
clumsy. And they just eat, eat, all day. They just _live_ on peanuts.”
“I pictured him as tall and lithe,” said Miss Katherine Kindheart; “like
a--like a tree. I think that one familiar with forestry is almost _sure_
to be tall. The swimming award too! Oh, I just long to see him. I think
that _forestry_ is such perfectly _scrumptious_ word too. _Forestry!_ It
sort of reminds me of Daniel Boone and Buffalo Bill--calm and stately;
you know what I mean.”
“Or General Pershing,” said Sympathea.
“Or Eugene O’Brien,” said Dorothy, who was something of a movie fan.
“Oh don’t you just _long_ to see him?” they all asked each other.
-----
[1] Pioneer scout; a lone scout; one without troop or patrol
affiliations.
CHAPTER IV—HE ADVANCES
Pee-wee started for North Deadham in full scout regalia, carrying a
duffel bag instead of a suitcase, wishing to detach himself as much as
possible from the manners and customs of civilization. A new feature of
his motley array was a can-opener dangling from his belt, intended to
suggest the rugged scout’s dependence on his own culinary art in the
dense wilderness. It was rather suggestive of Heinz 57 varieties.
On the train he made some memorandums in his scout report book looking
to the future government of his new patrol. The following is a sample.
If any hop-toad can’t learn the pace he has to have his legs tied
together for an hour.
Every feller that gets a new hop-toad gets a piece of chocolate but he
has to give it to his patrol leader for the treasury.
If a hop-toad can’t croak like a frog he has to be turned over on his
back and somebody sit on him till he croaks.
A hop-toad has to be given to the tom-cats if he can’t learn because the
tom-cats want more because they only have six.
On account of going fast hop-toads have to have sticks in their mouths.
I’m going to try to get tents near where the Robins were before the
other fellows chased them away.
When the train stopped at North Deadham, the girls of the Humane
Committee saw descending from it a diminutive figure clad in khaki, and
Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like him. His scout report book
bulged out of his pocket, his jack-knife and his compass and his
can-opener jangled in a kind of martial tune, his step was the step of a
conqueror. Beneath his flapping scout hat his curly hair showed and upon
his face was a frown, a terrible frown, the frown of a hero.
The only discordant note in the martial figure that he presented was the
stick of lemon candy which he was sucking. During his ride various
articles, chiefly edible, had been left upon his lap for inspection, and
he bought them all, and they now bulged and protruded here and there
upon his scout attire.
Removing the stick of lemon candy from his mouth, he contemplated the
girls who had come to meet him, uttered the single word “Hello” and
replaced the candy in his mouth.
“Did you _ever_ in your _life_?” gasped Sympathea.
“He is _certainly not_ an elephant,” said Dorothy.
“Or a Daniel Boone or a Buffalo Bill,” chimed in Miss Kindheart.
“I’d rather be myself than them,” said Pee-wee.
“Yes, why?” asked one of the reception committee anxiously.
“Because they’re dead.”
“Oh, we’re so glad to see you, Walter,” said Cousin Prudence, embracing
him till he rattled like a Ford car; “I thought you’d never, _never_,
come to see us. And you’ve won the animal first aid badge! Oh, isn’t
that perfectly _wonderful_!”
“I won a lot of others too,” Pee-wee said; “I’ve got nine badges. See
them on my sleeve? When the tenth one is put there I’ll be a star scout.
I’m going to be a patrol leader, too. I lost a marshmallow on that
train. Are you going to have that meeting to-night?”
“We certainly are and you’re going to be the main attraction. You’re
going to sit on the stage! Isn’t that just perfectly fine? I don’t
believe you’ve ever been on a stage, now have you? Do you think you’ll
be afraid?”
It was very hard for Pee-wee to admit that there was anything in the
world he hadn’t done; and to have it intimated that he, the actor in
_Double-crossed_, had never been on the stage, was as much as he could
bear. But he remembered his voluntary promise to his mother and modified
his answer.
“_Sure_, I’ve been on platforms and they’re the same as stages,” he
said; “only they’re kind of different. When we get our awards we have to
go on platforms. Do you think I’m scared of audiences? Gee whiz, they
won’t hurt you. I’m not even scared of bears and they’re not as bad as
audiences, that’s one thing sure.”
“But I mean a _regular stage_,” chirped Sympathea, “with woods painted
in back and everything.”
“I’ve even been lost in the woods,” Pee-wee announced proudly. “Do you
think I’m scared of painted woods? You can’t get lost in those. I’ve
been--I’ve been--_famished_ in the woods, when I was lost.”
“I thought scouts _never_ got lost,” Miss Dorothy Docile carolled forth.
“That shows you don’t know anything about them,” Pee-wee said
disdainfully; “they know all about getting lost; they get lost better
than anybody else. Then they find their way out by resourcefulness. Do
you know what that means?”
“Isn’t that perfectly _wonderful_?” said Miss Katherine Kindheart.
“That’s nothing,” Pee-wee said; “you go around in a circle when you get
lost; do you know why?”
“No, do tell us.”
“Because your heart is on your left side. You have to know all about
astronomy if you’re a scout.”
“That isn’t astronomy, that’s anatomy,” said Cousin Prudence.
“Woods is my middle name,” said Pee-wee.
“Isn’t that a perfectly _lovely_ name?” said Sympathea. “Walter Woods
Harris.”
“I don’t mean it’s really my middle name,” Pee-wee said. “Suppose I was
crazy about mince pie. I’d say my middle name was mince pie, but it
wouldn’t be Pee-wee, I mean Walter Mincepie Harris, would it?”
“And do you really go round in a circle when you get lost?” Cousin
Prudence asked him.
“S-u-re,” said Pee-wee conclusively, “your left side goes ahead of your
right side--”
“And what becomes of your right side?” Katherine asked.
“It comes along after your left side,” Pee-wee explained.
“And doesn’t it ever, _ever_ catch it?”
“No, so that’s why you go round in a circle; see? Now I’ll close my eyes
and try to go straight. I’ll show you.”
The demonstration of this item of scout lore was highly satisfactory and
very scoutish; for scouts are supposed to smile and Pee-wee’s escort of
honor did more than that, they screamed. Closing his eyes, Pee-wee
strode forward verging more and more toward the curb until he stumbled
and went head over heels into the gutter, where his feminine admirers
gathered about him, clamoring to aid the hero.
Pee-wee was equal to the occasion. “A scout is supposed to spread
mirth,” he said, rising and brushing the mud from his regalia. He had
certainly spread mirth as thoroughly as the mud was spread upon his
scout uniform. “I’ll tell you something else about anatomy too,” he
said. “Just then when I fell down in the mud it reminded me of it. Do
you know how many muscles it takes to make a smile?”
“No, do tell us,” said Cousin Prudence as she brushed him off, laughing
uncontrollably.
“Thirteen,” said Pee-wee.
“No wonder you were unlucky,” said Sympathea, shaking with laughter.
“It takes sixty-four muscles to make a frown,” Pee-wee continued. “So
you’re doing a lot of extra work if you frown,” he added, pulling up his
torn stocking.
The girls’ Humane Committee must have been of an economical turn, for
they did not use sixty-four muscles, or anything like that number. They
roared and screamed, and held their sides and brushed him off and
readjusted his official junk upon his diminutive person, and just kept
on laughing and laughing and laughing.
CHAPTER V—HE STORMS THE INNER FORTRESS
Having risen from the gutter like so many world heroes who began as poor
boys, Pee-wee proceeded to expatiate on the honorable company which had
come out of that lowly and muddy abode into the dazzling halls of fame.
“That’s where Mr. Temple began who started Temple Camp,” he said. “Wait
till I see if I’ve got my money all right; I’ve got seven dollars and
fifty-two cents not counting my ticket because my father paid for that.
I’ll treat you all to sodas.”
“Oh I just couldn’t eat a _thing_ while I’m laughing so,” Miss Dorothy
Docile explained; “thank you just as much.”
“Can’t you eat when you’re laughing?” Pee-wee asked incredulously.
“No, can scouts eat while they laugh?”
“S-u-re, they can eat while they’re sleeping even. If you dream about
eats they taste just as good don’t they?”
“Can they eat while they’re going around in a circle?” Sympathea asked
mischievously. “You know we’re girl scouts, but we really don’t know
much about girl scouting, because we’ve only just started. Don’t you
think our Black Beauty award is a splendid idea?”
“Sure, I have lots of dandy ideas,” Pee-wee said; “but anyway you’ve got
a right to kill snakes--snakes and mosquitoes. But I haven’t got any
right to kill a lion.”
“Oh, I hope you never did that,” said Cousin Prudence.
“Sure I didn’t,” Pee-wee assured her.
If any proof of his courage was required, he gave it in his martial
advance up the wide, old-fashioned, thickly carpeted stairway which led
to the inner fortress where Aunt Sophia Primshock sat bundled up in a
big wheel chair. No weapon had she but her spectacles, but she used
those in such a way as to make her terrible to behold. Her eyes made
sudden flank movements around the side of them; they went “over the top”
as well; and peered straight through them in a way of terrible scrutiny.
Aunt Sophia Primshock had all kinds of money and several different kinds
of rheumatism. As fast as there was a new kind, she secured it. She was
very deaf, but not too deaf to hear Pee-wee. It was not quite as bad as
that. Next to her collection of rheumatics was her collection of cats.
In the august presence Pee-wee now appeared in all his scout
glory--marred only by a hole in his stocking--followed by Cousin
Prudence.
“I am very glad to see my nephew,” said Aunt Sophia, as Pee-wee advanced
to receive her kiss, “and I am not only glad but _proud_ to call him my
nephew,” she added. “I don’t know much about this scouting, I’m afraid
it makes boys a little wild. But when a boy registers his friendship for
dumb creatures I am proud, _more_ than proud, to call him my nephew. You
have seen the girl’s committee? They are dear, sweet girls, all of
them.”
“Oh yes, he fell for us, Mother,” said Prudence.
“Fell for you?”
“Yes, he fell all over himself, but he isn’t hurt.”
“And what is better still, he would not inflict any hurt,” said Aunt
Sophia. “And what a fine boy he is, eh Prudence? A splendid, kind,
humane boy, with a heart--”
“On his left side, Mother,” said Prudence; “he proved it to us and we
_know_ he has a heart.”
Aunt Sophia smiled indulgently. Like most persons who are under the
spell of one idea she was not even curious about matters in general. It
was perfectly evident that she had captured the helpless, struggling,
little Girl Scout troop and turned it into a humane society. There was
no doubt that the “committee” had originated in that solemn apartment.
“You can kill snakes because they kill birds,” Pee-wee said; “and cats
kill birds too.”
There was no answer to this so Aunt Sophia said, “I was so happy when I
heard--saw it printed in a newspaper--that _my nephew_ had won the badge
for first aid to dumb creatures.” (Aunt Sophia always called animals
dumb creatures.) “That is better than running after circuses and going
to--to shows. Isn’t it? I had a brother, a very dear and promising
brother, many, many years ago, and he joined a troupe of play actors,
which made his poor mother very, _very_ sad.” Pee-wee wriggled nervously
but listened with respect. “The scout boys, they don’t--they don’t fill
their brains with--with wild west shows? What is that you have there?”
“That’s my handbook, and this is my scout report book,” Pee-wee
exclaimed, glad enough to expound the ins and outs of scouting.
“Ah yes, and if you do a kind act you jot it down?”
“Sure.”
“Let me see them,” said Aunt Sophia holding out her hand; “my arm is
very stiff. Did you bring me my tea, Prudence dear?--I eat very little
and go about almost none at all. I am very, very stiff.”
“That’s because you don’t sleep outdoors,” Pee-wee said. “I bet if you
went scout pace you wouldn’t be stiff. Do you want me to show you how?”
“Goodness gracious no, my dear! Let me see what is in the books--”
“Rolling down hills is good too,” said Pee-wee; “I bet if you try that
you won’t be stiff. Lots of scouts roll down in barrels, because that
shakes them up. I’ll get a barrel for you if you want to try it.”
Aunt Sophia did not want to try it, but she was presently to be shaken
up in quite another way. Gazing with increasing severity through her
spectacles she saw sprawled upon the page the dreadful words.
If any hop-toad can’t learn the pace he has to have his legs
tied together for an hour.
Every feller that gets a new hop-toad gets a piece of
chocolate--
If a hop-toad can’t croak like a frog he has to be turned
over on his back and somebody sit on him till he croaks.
Aunt Sophia looked up, dumbfounded, speechless. She readjusted her
spectacles, as if even they might be deceiving her, and read:
A hop-toad has to be given to the tom-cats--
She read no more. Rather she saw the page in a kind of trance. Her
astonished eyes jumped from one blood-curdling memorandum to another,
picking out the more heartless words and phrases. Given to the tom-cats
... chased the Robins away ... turned on his back till he croaks ...
hop-toads ... sticks in their mouths....
Horrors, oh horrors! Here before her very eyes was a series of recipes
for cruelty! Directions, suggestions, memorandums written in cold blood
for the torture of hop-toads!
Pee-wee sensed the situation, but it was too late. The hop-toads were
already on their backs, the sticks were in their mouths, they were
croaking, or being fed alive to tom-cats, the robins had been chased
from their nests and their little ones, the boys were standing around
eating chocolate while the toads suffered, the massacre was on.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Pee-wee said, facing the awful face of his
outraged aunt. “You see hop-toads, they’re really not hop-toads; do you
see?”
“I do not see,” said Aunt Sophia.
“I’ll tell you all about it. Scout patrols are named after animals;
there’s a patrol at Temple Camp named the Robins, see? My new patrol is
going to be named the Hop-toads, because they’re all going to be good at
scout pace, see? Gee whiz, you don’t care if we make _fellers_ hold
sticks in their mouths, do you? Because they can run better that way. A
hop-toad means a--a scout. _I’m_ a hop-toad. Maybe I don’t look like one
but I am.”
Aunt Sophia was just about convinced--by a very, very narrow margin. She
was convinced, but she remembered the awful things upon that fly-leaf.
She was still a little, just a _very little_, suspicious. But she
accepted Pee-wee’s explanation....
CHAPTER VI—CARRIED BY A MINORITY
That same memorable Saturday was the day on which Pee-wee’s troop was to
go to its summer quarters at the beloved Temple Camp. As every scout
knows, Temple Camp is a little in from the Hudson River in the
neighborhood of Catskill.
North Deadham is about thirty-five miles north of Bridgeboro. Roughly
speaking, North Deadham would be on a line between Bridgeboro and Temple
Camp. The brilliant idea of spilling the beans in North Deadham is
attributable to Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of the Ravens--Pee-wee’s
own patrol.
“What do you say if two or three of us start hiking on Friday and camp
along the way and bang into North Deadham in time to foil our young
hero?” said Artie. “Foiling is his middle name, so we’ll try a little of
it. Then we’ll wrap him up and take him along to camp with us. What do
you say?”
“You mean hike all the way?” asked Connie Bennett of the Elks.
“Sure.”
“Declined with thanks,” said Connie. “Let him stay there a while. What’s
the use of starting out hunting for trouble? He’s wished onto the
Ptomaine Committee or whatever they call it; let them worry for a
while.”
“Anybody in the Silver Foxes want to hike it?” Artie asked.
“We promised Mr. West of the West Shore Railroad, we’d go that way,”
said Roy; “we can’t break our words. The train will be waiting for us.”
“Some scouts!” said Grove Bronson of the Ravens.
“I’d just love to stop at North Deadhead for our young hero,” said Hunt
Ward of the Elks, “but you know how the directors of the railroad would
feel.”
“Sure, a scout’s honor is to be trusted,” said Roy.
“How about his feet?” Artie shot back. “Can you walk from the station to
the train? You make me tired, you fellows.”
“If you’re so tired what do you want to hike for?” Roy asked. “You’re so
wide awake and full of pep, what do you want to go to Fried ham or
Dead-ham for? I should worry about Deadville or whatever you call it.
Right away when we get rid of Pee-wee you want to go and get him.
They’ve just had whooping cough at Temple Camp; isn’t that bad enough?
The raving Ravens are raving again, no wonder the railroads are losing
money with the Raven Patrol walking all over the country.”
“Who’ll volunteer?” Artie said.
“A large chunk of silence,” said Roy.
“I won’t,” called one.
“Neither will I,” shouted another.
“Not for mine,” piped up a third.
“We’ll all volunteer not to hike,” said Roy. “Let the scouts in the
books do the hiking.”
“I will,” said Grove Bronson.
“He hasn’t got the railroad fare,” shouted Roy.
“All right,” said Artie, “you and I’ll hike together, Grove; we’ll take
the north turnpike--”
“Be sure to put it back when you get through with it,” said Roy, “and
give our kindest regards to the animated animal cracker and if you’re
going to hike from Deadtown to camp the best way is to follow the
Franklin Turnpike as far as Idaho and take the second turn to your left.
That’ll take you into the Great Salt Lake. Don’t hurry, take your time.”
“The pleasure is ours,” said Artie.
“If you don’t get to camp till next summer it’ll be all right,” said
Roy. “Tell Pee-wee he’ll find us near the lake and we hope he’ll drop
in.”
CHAPTER VII—MENTAL TELEGRAPHY
Thus it happened that while Scout Harris, friend and champion of the
dumb creatures, was preparing to receive the tribute that was due him,
two scouts of his patrol were tramping along the dusty road as the sun
went down, on the last part of their long hike to North Deadham. They
crossed the frontier of the village unnoticed. The only sentinel there
was a rooster on a fence and he was asleep at his post, or rather his
perch.
The invading column passed through McCrockett’s Lane and rested under a
weeping willow tree, where they kindled a little fire and brewed some
coffee and fried some bacon. If the weeping willow could but have known
their business it would have laughed rather than wept.
Their supper finished, the invaders trampled the fire out and played
mumbly peg under the tree just as if nothing were going to happen. Scout
Harris said afterward that just at that time (seven thirty) a strange
desire for fried bacon came over him and that he smelled coffee. Thus
soul speaks to soul across space in the mystic realm of scouting!
At exactly eight o’clock by a cow-bell in a neighboring field, verified
by their own trusty scout watches, the invaders followed a northwesterly
course through the village square into Gordon’s Hollow and thence to
Main Street and to a certain commissary where they made ready for the
terrible work in hand by two stimulating ice cream cones, which sent the
blood coursing through their veins and gave them strength and courage.
Passing the district school with great caution they succeeded in a
skilfully conceived flank move around the entire police department, who
was standing on a corner talking with an unsuspecting citizen. This was
at exactly seven minutes after eight by the town hall clock which wasn’t
going, no doubt in honor of the great occasion.
Singular to relate, at precisely four minutes after eight by Pee-wee’s
reliable scout watch, and just as he was starting with his cousin
Prudence for the church lecture hall, he was conscious of a shivering
and decided to return and get his scout jacket. It was at that very
moment that the invading legion partook of ice cream cones. Perhaps it
was only a coincidence but so strong was the thought of ice cream cones
in Pee-wee’s mind that he bought two (treating his cousin Prudence) on
their way to the church. A most singular and harrowing thing to relate
is that these two separate parties _almost met_ in Pop Carroway’s Candy
Parlor.
The lecture room of the church was ablaze with light from eight kerosene
lamps. One of these had a reflector on it, to be used perhaps as a sort
of spotlight on the hero’s entrance.
Aunt Sophia, by reason of her collection of aches and pains, did not
attend this gala meeting. She stayed at home with her cats. But the
minister was there and the Girl Scouts from South Deadham and Deadham
Centre were there.
This gay outpouring of nearly fifty people was not exactly in honor of
Pee-wee. It was a Girl Scout rally intended to stir up interest in the
local movement. But since Pee-wee, like a true scout, was always
prepared to take whatever came along, he appropriated all the stray
glory that was floating around.
Being the only boy in town, he was something of a lion and was viewed
with becoming awe by the spectators as he sat wedged in between his
cousin Prudence and one of the other girls on the platform. His martial
appearance was somewhat modified when he pulled up his rebellious
stocking, but his frown was terrible and his belt axe was so skilfully
displayed as to strike dismay to the most courageous heart.
His nine merit badges (the final badge still lacking) were revealed upon
his sleeve. He and the two maidens who flanked his sturdy form occupied
but two chairs and from the rear of the little meeting room Artie Van
Arlen and Grove Bronson, lurking there unseen, beheld the picture of
these three as a sort of human sandwich (the kind sold at railroad
stations) with the middle part of almost microscopic proportions. All of
the valor in Scout Harris’s diminutive body seemed to be squeezed up
into his head by the flanking pressure of his feminine hostesses and he
gazed out upon the assemblage, silent, uncomfortable, terrible.
The organization business of the evening being concluded and a couple of
songs about the woods having been sung, Miss Sympathea Softe arose,
replaced a straying lock of hair with skilful daintiness, wriggled a
little with becoming stage fright, and proceeded to explain the happy
idea which the Girl Scouts had hit on in the Black Beauty Award.
CHAPTER VIII—A PREDICAMENT
“Humanity and kindness,” she said in finishing, “are as broad as the
skies. So we planned not to confine our award to our local circle or
even to Girl Scouts everywhere. There are Boy Scouts as well and we must
not forget _them_.”
“There are more of them than there are Girl Scouts,” Pee-wee spoke up,
“because I can prove it--”
“And their activities are reported in newspapers throughout our
country--”
“They’re in _Boys’ Life_ too,” Pee-wee announced vociferously, to the
great amusement of the audience.
“The Boy Scouts,” continued Sympathea, “have an award called the First
Aid to Animals Badge. It is the intention of our little troop to tender
the Black Beauty Cross to every scout winning that award. The first one
that we are going to honor is the cousin of one of our members, Prudence
Primshock; a scout from Bridgeboro, New Jersey, a star scout who has won
the badge that stands for humaneness in his troop--Walter Mincepie
Harris--”
“Good night, he’s disguised as a mince pie,” Grove whispered to Artie;
“the plot grows thicker, as Roy would say.”
“Excuse me,” said Sympathea blushing, “I mean Walter _Woods_ Harris. I’m
just a little nervous and (great and reassuring applause) I hardly know
_what_ I’m saying. We all know that Boy Scouts are heroes, that their
hearts are always on the left, I mean on the right, I mean they’re in
the right place. Walter--Scout Harris, will you please stand up and--”
“_Hold while there is yet time!_” came a voice from the rear of the
little lecture room. “Water Mincepie Harris is not what he seems! He has
disgraced the beloved mince pie and he is trying to deceive you all!”
“It’s Grove Bronson!” shouted Pee-wee, jumping from his seat.
[Illustration: “IT’S GROVE BRONSON!” SHOUTED PEE-WEE.]
“Yes, and your patrol leader, Artie Van Arlen!” said Artie, “come to
_foil_ your attempt to disguise yourself as an animal cracker, I mean an
animal lover. _You_ the tyrant of the hop-toads! Don’t speak! It is too
late. These people shall know the truth! They shall know what scouts,
including sprouts, really are!”
By that time the people were turning around, some curious, some
laughing. The meeting was small enough to be quite informal and no
suggestion of rudeness seemed to attach to the sensational interruption
of the ceremonies. What the people saw were two khaki-clad forms and
bronzed faces, with merry mischief shining through their looks of
dignity and mock anger. Sensations were not common in North Deadham. The
little audience hardly knew how to take this sudden turn of affairs,
when suddenly Pee-wee called in a voice of thunder.
“Did you bring my aluminum cooking set and my stalking shirt?”
That settled it for the audience. The girl scouts began to laugh, the
rest followed suit; only Grove and Artie remained grimly silent and
sober. They were very funny. The people, including the girls were indeed
beginning to see what scouts really are; that with all their wholesome
goodness they never take themselves too seriously.
“No!” said Artie, as the two made their way to the little platform. “But
we brought the picture taken of you, Scout Harris, while you were
branding a horse with a red hot iron, taken by Roy Blakeley as a
proof--”
“He’s crazy!” yelled Pee-wee. “Did you bring my shirt? Are you hiking up
to camp?”
“Oh, let us see it! Let us see it!” said Prudence excitedly.
“They didn’t bring it,” Pee-wee said, “but it’s just like the one I’ve
got on only lighter color.”
“Oh, we mean the picture,” the girls all chimed in at once.
“It’s a joke!”
“Oh, isn’t it terrible!”
“He didn’t _really_ do it?”
“Let me see it.”
“Let me see it first.”
“Oh, it’s too _shocking_!”
“What does it all mean?”
By this time the Girls’ Humane Committee, as well as several other girl
scouts and a fair sprinkling of the audience were crowding about Grove
and Artie, looking at the large photo which they held. It was an
exceptionally good photo taken with Roy’s fine camera; it was a
masterpiece of his skill in photography. It showed Pee-wee in the very
act of branding the horse. The girls gazed at it dumbfounded, then burst
into a medley of denunciation.
“Oh, it’s perfectly terrible!”
“How could he do it?”
“When did he do it?”
“Where did he do it?”
“Why did he do it?”
“For money,” said Grove; “for a paltry ten dollars.”
Pee-wee was about to scream his denunciation of this horrible attack
when he recalled his promise to his mother _never_ to tell Aunt Sophia
(and that would include her household) about his disgraceful appearance
on the stage with “play actors.”
“There it is,” said Artie; “look at it yourselves. It is a picture of
Walter Mincepie Harris of Bridgeboro, New Jersey, branding a horse with
an iron.”
There was no doubt about it. There was only one Pee-wee Harris in the
world. And there he was in that picture. The girls contemplated it,
amazed, speechless. Yet, of course, it must be a joke. They did not
really believe.... Oh no, he would explain. Of course, he would explain,
Such a silly....
“Oh, I think it’s just a perfectly _horrid_ picture,” said Miss Dorothy
Docile. “How did you ever happen to have it taken? Tell us about it.”
“I--I--eh--I can’t tell you,” said Pee-wee.
“_What?_”
“I can’t tell you,” he repeated.
“You mean you _really did it_?” Miss Kindheart inquired, in frantic
anxiety.
“I can’t tell you anything about it,” Pee-wee said; “so that’s all I’m
going to say.”
Silence is confession. Sympathea Softe held up her arms in horrified
despair. Katherine Kindheart stared at Pee-wee with surprised and stony
eyes. Dorothy Docile shuddered, looking at him as if he were a
curiosity. And still he was silent. He could not speak. A scout’s honor
is to be trusted.
“_I can keep a secret if girls can’t!_” he suddenly shouted in mingled
defense and recrimination.
“A secret,” moaned Cousin Prudence. “Oh, he did it in secret. Thank
goodness, poor, dear Mother isn’t here.”
As for Grove and Artie, they had not expected this. They had promised
themselves the delight of witnessing Pee-wee’s confusion and then of
listening to his thundering explanation. That would have been
entertainment for everybody. But there stood Pee-wee, seeming by his
silence to confess his guilt; there he stood refusing to explain.
On the whole, it _was_ a blessing that Aunt Sophia was not there.
CHAPTER IX—PEE-WEE’S PAST REVEALED
With Pee-wee refusing to explain there was just the shadow of a chance
that he might be cruelly misjudged. For after all, photographs do not
lie, and unfortunately Cousin Prudence and her friends knew little of
“stage plays.” Grove and Artie, having created the sensation they had
counted on, were quick to set Pee-wee right before the multitude.
“He was in a show,” said Artie before Pee-wee had a chance to stop them.
“You’re not supposed to tell! You’re not supposed to tell!” Pee-wee
shouted. “On account of Aunt Sophia getting shocked! You’re not supposed
to tell!”
“We should worry about Aunt Sophia,” said Artie; “if she never does
anything worse than brand a horse with a cold iron in a play--”
“She can’t, she’s got rheumatism,” Pee-wee shouted.
“Oh, was it in a play?” Miss Dorothy Docile carolled forth. “Isn’t that
just perfectly lovely!”
“I _knew_ there was something _romantic_ about him, even before I saw
him,” said Sympathea.
“Oh, just to think he’s an _actor_ like Douglas Fairbanks,” said Miss
Kindheart.
“We won’t say a word to Aunt Sophia, will we, Prudence?” Sympathea said.
“You all have to _promise_ you won’t say a _word_ to Aunt Sophia. That’s
the dark chapter in his history and we won’t breathe a _word_ of it to
_anyone_. Oh, isn’t it perfectly _angelic_ to have a dark chapter in
one’s history?”
“I’ve got darker ones than that,” said Pee-wee; “once I was out all
night being kidnapped in an automobile, only I found I wasn’t being
kidnapped after all.”
“It was so dark,” said Artie; “it was a kind of a pinkish brown.”
The meeting had now resolved itself into a “social” which was the way
that meetings in the lecture room usually ended and the three scouts
were the “lions” of the occasion. The great actor and friend of animals
was the hero of the evening and ate four plates of ice cream and a
couple of dozen cookies to show his sympathy for “dumb creatures.” His
tender heart beat joyfully (on his left side) and so overcome was he
that his eyes filled with tears when he ate a stuffed green pepper.
There seemed no danger of Aunt Sophia learning the terrible truth about
her nephew and, with her baleful influence removed, the social end of
the meeting became a real scout affair.
“The trouble with you girls is you don’t think of anything but animals,”
Artie said. “If you were real scouts you’d have seen that the tree in
that picture wasn’t a real tree and that the stable was only painted.”
“That’s deduction,” Pee-wee interrupted loudly, as he wrestled with a
mouthful of cake; “that shows you’re not real scouts, because real
scouts know everything, I don’t mean everything but they know all about
trees and things as well as animals and you can be cruel to trees and
that shows you’re a regular scout--”
“By being cruel to them?” Prudence laughed.
“There are other things in scouting besides animals,” Grove said. “Don’t
get off the track when you start to be scouts--”
“Lots of times I got off the track,” Pee-wee said.
“Sure,” said Artie, “and every scout isn’t an aviator because he goes up
in the air.”
“I’ve been up in the air a lot of times,” Pee-wee persisted.
“Sure, he’s a regular elevator,” said Artie.
The two scouts had, indeed, arrived in North Deadham at a most
propitious moment, just when the little struggling Girl Scout
organization was in danger of being turned into a humane society. The
girls were treated to a glimpse of real scouts and real scouting, the
fun, the banter, the jollying, the breeziness of the all-around scout
spirit. And thus the blighting hand of Aunt Sophia was stayed. Pee-wee
took the Black Beauty badge and prized it (there were very few things
that got past him), but the badge did not monopolize the thoughts and
activities of the North Deadham girls any more.
The three scouts remained at the village over the week-end and on Monday
morning set forth on their hike to Temple Camp.
CHAPTER X—PEE-WEE’S ENTERPRISE
The hike to Temple Camp was uneventful; it was only after Pee-wee’s
arrival there that things began to happen. On the way they discussed the
question of Pee-wee resigning from the Ravens to form a new patrol. That
would enable Artie, the Ravens’ patrol leader, to ask Billy Simpson of
Bridgeboro to come in. That, indeed, was Artie’s main reason for hiking
to North Deadham; he wished for an opportunity to talk freely over a
period of several days with the irrepressible little Raven and to
ascertain (as far as it was possible for any human being to ascertain)
something of the plans that were tumbling over each other in that
fertile mind.
The Ravens did not wish to get rid of Pee-wee, but since Pee-wee was
rather a troop institution than a patrol member, Artie thought it might
be as well to give Billy Simpson a chance if Pee-wee really intended to
form a new patrol.
“You see, Kid,” said Artie; “you can start a new patrol but Billy
couldn’t, because he’s new at the game. But I wouldn’t want it to seem--
you know--kind of as if we were letting you out--see?”
“S-u-re,” said Pee-wee reassuringly; “I’ll say I discharged the Ravens
and then nobody’ll think anything against me, hey? We’ll kind of let
people think that I got rid of you, hey? But I can come and have supper
with you sometimes, hey? Maybe I’ll bring my new patrol, hey?”
“Have a heart,” said Grove.
“Be sure to come,” said Artie, smiling. “Come when we’re out. Now
listen, Kid, you’ve been in the Ravens ever since we started--”
“I was in it before you,” said Pee-wee; “I was a Raven before there were
any Ravens--”
“I know it, now listen, _please_. You’re the kind of a scout that can
get a patrol started easily because you’re a good getter; you’ve got
personality.”
“Is that anything like adenoids?” Pee-wee wanted to know.
“No, it’s something that you can’t explain.”
“I bet it’s like algebra, hey?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I bet everybody’ll want to join my new patrol on account of me being a
star scout, hey?”
“The trouble is that the loose scouts at camp come from all over the
country and what are you going to do when they have to go home?” Artie
asked thoughtfully.
“I had an inspiration,” said Pee-wee.
“You having many of those lately?” Grove asked.
“_S-u-re_, I have them all the time, I had four yesterday. I’m going to
have a correspondence patrol.”
“A what?”
“Didn’t you ever hear of a correspondence school--members all over the
country?”
“Oh, I see,” said Artie. “The only trouble is that it will evaporate in
September.”
“Now you see it, now you don’t,” said Grove.
“It’ll be a patrol with lots of branches, like,” said Pee-wee; “just
like the Standard Oil Company. Do you see? And when they go home each
scout starts a patrol, no matter where. It’s kind of like a--a
epidemic.”
“Worse than that,” said Artie.
“And I’m going to be the head of them all,” Pee-wee said.
“And you’re going to bring them all to dinner?” inquired Grove.
“You’ll have a couple of million scouts under you in a year or two,
Kid,” laughed Artie; “it’s a good idea.”
“I invented it,” said Pee-wee. “You take a patrol. A patrol’s a patrol,
isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” said Grove.
“All right,” enthused Pee-wee, “if a patrol breaks up that’s the end of
it, isn’t it? But the more this one breaks up the more patrols there
are. I thought of it when I was eating a banana yesterday.”
“All right, Kiddo,” laughed Artie; “all I want to be sure of is that
you’re not going to be sore if we take Billy Simpson in. Because I want
to write to him and ask him to come up to camp and be initiated.”
“I’ll initiate him,” Pee-wee burst forth.
“And if this doesn’t work,” said Artie, “there’s plenty of material home
in Bridgeboro.”
“Sure,” said Pee-wee, “I’d ask Carl Hansen because his father keeps a
bakery and, anyway, I’m in the troop just the same, gee whiz, I’m with
the Silver Foxes a lot.”
Grove and Artie looked at each other and walked along thoughtfully for a
short distance. They could not just bring themselves to let Pee-wee
leave the Raven Patrol, of which he was the main “rave.” He was theirs.
They had not as many awards as the Elks and the Silver Foxes but at
least they had Pee-wee. He was their great exhibit.
Artie was perplexed and just a little troubled at heart. The three
patrols were full, the only way to let Billy Simpson in was to start a
new patrol. It seemed likely enough that Pee-wee could do that; he was a
born propagandist, a walking advertisement of scouting, but Artie did
not want to drop him only to see him plunge into some outlandish
enterprise which would land him nowhere.
He knew Pee-wee thoroughly, and he knew that Pee-wee, though he loved
novelty and dealt in every manner of colossal scheme, after all loved
his troop and his patrol and the fine, wholesome life of scouting. Good
scout and good patrol leader that he was, Artie was not going to let
Pee-wee be the victim of his own delusions. Moreover, now that it came
to the point of actually deciding the matter he had a strange feeling
something akin to homesickness at the thought of Pee-wee leaving the
Ravens. Pee-wee’s own irresponsible and cheerful willingness to do so
rather increased this feeling.
“Well, Kid,” said Artie finally, “as Mr. Ellsworth says, there’s room
for a half a dozen more patrols in Bridgeboro, and you’re the scout to
round some of those fellows up--”
“That’s my middle name, rounding fellers up,” Pee-wee interrupted with
prompt enthusiasm, “and anyway I’ll see you just the same, because it’s
all kind of like one family, isn’t it?”
“You said it,” said Grove.
“Sure it is,” said Pee-wee, “and you can borrow my field-glass any time
you want to just the same as you always did and--”
“Don’t, Kid,” said Artie, visibly affected.
“And I’ll let you use my cooking set for the patrol just the same as I
always did, that’s one thing sure; gee whiz, you can use it whenever you
want.”
They walked along in silence for a few minutes. In an hour more their
weary legs would be swinging from the station platform at Catskill,
while they waited for the Temple Camp bus. Oh, how good that old bus
seat would feel! And the camp!
Pee-wee had skipped a summer at camp (the memorable summer spent at
Everdoze) and he longed to be among the familiar scenes once more. So
they hiked along, Grove kicking a stone before him, Artie silent,
thoughtful. Only Pee-wee seemed bubbling with joy. Pee-wee who was going
to be dropped. At least that was the way it seemed to Artie.
The day was drawing to an end, the flaky clouds in the west were bright
with the first tints of the declining sunlight. The birds were still.
High above them a hawk sped on its way, hastening toward the dark hills.
Beyond those hills was the camp. A dainty little squirrel sat on a stone
wall washing its face as if getting ready to go down to supper. And away
far off, far enough for its harshness to be mellowed by the distance, a
locomotive whistled, long, low, melodious. It seemed a part of nature.
“Anyway, we had a peach of a hike,” Pee-wee said; “gee, I hope they have
corn fritters for supper, don’t you?”
But neither Grove nor Artie answered.
At Catskill, Artie, arousing himself from his pre-occupation, said,
“Look here, Kid; we’ve got to decide about it now, because I want to
send a letter to Billy Simpson. If he’s coming, he’s got to come
Wednesday. Hanged if I know what to do,” he added, perplexed, and
perhaps a little troubled in his conscience, “I wish Mr. Ellsworth was
here. What do _you_ think? If your--your--what d’you call it?--your
scheme up here doesn’t work, do you think you can round up a patrol at
home?”
“You leave it to me,” said Pee-wee; “don’t all my schemes succeed? You
just leave it to me, I’ll fix it.”
“It’s all right then?”
“_S-u-re_, it’s all right.”
Still Artie hesitated. “I don’t know what to do, Kid,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Pee-wee in a burst of inspiration;
“let’s go get some ice cream cones.”
CHAPTER XI—BILLY SIMPSON’S CHANCE
“You’ll find us in the post office,” Grove called after Pee-wee, who was
descending pell-mell on Mrs. Westgrove’s familiar candy kitchen.
“I’ll get some jaw breakers too, hey?” Pee-wee called back.
“Jiminy, I don’t know, it makes me feel awful funny to do that,” said
Artie to Grove. “We’ve never lost a member before. I sort of feel as if
we were taking advantage of his good nature. If it wasn’t that Billy
Simpson is so crazy to get into scouting-- Gee, I hate to see a scout go
begging for a patrol. Suppose it was Doc. Carson or El Sawyer, or Wig
Weigand? We wouldn’t drop them to make room for another like that. Hang
it all, why don’t they make it nine instead of eight in a patrol?”
“Ask me,” said Grove.
“What do _you_ think?” Artie asked.
“Pee-wee’s an odd number,” said Grove; “he belongs everywhere. We
couldn’t get rid of him if we tried to. He’s wished onto the troop,
he--”
“I know, but he’s a star scout, don’t forget that.”
“I’m not forgetting it,” said Grove, “only I say he’s sort of different
from other members, he’s troop mascot.”
“He’s so plaguy hard to talk seriously to,” Artie said. “I wonder how
much he really cares about us--I mean in our patrol?”
“You must remember, he’s a world hero,” Grove said, “and he can’t bother
with just one patrol. I say, let’s give Billy a chance. I know the kid
is rattle-brained but he’s willing, you can see that. He’ll land on his
feet all right, or rather he’ll be just as happy standing on his head.”
“I wouldn’t want the Elks or the Silver Foxes to get him,” said Artie.
“Roy jollies the life out of him but he’d grab him like _that_ if he got
the chance.”
“They’re both full,” said Grove; “I say let’s turn him loose and see
what happens.”
Artie could not quite bring himself to do this with an altogether easy
conscience. But since there was no discussing it with Pee-wee and since
he must do one thing or the other then and there, he led the way into
the post office and wrote the following letter to Billy Simpson back in
Bridgeboro.
_Dear Billy:----_
There’s a place for you in my patrol if you want to come up.
We have awards and initiations Wednesday. Walter Harris (I
guess you know that fellow) is pulling out to start a new
outfit. He’s the scream of the troop, I guess you know him.
His mouth is always black from eating roasted potatoes.
We’ll ring you in as a tenderfoot and you can learn a lot up
here at camp. You’ve got the booklets already so I guess you
know all about it. Tom Slade is camp assistant--everybody in
Bridgeboro knows him. We’ll see Harris all the time so it
will be all right--he’s everywhere at once.
It’s going to be a lively season, they’re camping all around
the lake I understand. You’ll make a hit all right only
don’t let your mother sneak any rubbers or cough drops or
that kind of stuff into your suitcase. They’re always trying
to do that. Watch your step and feel down in the corners of
your bag for witch hazel and don’t bring an overcoat
whatever you do. Pee-wee (that’s what we call our wandering
boy) says for you to come ahead and he’ll show you how to
get drowned in the lake. He’s a four reel comedy, that kid
is. Don’t bring a book about “My Summer in Camp”; you’ll be
too busy to spill ink. The bus will be at the station (5.22)
and if it isn’t, I will.
So long,
Artie Van Arlen, P. L. Ravens.
P. S. Don’t worry about the kid, it’s all fixed.
The funny thing about this letter was that it was mostly about Pee-wee.
Artie seemed to welcome the coming guest, but to be thinking mostly
about the departing guest. But there was one thing in the letter which
perhaps threw some light on the character of Billy Simpson. And then
again, perhaps it did not.
“Don’t worry about the kid, it’s all fixed.”
Was Billy Simpson that kind of a fellow? The kind who would be likely to
worry? The kind that would want to make sure that everything was all
right? The kind that wouldn’t step into another fellow’s shoes? If he
was, why then he had a pretty good preliminary equipment for scouting.
Evidently Artie knew something about him....
CHAPTER XII—ADVICE FROM THE VETERAN
Pee-wee saw Billy Simpson for the first time on Wednesday when the
awards were given out. At Temple Camp this was done at the beginning and
at the end of the season. The first of these two occasions was mostly
for the purpose of enrolling new scouts, the latter for the purpose of
tendering the badges and other awards won during the season. The
ceremonies were sometimes held under the Honor Oak, as it was called,
or, if the weather was bad, in the pavilion.
If Pee-wee was beset by any lingering regrets at seeing another admitted
to his place among the Ravens, he did not show it. He applauded and
shouted uproariously when Billy Simpson had taken the oath and in a
voice of thunder volunteered a valuable hint or two to the new scout.
“Make them let you sit in my place next to Uncle Jeb and you’ll always
get two helpings of dessert,” he shouted. “Don’t get near the foot of
the messboards because there isn’t any more by the time they get that
far.”
And again, while the tenderfoot badge was being placed on Billy’s new
khaki suit, and just as Artie was placing a Raven Patrol pennant in his
hand, the voice of the veteran arose again, “Grove Bronson owes me two
gumdrops for our hike up; tell him I said to give them to you so they
don’t have to go outside the patrol.”
Presently Pee-wee himself was on the little platform receiving the star
scout badge. Mr. Ellsworth, the Bridgeboro troop’s scoutmaster, was not
at camp that season, so Mr. Waring, one of the resident trustees, had
the honor of raising Pee-wee to the dizzy altitude of the stars.
“Scout Harris,” said he, “stands before us, a scout without a troop or a
patrol, because no patrol or troop is large enough to hold him. (Great
applause.) He resigned from a full patrol to make room for a new
scout--a typical scout good turn. Those of you who were here two years
ago will remember Scout Harris--”
“Tell them I’m the one that did the double-dip off the springboard,”
Pee-wee whispered to Mr. Waring. “Tell them I’m the one that stalked a
wasp.”
“Scout Harris,” said Mr. Waring, laughing, “is the only scout that
dipped a wasp--”
“Not dipped him,” Pee-wee shouted.
“He is the only scout that ever stalked a wasp. Everybody knows Scout
Harris. In the interval since last summer he has passed the several
remaining tests requisite to his becoming a star scout and I now on
behalf of the Boy Scouts of America, present him with the star scout
badge.” (Great applause.)
“Tell them I chose life saving instead of pioneering, but anyway I’m
going to win the pioneering badge to-morrow,” Pee-wee said as the star
award was being fastened to his elaborately decorated regalia. “Tell
them I’m going to start a new kind of a patented patrol; go on, tell
them.”
It was not necessary for Mr. Waring to tell the audience anything for
Pee-wee’s voice could be heard to the very outskirts of the crowd, and a
chorus of joyous approval greeted him.
“Hurrah for Scout Harris!”
“Three cheers for the ex-Raven!”
“Three cheers for the ex-ray!”
“What’s the matter with the animal cracker?”
“Congratulations to the Ravens!”
“You’re in luck, Artie.”
“I’m going to start an _extensible patrol_!” Pee-wee fairly yelled.
“Tell us all about that.”
“_I invented it!_” he screamed.
“Bully for you!”
“I’m a lance!” he shrieked.
“A how?”
“He means a free lance.”
(Uproarious laughter.)
“Let him speak.”
“How can we stop him?”
“I’m _more_ than a patrol member!” Pee-wee shouted. “You can be more
than a thing by not being a thing, can’t you?”
“Oh, posilutely,” one called.
“I’m a star--”
“Sure, you’re a big dipper.”
“You mean a little dippy.”
“Anybody that wants to join my new patrol can do it,” Pee-wee announced.
“It’s going to be named the Hop-toads--”
“Why don’t you have a troop with three patrols; the hop, skip, and
jump?” someone called.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Pee-wee shouted.
“Where’s your headquarters?” a scout shouted.
“I won’t tell you because I’ve got an inspiration,” Pee-wee called.
“Let’s see it.”
“Did you invent it?”
Pee-wee being the last honor recipient on the program, the gathering
ended in a kind of grand climax of fun and banter, through which he more
than held his own. He was too preoccupied with new schemes to think much
about the Ravens and their new member. Neither was he greatly concerned
about the opinion of the camp in general. He had often said that he
could “handle” Temple Camp with both hands tied behind him. And so he
undoubtedly could, provided his tongue were left free....
CHAPTER XIII—AN INSPIRATION
The Hop-toad Patrol consisted of two small scouts besides Pee-wee. So
there was plenty of room for extension upward. Willie Rivers and Howard
Delekson were the names of these two tenderfeet, and what they lacked in
size and numbers they made up in admiration for their leader.
Probably no army ever mobilized had such profound confidence in their
commander as these two staring-eyed little fellows had for Pee-wee. To
them he was not only a star scout, he was the whole firmament. One of
them came from Connecticut, the other from New York, and neither had
scout affiliations prior to their admission into Pee-wee’s organization.
The rule that none but scouts should visit camp was often waived to
welcome some lone and budding tenderfoot into the community.
The way these two little fellows gazed at Pee-wee and the veneration in
which they held his prowess and resourcefulness was almost pathetic.
Their first dutiful tribute was to vote for him for patrol leader, and
as he voted for himself, the election was carried by a “unanimousness,”
as he called it.
The pennant of the Hop-toads, bearing a crude representation of their
humble namesake reptile, was displayed over an old discarded float which
had been drawn up on shore, but after several days of patient waiting it
became more and more evident that if Scout Harris were going to enlist a
full patrol he would have to start a selective service draft. The star
scout badge did not prove as magnetic as he had counted on its being, or
else the stray scouts in camp were frightened away by the glamour of
such fame and heroism. At all events, the unattached scouts (of whom
there were not a great many) did not rally to Pee-wee’s standard.
He soon abandoned the extensible patrol idea, (for Pee-wee’s mind was
quite as extensible as the purposed patrol) in favor of another which
seemed to hold out some prospect of adventure and a very considerable
prospect of financial success.
“Did you ever hear of sea scouting?” he asked his worshipping patrol.
“You go on the ocean, don’t you?” Willie Rivers ventured to ask.
“As long as it’s water it doesn’t make any difference,” Pee-wee said.
“Do you know what an inspiration is?”
“Is it an animal?” Scout Delekson asked.
“Is it something you win--maybe?” Scout Rivers asked, doubtfully.
“It’s something you _get_,” Pee-wee said contemptuously. “I just had one
and I don’t look any different, do I?”
They gazed at him and were forced to admit that the inspiration had not
altered his heroic appearance.
“It’s a sudden idea,” Pee-wee said.
“Oh,” said Scout Rivers.
“That’s why you can’t see it,” said Scout Delekson.
“Do you know what I’m going to do? Will you say that you’re with me?
Even if I go to--to--foreign shores?”
“Are we going to China?” Scout Rivers asked.
“No, we’re going across the lake; _shh_, don’t say anything. Have either
one of you got an onion?”
Neither of them had an onion but they looked at Pee-wee as if they were
ready to follow him to the ends of the earth.
“When the pilgrims started to come to America, everybody stood around
crying,” Pee-wee said; “but that isn’t what I want an onion for. Did you
ever hear of invisible writing? If you write with onion juice it won’t
show, but if you hold the paper over a fire the writing will come out
plain. Shh.”
The patrol stared, but did not utter a word. They realized that they
were in for something terrible; they stared fearfully but were brave.
“If you take an onion to school with you,” Pee-wee said, “you can write
notes to the feller across the aisle and he can hold them over the
radiator and then read them. But don’t ever tell anybody; don’t ever
tell any girls because they can’t keep secrets.”
“Can’t I tell my sister?” Willie asked.
“No, sisters are even worse than regular girls,” said Pee-wee; “sisters
are the worst kind. Now I’ll tell you what you have to do. You sit here
on this float and watch it till I get back, then we’ll sail out on the
lake with sealed orders; do you know what those are?”
“Like captains of ships have?” Willie ventured.
“Sure, and if anybody asks you what we’re going to do you tell them I’m
going to win the pioneering badge, but don’t tell them anything else;
understand?”
The two small boys sat side by side on the edge of the float watching
their leader as he disappeared around the main pavilion. Their
admiration of him knew no bounds. They felt that they were already a
part of some dark mystery. It was very easy indeed for them to refrain
from telling anybody anything, since they did not know anything to
tell....
CHAPTER XIV—THE AUTOCRAT
The enterprise which Pee-wee was now about to launch was the most
gigantic of any that had ever emanated from his seething brain. We shall
have to follow it step by step. His first call was at Administration
Shack where he asked Tom Slade, camp assistant, if he and his patrol
might have the use of the old float for cruising.
“You know the one I mean,” he said; “it’s the one I fell off of that
summer when I was diving for licorice jaw breakers. Don’t you remember
the day my mouth was all black? It’s got four barrels under it to hold
it up--”
“What, your mouth?” young Mr. Slade asked.
“No, the old float, and the barrels are airtight, because they were
filled with water when the float was drawn up and I’ve got two in my
patrol and they haven’t shrunk, I mean the barrels, so will it be all
right for us to pitch our tent on that old float and kind of be sea
scouts, because anyway all of us know how to swim and I saved a scout
from drowning last summer. Can we?”
Young Mr. Slade was not too ready with his approval of this scheme; he
said he would take a look at the old mooring float.
Pee-wee did not wait for his approval but proceeded immediately to the
cooking shack where he accosted Chocolate Drop, the smiling negro chef.
“I want an onion and an empty bottle and a lot of other things to eat,”
he said. “Three of us are going camping on an old float and we want
beans enough to last for a week and some Indian meal and some flour and
some bacon and I’ll give you a note to say we’ll pay for them. We want
some sugar too, and some egg powder and if the bottle’s full of olives
or pickles, it won’t make any difference because we can empty it and we
want some coffee too and some potatoes.”
“_Lordy me_, Massa Pee-wee! What else you want, eh? Yo’ hev a
reckezishon from Massa Slade, hey?”
“I’ll get it,” said Pee-wee; “you get the stuff ready.”
It was the rule that supplies for bivouac camping and camping outside
the community limits should be supplied by the commissary at nominal
prices. Scouts could give their I. O. U.’s for such supplies and these
charges appeared upon the regular bills for board and accommodation. But
requisitions, properly endorsed by either scoutmaster or camp official,
were necessary to the procuring of such supplies.
“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” Pee-wee shouted, waving all doubts aside;
“I’ll get it from Tom Slade. Do you know what an enterprise is? I had an
inspiration about an enterprise and my patrol is going to make lots of
money and we can pay for everything, because if you’ve got an
inspiration about an enterprise you can get credit, can’t you?
“Listen, Chocolate Drop, do you remember that summer when all the scouts
were jollying each other about going scout pace around the lake? Do you
remember? Do you remember you said that every scout that went scout pace
around the lake in an hour could have three helpings of dessert for the
rest of the season? Gee whiz, you’re the boss of the desserts, you have
a right to do that, haven’t you? Gee whiz, you’ve got just as much right
to offer prizes for scout stunts as anybody, haven’t you? Because anyway
you’re an official. One thing sure, you’re the boss of the eats, aren’t
you?”
Chocolate Drop was certainly the boss of the eats, desserts included.
Not even John Temple himself was such an autocrat as Chocolate Drop in
his Utopian dominion. Within those hallowed precincts he waved his
frying-pan like a sceptre of imperial authority. He and he alone was
never interfered with by officials higher up. Not even the National
Scout Commissioner could tell Chocolate Drop what he should serve for
dessert. The President of the United States could not add or subtract
one dab of icing to or from those luscious cakes.
Every time an honor medal was awarded the proud recipient received an
“honor pie” from Cooking Shack, a huge round medal, as it were, more
precious than shining gold. Yes, the will of Chocolate Drop was supreme
and he spoke to the multitude as no one else could speak.
His liking was expressed in crullers, his tribute to prowess or heroism
found voice in puddings. He conquered with fried corn cakes. He made
friends and converts with fudge. His cookies were like so many merit
badges. He was such an artist that he could reproduce these in icing.
Once, upon a mince pie (a hot one) Chocolate Drop designed in luscious
jelly the First Aid badge. For Chocolate Drop had a sense of humor....
CHAPTER XV—BON VOYAGE
Pee-wee had the freedom of the cooking shack. Being a specialist on
eats, he was honored with this privilege. It was like a college degree
conferred upon him, in testimony of his wonderful achievements in the
world of food. He now sat upon a flour barrel strategically near a
dishpan full of cookies. As he talked his hand made occasional flank
movements in the direction of this pan. Sometimes he captured some
prisoners.
“That offer still holds good,” he said, as he munched a cookie, “because
you never took it back. So it’s open yet?... Isn’t it?” he concluded
anxiously.
“It’s open yet, Massa Pee-wee, coze it ain’t never been done nor ever
will n’ it was jes’ a joke n’ a lot of nonsense ’n’ you better not try
it coze ’f you do you’ll jes get dem feet of yourn wet ’n’ Chocolate
Drop he hev ter put cough mixture in dem cakes. How you like dat, Massa
Pee-wee?”
“Anyway will you cross your heart that if any feller hikes scout pace
around the lake in an hour he can have three helpings of dessert for the
rest of the time he stays?”
“So dats th’ kind of a insperize you got?” Chocolate Drop laughed,
showing his white teeth and placing his flour covered hand on Pee-wee’s
khaki shirt. “Dere’s my hand on it, Massa Pee-wee. You jes’ go scout
pace around dat lake in sixty minutes n’ you get dat three helpings all
de time you here. You hear that?”
“Or any other scout?”
“Das it,” laughed Chocolate Drop.
“Three helpings? Regular size ones?”
“You ain’t nebber see no other sizes hab you, roun’ here?”
“All right,” said Pee-wee, jumping off the barrel and beating the flour
from his shirt, “you’re a scout just as much as anybody else here is,
because Mr. Temple says that the rules are for everybody that has
anything to do with scouting, and the rule says a scout has to keep his
word, see?”
“It don’t say nuthin’ ’bout him keeping cookies, does it?” the cook
asked. “Here, you take a pocketful ’n’ doan’ you lose no sleep ’bout ole
Chocolate Drop keepin’ his word coze he _am_ a scout. ’N’ you come back
here with your paper signed ’n’ you get rations for one week, _’n’
extrees_. Now how’s dat?”
That was perfectly satisfactory and Pee-wee returned to the float where
a curious throng of scouts was assembled. The two little hop-toads
seemed rather embarrassed to be the center of so much interest.
Tom Slade was also there considering the seaworthy qualities of the old
float. He found the four barrels (one under each corner) filled with
water which had kept the staves tight, and it was only necessary to pump
the water out to have as bouyant a raft as one could want, its flooring
well clear of the surface of the water. So gayly did it ride when it was
pushed in that it seemed more likely to go up in the air than to sink.
As for tipping over, a ferry-boat was cranky compared with it. It was in
no more peril of capsizing than a turtle is.
In the presence of the curious multitude (rivaling the watchers who had
seen the Pilgrim Fathers depart), the food (properly requisitioned) was
put on board, the tent was raised, and a couple of old grocery boxes and
a dilapidated camp stool contributed as deck furniture. Nor was this
all; for Tom Slade, always careful and thorough, made the two small
followers of the great adventurer swim from the float to the springboard
to determine their skill in that necessary art.
Since nothing less than a volcanic upheaval could capsize the float, the
only danger seemed to be that of falling off it. This danger was greatly
minimized by the placid character of the lake which was usually as
gentle as a cup of tea. It would have been difficult for this gallant
bark to drift out to sea by reason of the surrounding mountains which
completely enclosed the little lake. The only real peril lay in the
possibility of a storm so terrific as to lift the float and blow it over
the mountains. But even then it would stand a good chance of alighting
in the Hudson River and being stopped before it reached New York. For
the rest, as young Mr. Slade said dryly, the reckless voyagers would
have to take their chances.
Behold, then, the new Hop-toad Patrol standing on the deck of their gay
platform as it bobbed near the shore, with Scout Harris, a patrol leader
at last, posing defiantly upon a keg of assorted edibles and raw
materials for cooking. Under one arm he held a tin lock-box (for what
terrible purpose no one knew), while in his hand he held an apple
(extracted from the keg), for what purpose everybody knew.
“What’s the big idea, kid?” some flippant scout called.
“Don’t hurry back,” called another.
This encouraged a laughing chorus as the float drifted out upon the
lake.
“Come over and see us some time when you can’t stay.”
“If you happen to be passing we’ll be glad to see you--pass.”
“Remember, the other side of the lake is best for camping.”
“What’s the tin box for? Buried treasure?”
“Speech, speech!” half a dozen yelled.
“No hard feeling, is there?” one clear, earnest voice called. It was
that of the new raving Raven, Billy Simpson. “You sure about plenty of
fun?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Pee-wee shouted at the boy who had succeeded him in the
patrol. He scorned to answer any of the others. “I’m pronouncing the
world--”
“He means denouncing,” said a scout.
“Do you mean renouncing?” another called.
“I’ll give you a tip,” he called to Billy Simpson; “because I’m not mad
at you on account of your joining--”
“He’s more to be pitied than blamed,” Roy Blakeley shouted.
“It’s better than if he was in the Silver Foxes,” Pee-wee screamed.
“Hey, Billy Simpson, you look for a bottle with invisible writing and
hold it over the campfire, so that proves I’m not sore at you! _It’s a
mystery._”
“A how?” several called.
“We’re going to make a fortune,” Pee-wee yelled defiantly. “We’re going
to be the richest patrol--”
“On the other side of Black Lake,” a laughing voice called.
“You’d better all look at regulation seven,” Pee-wee shouted; “you’d
better all look at regulation seven, that’s all _I_ say!”
His mouth now embraced the remainder of his apple in a touching, last
farewell. His voice was stifled by the clinging core. Then, in a kind of
agony of parting forever, he threw the core from him and it floated
through the air like a thrown kiss, and landed plunk in one of the
twinkling eyes of Roy Blakeley, patrol leader of the Silver Foxes.
The Hop-toad Patrol was off upon its great adventure.
CHAPTER XVI—REGULATION SEVEN
“The plot grows thicker,” said Roy. “What’s all this about a bottle?”
“And regulation seven,” said another scout. “What the dickens regulation
is that? Let’s go up and see.”
Just for the fun of it they all strolled up toward Main Pavilion.
Fastened to the trunk of an oak tree just outside it was the
bulletin-board at which Hervey Willetts, the most picturesque scout that
had ever visited camp, had thrown a luscious, soft tomato, which exploit
had an interesting sequel elsewhere told. How strange the camp seemed
that summer without the captivating personality of that wandering
minstrel.
“He said he wouldn’t be here this summer,” said a scout reminiscently.
“That’s what makes me think maybe he _will_ be,” said another.
“Anything’s likely with him,” said a third.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, here it is--_seven_,” said a scout,
following the rules down with his finger, and reading aloud:
7--The rights of property, owned or hired, are to be
respected by all scouts. A scout shall not trespass upon any
farm or other property while a guest at this camp. It is
likewise unscoutlike for a scout to enter without permission
the cabin, tent or precincts, of another scout, or of a
troop or patrol of which he is not a member. He shall not
use without permission any boat or canoe assigned to other
scouts. No explanation of practical joking or of other
innocent intent shall excuse him from the stigma of
trespassing when he crosses or enters property officially
assigned to others within the camp limits.
“What’s the idea?” a scout asked curiously. “Just a few of us sat on the
edge of the float. The kid didn’t seem to object.”
“Maybe he means we’d better not go near his stalking signs while he’s
away,” another said. “He’s watching a couple of nests in that big elm.”
“I guess he’s got the rule mixed up with some other rule,” another
suggested. “Everything is all jumbled up in his massive dome.”
Since the scouts were in the habit of observing at least the spirit of
this good rule, the group concluded that Pee-wee’s ominous warning
referred to some other rule. He had been greatly excited, as was natural
when setting off upon a cruise of perhaps a mile or more.
There was one scout among them, and only one, who entertained any
serious thoughts about Pee-wee and his epoch-making enterprise. This was
Billy Simpson. He could not rid his mind of the thought that his
position in the Raven Patrol was somewhat that of a usurper. He had
sized Pee-wee up very accurately and he had an uncomfortable feeling
that the little former mascot was merely on a sort of adventurous spree
and did not realize what he had done in his thoughtless resignation from
the patrol.
[Illustration: “WE’RE GOING TO MAKE A FORTUNE,” PEE-WEE YELLED
DEFIANTLY.]
It consoled him somewhat, and eased his conscience, to know that at
least Pee-wee was having the time of his life as a leader, even though
he had only two followers. He could not do otherwise than laugh at
Pee-wee, but all the while he had a queer feeling about the whole
matter. He hoped that everything was all right and that Pee-wee knew his
own mind.
As if there was anything that Pee-wee didn’t know....
CHAPTER XVII—TEARS
Pee-wee had sticking in his belt an envelope which he had sealed and
addressed to the Hoptoad Patrol. Being the only one in authority in that
patrol he now opened it and read aloud the letter within it which he had
likewise written himself. Its contents must have surprised him greatly
for he scowled as he read the portentous words:
The cruiser Hop-toad will go to the other side of the lake
and we will get it into Goldenrod Cove so as it’s wedged in,
kind of. Then we’ll eat.
After that we’ll write a message with an onion and cast it
in the sea--that’s the same as the lake. That message will
tell them they can hike around the lake in sixty minutes and
we’ll charge them five cents each to cross our property and
I’ll be the treasurer and we’ll divide up even. If anybody
wants to back out he can say so now or he can stay till the
death.
“Are we going to get killed,” Willie Rivers asked anxiously.
“Staying till the death means till it’s all over,” Pee-wee explained.
“Now I’ll tell you about those sealed orders, only usually nobody but
the captains know about those. Last year Chocolate Drop, he’s cook and I
stand in with him, last year he said every scout that could go scout
pace around the lake in an hour could have three helpings of dessert for
the rest of the season. But anyway nobody did it because on account of
Goldenrod Cove; that’s an outlet of the lake.
“So now we’re going to sail into that cove and you’ll see how it is when
we get there. It’s kind of like a cove only different. So now we have to
do what it says in the sealed orders. And you’ll see how I’m going to
win the pioneering badge too.”
“What are we going to write in the note that’s invisible?” little Howard
Delekson ventured to ask.
“We’re going to tell them the way is clear for them to hike around in
less than an hour if they want to.”
“Why don’t we send it right away so they’ll be sure to find it soon?”
Willie asked.
“Because the bottle’s full of stuffed olives and we have to empty it
first but anyway that reminds me that I’m hungry.”
“Can we help you empty it?” Howard asked tactfully.
“Sure you can,” said Pee-wee, fishing the bottle of olives up out of the
keg; “I never knew I wanted some olives till you reminded me.”
The bottle was soon emptied, and now Pee-wee, kneeling at an old grocery
box, stood his precious onion on it like an inkstand. Having next
produced his scout note book and laid it solemnly upon the grocery box,
he brought forth a deadly skewer which he had extracted from a ham in
Cooking Shack, and with it stabbed the onion to the heart. Perhaps it
was because their gallant bark was nearing the middle of the lake and
the beloved camp receding in the distance, or perhaps it was from sheer
joy at the great good turn he expected so soon to perform, but it is a
fact that at the very moment he punctured the onion with his makeshift
pen, his eyes filled with tears.
With the pensive tear-drops standing on his round cheeks and with eyes
glistening from the sadness of parting, or from some other equally
logical cause, he penned the following missive, stabbing the onion
afresh for every tender word he wrote, and weeping so copiously that he
could not have deciphered the writing even if it had been visible. These
were the words, all unseen, which he penned with the magic onion juice:
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still
open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around
scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.
Harris—hop-toad,
Ex-raven
He strained his eyes to read those memorable words which were to mean so
much to him, and to all the scouts at camp. To say nothing of the camp
commissary. But the spirit of the onion spoke not to those who did not
know its secret. Not a sign of writing was there upon that virgin page.
Pee-wee rolled the missive, injected it into the bottle, and corked the
bottle tight. He then produced a small limp article connected with a
short stick. On blowing through the stick the limp attachment swelled to
astounding dimensions as Pee-wee’s cheeks puffed more and more till they
seemed like to burst. Now upon the inflated balloon appeared the words
_Catskill Garage_ in conspicuous white letters.
The limit of Pee-wee’s blowing capacity having been reached, he jabbed
the blow-stick into the onion to check the egress of air, when suddenly
that humble vegetable, so modest that its very blood shunned the gaze of
prying eyes, threw out a veritable spray in every direction like an
electric sparkler, as the balloon grew smaller till it staggered, then
collapsed, leaving the Hop-toad Patrol weeping and sneezing and groping
frantically for their handkerchiefs, no doubt as flags of truce.
“I--eh--eh--chhh--ew--chh--I--llchew--try it--again.”
CHAPTER XVIII—THE BATTLE OF THE BURS
The gallant bottle with its aerial companion attached was not yet set
free upon the angry waves of Black Lake. For the epoch-making
announcement must not be premature and the good bark _Hop-toad_ had
still some yards to travel before bunking against the farther shore.
Indeed, it did not bunk against the farther shore at all. Like the ships
of another famous adventurer (Christopher Columbus) it reached a
destination, but not the destination intended. It flopped against the
shore at the northern extremity of the lake, where the natives
(consisting of three turtles) fled precipitately upon the approach of
the explorers.
“We’ll have to pull it around,” said the leader of the Hop-toads; “we’ll
have to coast along shore. Our port is due west of the camp. Maybe it’s
kind of south by due west. Come on, let’s pull.”
“Is it deep enough all the way around by the shore?” Howard asked.
“You mean the coast, not the shore,” said Pee-wee; “we have to go
coastwise; we have to hug the coast; that doesn’t mean putting our arms
around it.”
By reason of the surrounding hills the shore of Black Lake was
precipitous all the way round, except where the camp was. The water was
therefore comparatively deep, even close under the shore. Wriggling in
and out of the tiny passes near the lake wound a trail which would have
completely encircled it, notwithstanding many smaller obstacles, save
for Goldenrod Cove which was the beginning of the lake’s main outlet.
By dint of pulling on the bushes and pushing with a couple of scout
staffs and dancing on the unsusceptible platform, they succeeded in
getting it along the shore till the camp was almost opposite them across
the water.
The progress of the gallant bark was something like the progress of a
stubborn mule, and it certainly hugged the shore with an altogether
affectionate embrace. It would flop along but nothing would tempt it to
tear itself away from the sheltering bushes. These hung so low that in
places they playfully removed our hero’s hat and ruffled his curly hair
and deposited volleys of clinging burs upon his martial regalia.
Scout Willie and Scout Howard wrestled valiantly with these leafy
tormentors, closing their eyes and sweeping the assaulting clusters
aside as the noble float flopped resolutely along. But they were covered
with burs from head to foot; there were prickling burs on their
stockings, down their necks, and worst of all, in their shoes. Burs
lurked in their hair and would not be routed. One bur, more valiant than
the rest, dared to penetrate within the khaki shirt of our hero, taking
up a strategic position in the small of his back where it kept up a
running assault with a hundred million tiny prongs. It was in vain that
he approached this invader from the rear; in vain that he wriggled and
twisted and almost tied his heroic body in a knot. The tormentor was not
to be harried or dislodged.
“I got burs all over me,” said Scout Willie; “wait a minute, I have to
take off my shoe.”
“Feel down my neck,” said Scout Howard; “it tickles.”
“Do you think that an explorer--do you think that--Peary--was scared of
burs?” Pee-wee demanded contemptuously, the while madly scratching his
back.
“Maybe they don’t have burs at the North Pole,” Scout Howard ventured.
“Don’t you suppose there were burs in France?” Pee-wee said.
“Maybe French ones aren’t so bad,” Howard suggested, removing his shoe
and extracting a whole regiment of burs, while Willie made a sudden raid
up one sleeve with his hand.
“Burs are--they’re just like natives,” Pee-wee said. “You’re not scared
of natives, are you? Scouts are supposed to love everything in the
woods.”
“They ain’t in the woods when they’re on stockings, are they?” Willie
asked, rather boldly.
Our hero was now reduced to the use of one arm in poling the float, his
other hand being continually engaged in scratching his writhing back.
With that one stalwart arm he tried to keep the float far enough off
shore to be clear of the assaulting legions. Willie Rivers, having
battled nobly, sat helpless on the stubborn float, holding a shoe in one
hand and clearing the gory field of his stockings with the other. The
naked, undefended area between the ends of his loose khaki trousers and
the tops of his stockings was swarming with the enemy.
The tent, knocked askew by the assaulting branches, was covered with
clinging burs. It seemed to reel and stagger under the attacks of the
aroused and enraged brush. All the famous sea fights of history were
nothing to this. Scout Howard, warding off the relentless onslaughts
with one sturdy arm, was trying vainly to reach the small of his back
over his left shoulder with the other.
Suddenly the voice of our hero rose above the roar of battle, “Look out
for the poison ivy! Give her a push out! Quick!”
Withdrawing his hand from the forlorn enterprise down his back, Scout
Howard grasped a scout staff and gave a mighty shove against the shore
sending the harassed cruiser clear of this ghastly peril just as a low
hanging branch, lurking unnoticed like a sharpshooter, toppled over the
keg of provisions and it went rolling into the water.
This dastardly attempt to starve out a gallant adversary was met by
quick action from the leader of the Hop-toads. Giving one frantic look
at a package of Uneeda biscuits floating near the bobbing keg, he
plunged into the angry waters and returned triumphant with several
varieties of commissary stores, while Scout Rivers, forgetting all else
at the thought of his commander’s wrath, reached out with his scout
staff and brought the rolling keg safely aboard.
But alas, just in the moment of this heroic rescue, the float, unguided
for the moment, bobbed plunk against the shore and into a veritable
jungle of tangled vines.
“Wild roses! Wild roses! Look out for the thorns!” cried Commander
Harris.
But it was too late. Already they were surrounded, enveloped, embraced,
in a very labyrinth of Nature’s barbed wire entanglements. The wounds
and scars of battle were already upon them. The uncovered portions of
Scout Harris were tattooed with a system of scratches which ran here and
there like bloody trails. A scratch was on his nose and his hair was
pulled up in the combing process of the thorned tentacles. The martial
regalia of the three warriors was in tatters.
But they did not give up. Lying flat upon the raft they pushed with all
their might and main till their staffs sunk into the spongy shore. And
at last, by dint of superhuman effort, the cruiser _Hop-toad_ emerged
from this fearful trap and was happily caught in the flowing water which
bespoke the neighborhood of Goldenrod Cove.
CHAPTER XIX—SAIL ON, THOU BOTTLE!
This famous cruise to the remote farther shore of Black Lake is famous
in camp history. And the awful conflict there is often spoken of as The
Battle of the Burs. The losses on the side of the invaded coast were
about fifty million burs, several entire branches of the Wild Rose
Battalion and a ton or two of grassy earth.
The losses of the exploring party were one khaki jacket, three scout
hats, six stockings, one box of egg powder, four cans of condensed milk,
one scout staff, a package of spaghetti, one shoe, four buttons and
three tin spoons. The wounded were one nose, three ears, two knees, two
heads of hair, three arms and about one square mile of scratches. There
is at present a movement in Temple Camp to safeguard the neighborhood
from the recurrence of such a frightful world catastrophe.
One thing remained unscarred after this sanguinary adventure. The bottle
with its companion balloon had been safe within the tent. The _Hoptoad_
was now carried merrily into the cove upon the hurrying water and
proceeded as far into the outlet as its dimensions would permit it to
do. Here it stopped, just as its far-seeing navigator knew it would do,
wedged immovably between the two shores. Pee-wee had always claimed to
be lucky, and his luck was faithful to his purpose here. For the two
ends of the trail ended at the opposite sides of the lumbering float. A
line across the float and the trail would have been unbroken.
Goldenrod Cove could not quite be seen from Temple Camp across the lake,
but in the early fall its profusion of yellow was visible like a dab of
gold across the water. And when that dab of gold appeared, the scouts
still at camp knew that presently school would open and the camp close
for the season. Some fanciful youngster had said that that golden area
was the shape and color of a bell, and it came to be called The
School-bell by the scouts of camp. But the momentous affair of Goldenrod
Cove was in the earlier summertime and there was no school-bell there.
Let us observe the geography of this dim, quiet spot, made memorable by
the immortal exploit of Pee-wee. The cove at its widest point (that is,
where it joined the lake) was about twenty feet wide. It narrowed
gradually till it was just wide enough to let a little brook from the
lake pass through. This trickling outlet found its way to the lordly
Hudson.
Hiking around the lake by the trail, the scout came upon the shore of
this cove where it was perhaps fifteen feet wide. You will say that he
could swim across, and so he could. But that is just where the joker
came in, for the standing offer of Chocolate Drop stipulated for an
unbroken hike. The unbroken hike around Black Lake was like the fountain
of perpetual youth that old What’s-his-name searched for in Florida.
There wasn’t any.
The tempting offer of three desserts for the balance of the season as a
reward for an unbroken hike was just a practical joke. A very, very
cruel practical joke to those who love and reverence desserts. Every new
scout tried it with high hopes till he reached the challenging shore of
the cove. If he followed this shore to a point where he might wade
across he would consume more time than he could afford.
That smile of Chocolate Drop’s which showed all his white teeth was not
a vain and meaningless smile. “This thing could not be did,” as Roy
Blakeley had said. It had come to be the hoary-headed tottering old
practical joke of the camp. And so it remained until Pee-wee Harris
touched it with the wand of his genius.
“Sling the bottle in the water,” he said; “throw it as far as you can.”
This romantic form of announcement, borrowed from shipwrecked mariners
of old, was of course not essential to Pee-wee’s mammoth enterprise. But
in the field of romance and adventure he was nothing if not thorough.
The bottle splashed into the lake beyond the area of outflowing water
and the balloon advertising the Catskill Garage was caught in the breeze
and wafted off upon its mission. It hovered a yard or more above the
bobbing bottle, leading and dragging it eastward like a child with an
unwilling pup. On, on, and ever on, toward the populated eastern shore,
it flew, ducking, jerking, and skimming the water like a playful
seagull. And ever after it bobbed the corked olive bottle with its
inspiring message to the hungry scout camp.
The shadows of evening gathered, the waters darkened in the pervading
twilight, the wooded hills about the lake looked solemn as the night
drew on apace. And merry voices rose about the messboards at Temple
Camp, while smoke as black as Chocolate Drop himself floated above the
sacred temple of the laughing chef.
Laugh on, Chocolate Drop! He laughs best who laughs last. You know not
what awaits you....
CHAPTER XX—THE NIGHT BEFORE
“Hand me my belt axe,” said Pee-wee, after they had restored their tent
to a respectable posture and eaten a toothsome supper within it.
“What are you going to do?” Hop-toad Howard asked.
“I’m going to make a ticket office out of this grocery box. You take
this pack of cigar coupons and write _O. K. W. Harris, per H._ on the
back of each one. And you,” he said, turning to Hop-toad Willie, “take
the cardboard out of that other box and take this trail sign marker and
print _Positively no Trespassing_ in good big letters on it. Make them
good and black.”
“Shall I say under _penalty of the law_?” Willie asked.
“No, but be sure to say _Positively_; you’d better say _Absolutely
positively by my orders_. Underneath that you better put _Definitely_.”
“Shall I put ‘_violators will be reported_’?”
“No, because I don’t know how to spell violators. Anyway put
_Unconditionally_ and make a hand pointing to it.”
The following accurate reproduction of this sign is from a photograph
taken with Dorry Benton’s stalking kodak:
[Illustration]
This authoritive warning was supplemented by others which read _This is
our private float. We’ve got the use of this float. Private property.
Remember Rule 7_. On the grocery box in which a sort of pigeon-hole had
been hacked out was printed _Buy tickets here to cross this float, 5¢,
no war tax_.
Before the settlers turned in for the night the trees on both sides of
the cove were decorated with warnings and announcements. The float
itself looked like a miniature amusement enterprise with its grocery box
ticket office, festooned with a couple of scout scarfs. It stood upon
the provision keg ready for business. Behind it stood the ramshackle
camp stool for the accommodation of the ticket agent. Across the float a
black line had been drawn with the marker connecting the two loose ends
of trail, an idea borrowed from the unfathomable wilderness of the New
York subway. Close to it were the words _Follow black line_.
But this was not all. Upon the boards were sketched crude
representations of slices of pie, of saucers with arctic mountains of
ice cream (wisely labelled), and other loaded saucers labelled _fruit
pudding_, _rice pudding_ and the like, intended to influence hesitating
and penurious scouts. Across the tent was printed _Hundreds of helpings
for a nickel! Tickets accepted at messboards! Here’s your chance! Start
a run on the First National Cooking Shack! Place your nickel where it
will bring results!_
At about nine o’clock the Hop-toad Patrol, weary with travel and warfare
and art, lifted the door of its decorated tent and retired to refreshing
slumber.
CHAPTER XXI—SCOUTS AND SCOUTS
It was just about when Pee-wee was falling asleep that a canoe moved
noiselessly through the water near the camp side of the lake. One of its
two occupants sat in the stern, paddling idly, aimlessly; the way one
paddles on a moonlit night. The other sat in the bow. He was a queer
looking fellow to be in a canoe, being exceptionally long and lanky and
wearing horn spectacles. He sprawled in an attitude of utter and
heedless comfort with one long leg resting over the knee of the other,
his foot pointing up in the air. There was a suggestion of whimsical
philosophy in his drawling voice and funny manner, which seemed to amuse
his companion.
“You want to go in? Tired?” the latter asked.
“Not as long as you’re doing the paddling,” the other drawled. “Funny, I
can watch another fellow paddle all day without getting even stiff.”
“Gaylong, you said your name was?”
“Yep, Brent Gaylong; my bunch comes from down Newburgh way. We usually
flop up the river every summer and squint around.”
“First class scout?”
“Yes, I’ve got a room on the top floor.”
There followed a silence, broken only by the dripping of the paddle.
“You think he really means business then?” the paddler asked.
“Who, the Bridgeboro giant? Oh yes, he always means business.”
“I mean about starting a patrol?”
“Ye-es, starting patrols is his specialty. He usually starts about two a
minute. This is a kind of an off season with him; he’s only started
one.”
“Then you don’t think it will amount to anything?”
“Oh, everything about him amounts to a great deal. If he didn’t start a
patrol, he’d be starting something else. He’s guaranteed to start
something. How do you think you like it, now that you’re in the game?”
“Being a scout, you mean?”
“Mmm; great life if you don’t weaken, huh?”
“You bet your sweet life I’m not going to weaken. I’m going to finish up
my second class tests this week. Then I’m on the home stretch for class
one. Hang it all, I wish I didn’t have to wait sixty days for that.”
“Ye-es, they put that sixty days in just to try your patience. There was
a misprint or whatever you call it in my book and I got in in six days.
I see you’ve got the fever all right. I must try to hunt that handbook
of mine up and let you use it; it has several good misprints. It said a
fellow must have a dollar in the bank to get in, or something like that.
The last two letters of _dollar_ didn’t print so I took a doll belonging
to my sister and put it inside of a tin savings bank. I only had
fifty-seven cents. You’ll make out all right. You ought to learn things
fast in a place like this? Ever meet Slade, the assistant? He’ll put you
wise to a lot of stuff. What you say your name is; Simpson?”
“Yes I stepped into that kid’s place.”
“Stepped in where angels fear to tread, eh? Well, that’s a great patrol,
the Ravens. You’ll have to step lively to keep up with that outfit. Van
Arlen, Bronson, Weigand, they’re pretty good scouts. The kid’s the
biggest scout of the lot. He’s the smallest boy and the biggest scout.
If you’re taking his place you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Well, I’m doing my best anyway,” said Simpson. “Second class in less
than a week; that isn’t so bad, is it? I've got a list of the merit
badges I’m after just in the order that I’m going to try for them.
Safety First heads the list--”
“Safety First first, eh?”
“Yes, and next comes Life Saving; I thought maybe my rowing and paddling
would help me there. What do you think? Next I’m going to hit the trail
for Archery and after that Stalking. I’ve had some practice shooting
arrows, it’s a kind of a fad with me--”
“Your spear of action, huh.”
“Spear of action is good; I hope to be a ten badge scout by fall; that’s
the star you know. Some program, hey?” he laughed, breathless from his
own enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m in for it for all it’s worth. Gee _williger,_
didn’t I jump out of my skin when I got that letter from Artie Van Arlen
telling me to come up! Funny thing, it came just on my birthday. Some
birthday present, hey? Oh, you needn’t be afraid I’ll weaken. I’m not
that kind. I don’t suppose you’ll believe it because you’re one of
those--what do you call them--Philistines? But I wouldn’t give up this
chance for a--a--an _airplane_--I wouldn’t!” An airplane was the most
delightful thing this enthusiastic novice could think of at the moment,
and so he said airplane. “You never get excited do you?” he added. “Just
sit there smiling while I rattle on. I got that habit of rattling from
driving a Ford; that’s another one of my accomplishments. I’m going to
try for the Automobiling badge too, but not this summer.”
Brent Gaylong slowly readjusted his lanky legs and looked at the moon
over the top of his spectacles. “And good turns?” he drawled in his
funny way. “You haven’t forgotten about those? Carried a gentleman’s
suitcase off the train, I suppose? Passed somebody the butter?”
“Yes I did--I mean about the suitcase,” Billy Simpson said sheepishly,
for he caught the note of ridicule in his companion’s voice. “You’re a
mind reader.”
“No, I’m a scout reader,” said Gaylong.
“Wasn’t it all right?” Simpson asked.
“Sure it was.”
“Well, what are you smiling about then? Gee, I can’t understand you at
all. I like you,” he added with characteristic frankness, “but I can’t
understand you. Somehow you make me feel, I don’t know, sort of not sure
of myself. Good turns are part of the game, aren’t they?”
“I’ll say so,” drawled Gaylong. “Did you hold the door open for a
resident trustee yet? Don’t forget about that.”
“Yes I did,” said Simpson rather testily, “and what of it?”
“And you’re paddling me around the lake; _there’s_ real sacrifice for
you.”
“That’s your good turn, not mine,” said Simpson generously.
“It isn’t a good turn at all, that’s the point,” said Gaylong.
“Politeness is all right, if you don’t overdo it, and kindness and going
to the grocery store for your mother are all right. Only don’t jot them
down. If you’re going to be a scout at all, be a big one. Be one like
Slade. Know what I mean? Look at that moon,” he drawled, squinting at it
in his funny way; “it’s going to be hot to-morrow. That means ice cream.
Did you turn the freezer for Chocolate Drop yet? That’s one of the
regulation good turns up here.”
“I know what you mean,” Billy Simpson said in his customary, generous,
eager way. “But gee, it’s pretty hard to tell when you’re serious. I
don’t know how to take you, honest I don’t. What would you call a good
turn?”
“Look at that moonlight on the water; pretty huh?”
“What would you call a good turn?”
“Oh, now you’ll have to find out for yourself,” Gaylong drawled; “scouts
are supposed to be resourceful, you know. There are big scouts and
little scouts. Harris is a big one--tremendous. I could name you a
fellow pretty near six feet high who’s a little one. If you drop a cent
he’ll pick it up for you and jot it down in his scout memo. book. You
can’t expect _me_ to tell you what’s a good turn. I’m just a kind of an
observer here--war correspondent. Only if you’re filling little Harris’s
place be sure you do fill it. Then we’ll all live happily forever after.
Poke her nose in toward shore, what do you say? They’re all around the
camp-fire. Looks pretty, doesn’t it, reflected in the water. Well, it’s
a great life if you don’t weaken.”
“I’m not going to weaken,” said Billy Simpson.
CHAPTER XXII—THE VOICE OF SCOUT HARRIS
Billy Simpson did not immediately follow Brent Gaylong to the camp-fire
but stayed to haul the canoe up and put the paddle and lazy-back in the
locker. He was very particular to disabuse his mind of the remotest
thought that this was a good turn. Brent Gaylong had started him
thinking, as Brent Gaylong had a way of doing. Brent had not even
offered to attend to this trifling duty. Billy paused a moment, paddle
in hand, pondering. He could see the ambling figure of his friend,
visible as in a spotlight, as he approached the campfire. He heard a
chorus of merry voices greet him.
“Here’s old Brent!”
“Look who’s here; old Grouch Gaylong!”
“Tell us a yarn, Brent.”
“Go on, tell us a funny one.”
“Good old Brent! Sit down here with us; take this milk stool.”
“Tell us a story, go on, Brent.”
“Hurrah for old Doctor Gaylong.”
“Give the professor of philosophy a seat!”
“Give him a couple of seats.”
“Go on, criticise us, Brent!”
Billy Simpson listened wistfully. He envied the popularity of his
whimsical, humorous friend. He was going to win many badges, oh many,
_many_. But would he ever win the frank love of the whole camp? He was a
scout, yes. But Brent Gaylong was a personality. Brent Gaylong, Pee-wee
Harris, they were more than just scouts; they were _characters_. They
had reached the hearts of the camp. One had ambled in, the other had
rushed in. But both of them dwelt in the hearts of the camp.
Would he, Bill Simpson, ever do that? He could talk with Brent or with
any other scout there. He was a good chum. But he could not handle them
all. He was just a little too shy for that. He was even shy with the
Ravens, his own patrol. Scout Harris had the camp eating out of his
hand. He admitted it. And surely he must have known. On a question of
eating, who was a greater authority than he?
Billy Simpson might have hurried after Brent, but he did not, and now it
was too late, and he just could not approach the camp-fire alone. There
were so many of them there! He was not afraid of any one of them. He was
not exactly _afraid_ of all of them. But he was shy. He would draw
attention if he joined them now. He was not good in a crowd like
Brent--and Pee-wee....
He perched on the railing of the float and looked off on the
moon-glinted water of the lake, and on the dark surrounding hills. He
was not afraid of all the wonderful scout stunts that he was going to
do, and so he thought of those. Those, at all events, did not abash him.
Astronomy, the First Class badge, Angling, Athletics, Cooking, Forestry,
Marksmanship, First Aid, star scout, _eagle scout_!
_Eagle scout!_ The man in the moon looked down on Billy Simpson sitting
on the railing, and winked his eye, as if to say, “Go to it, Billy.” And
in his joy, his elation, with all these honors of scouthood swarming in
his mind he looked up at the man in the moon and said, with the very joy
of Christmas time beating in his heart, “Yes, and I’ll study you too,
old top. And you stars, too, I’ll make you show me the way home yet, I
will. A scout,” he mused, “a scout can speak to a scout--with signals--a
scout can speak to a scout miles and miles off--”
He paused in his joyful reverie, and gazed out upon the glinting water.
Yes, a scout was speaking to him already--from far off! For bobbing
toward him in the moonlight was the gallant balloon of the Catskill
Garage, dripping from its adventurous voyage, and dragging after it the
dancing olive bottle with its invisible message to the world.
Billy Simpson might keep away from the festive throng, but he could not
get away from Scout Harris.
CHAPTER XXIII—MOBILIZING
Billy Simpson intended to be a regular out-and-out scout. So before
starting for Temple Camp he had spent the trifling amount of money which
he had for several things he had seen advertised as being indispensable
to scouts. One of these was a pocket flashlight. The advertisement had
conveyed the belief to him that he could hardly expect to be a scout
without one of these flashlights. _“Say fellows! Just the thing!”_ the
ad had begun. So poor Billy had bought one of those flashlights. A tried
and true scout would have had better sense.
He now turned this flashlight on the paper which he fished out of the
bottle, but not so much as a syllable was there written upon it. The
reticent onion was true to its reputation. Billy laughed as he thought
of Pee-wee.
Here was he, Billy Simpson, with the most modern kind of a device, a
nickel-plated flashlight that would “throw a glare continuously for two
hours or your money refunded,” and its value was set at naught by a
homely onion in the hands of a true scout. The onion had cost nothing.
Yet the most dazzling flashlight in the world could not render visible
one word upon that scrap of paper. Only _heat_ could do that. You don’t
have to know anything to buy a flashlight. But you have to know
something, that is you have to be a scout, to know the tender uses of
the onion....
Yes, Gaylong was a real scout. And Harris was a real scout. And Billy
was greatly dissatisfied with himself. Like most boys who do not mix
readily and do not quickly become popular with the multitude, he was
given to a morbid disgust with himself. He conceived his shyness as a
sort of deficiency. He thought he was not likable.
He was now sorely at odds with himself. He had started out by helping
somebody off the train and had jotted this down as a good turn. Then
Gaylong, in his quiet, drawling way, had knocked this good turn into a
cocked hat and made it seem trivial. He had bought a fine nickel
flashlight-- “just what every scout needs”--and Pee-wee Harris had made
this “scout” trinket ridiculous. They were real scouts here at Temple
Camp, not little tin scouts. They could _do_ things. True, Pee-wee was a
walking rummage sale, but what he carried on his diminutive person was
nothing to what he carried in his head.
Billy Simpson was beginning to get the hang of this thing now. He pulled
out of his pocket a handful of beans which he had intended to drop along
the way in his pathless explorations so that he could find his way back.
He scattered them into the lake. “If I can’t find my way without those
things I deserve to get lost,” he said. Contemptuous of his own weakness
he threw away a whistle he had bought, a boy scout whistle--“_just the
thing, fellows_” of course. “I ought to be able to make as much noise
with my mouth as Harris can,” he said, disgustedly. That was saying a
good deal....
Then he sauntered up toward the camp-fire and instead of treating
himself to the small glory which the discovery of the bottle might have
brought him, he slipped in among the assemblage unnoticed and gave the
paper to his patrol leader, Artie Van Arlen. And all the while Billy
Simpson was the best oarsman at Temple Camp. In his hands a canoe paddle
became a thing of magic. But he could not “join in”; he just didn’t know
how.
His brief connection with this paper was soon forgotten in the paper
itself. He sat down out of the immediate range of the flame and was lost
in the crowd and the surrounding darkness.
Meanwhile a clamorous chorus greeted the discovery.
“Hold it over the light.”
“Don’t burn it.”
“The voice of Scout Harris.”
“The plot grows thicker.”
“Invincible writing again.”
“E-pluribus onion.”
“Don’t hold it so near the flame, you’ll have boiled onions.”
“Let’s see what it says.”
“Wait a minute, it takes time.”
“He has a strong handwriting.”
“Sure, it’s a strong onion.”
“Oh it’s getting visible.”
“It’s more likely to get risible.”
“Read it, go ahead.”
Artie Van Arlen read aloud as the writing slowly came into view under
the influence of the heat. It was interesting to see how the words
appeared, slowly, slowly, like a person emerging out of a fog.
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still
open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around
scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.
Harris—Hop-toad.
Ex-raven.
“_What?_” demanded a dozen voices.
“Let’s see it!”
“You’re kidding us.”
“What the dickens is he up to now?”
“What do you mean--bridged?”
“Let’s see it.”
“Don’t crowd.”
“Look out, you’ll tear it.”
“Well--I’ll--be--” Roy Blakely began, elbowing his way into the excited
throng.
“What do you suppose he’s been doing?”
“Let’s hike around.”
“Not to-night,” said a scoutmaster.
“It isn’t true,” a scout shouted. “Remember the false armistice.”
“It’s too good to be true.”
“It _must_ be true, it’s written with food.”
“Let me dream again,” called another scout reeling.
“The world is made safe for dessert,” shouted another.
“This will kill Chocolate Drop,” laughed still another.
“The kid’s crazy,” another yelled.
“He’s seeing things again.”
“Let’s go over there in the morning and kid the life out of him.”
“I’m game.”
“Right after breakfast, hey?”
“And his two aids--or lemonades, we’ll have some sport with them; what
do you say?”
“Answered in the positive.”
“Yes, but home sweet home by noontime; to-morrow’s ice cream day.”
At this Roy Blakeley jumped upon an old barrel that was about to be
offered to the flames and shouted:
“I scream, I scream
When we have ice cream
And I do not roam
But stay at home----
“All in favor of making a raid on P. Harris to-morrow will say Me, I
mean Aye, and be ready for a hike around the lake at ten P. Q. and we’ll
jolly the life out of him, and everybody that isn’t back by one I can
have his helping of cream as a tribute--I mean a herald--I mean a
tribute; I don’t know what I mean, shut up, I will, thanks be seated!”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Me.”
“Us.”
“We.”
“Also.”
“Likewise.”
“Who said _likewise_? Slap him on the wrist, he’s a highbrow!” shouted
Roy. “We’re getting up an exhibition, I mean an expedition to chastise
Pee-wee Harris for making us hungry and other forms of frightfulness and
perpetrating a ruse--”
“A what?”
“A ruse, it’s the same as a bluff only different; for trying to play a
cruel joke on us--”
“Maybe it’s true; there’s many a true word spoken in a jest,” a hopeful
voice called.
“There’s many a bunk bunked by a pest, you mean,” shouted Roy. “I was
happy till he put the idea of three desserts in my head. He shall suffer
for this--and his official lemonades too! That’s what comes from being a
free lance. He got out of the Ravens and now he’s wished onto the whole
camp. There can be no peace while he lives. He’s crazy with his three
desserts; I would have been satisfied with four before he went west and
sent us a message by Western Onion. The whole thing is a Ford, I mean a
fraud. Don’t be fooled, scouts! He’s always talking about mysteries and
foiling people with tin-foil; he’s a tin-foil scout. Let’s start an
exhibitionary force to-morrow and make him vaccinate the place, or
evacuate it or whatever you call it. We were just going to turn in for
the night when he starts us thinking about desserts. Can you beat it? If
that isn’t like a raving Raven. Once a Raven, always a Raven if not more
so!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted a score of voices, while several trustees and half
a dozen scoutmasters stood about smiling.
“Where? Where?”
“Hear, hear!”
Several of the Ravens pushed the barrel out from under the irrepressible
Silver Fox and down he went, sprawling on the ground.
“There! There!” called a dozen laughing voices.
“I may be down but I’m never out,” said Roy; “come on, let’s turn in.
To-morrow’s the big day--the puny exhibition.”
“You mean punitive expedition,” said Artie Van Arlen.
“I should worry about what I mean,” said Roy.
CHAPTER XXIV—A PROMISE
The next morning Billy Simpson was out early for a row on the lake
before breakfast. The lake seemed to attract him like a magnet. But he
always went either early in the morning or after dark, and usually
alone, from a morbid shyness about showing his skill.
He dreamed about honors, and he had been betrayed into talking freely
with Brent Gaylong about his hopes and plans. But he could not, he
simply _could not_, show off. Of course, to let them see him row or
paddle would not be showing off. But that was what he called it.
So the skill that he had cultivated on the river near his family’s
country home was not known to the camp or even his own patrol. He was
afraid that if he did anything publicly it might have a look of
crudeness, an amateurish touch, in the eyes of these denizens of the
woods and water. He had made a mistake about good turns and he was
ashamed of himself for being what Brent called a “little” scout. He was
ashamed at having brought a pocketful of beans to show him the way when
he was lost. And a whistle! He was not going to put his foot into it in
the matter of his skill with oar and paddle. Gaylong might come along
and drawl out some criticism of an obvious defect. And Roy Blakeley! How
he dreaded the uproarious banter of that embodiment of merriment. He had
seen what Roy could do in the way of banter. No, not for him....
He paused on his way down to the lake to look at the bulletin-board. He
always found much of interest there. And on this occasion he found
something of preeminent interest. He had heard some talk of it in Patrol
Cabin, but here was the official fact in black and white before him:
The canoeing event for the Mary Temple cup will be held on the lake July
27th. The cup, now held by the First Bridgeboro, N. J., Troop, will be
defended by Conover Bennett, Patrol Leader, Elk Patrol, of that troop.
Troops intending to enter the contest should register in Administration
Shack not later than July 15 th.
So his own troop held this cup. Billy Simpson wondered where the cup
was. He supposed it must be held by the Elk Patrol, since an Elk scout
was to defend it. It was characteristic of him that he felt a bit
chagrined that a contest involving his favorite form of outdoor exercise
should be in preparation without regard to him. Of course his own morbid
shyness was to blame for this, but the announcement hit him in a tender
spot just the same.
One thing that this announcement showed him was that such contests were
usually troop affairs. It was troop against troop and not patrol against
patrol. Conover Bennett represented the troop.
Billy sauntered down to the lake, quite at odds with himself because of
this little jar to his pride, which no one was to blame for but himself.
On the float stood a solitary early riser, one of his own troop.
“H’lo Simpson,” said the latter, cheerily; “some day, huh? Out hunting
for the early worm?”
“I was just going to take a little spin--flop I suppose you’d call it. I
like to--to drift around.”
“I don’t blame you for turning out early, the way that Bronson snores up
in your cabin. Come ahead out and watch me practice, don’t you want to?
I’m the goat, you know.”
“Oh you mean about the cup? You’re Bennett?” Billy asked, rather taken
aback.
“Sure, they’re all going around the lake to make a raid on Scout
Harris--your prepossessor as Blakeley calls him.”
“My predecessor seems to have them all guessing.”
“So this morning’s my chance to practice, and I’m going to keep at it,”
Bennett continued. “I’m off the desserts anyway for the present, and I
guess there’s nothing to that kid’s big announcement. He’s a scream,
that kid is. He’s a regular institution; I don’t know what we’d do
without him; die of ong-wee, I guess. I’d like to know what he’s up to
over there. What do you say we paddle over after the parade starts?”
Billy Simpson did not know whether to go out with Bennett or not. A
foolish, childish pride deterred him. He was sensible enough to conquer
this. Moreover, he did want to see Bennett paddle. Fearful of himself as
he was, he was still just a little jealous.
“I’ve got the hang of this twirl pretty good now,” said Bennett as he
gave a long pull, sending the canoe gliding out into the lake. “Ever
paddle?”
“Only in the dark,” said Billy.
“I’m going to hit it straight for that tree,” said Bennett, “without any
straightening up. Can I do it?”
“Guess so.”
“You lose a lot of headway in rudder work. Keep her straight--straighten
her with each stroke, that’s the secret.”
“How many of you will be in the race?” Simpson asked.
“Only two of us. You see, we’ve got the cup in our troop. The other
troops fight it out among themselves and I have to face the best one of
the bunch. Sort of like the world series, only different. But I can see
what’s coming all right. That red-headed fellow in the Ohio troop, he’s
got me scared. He’s putting them all to sleep one after another. He’s
got _me_ feeling a little drowsy.”
“He has a jerky stroke?” Billy said, respectfully putting his
observation in the form of a question.
“Yes, but he gets there. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, as
Pee-wee Harris says.”
“Do you think he’ll succeed with his new patrol?”
“Who, the kid? Oh, I don’t know; he’s a joke. He’s wished onto us. He’s
here because he’s here, no matter what he does. Didn’t you know him in
Bridgeboro?”
“No, I live across in East Bridgeboro.”
“Oh, I see. Well, here goes for a glide and then breakfast. Now watch.”
Billy Simpson did watch and thought that Bennett paddled skilfully. But
he could not help noticing that his companion breathed rapidly. He
seemed to spend all his effort in the first part of his stroke, and each
pull left him somewhat winded. His stroke seemed remarkably strong and
effective, but it was spasmodic. With each stroke he caught the canoe
and sent it forward again instead of keeping it going at a smooth, even
rate of speed.
The one way would correspond to the action of a one cylinder motor, the
other to a two or four cylinder motor. That is to say, the effect of one
stroke was not merged into the effect of the next. Whatever this kind of
work meant in point of speed, it certainly did not conserve the strength
of the paddler.
“They talk to me about the long stroke,” said Bennett, breathing heavily
and shaking his falling hair up off his forehead; “but I’m as I am,
that’s what I tell them. The best way to do a thing is the way you do
it. Isn’t that right? Some fellows bat best left-handed, huh? Results
are the things that count.”
“I’ll say so,” said Billy.
“If you ever go in for paddling look out your paddle doesn’t get
underneath when you twirl; it just holds you back. Let it get way in
back of you--then drag. See, like this.”
Why didn’t Billy Simpson tell how he could actually paddle, using but
one hand, all the while keeping the canoe in a bee-line course? Why did
he not speak of the back sweep? Of the little trick in the steering
twirl? Well, he did not know them by those names, for one thing. He had
never had any athletic connections and he had no technical talk. But why
on earth didn’t he ask for the paddle for just one little minute and
show what he could do with that wonderful wrist of his? Why didn’t he
loosen up as he had done with Brent Gaylong? Well, fellows did loosen up
with Brent; there was something about him.... Old Doctor Gaylong didn’t
have any particular kind of talent to be afraid of. He did not have a
name to strike terror to the shy amateur. He was just good old Doctor
Gaylong.
And Billy Simpson, he was just Billy Simpson. And that is why he did not
tell that he could paddle right or left, it made no difference. He just
did not know how in the presence of this self-possessed, easy-going
young champion. That was Billy Simpson, all over.
But one thing he did say, and an observant scout might have noticed that
he seemed to ponder before saying it.
“You--in the race--you paddle alone?”
“Oh, I’ll have a fellow to steady the canoe. A fellow hasn’t got any
control unless he has some weight forward, you know.”
“N--no, I suppose not.”
“A bag of sand is good enough, only there’s no life to a bag of sand. I
like to have a pair of eyes looking at me. A girl’s the best thing
really, only they don’t fit into a race. I can pick out any fellow I
want. Some like more weight than others; it’s just a matter of choice,
there’s no rule. I thought of having Pee-wee for my mascot; he yells and
creates a breeze and that’s good, you know.”
“Did you promise him.”
“Oh no, it’s early yet.”
A pause followed. Billy seemed to wrestle with himself. Then he spoke.
“Would you be willing to let me do that?”
“Sure--guess so. Only maybe the kid would be disappointed.”
“If you will, I’d like to.”
“It’s only the kid--” Bennett mused doubtfully.
“I asked you first, didn’t I?”
“All right, it’s a go,” said Bennett.
“Thanks,” said Billy Simpson.
When Bennett got to thinking it over afterward he thought it rather
strange that this new scout, who had taken Pee-wee’s place in the Raven
Patrol, had not seemed disposed to yield this other little post of honor
(if indeed it was that) to the redoubtable mascot. That would have been
more scoutlike. It put Billy in a rather unpleasant light, that ignoring
of Pee-wee, and thinking only of himself. It seemed just a little cold
and selfish.
It was the fate of Billy Simpson, not only to have his light hidden
under a bushel, but to be misunderstood as well. But how could anyone
understand him when he hardly understood himself?...
CHAPTER XXV—BIG BUSINESS
The expeditionary forces were early in starting. The advance guard,
consisting of a few stragglers, set off on the trail around the lake,
bent on mischief. They intended to amuse themselves with jollying
Pee-wee and making fun of whatever childish claptrap he had contrived.
His famous observation tower near Storehouse Cabin had blown down before
he had the chance to take any observations from it. His patented
springboard had sprung into the lake and floated away. So the scouts did
not think seriously about his bridge. That, too, would collapse if
indeed there was one in existence.
But they reckoned without rue, these scouts. When they reached the
neighborhood of the cove they became aware that operations in that
sequestered spot had been going on on a stupendous scale. At the
farthest outpost from headquarters they came face to face with a sign
which read:
THIS TRAIL FOR THREE DESSERTS
FOLLOW ARROW
A few yards farther along they came upon another sign on which was a
detailed mathematical appeal.
THE NEW WAY
One month scouts .... 90 helpings
Two month scouts .... 180 ”
THE OLD WAY
One month scouts .... 30 helpings
Two month scouts .... 60 ”
A NICKEL TRIPLES YOUR HELPINGS
Still again they came to another one, calculated to stagger them by
sheer weight.
TONS OF PIE FOR A NICKEL!
MOUNTAINS OF ICE CREAM FOR A NICKEL!
And then they came in sight of the cove. There behind the grocery box
sat Willie Rivers ready for the mad rush for tickets. Howard Delekson,
armed with an enormous stick and looking very much afraid, was strutting
around the float to keep off trespassers. And Scout Harris stood upon
the rescued keg amid a very carnival of signs, some tempting, others
threatening, shouting at the top of his voice.
He had seen barkers displaying dollar bills held between their fingers
and spreading out like fans to catch the public eye, and an
“inspiration” had seized him to use a large piece of raisin cake as a
kind of flaunting bait. To make this the more piquant, he took a large
bite occasionally, for advertising purposes only.
“Here’s where you buy your tickets!” he screamed, taking a huge bite.
“It costs you only a nickel--five cents! Remember scout regulation
seven! It means you! It means everybody all the time, no matter what.
Trespassers will be persecuted. No trespassing--absolutely, positively.
Anybody that trespasses on this private property without paying five
cents gets his name sent to Tom Slade. To-day is ice cream day, don’t
delay! Five cents to cross this float! This is the path to three
desserts as long as you stay! Follow the black line! Get your foot off
this float--go on! Your nickel is safe, the cooking shack is in back of
us--”
“I don’t see it,” called a voice.
“I mean financially about food,” Pee-wee shouted. “Tickets honored at
messboards or your money back! Hey, Howard, rap any scout in the shins
that sets foot on this float. The cost of desserts has come down! The
problem has been solved by engineering skill. We may go away from here
any time. Now’s your chance!”
There was no doubt about the bridge. If the desserts were as substantial
as the bridge there would be no cause of complaint. And there were two
things (both printed in black) which the scouts of camp respected. One
was regulation seven, the other was Chocolate Drop. Chocolate Drop was
absolutely solvent. The cooking shack was as good as the Bank of
England.
“Your nickel is safe!” shouted Pee-wee. “Right this way! There’s where
you buy your tickets--get your foot off this float, you North Carolina
scout. Hit him a crack with the stick! Stand back! Private property!
There’s only one way around! The cooking shack is with us! Maybe the
price will go up to-morrow! _Maybe it will go up in five minutes!_”
This last thundered warning brought the hesitating misers to their
senses, and financial transactions started on an unprecedented scale.
The surging, clamoring throng in the Stock Exchange was nothing to it.
“Hurry up, lend us a nickel.”
“Lend me one too, will you?”
“Do you think I’m a millionaire.”
“Hey, lend us a nickel, will you?”
“Positively no trust!” screamed Pee-wee, anticipating a demand for
credit.
Scouts fortunate enough to have loose change with them were already
across the float, hurrying helter-skelter to the promised land. One or
two did a thriving business in small loans, accepting promissory notes
of pie or pudding as security. Those who could not borrow gazed
wistfully at the passing show, under the stern and watchful eye of
Howard Delekson.
“Hey, give us a bite, Pee-wee?” the financially embarrassed shouted.
“Buy your tickets!” shouted Pee-wee, disdaining to answer.
As the scouts, singly, in pairs, and in small groups, passed across the
float, the merry jingle of money sounded in the tin-box behind the
ticket office, and mingled harmoniously with the other sounds of
hustling prosperity. As the scouts reached the opposite shore of the
cove they hiked away through the woods, talking, laughing, jesting, till
the woods echoed with their voices. Some arrived in canoes to see the
fun, but these were refused tickets, because they had not hiked around.
Pee-wee’s operations were conducted strictly on the square.
It was to the credit of all, particularly the loiterers who had no
funds, that no one forced a crossing to the happy domain beyond. It is
true that some, in their eagerness, advanced far enough to be reminded
of a scout’s honor by a vigorous rap in the shins. But no one sneaked
across.
The news of this colossal enterprise spread like wildfire, and now
scouts came in droves and stood in line to purchase tickets. Dorry
Benton took a snapshot of the scene, but alas, it could not reproduce
Scout Harris’s voice.
“As long as you stay!” he shouted, waving his small remaining fragment
of cake and looking scornfully upon the loiterers; “even if you stay
till Thanksgiving. Then you’ll get three anyway, and three more makes
_six_! The chance of a life time! Watch them cross! O-o-o-h! Watch them
cross! They can’t wait! It’s only half an hour to dinnertime! A nickel
well spent! Cross the eats bridge while it’s still here. O-o-o-h! Use
the Hop-toad dessert multiplying system! The cooking shack is back of us
with all its vast resources--push that feller back, hurry up! Only a few
more tickets left. We start on another cruise to-night! O-o-o-o-h!
Here’s where you get your tickets!”
By noontime the crowd began thinning out and business slowed down.
Pee-wee gazed anxiously across the lake at the signal poles but no sign
of weakening was there at Cooking Shack. No signal to withdraw the offer
was to be seen.
Chocolate Drop stood the run, the greatest run on any cooking shack in
financial history. He smilingly made each scout sign his name on his
ticket and drop it in a bread-pan. He stood ready to pay in full,
remarking only, “What dat kid up to next! Lordy, _Lordy_! He use up ebry
last bit of flour I got! I done got not--one--last--cranberry--left!
_Lordy_, he do hab some inspirize! He cer’n’ly do, dat kid!”
The boisterous procession had entirely ceased when Brent Gaylong came
ambling around, bought a ticket in the most solemn manner, and went his
way. He did not much care for desserts, but he wished to pay his tribute
to Pee-wee, whom he greatly admired.
In a little while the sound of the dinner-horn sounded faintly across
the water and the hero who had made the camp safe for three desserts,
was reminded that his own stock of provisions was running low. Business
was at a standstill now, and as the adventurers sat on the float
counting their gains, they were conscious of an inner craving which
their depleted commissary could not supply. Some of their provisions had
been lost in the sanguinary battle of the burs, while other edibles had
been freely used for advertising purposes.
It now appeared that what remained was the subject of attack by an army
of ants which decorated the food like ornamental cloves on a ham. It
seemed likely that the enterprise was all over. And since the ants were
likewise all over, the speculators considered what they had better do.
They had begun as poor boys; they were now worth two dollars each. Their
operation on that foreign shore had been perfectly legitimate; just as
legitimate as Uncle Sam’s enterprise in Panama, where the precedent of
charging tolls was established. But the ants were hurrying back and
forth across cake and bread and had even penetrated to the fastness of
the sugar can. They lurked among the corn flakes. And the edible
territory not thus conquered was wet.
“I tell you what let’s do,” said Pee-wee; “there are two things we can
do. We can hike down to Catskill and buy ice cream and candy and go to
the movies. I know a trail that goes into the Catskill road from here.
Or we can drift across the lake and get there for dinner.”
“I say let’s go down to Catskill,” said Willie Rivers.
“I say let’s drift across,” said Howard Delekson.
“I’ve got an inspiration!” shouted Pee-wee. “Let’s hike down to Catskill
and buy a lot of stuff--jaw breakers, those are my favorite things
because they last longer and you get four for a cent. And we’ll have
some sodas, too. Come ahead, get your staff and push out from shore.”
He wet his finger and held it up to determine the direction of the
breeze. The side of his finger that felt the first chill settled this
matter definitely. Never in all Pee-wee’s life had it settled it
correctly, but that made not the slightest difference to him. His faith
was boundless.
“It’s blowing over toward the camp,” he said; “it’s due east. We’ll
drift over in about five minutes. Come ahead, _push_. Push as hard as
you can.”
CHAPTER XXVI—MAROONED
“All the things you said made me hungry,” Willie Rivers shyly confessed.
“The way you talked made me hungry.”
“Me too,” said Howard.
The gallant bark _Hop-toad_ was now clear of the shore and sailing
majestically.
“It’s going in a direction south by south!” shouted Pee-wee, frantically
holding up his finger, as if to reprove the deceiving breeze. “I can
tell because it’s going the other way from the way I thought it would
go.”
“Won’t we get any dinner?” Willie asked.
“How am I to blame if the breeze doesn’t do like it says it’s going to
do?” Pee-wee demanded. “If we held a rag up somebody might think it was
a flag of truce.”
“We’re not having a war, are we?” Howard ventured to ask.
Pee-wee was too busy poling the float to answer. His scout staff touched
bottom, and as the float moved the water became shallower, until soon
there was a scraping sound beneath them and the float refused to be
pushed any farther. Not only that, it refused to be pushed in any
direction whatsoever. It did consent to turn a little like a
merry-go-round, but thought better of it presently and became as
motionless as a stubborn mule.
“It’s grounded,” Pee-wee said; “come on, push hard; push with all your
might.”
The united strength of the three adventurers failed to budge the
lumbering float. It sat securely on the gravelly bottom and all the
king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t start it moving again.
“We’re marooned!” Pee-wee shouted. “That means kind of like being on a
desert island only there isn’t any island; it’s a desert float, but it’s
just as good. We’re on a reef; you can tell a reef by closing your eyes
and opening them all of a sudden and looking very sudden at the water.
It’ll seem kind of gray, like, where the reef is.”
Both of the younger scouts squinted their eyes, in accordance with this
valuable bit of nautical lore, but saw nothing. Pee-wee had tried it on
every lake and river he had ever seen but never had it revealed anything
under the water. It was his choicest bit of scout knowledge with one
exception. That was his device for getting a light without matches, only
he had to light a match in order to see to work it.
The spot where they were now marooned was a shallow area of the lake
near the scene of their sensational adventures. But a few yards of
unfathomable depth (six feet deep at least) lay between them and the
shore. As for the camp shore, that seemed miles upon miles away, but
they could see the sportive smoke circling above the cooking shack, and
they gazed wistfully at it, as they thought of the hot stew and boiled
potatoes which were being served at the messboards.
In their minds’ eyes, they saw mounds of ice cream standing in saucers,
surrounded by little lakes of melted cream. And on each luscious island
a cherry, marooned. Not only one helping did their fancy picture forth,
but three helpings.
That Pee-wee himself should have sung of these delights (or rather
shouted) and that now they should escape him! That he should bellow
forth the joys of ice cream and cake and then not have any!
“Let’s send them a signal that we’re starving,” Willie suggested.
“There are four crackers in that box, let’s eat them,” said Pee-wee.
“I guess they’re having roast beef,” said Howard; “they have it on
Wednesdays.”
“I saw Chocolate Drop killing some chickens,” said Willie. “I like the
part with the wishbone best.”
“I like roast beef because it’s got all brown gravy over it,” Howard
observed; “I like dumplings, too.”
“Do you like apple dumplings?” Willie asked.
“Yes, but I like cottage pudding better. I like corn fritters, too.”
“_Will you shut up!_” screamed Pee-wee.
“Can’t we even talk about it?”
“No, you can’t talk about it,” Pee-wee said, pouring the last remaining
crumbs out of a biscuit box into his hand and lapping them up with his
tongue.
“I guess they’re just about starting with dessert now; hey?” said
Willie.
“I can kind of smell cooking; anyway I _think_ I can,” said Howard.
“We’ve got six dollars anyway,” said Willie.
“We’re foiled!” Pee-wee shouted. “What good is six dollars? We promised
we wouldn’t go in the water and we can’t get to camp. I know a way to
cook moss if you’re starving, only I haven’t got any moss and if I did
have, I haven’t got any matches.”
“I can see all those signs about desserts and things; look over there
toward the cove,” said Willie. “Don’t you know you said the way to see
was by taking off your jacket and holding up your sleeve so as to kind
of make a telescope out of it--don’t you remember? Do you think we’ll be
peruned long?”
“Now you’re talking about prunes!” Pee-wee fairly yelled in despair.
“Don’t you like prunes?” Willie asked innocently.
CHAPTER XXVII—RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
We will not describe the sufferings of the marooned Hop-toads. Under
direction of Scout Harris they tried several of the most approved
expedients for preserving life in such perilous predicaments as theirs.
Pee-wee knew of a way, highly popular in the days of the explorers, of
extracting nourishment from shoe leather by soaking it in water. But the
life-giving soup thus produced was not palatable. These things are
matters of taste, and this did not taste good.
“I know a way, a scout way, to make fishes come to you by focussing the
sun with your watch crystal,” said Pee-wee; “and I can light a piece of
paper that way, too. That’s the way pioneers do when they haven’t any
fishing tackle, only they use quartz crystal or maybe a locket with
their mother’s picture in it; you can use anything that shines.”
Pee-wee’s canteen, his aluminum saucepan, his watch and his star scout
badge, were used to deflect a tempting spot of brightness into the
water, but the only thing that ventured near it was an inquiring
pollywog, which whisked away again disgusted with the ruse.
Nevertheless, the Hoptoad Patrol seemed greatly edified at this wisdom
of scout lore.
“Wait a minute,” said Pee-wee, excitedly, “there’s oil in bone and oil
is nourishing because don’t you know cod liver oil? Scouts in the Great
North Woods get oil out of deer’s horns; you don’t ever need to starve
if you’re a scout. Let’s take the buttons off our shirts and pound them
up and we’ll get some oil. You have to mix water with it.”
A dozen or more buttons were contributed to this culinary enterprise and
the result was a gritty concoction not unlike silver polish. Pee-wee
pretended to eat this with a relish but the others rebelled. The very
mention of cod liver oil had been sufficient for Willie Rivers.
“Don’t you know oil of wintergreen?” Pee-wee said contemptuously.
“Sailors can live on the oil from turtles’ shells.”
“Why don’t they eat the turtles?” Howard asked innocently.
“Because maybe they already ate them!” Pee-wee shouted at him. “Maybe
they were in the last pangs of hunger. That shows how much you know
about scouting.”
“Do you have to be hungry to know about scouting?” Howard summoned the
courage to inquire.
“You have to be resourceful,” Pee-wee said. “_Now_ I can see which way
the breeze is blowing, because look at the smoke over the cooking shack;
it’s blowing away from the lake. That means it’s going to rain to-night,
and to-morrow there’ll be more water in the lake and we’ll float away.”
“Won’t we have any dinner till then?” Willie asked.
“Sure we will,” Pee-wee answered, “because Nature is full of food only
you have to know how to get it. You can’t starve because Nature is
abundant.”
“How soon will it be abundant?” Howard asked.
It was not abundant throughout that afternoon at all events, and three
more desperately hungry scouts were never seen disporting amid Nature’s
bounty. It was just short of suppertime, in fact, when they were
discovered and the nature of their predicament suspected. Then a couple
of scouts rowed out and brought them to camp.
Pee-wee carried the tin box containing his share of the profits accruing
from their adventurous voyage and this jingling receptacle of treasure,
together with his somewhat rakish aspect, gave him not a little the
appearance of a pirate of old. A flippant crowd awaited the rescued
mariners at the shore.
“What are you going to do now, Kid? Settle down and live a respectable
life?” one asked.
“Are you going to bury your treasure? Up behind the woodshed is a good
place. Three paces from the trunk of the big elm tree--”
“We’re going to eat,” said Pee-wee.
“You arrived by boat I believe?” a scout asked. “That’s too bad.
Otherwise you might have had three desserts at dinner. We expect to have
three at supper. Ain’t we got fun? You just ought to see us. It’s really
well worth seeing. We charge nothing--_absolutely, positively_. We’ll
expect you to supper then?”
“Oh _do_ come; don’t miss it,” chimed in another.
“Hey Delicatessen,” a scout shouted at Howard; “you’ve got to go home,
your mother sent for you. How do you like a life on the ocean wave,
Willie Rivers? Going to settle down and reform now?”
“I’m going to eat first,” said Willie Rivers.
CHAPTER XXVIII—BRENT AND PEE-WEE
The unexpected return of the Hop-toad Patrol and its almost immediate
dissolution had some very far-reaching consequences at Temple Camp.
Howard Delekson had to go home and Willie Rivers’ parents stopped at
camp with their auto and took him for an extended tour of the Catskills.
So Pee-wee became in fact a free lance. This did not trouble Artie Van
Arlen because he knew that once back in Bridgeboro Pee-wee would start a
new patrol of permanent residents, and probably make a success of it. It
would be a joke patrol, but that would be better than a lifeless patrol
of which there are many. You can’t keep a good scout down.
But there was one at Temple Camp whose amusement at Pee-wee turned to
sympathy as he saw the sturdy little scout going about by himself,
always busy, yet sometimes lingering wistfully around the Ravens’ cabin.
This quiet, keen observer was Brent Gaylong.
Pee-wee was so much a camp institution, and had been so thoroughly a
raven of the Ravens that it seemed grotesque to observe him now,
emerging from the wreck of his own disbanded enterprise without any
troop home. He seemed to be flopping around like a fish out of water.
Probably he was in need of no sympathy or assistance, being a host in
himself. But the sight of him and the thought of him impressed good old
Brent so much that he stopped the Lone Star, as Pee-wee was now called,
and had a little chat with him. It was on the veranda of the main
pavilion where Brent liked to sit tilted back with his long legs against
the railing.
“Anything new?”
“Sure, everything’s new, I got a lot of new ideas. I’m going to get a
snapshot of Connie Bennett when he’s racing and I’m going to give a
print to each member of the Elks. I can get a dandy snapshot because I’m
going to sit in the canoe with him, because I did last summer.”
“If he wins,” laughed Brent.
“Sure he’ll win, because we’ve got to keep that cup in our troop--I mean
his troop. Gee whiz, I keep forgetting. I bet they’ll be glad to get
those snapshots, hey?”
“If he wins,” laughed Brent.
“Sure he’ll win; we’ve--they’ve got to win--the Bridgeboro troop.”
“Wish you were back in it?” Brent drawled.
“Sure, now that the race is coming on. Gee whiz, I was in that patrol
since it started--I was in it _before_ it started even, because I was
with Doc. Carson when he thought of it. We were drinking sodas in
Bennett’s--that’s in Bridgeboro--and he said the Ravens would be a good
name and I said yes, only we’d have to wear black scarfs and I hate
black but that’s not saying I don’t like licorice. Yum, _yum_! Anyway, I
like Billy Simpson only most of the fellows don’t, because he doesn’t
mix in with them, I guess. When he shook hands with me, oh baby, didn’t
he twist my hand! He’s awful strong in the wrist, that feller is. Do you
know how to not make a noise when you sneeze? I can do that. That’s good
when you’re stalking.”
“He shook hands with you? Talked with you?”
“Sure, he’s not mad at me.”
“You get kind of lonesome sleeping in the dormitory?”
“Gee whiz, you can’t be lonesome when you’re asleep.”
“No, that’s true. But when you’re awake.”
“Part of the time I’m eating. I bet you don’t know how to tell if it’s
going to be cold by moss.”
“No. You go up to the cabin much?”
“Sure I do, because all those fellers live in my town, don’t they? El
Sawyer lives right across the way from me. You know him, don’t you? He’s
got a birthmark on his neck but you can’t see it. It’s the shape of
Australia. That’s one place I’d like to go to--Australia. I bet it’s
nice there.”
“Ed and Grove Bronson, they’re in the Ravens, aren’t they?”
“Sure, didn’t I bring them in? I knew how to handle their mother, all
right. They’ve got an Airedale in their house.”
“And Benton?”
“He’s in the Silver Foxes, that’s Roy Blakeley’s patrol. I can beat him
in an argument, I mean Roy. He’s a special chum of mine. My patrol has,
now you count them; Artie Van Arlen, Doc. Carson, Grove Bronson, Ed
Bronson, Punkin Odell and Wig Weigand and El Sawyer and myself--I mean
Billy Simpson.”
“And I bet you’d join again if there was a vacant place, now wouldn’t
you? I bet you’re sorry you ever left them.”
The question seemed to strike home. It subdued Pee-wee in an instant. He
was sitting on the railing and to Brent’s surprise he turned his head
and looked out across the lake.
“Am I right? Huh?”
He only nodded his head up and down and kept looking away. It was funny
how that casual question just caught him and silenced him, as a cloth
thrown over its cage will suddenly silence a singing bird....
CHAPTER XXIX—BRENT AND SIMPSON
Brent Gaylong understood Pee-wee, and he understood Temple Camp. The
next day, as if by accident, he fell in with Billy Simpson. Gaylong had
a kind of genius for falling in with people _by accident_. Billy was
scrutinizing a rock along the trail which went up through the woods to
the main road.
“Scout signs?” Brent queried.
“Looks like a _turn to left_ sign,” said Billy, still absorbed in it;
“but I don’t see any trail to the left, do you?”
“Why don’t you get one of the fellows to help you, Simpson? I mean, to
show you the trails around here. Any one of them would be glad to. Must
be kind of hard, doping things out by yourself.”
“I guess that’s the way I’m made,” said Billy.
“You know, Simp--”
“That’s a good name for me, I guess.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” said Brent, lifting himself lazily onto
a stone wall in a familiar, friendly way. His very manner of doing this
encouraged Simpson to do the same.
“You know, Simpson, you can’t expect two hundred fellows to run after
you. You’re only one; you’ve got to run after them.”
“Don’t rub it in,” said Simpson, “I know I’m not popular.”
“You were so enthusiastic that night we were out on the lake,” Brent
said kindly. “I think the trouble is you don’t mix in; you don’t let
them know what you can do.”
“Look at Everson--”
”I know, but Everson did something _big_; he saved a fellow’s life. You
do something big and then’ll fall all over themselves; they’ll make a
pathway to your door as old somebody-or-other said. That’s the short,
quick way. Otherwise you just have to mix in.”
“Yes,” said Billy with a pitiful air of self disgust, “but there are
scouts here that don’t do anything so very big and they--look at
Blakeley.”
“I know, Blakeley has personality, he attracts, sort of like a magnet.”
“So have you,” said Billy.
“Thanks,” Brent said.
“Trouble with me is I want to do something big and I don’t know how to
do it. What you said about little stuff and little scouts sticks in my
mind. I know I don’t feel at home with them. That isn’t my fault, is
it?”
“Surely not,” said Brent, thoughtfully, as if he were honestly trying to
understand this strange, unhappy fellow.
“I just can’t hand a trustee a whisk-broom and--you know what I mean.
And it’s the same with stunts. If I can’t do something _big_ I won’t do
anything at all.”
“Well, that’s the heroic spirit, I suppose,” Brent mused, trying to
favor Billy and to see his side of the thing.
“Oh, I guess nobody understands,” Billy said, disheartened with himself.
“You needn’t be afraid to open up with me,” said Brent in his whimsical
way. “I’m a good target; all you have to do is just shoot. You see I
haven’t got any talents and things to frighten you away with.... What
seems to be the trouble, Billy?” he shot out suddenly.
That quick, friendly candor, seeming to invite candor in return, caught
Billy Simpson the same as it had caught Pee-wee. You could not get away
from old Doctor Gaylong....
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Billy, despairingly. “I can’t understand
myself, I suppose. Maybe you’ll understand. All alone by myself I can do
things--”
“Paddle,” Brent reminded him cheerily.
“Yes, and in the presence of a great big crowd I could do something--I
wouldn’t care if a million people were watching me. If I saw big crowds
standing around and they were cheering and all that, I’d forget myself
and wouldn’t be--”
“Self-conscious? Sure, go on,” said Brent.
“I wouldn’t be afraid then. I suppose you think I’m crazy, huh? Afraid
of a dozen or so fellows and not afraid of a thousand! I can’t do
anything unless I forget myself. Maybe you’ll say I’m just spectacular.
I guess I’m morbid. I’m all the time dreaming about being a hero--”
“And meanwhile you don’t make friends,” Brent said kindly.
“I can’t help it, I can’t butt in, I just can’t.”
There followed a pause. Brent felt very sorry for this fellow who could
not seem to fall in line with others; who could overcome his shyness and
self-consciousness only on some occasion quite out of his reach. Those
who dream of being heroes are seldom heroes. Billy did not seem to fit
into the scout program or the scout habit. And his undoubted talents
were going to waste.
“Will Simpson,” drawled Brent, partly to cheer him and partly to come
around to the main purpose of the talk, “I’ll say this much for
you--you’re not little. You may be even too big for this crowd. Only
you’re not having much fun. Anyway, you’re no
sharpen-the-pencil-for-teacher scout. You’re no
tie-my-handkerchief-in-a-knot-so-as-not-to-forget-my-good-turn scout,
that’s sure.”
“Thanks,” said Billy; “I started out that way but you set me right.”
“I’m like a guide-post,” laughed Brent; “I point the way but never go
there. I wonder whether you’d be interested in a--what you might call a
middle class good turn, Simpson? I’ve got a job lot of good turns I’m
trying to dispose of. This one isn’t very big, and it isn’t very little.
It’s a little under your size perhaps. What would you think of letting
Harris sit in the boat with Bennett in the races? It seems he did that
last summer, and he’s sort of counting on it. He has an inspiration, it
seems; you know he gets those. I guess nobody has told him about you
being promised the place. I don’t suppose you care two straws about it.”
“If I hadn’t cared about it I wouldn’t have asked,” said Billy.
“Good,” said Brent, “then that makes the good turn all the gooder. It
sort of comes up to your size--”
“I’m not willing to do it,” Simpson broke in.
“Oh,” said Brent, rather taken aback; “all right, I just thought I’d
ask. You’re in the kid’s patrol, or rather he used to be in your patrol,
and I thought maybe you’d be interested in him. He’s kind of--kind of an
odd number just now. Poor little codger. He’s full of troop spirit and
he wants to be there when Bennett pulls in. I think Bennett will win,
don’t you?”
“He’s got a kinky side and he works too hard,” said Simpson. “He’ll win
if he doesn’t go to pieces.”
“Well then, why not let the kid act as ballast? Acting as ballast, you
wouldn’t exactly call that something _big_, would you? You and I were
chatting about good turns and all that sort of stuff; now here’s one
made to order for you. A middle sized one, that’s what I call it.... Not
interested?”
“Nothing doing,” said Simpson.
“Well then, the kid will have to stand on shore. I only thought--he’s
sort of--sort of--out--”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Simpson. “I suppose you think it would be a good
thing for me to get out of the Raven Patrol and let him go back in.”
“I never thought of that,” said Brent, not unkindly but with a little
suggestion of disappointment and surprise. “I’d call _that_ something
really big. Almost too big.”
“The largest size made, huh?” said Billy. “Well, you needn’t worry, I’m
not going to do that just at present. I’m not a quitter.”
“Well, there’s no hard feeling?” Brent asked, still sorry for him. “If I
happen to have a job lot of heroic acts, vast multitude stuff, I’ll
bring them around and let you look them over. You may find something to
fit you.”
There was just the faintest note of sarcasm in this last remark, and
Billy Simpson realized that he had lost some measure of regard from the
only real friend he had in camp.
CHAPTER XXX—THE COMING EVENT
Brent said nothing of his talk with Simpson, but in some mysterious way
these things get abroad in a large camp, and it came to be known that
Billy Simpson had refused to yield his place in the canoe to Pee-wee. No
one would have thought twice about it except for Pee-wee’s position and
the fact that he was such a universal favorite.
That Simpson should hold Connie Bennett to a casual promise in a matter
so trifling caused the camp to look on him with a kind of tolerant
contempt. He had never been popular but now he became unpopular. To
Brent it seemed that the scout who had wanted to do something big had
done something unspeakably small. But he did not say this. The view that
most scouts took of it was that it was too small to talk about.
Nor was there time to talk or think about it, for the big event was now
close at hand, and the three patrols of the Bridgeboro troop united in
the troop cause of keeping the Mary Temple Cup in their own scout
circle. “United we stand, divided we sprawl,” said Roy Blakeley; “when
we race and when we eat we’re all one--we’re a league of rations.”
About the most pathetic sight at Temple Camp was Pee-wee, aroused by
this troop spirit, united with his old colleagues in the common cause;
shouting, boasting, denouncing, arguing, belittling, extolling,
predicting, like the loyal little rooter that he was.
He won the big race twenty times a day, and several times in his dreams
each night. He championed even the Silver Foxes, and the Elks, of which
Connie Bennett was leader, were the subjects of his unstinted eulogy.
There were no patrols now, just the troop, and he was _for_ it if not
_of_ it. He had his camera ready for a close snapshot of Connie if
chance should still smile on him and let him sit in that canoe. He made
a new pole for the troop pennant which the canoe would carry. He dangled
his legs from the springboard and said the red-headed fellow from Ohio
didn’t stand a chance. His imagination overcame the obstacle of
non-membership and he became the voice and spirit of the troop--_his_
troop.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that they--we--I mean
they--can’t beat everybody because don’t we live in Bridgeboro where
there’s a river and we all have canoes--except a few that haven’t?”
“They’re born with paddles in their mouths,” said a Virginia scout.
“And oars!” Pee-wee shouted.
It went to Brent Gaylong’s heart to see Pee-wee trudging down from the
Ravens’ cabin night to go to bed in the pavilion dormitory. He might
have stayed on cabin hill but only one full patrol could bunk in a
cabin. Pee-wee never questioned the camp rules or the rules of the scout
organization. “Gee whiz, they’re good rules all right,” he said. And he
never overstepped the privilege of a non-member. That was the pathetic
part of it. He watched them wistfully when they voted, contented, happy,
just to be among them.
Just in proportion as he made a pathetic picture, just in that same
proportion did Billy Simpson become more and more an object of tolerant
contempt. If he had made the little sacrifice in the matter of the canoe
it would not have been so bad, but now they were ready enough to think
ill of him, reasonably or not. And often their dislike was without
reason, for indeed he was as much a member of the Raven Patrol as any
other Raven was.
If there was any criticism in that matter Artie Van Arlen should have
borne it. It is only fair to Artie to say that from the day he summoned
Billy Simpson from Bridgeboro, he was friendly to him, and fair to him,
and seemed to believe in him. He did not study him, as Brent might have
done, because it was not given to him to do that. But he treated him
with a wholesome cheerfulness and with the same fraternal air which
characterized his demeanor toward all. If he was disappointed he did not
say so. If he had expected Billy to bring honors, merit badges, to the
patrol he renounced that hope amiably. He was a pretty good all-around
sort of a fellow, was Artie.
The camp assistant, young Mr. Slade, spoke to him one day. “You know,
Van, this is an impossible situation,” said he; “Pee-wee’s a Raven.
You’re taking liberties with nature, you fellows are.”
“It can’t be helped now,” said Artie; “besides I’m not worrying and I’ll
tell you why. Do you want to know?”
“Go ahead, shoot.”
“Pee-wee doesn’t belong to the Boy Scouts of America. The Boy Scouts of
America belong to Pee-wee. Just wait till he gets back home. You’re not
afraid he’s going to drift away, are you?”
“Well, it knocks me clean to see him,” said Slade.
“You and old Doc. Gaylong ought to camp under a weeping willow, you’re
so tender-hearted. How about the race?”
“Nothing about it,” said Slade; “except everything’s ready, and Connie
Bennett is going to win it.”
“Sure thing?”
“That’s what Pee-wee says,” said Tom. “He says we’ve won it already.”
“Well, to-morrow’s the day,” said Artie cheerily. “Pee-wee says if the
cup gets away from _us_, he’ll never look Mary Temple in the face again.
But he’ll accept an ice cream soda from her.”
CHAPTER XXXI—THE SAND-BAG
The regatta was always the big event of the season at Temple Camp.
Pee-wee always had to suck lemon drops for several days succeeding it to
ease the huskiness in his throat. Sometimes he continued sucking them
for several weeks, for a scout is nothing if not thorough.
The institution of the regatta (and the lemon drops) dated from the
season when pretty Mary Temple, daughter of the camp’s founder, had
offered the silver cup. A Rhode Island troop had won it, then it had
passed to a Pennsylvania troop, and then to the Bridgeboro Troop. The
Bridgeboro scouts took a particular pride in keeping it because
Bridgeboro was the home town of the Temples.
Each troop chose its challenger or defender by its own process of
selection, paying a certain regard to the claims of its patrols.
Naturally the merit badge for Athletics, or for Physical Development, or
for Seamanship, would imply eligibility for the honor of challenger or
defender. And these things counted in the selection.
Particularly had they counted in the selection of Connie Bennett of the
Elk Patrol for defender. How much they really counted in a race was
another question. Also, as in the selection of a presidential candidate
the claims of the states have to be considered, so in this business the
patrols had to be considered, and it was now considered to be the Elk
Patrol’s turn. Thus Connie Bennett had been put forward.
There was no complaint about this and no anxiety, but there was just a
little undercurrent of feeling (which Pee-wee could not browbeat out of
the troop’s mind) that the cup was not _quite_ so secure upon its little
velvet box as they could wish it to be.
A course was marked around the lake by long poles driven in about
fifteen to eighteen feet from shore. Some of them had to be pretty long
to reach the bottom. They were saved from year to year. A heavy cord was
carried around the lake caught at each of these poles and from this cord
hung troop and patrol pennants at intervals all the way round. The whole
thing made a very festive and inspiring sight. The cup race (always a
canoe event because Mary Temple thought that canoes were scoutish, being
of Indian origin) consisted of one complete round of the lake. There
were other races of course; comic events, tub races and the like.
I wish to tell you of this thing just as it occurred for it is talked of
at Temple Camp whenever scouts get around a camp-fire. And in a sense it
has never been fully explained.
Mary Temple, with her parents, came up from Bridgeboro by auto, reaching
camp early in the afternoon. They received an ovation as usual. Mary was
exceedingly pretty and looked the more so because of the color which the
breeze had blown into her cheeks. She reached down out of the car and
shook hands merrily with Connie Bennett and handed Pee-wee an enormous
box of peanut brittle, which caused much laughter.
“Oh, I know you, too,” she said, reaching out her hand to Billy Simpson
who lingered in the background. “I often see you in Bridgeboro.”
Billy Simpson seemed greatly embarrassed, and he never looked quite so
much alone as he did then, for all the clamor ceased as she shook his
hand, and the throng fell back silent. There was nothing intentional in
this; it just happened that way. But one or two scouts noticed that
Simpson was more perturbed and shy than the very commonplace little
incident seemed to warrant. He just stared at Mary Temple and did not
take his eyes from her. Brent Gaylong said afterward that there was
something in his eyes, he did not know what, but that he seemed like one
possessed....
He was not seen again until the time of his destiny. A tub race took
place, a graceful affair in which all the participants fell in the
water. This was followed by a swimming race, and a couple of boat races.
Next followed a race of several canoes. And then the event of the day.
The scout who had wriggled his way to the position of challenger was a
red-headed fellow from the Middle West. Pee-wee loathed him for no other
reason than that he dared to try for the cup.
He was lithe and slender, and had a rather attractive way of holding his
head. He looked the young athlete through and through and there was a
kind of aggressiveness about him such as to disconcert an opponent. His
troop seemed very proud of him. He did not show off exactly, but his
manner was such as to make one think he took his victory for granted. A
little deference to his opponents would have been more becoming. Having
seated himself in his canoe and his companion being seated also, he
waited at the float with a blasé air of patience as if he were anxious
to get the thing over with.
This cut and dried assurance was in marked contrast with Connie’s
demeanor, which was modest and painfully nervous. The throng, gathered
about the float and alongshore for many yards on either side, cheered as
he stepped into his canoe and nervously accepted the paddle that was
handed him.
A silent, solitary figure in a black sweater stood upon the float near
Mr. Currie, the starter. He gazed out across the lake, seeming very
nervous. He seemed to be trying to concentrate his eyes and thoughts on
something quite removed from the scene about him. One might have fancied
something exalted, spiritual, in his aspect, but the coarse, black
sweater and rather hulking shoulders, spoiled that.
“This your sand-bag?” Mr. Currie asked. He meant nothing disrespectful.
It was just the name used for the one going to steady the canoe. But
there was a tittering here and there in the crowd as the figure in the
black sweater stepped into the bow of Connie’s light, bobbing little
craft and sat hunched up there.
No one thought of him again. They were thinking of pleasanter things....
CHAPTER XXXII—SOMETHING BIG
The two canoes glided forward abreast. It was a good start. A chorus of
cheers went up from the crowd near the float and was taken up by the
groups which dotted the shore for the distance of half way round the
lake.
The inner side of the course was lined with canoes and rowboats, and
even Pee-wee’s ship, the _Hop-toad_, had been dislodged and floated to
the cord line and anchored. A group of scouts upon it cheered themselves
hoarse. Goldenrod Cove was filled with canoes. But the preferable stand
was at the float where the race began and would end. Here a great throng
waited, and on its outskirts scouts sprawled upon the grass, perched
upon the roofs of shacks, and crowded on the diving-board till it almost
broke with their weight. Here the judges waited. Here the string was
stretched low across the course to be snapped asunder by the gliding bow
of the victor. Across the course, at intervals, scout officials rested
on their oars and waited, watchful for violations of the rules.
The green canoe of the red-headed scout crept ahead a yard--two
yards--three yards. Connie strained every muscle and, in his
apprehension as the distance between the canoes widened, he fell to
using shorter strokes. The shorter stroke seems to keep time with the
beating heart; it looks like speed and feels like speed; it is
_hustling_. It is hard for the amateur to believe that calmness and the
long, mechanically steady stroke, are the only things to depend on.
“Make your stroke longer, not shorter whatever you do,” said Simpson.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Connie, breathing heavily.
Simpson caught the rebuke and sat silent, watching apprehensively.
Connie seemed to think that his speed would be proportioned to his
frantic exertion and he was surprised to see the distance between the
two canoes widening. His spectacular efforts were received with applause
for _action_ is what the multitude likes, and that strengthened Connie’s
confidence in his method, which was no method at all. He gained a little
(for a spurt will always accomplish that) but he lost in fatigue what he
gained in distance.
“Don’t look at him,” Simpson pled anxiously. “It would be better if you
were rowing, then you couldn’t see him. Bend way forward, reach out your
lower hand--”
“Who’s doing this?” Connie panted. “Don’t--don’t--don’t--don’t
you--you--know what you’re--you’re here for?”
The look of hurt pride on Simpson’s face turned to one of grim disgust
and accusation. He saw the green canoe a couple of lengths ahead, and
saw flags waving, heard the deafening cheers all about him. He was not
shy or fearful now.
“Can’t you guess what I’m here for?” he said, between his teeth. “_It’s
so that the kid’s troop will win._ It’s because I _knew_ you’d go to
pieces. Don’t look at the crowd, you fool! Bend forward--far--”
“I--I can’t,” Connie panted, releasing one hand long enough to press his
side. The fatal kink had come, as it is pretty sure to do in erratic
striving combined with frantic fear and excitement.
“Shall I take it?” he heard.
“_You?_” he said, surprised. “You can’t--anyway--it--it--wouldn’t be a
race--they’d--they’d--”
In a sudden, abandoned frenzy of striving, Connie brought his canoe
within a length of the other. In its way it was a feat, but it spent his
last ounce of energy and left his side hurting as if he had been
stabbed. Encouraged by the cheering he drove his paddle into the water
with a vertical force that eased his panic fears, but had no effect upon
his progress. The canoe seemed to halt and jerk like a balky horse.
Now he heard the deafening cheers as in a kind of trance.
“Walk away from him, Red!”
“You’re losing him! Keep it up!”
“Step on it, Red!”
“Give her the gas!”
“Let her out, Red!”
“_Oh boy_, watch him step!”
“All over but the shouting!”
Not quite, oh crowd. As Connie Bennett’s hand left the paddle to press
his agonized side, he felt another gently take it from him. What next
happened he felt rather than saw. He heard deafening cheers interspersed
with cries of “_No fair!_” And then derisive shouts and cat calls. He
felt the right side of the canoe dip until his trembling hand which
grasped the gunwale felt the cooling touch of the water.
He was conscious of a form crawling past him. He heard a voice, hoarse
and tense it seemed, urging him to move forward. It all happened as in a
vision. The shouting, the cries of surprise and derision, sounded far
away, like echoes.
He was better now, but his heart was thumping; he had almost fainted. He
saw a rowboat with an official pennant very near. He saw canoes across
the course line. He saw Billy Simpson in the stern of the canoe; not
sitting, not kneeling, but sort of crouching. He looked strange,
different....
“You can’t do that,” the man in the rowboat said.
“Let’s finish anyway,” said Simpson; “I’ll take a handicap that will
shut their mouths. After that if they want to call it off, let them do
it.”
He had already grasped the paddle in a strange fashion; his left arm
seemed to be wound around it and his elbow acted as a sort of brace. The
other hand he held above his head, grasping his hat (the ordinary scout
hat) so that all might see. The shorter reach which this one handed
paddling enforced was made up by the lightning movement of his body back
and forth in the canoe. For a moment the crowd laughed in derision. But
as the white canoe of the Bridgeboro Troop shot forward, those who
hooted paused in gaping amazement.
Now his bow was close upon his rival’s stern. Now it was abreast of the
red-headed figure. Now past it, and clear of the green bow.
The red-headed scout was too proud to complain of a one-armed rival. And
his troop comrades could not see him sheltered by any rule or custom in
the face of such a phenomenal display.
Steadily, steadily, the white canoe glided forward. The reach of the
red-headed paddler was extended. But he could not vie with that human
shuttle which worked with the monotonous steadiness of machinery. He
seemed disconcerted by the mere dull regularity of that relentless
engine just ahead of him.
[Illustration: BILLY SIMPSON WON THE RACE WHILE PADDLING WITH ONE HAND.]
They came in sight of the float two lengths apart. The distance
increased to three lengths. The crowd went wild with excitement. Amid a
perfect panic of yells including weird calls of every patrol in camp,
the white canoe swept abreast of the float, snapped the cord and danced
along to the curving shore beyond the finish.
It was in that moment of tumult and clamor, amid the waving of flags and
scarfs, and a medley of patrol calls which made the neighborhood seem
like a jungle, that Pee-wee Harris, forgetting himself entirely, hurled
piece after piece of peanut brittle after the receding victor, which
action he later regretted and dived here and there to recover these
tribute missiles. But alas, they were gone forever.
CHAPTER XXXIII—AND SOMETHING BIGGER
But the Mary Temple cup was safe upon its little velvet pedestal.
There was only one name upon the lips of all, now. But he heard the
shouts only in a sort of trance. He heard his name called, and it
sounded strange to him to hear _his_ name--Billy Simpson--shrieked by
the multitude. It sounded like a different name, somehow. He could not
face them--no, he could not do that. And no one saw him.
No one saw him as he crept up through the bushes far from the screaming,
howling, clamorous, worshipping crowd. No one saw him as he sped around
the edge of camp and past Outpost Cabin where his own name echoed
against the dead, log walls. _His own name!_ No one saw him as he
climbed up through the woods to Cabin Hill. Yes, one person saw him. A
tenderfoot scout who thought more of some bobolink or other than of the
race, saw him. He was gazing up into the tree, a small lonely figure,
when the victor, the hero, sped by. It seemed to him that the fleeing
figure spoke to him; anyway, it spoke.
“Tell her--tell her I couldn’t have done it if she hadn’t been watching
me.”
The tenderfoot scout did not know whom he was speaking of, so no one was
ever told anything. He thought the fleeing figure in the black sweater
might be a thief.
Reaching the Ravens’ cabin, the victor paused just a second, and
listened to the spent sound of the cheering down at the shore. Then he
fell to ransacking his suitcase for a writing tablet. He had no duffel
bag, for you see he was only a new scout. He had come hastily, with
heart beating high.
Upon his writing tablet he scrawled a few lines, and left the whole
tablet, with a stone for a weight, upon the stump outside. He had stood
by that stump when he had taken the scout oath. His one frantic fear was
that Brent Gaylong would amble along and show him that what he was going
to do was all wrong; call him a quitter.
A sound! No--yes! No, it was only the breeze in the quiet trees.
He gathered together his few poor belongings, then paused for a last
glimpse at the note.
Tell Gaylong I don’t bother with little things. Tell Pee-wee
Harris the cup is safe till next summer anyway. Tell him his
place is open in the patrol because I’m through. He knows
what fixing means, because he’s a fixer. So tell him I fixed
it. He’s the best little scout that ever was--_he’s my idea
of a scout_.
Then he was gone. He hurried up through the woods and waited for the
bus. He had to carry his suitcase continuously in his right hand,
because his left hand and arm were nearly numb. The driver had to help
him up into the bus, he was so stiff and lame.
As he sat in the seat, nursing his stinging hand, and saw the beautiful
Catskill country, the wide fields where the men were cutting hay, the
woods through which the scout trails ran, the distant smoke arising from
the cooking shack at Temple Camp, the whole episode of his coming, of
his triumph and of his going away seemed like happenings in a wonderful
dream....
THE END
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