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Title: Skinny McCord
Author: Percy Keese Fitzhugh
Illustrator: Howard L. Hastings
Release date: July 11, 2025 [eBook #76477]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1928
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKINNY MCCORD ***
[Frontispiece: HE GROPED BLINDLY FOR THE PROJECTING TREE.
_Skinny McCord_. _Frontispiece_ (_Page_ 61)]
SKINNY McCORD
_By_
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
_Author of_
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
THE WESTY MARTIN BOOKS
ILLUSTRATED BY
HOWARD L. HASTINGS
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I Skinny Loses Something
II Shadows
III Ears that Hear
IV By the Dead Fire
V Face to Face
VI In the Dim Light
VII Dark Plans
VIII Stealth
IX For Danny
X Won
XI If
XII Scout Law Number Two
XIII Alias Danville Bently
XIV The Pioneer Scout
XV The Serenade
XVI The Accused
XVII The Masquerader
XVIII To Pastures New
XIX The New Arrival
XX Skinny's Protégé
XXI Temple Camp Takes Notice
XXII Partners
XXIII Henny's Cave
XXIV Missing
XXV From Above
XXVI With the Smoke
XXVII Skinny's Hero
XXVIII It Runs in the Family
XXIX Just as Easy--
XXX Fixed
XXXI Holly Hollis
XXXII The Night Before
XXXIII Victory and Then--
XXXIV The Price
SKINNY McCORD
CHAPTER I
SKINNY LOSES SOMETHING
There was great excitement around the camp-fire. Skinny McCord had
lost his compass. He had dropped it and it had rolled away, and all
the boys were making a great show of helping him to find it. They
did this not wholly from kindness.
Skinny was a sensitive boy and it gave his comrades great delight to
see him embarrassed, as he always was when made the subject of group
talk or the center of interest. Not that they would have hesitated a
moment to assist Skinny. For they liked him immensely and would have
done anything in the world for him. But they were a mirthful lot,
these scouts of Temple Camp, and felt a certain bantering enjoyment
in seeing him uneasy, as he always was when the spotlight was thrown
on him. They liked that diffident way of his--that bashful smile.
This was his second summer at camp and still he was shy; he would
probably always be shy....
It was not much of a compass that he had lost; just a little tin
affair. He was sorry that he had chosen to transfer it from one
pocket to another, for now he found himself the star attraction of
the camp-fire throng. "It--it isn't much good anyway," he said;
"don't bother."
But they did bother. They had Skinny where they wanted him and they
could not let the occasion go by. He would have to go through with
this torture. He often suffered such torture at the hands of these
scouts who would have knocked any one down who dared to harm him.
"Everybody hunt for Skinny's compass!" called Roy Blakeley. (He was
easily the worst of the lot.) "Get out of the way," he said as he
rolled Pee-wee Harris over on the ground, and made great pretense of
scrutinizing the spot. "Don't sit around gaping when Skinny's
compass is lost. Correct imitation of boy scouts hunting for a lost
compass that didn't know which way it was rolling."
"Would you mind getting up, Uncle Jeb, so we can look under that log
for Skinny McCord?" said another boy. Poor Skinny looked almost
frightened to see the old western trapper, master of woods lore in
camp, smilingly arise while a dozen scouts searched under the log
seat, to the accompaniment of a clamorous chorus.
"All fall to and hunt for Skinny's compass!"
"Hey, Skinny, we'll find it!"
"Go and get a couple of scoutmasters and a few councilors."
"Tell them Skinny McCord lost his compass."
"We'll form a posse," said Roy.
"Don't worry, Skinny, we'll find it."
"Everybody hunt for the compass of Skinny McCord."
"Sit still, Skinny; your thousands of friends will find it for you."
He sat still, his face as red as the end of the big iron poker which
lay in the fire. He might have served as a model for a statue of
embarrassment as he sat on his old grocery box fearfully
contemplating the rumpus he had caused. Timidly he glanced at
Councilor Barrows as if to assure that smiling official that he had
not intended to interrupt the proceedings with all this hubbub.
In company Skinny never permitted himself to occupy a whole seat. He
sat on the edge of a chair or box or boat seat; this was the
invariable sign of his embarrassment. "Sit back and make yourself at
home, Skinny," they would say. But that was the one thing poor
Skinny could never do--make himself at home. His getting into the
scouts was the great thing in his young life and he had been in a
sort of trance ever since. He had never got over the shock. They
had told him that pretty soon he would be a patrol leader. His
elevation to that height would certainly have killed him.
A scout from Indiana (one of those robust jolliers who enliven camps)
jumped upon a rough seat, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted
like a fish pedler, "Ooooooh! Everybody! Scout McCord of
Bridgeboro--First Bridgeboro Troop--has lost his compass! Come one,
come all, and help find it!"
They were all crawling about on their hands and knees, fifty or more
of them, upturning boxes and throwing camp stools about in hilarious
exaggeration of helpfulness. And there sat poor Skinny smiling
bashfully. If a pack of lions had suddenly taken it into their heads
to roar their tribute to a kitten as a member of their family, the
kitten's attitude would have been comparable to that of poor Skinny.
But the spasm of raillery was soon over. They were more concerned
with Skinny's discomfiture than with finding the fugitive compass.
And they did not find it; it had rolled gayly off and baffled all
these trackers and pathfinders. Skinny did not let his uproarious
comrades know how much he really did want to find it. He was even
glad when the excitement was over. He hoped they would resume
camp-fire yarns and forget all about it. He had suffered quite
enough this agony of being in the public eye.
But the fire was burning low now and there were no more camp-fire
yarns. There was a continuous exodus from the spot. Sitting there
one might see scouts, singly and in groups, moving into the darkness,
up the hill or along Cabin Lane or toward Tent Village, as they
called it, to their quarters. Slowly the reflection of the fire in
the lake near by diminished until there was nothing but a tiny red
glow on the black water.
"So long, see you in the morning," was repeated again and again as
patrols went their several ways off into the solemn stillness of the
big scout community, It was more than a camp, this lakeside
foundation started by Mr. John Temple; it was a sort of scout city in
the wilderness. One could be quite alone and unnoticed there, if he
so chose, even as one may be a hermit in the metropolis.
Soon only half a dozen or so of the merry, lolling throng remained,
and these sat meditating as they waited for the fire to die. There
were always a few to linger like this; a few who had that gentle
sentiment that likes to see the old year go out, or watch beside a
dying fire. Old Uncle Jeb and Tom Slade, camp assistant, always
waited to trample out the last embers. With them sat two or three of
the older boys.
"Poor kid, it's a lot of fun to see him all flustered," one said.
"He's even got a regular scout suit," said another. "He drove down
to Kingston with Curry in his Ford and bought it and now he's afraid
to wear it. Somebody told me he's been saving up for it ever since
last summer. And now he's afraid to wear it."
"Curry told me it's about forty-'leven sizes too big," drawled lanky
Brent Gaylong. "But I s'pose Skinny figures on growing up to it.
Probably he means to wear it when he's National Scout Commissioner.
A scout has to be prepared as I understand."
"Look out, you'll burn your shoe," said Tom. "If _you_ dressed more
like a scout it wouldn't hurt you any."
"I have the soul of a scout," drawled Brent. "I don't need the
tinseled regalia. What do you suppose would happen," he said
meditatively after a pause, "if Skinny were to be awarded the Gold
Cross and all the high dinkums of scouting were here to pull the
presentation stuff to the plaudits of the multitude! What do you
think he'd do if old man Temple made one of his speeches about him!"
"I think he'd drop dead," said Tom. "But Skinny is no coward; he's
just bashful and sensitive."
"Huh, funny," mused Brent. "He doesn't seem to be any more at home
with the Elks than when he first joined them."
"He's happy," said Tom.
"Thar's cowardly animals, and thar's timid animals," said old Uncle
Jeb, "n' they ain't the same by no manner o' means. That thar
youngster's all right, I reckon. On'y he's shy."
Two of those who had lingered went away; they were silhouetted as
they passed the big lighted window of Benson Dormitory, then were
swallowed by the darkness. Still the trio waited by the dying fire,
silent, meditative. Tom was watching a particular patch of embers as
one by one little particles went out and the tiny area of red
diminished. He could have stamped this out with one foot, but he
took a certain idle pleasure in waiting till it vanished in the black
night. "Why don't the Elks get after Skinny about his new suit?" he
mused aloud.
"I suppose they don't know anything about it," drawled Brent.
"Hmph, poor kid," said Tom.
CHAPTER II
SHADOWS
Tom, Brent and Uncle Jeb were not the only persons who waited that
night for the camp-fire to die. All unknown to each other two boys
lingered in the darkness. One was a slim little fellow with big,
staring eyes, a queer gnome of a boy, who stole out of the Elks
patrol cabin and stood with his gaze fixed on the dying embers,
listening and eagerly waiting for the last watchers to withdraw. He
intended to steal back alone and search for his precious compass.
For this little trinket meant more to him than he had been willing
for that hilarious company to believe.
Now that he had at last achieved the glory of a real scout suit he
could wear this little appurtenance dangling from his scout belt in
the flaunting manner of Pee-wee Harris. In the store at Kingston he
had bashfully tried this suit on (to the great amusement of his
companion, Curry) and he had looked like a bolster in it. But no
size seemed to fit him. Poor Skinny would never look trim. As he
waited there in the darkness, watching the last faint glow of the
fire, he had not a little the appearance of an hour glass, with his
belt drawn so absurdly tight that his clothing seemed to bulge above
and below it.
The other boy who waited for the fire to die was not a scout. He sat
on a rough bench up at the roadside just where the path led down
through the woods into camp. Approaching along this road one reached
a sign with an arrow pointing down into the woods and with the words
_To Temple Camp_ printed on it. A trail wound down the wooded slope
to the sprawling scout community at the lakeside. At this point
where the trail left the road stood the old bench and close by it a
post surmounted by a huge letter-box where the rural carrier left the
camp mail.
The spot was a pleasant loitering place as was evidenced by the many
carved initials on the bench and the post. No part of the camp was
visible from this spot though sometimes a little glint of silvery
water was discoverable through the trees. But at night two distinct
glowing areas could be seen from the wayside seat. Many a new scout
had been fooled by these. It was one of the popular jokes of camp to
take a new arrival up to the road at night, and then send him forth
to find the northern-most glow, which was only the reflection of the
camp-fire in the distant lake. Even so good a scout as Bert Winton,
who was a Vermont Eagle, had gone hiking down into the dark woods in
search of this fire and had gone clear around the camp and come out
up at the end of the lake where Tenderfoot Cove is, only to see the
glow reduced to a little glinting patch on the water.
The boy who was not a scout had come along the road looking for the
camp. At Leeds, the nearest village, he had been told where to turn
down into the woods. But now that he had reached the spot he
hesitated, for the two bright areas down there in the woods told him
that the camp people were still about. It was his intention to enter
the camp unseen. He was very weary and was not averse to sitting on
the bench and waiting. Now and then he glanced furtively up and down
the dark road as if fearful that he might be discovered, and once
when an auto sped by, throwing a momentary glare over the spot, he
cringed and breathed quickly.
He was about sixteen, this boy, and tall of stature with a litheness
about him which suggested the cautious stealth of an animal. His
eyes were gray and large, but he kept them half closed and used them
with a kind of darting agility. When he arose and stepped across the
road for a better look at the glowing areas, there was a certain
elasticity in his step, a silent springiness, very suggestive of wild
life and extraordinarily graceful. He laid his hands against his
hips and narrowed his eyes in studious concentration on those distant
spots of light. It was a fine, unconscious posture.
The path of least resistance for a boy's hands at this moment would
have been his trousers pockets, but the trousers worn by this boy had
no pockets. They were gingham trousers and afforded their wearer not
one single carrying facility. This boy had grown used to pocketless
trousers and accustomed himself to that picturesque way of standing
with his hands against his hips.
For several minutes he gazed steadily at those distant glowing
patches. His narrowed eyes became steely in this concentration. A
fine, inspiring figure of a scout, baffled and yet resolved, he made
as he stood there. Suddenly some little creature of the woodland
made a sound in its nightly prowling and the boy turned with
lightning rapidity, listening fearfully. Then he resumed his study
of the distant patches of light. He was vivisecting them at long
distance, comparing the flickering movements one with another.
"I'll be--Those aren't two fires," said he. "There's only one. The
other's just a reflection. The two of them move alike."
It was not so bad for a boy who was not a scout. Still, when this
boy set about doing a thing he usually succeeded. The very night
before he had essayed to do a daring thing, a dreadful thing. And he
had succeeded.
CHAPTER III
EARS THAT HEAR
It was a desperate business, but he had succeeded--so far. He was
not going to jeopardize his success now by an ill-considered move.
So he resolved to rest on the bench till the last distant flicker
disappeared and he could feel certain that every one in camp had
retired. Then he would follow the path down through the woods.
He removed his hat and took an empty cigarette box from inside the
crown. There were no cigarettes left in it, but a certain devilish
instinct of caution had prompted him to save the little pasteboard
folder with removable matches that had accompanied his forbidden
purchase. Then he took off a shoe and withdrew from it a damp and
soiled slip of paper containing a memorandum which he read by the
light of a match. _Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. Up path from fire
turn left--second cabin_. He knew the words by heart, but scanned
them finally before crumpling the paper and throwing it away.
As he dropped it under the bench he saw a little square of white
lying on the ground and picking it up found it to be an unopened
letter. It was close to one of the legs of the bench and almost at
the foot of the post supporting the mail box. He struck another
match and read the typewritten address on the envelope: _Temple Camp,
Black Lake, Greene Co., New York_. In the corner was an imprint:
_Bently's Family Hotel, Wave Crest City, Florida_.
He now made a discovery which was destined to give a turn to his
fortunes and start an altogether singular series of adventures. He
found that the heavy dew had dampened the envelope and melted the
glue of the flap so that the envelope lay limp and open in his hand.
He could not forbear to examine a missive which lay thus exposed.
The thought occurred to him that the letter could not have lain long
on the ground without being discovered by those who frequented the
spot. It had probably been brought by the rural carrier that very
afternoon and dropped by the messenger who had emptied the box to
take its contents down to camp. In the dim light of his few
remaining matches, he read the letter.
Wave Crest City, Fla.,
June 27th, 1927.
Board of Councilors,
Temple Camp,
Black Lake, N.Y.
Gentlemen:
This is to notify you that my son, Danville Bently, who was to have
spent the month of July at your camp will not be able to begin his
vacation with you until August second. He is to accompany his mother
and myself to Europe.
We are closing our place here for the summer season to travel abroad
and I have taken the liberty of assuring our boy that the reservation
made for him for July (for which check was sent to cover) may be
shifted to August without prejudice to your summer arrangements.
He is looking forward with high anticipations to his promised month
at your famous camp and we have arranged for him to return with his
older brother on a steamer which will arrive in New York on August
first, so that his trip with us may not interfere with his scouting
activities.
Will you kindly wire me upon receipt of this whether the check
forwarded in recent communication may be applied to accommodation for
August instead of July? If that is satisfactory he will report on
August second.
I sincerely hope that this will be agreeable to you as he would
suffer a very keen disappointment if compelled to forego this first
season at a scout camp.
Very truly yours,
Roswell T. Bently.
As he followed the path down into the woods he had no other thought
in regard to this letter than to see that it was delivered into the
proper hands. He knew well enough how he was to accomplish this
without making his presence known to these strangers. The faintest
glow of the distant fire still burned and by this tiny beacon he saw
that to reach the site of the camp-fire he must leave the beaten
path. He now began to pass isolated cabins, the scattered advance
guard of the growing camp. They were all in darkness, but in one he
heard laughter and singing. Now he passed a row of tents; there was
a dim light in one of them and a figure silhouetted on the canvas.
As he passed the light went out. He moved silently, cautiously
pausing now and again. There was no sign of life.
Presently he was shockingly made aware of the need of stealth.
Pausing before a cabin in front of which was planted a staff with a
white pennant he saw a figure appear suddenly in the doorway.
"No, you don't," said the apparition.
"Did he get away with it?" some one within asked.
"Not so you'd notice it," said the figure in the doorway.
"What's the idea!" the newcomer asked.
"The idea is you didn't get away with it," laughed the boy in the
doorway. "Just keep away from that pennant." And he disappeared
within.
Here was a strange business. They evidently slept with one ear open
at Temple Camp. But why should they think he intended to take
something! Why should they suspect him? Was there anything about
him that enabled strangers to discern his secret? At all events he
must be careful in this uncanny place.
CHAPTER IV
BY THE DEAD FIRE
Of course no one suspected him of trying to steal. He had just had a
glimpse of a little nocturnal game that was popular in camp. Whoever
could remove this pennant was welcome to it and might plant it in
front of his patrol cabin. These midnight raids were very common and
not infrequently successful. Our stealthy visitor had chanced to
pause before the pennant cabin.
He now came to the main body of the camp and saw the whole expanse of
the dark lake with the great bulk of wooded hills beyond. He glanced
about at the cluster of rustic buildings, the main pavilion, the
storehouse and cooking shack, the "eats" pavilion, Administration
Shack. Cautiously (for now he was fearful of the slightest sound) he
approached the lake and stood on the float looking off across the
black water. Close by him the rocking boats knocked one against
another; there was the metallic sound of clanking oar-locks now and
then. How strange seemed all these evidences of life when deserted
and wrapped in darkness!
The diving board pointed out into the lake like a big, ghostly
finger. Slanting upward as it did, it seemed to be pointing at the
precipitous hills across the lake which cast their inverted shadow in
the water, making the dark surface still darker. At night there
seemed always to be two shades of blackness on that enclosed lake,
caused by the vast shadow of the rugged heights beyond. Scouts had
tried to row out to where this deeper gloom in the water began, but
they could never find it.
The prowling stranger examined one of the boats to see if it was
locked. He lifted the chain as gingerly as one would handle a snake.
No, the boats were not locked. He might take one, if he could find
the oars, and row across and baffle pursuit among those
wilderness-clad hills. He could push the boat back into the lake
again and they would just think it had drifted away from its mooring.
He was altogether too clever, this strange boy.
But just now he had business in the camp; then he would consider how
best to proceed on his fugitive way. This was a ticklish matter that
he had now to transact. Then all would be well. So far he believed
he had done well--if you call it doing well to do what he had done.
At least good luck had smiled upon him.
He must now find the camp-fire spot. From this point (according to
the only hint he had) he would see a hill and up that hill _to the
left_, would be the Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. But how to find
and awaken a particular sleeper in that group was a puzzle. If these
boy scouts (he called them boy scouts notwithstanding that he was
himself a boy) were all like the one who had appeared in the cabin
doorway, he would have to practice super-human stealth. He could do
that. He had, in perverted form, every physical quality dear to
scouting.
If he had not been absorbed by very pressing business, he might have
spared a moment to flatter himself that not many boys could prowl
around a sleeping scout camp undiscovered. He was beating them at
their own game. But his only thought about this remote scout
community was that it was to serve his purpose. Two days previously
he had never thought about it. Then he had had an inspiration, two
days hence he would forget that there such a place as Temple Camp.
He found the camp-fire spot, a circle of low masonry, about eight
inches high and ten feet in diameter. It was well removed from the
nearest building. As he looked at it, it reminded him of a tiny
circus ring. It was all strewn with gray ashes and charred bits of
log. He was in the very heart of Temple Camp. For as the camp had
grown larger and extended up the wooded hillside away from the lake,
this nightly gathering place had come to be more than just a
camp-fire. Scouts who seldom met at other times, met here. It was
the market-place of camp.
The roaring blaze which nightly painted its counterpart in the dark
lake, embodied the very essence of scouting. And the romance of this
enchanted spot lingered in the daytime when only ashes remained
within the stone circle, and only upturned boxes and ramshackle
benches and pieces of canvas lay about outside, giving silent
testimony of the throngs that gathered there when the day was done.
The roaring fire is a feature of every camp. At Temple Camp it was
an institution.
But our stealthy visitor had no sentiment about this merry ceremonial
of scouting. He approached the hallowed spot with caution and
glanced about. There seemed to be a hill, or spreading knoll, rising
from the neighborhood, but he could see no cabins on this rising
ground. There was a trail, however, which seemed to come from around
the cooking shack and peter out on this slight eminence. He hardly
knew what to do. He had not fancied the camp to be anything like
this, a community made up of cabin groups and rustic avenues and tiny
isolated abodes far removed from the body of the original camp. It
was like a little city with tiny suburbs. Even with the information
he had, he was hunting for a needle in a haystack.
His foot caught in a loop of rope attached to a square of old tent
canvas on which several scouts had sprawled. He stumbled, fell over
a bench, scrambled to his feet, and was instantly aware of a dark
figure on the opposite side of the circle. It seemed to have risen
simultaneously with him, almost like his shadow. He was startled,
every nerve on edge. Was this another of those uncanny beings
appearing to challenge him? The dark figure said not a word, only
stared at him.
CHAPTER V
FACE TO FACE
For a few moments the stranger scrutinized the figure. It moved, and
he seemed relieved.
"That you, Tiny?" he ventured hesitatingly.
"It's--it's _Danny_!" said the other, aghast.
"_Hsh_, not so loud. Yes, it's Danny. I'm in luck."
He stepped across the circle and put his arm around the younger boy.
"What are you doing here--this time of night?" he whispered.
"I was hunting for my compass. They were making fun of me so I came
back alone to hunt for it. Did they--Danny, did they let you out?"
"_Shh_--ut up. No, I gave them the slip. I hiked it all the way
here to see you. I'm on my way--now don't get excited and don't talk
loud."
"You mean--you--mean you _escaped_?"
"Yep, and you're going to pay me back for licking Dick Kinney. Don't
you know how you said you would?"
"Yes, only I'm scared."
"I'm the one to be scared--only I'm not."
"Yes, but Danny," Skinny pleaded as he nervously gripped the other's
shirt with both hands, "listen--Danny--" (he almost pulled the shirt
up over the other's belt in his nervous excitement) "you, you stepped
right in the ashes and now you'll make tracks."
"You little devil of a boy scout," laughed the taller boy in a
good-humored whisper. "Come on, where can we go and talk? This
blamed place sleeps with its ears open."
"Are they--Danny, are they coming after you?" Skinny asked in panic
fright. "Are they coming here, Danny?"
"Not to-night, kid."
"But to-morrow--Danny?"
"I'll be gone before to-morrow."
"Yes, but they'll get you, Danny," Skinny said, jerking in a panic of
fear at the shirt he still gripped. "I know how you licked Dick
Kinney, but----"
"Come ahead, where can we talk, kid?"
"Maybe they don't know you've got a brother here, hey?" Skinny said
hopefully.
"Naah, they don't know that. They're a bunch of yimps."
"Yes, but--all right, come on up this way."
You would never have supposed that the diffident, bashfully smiling
little fellow who had blushed scarlet at the rumpus he had caused at
camp-fire was the same as he who now hurried silently up the wooded
hillside away from the main body of camp, expressing nervous
excitement in every look and move. Little did his scout comrades
know of the fire that burned in the soul of this forlorn little scout
whose quaint discomfiture they so much enjoyed.
"Come on up here," he breathed excitedly, looking fearfully back
toward the area of peril. "Now I'm glad they jollied me--you bet;
I'm glad I went back there. Come on up this way and don't speak when
we go past that cabin. There's a scout in there that's got the one
eye cup. That's for sleeping with one eye open. It don't mean that
exactly--shhh. He's the one makes fun of me, because I didn't have a
scout suit----"
"He'd sleep with both eyes black if I was here," said Danny. This
was quite a boast, but I dare say he would have made it good.
"Hsh, we have to be good and scared of that feller."
It was no wonder that this dubious brother treated Skinny with a kind
of protective kindness. Such an odd, likable, temperamental little
bundle of nerves he seemed, when aroused. It was his fate never to
be at his best in public; his sadder fate to be at his very best with
this fugitive adventurer when secrecy was imperative. A queer little
hobgoblin of a boy he seemed without one single evidence of the scout
in his appearance.
He led the way up the hill till their progress was interrupted by an
old railroad cut, which at that point was so overgrown that it seemed
a natural hollow. Clambering down the side with the aid of trees and
brush, Skinny stood triumphantly beside a tiny shanty which had once
been a shelter for a switchman. It was now quite fallen to pieces,
but its board roof had been propped up, and the dense brush that
tumbled over it effectually concealed it and kept it from leaking too
freely. As a romantic retreat there was much to be said for it.
Skinny had discovered it and made it his own; it was his private
retreat.
Within there was nothing but a shelf and an old red lantern hanging
on a rusty nail. But there was oil inside the lantern which Skinny
had once fetched thither in a tomato can. The smell of this lantern
when lighted was like unto no stench that ever assailed human
nostrils. To this remote refuge Skinny was wont to repair when he
wanted to pretend that he was a pioneer, and when the banter at camp
was too vociferous for him.
The very sight of this place was a relief to Danny, and he perched on
the shelf while Skinny lighted the lantern. "Listen here, Tiny,"
said he. "Do you remember when you was just a little bit of a shaver
and you said I was half a brother----"
"I didn't mean it that way--honest----"
"I know you didn't, you thick little dub. Do you remember how pop
told you I was _half-brother_, not half a brother! Then when Dick
Kinney said you were only about a quarter of a brother and he took
your ball away, do you remember how I landed him one? Knocked him
goofy? And you said you'd pay me back?"
"Sure, I do, Danny, only----"
"Naah, there's no _only_ about it kid. I got a letter from pop and
he said how he sent you fifteen dollars--I got it at Blythedale. He
says when I get out next year he hopes I'll work. Get a picture of
me sticking around a reformatory till next year! Listen, kid, they
had me out fixing a grape-vine over an arbor, tying it up. They even
give me a ball of cord, the poor simps! So listen to what I did. I
picked out a nice long stem of grape-vine--_a nice long one_. Nice
and long--and thick. And that one I didn't wind around the new
arbor; I only laid it nice and easy on top. You'd think it was all
wound up like the other branches and things but it wasn't.
Camouflage! About--oh thirty or forty feet, maybe, of the cord I
rolled up and put in my pocket. Of course those wise guys had to
have their ball of cord back.
"Well--don't get scared. Any one would think it was _you_ doing
this. Well, as----"
"I'm not _scared_, only----"
"Wait till you hear, kid; it's good. It was so easy I'm sorry now I
didn't go and say good-by to Punkhead; he's got charge of my floor."
Skinny's expression seemed to say that he thought it just as well his
half-brother had not done that.
"After supper I did my little job carrying ice in from the ice-house
and dumping it in the box in the outside pantry. Then I went
upstairs with the ice-tongs--don't laugh at them, kid, they're simps.
At Blythedale Home all those managers need is a mother's care."
Skinny was far from laughing at this dreadful recital.
"So I put the ice-tongs under my mattress. Then I stayed awake till
I heard the church clock in Blythedale ring two. Then I tied the
ice-tongs to the cord and dropped it down out of the window and
pulled up the grape-vine and tied it good and fast to the shutter
hinge. Zip goes the fillum. I wrote on a piece of paper, _Get two
hunks of ice to-morrow so you can cool down. So long_. Then I slid
down the grape-vine.
"I had some stuff I kept from my supper and I got as far as Tonley's
Corners before it got light. Then I hid under a lunch wagon that was
all boarded up till last night and then I started hiking again. I
grubbed some eats and got a hitch with a wop in a flivver--he can't
even speak English. So here I am and it's just exactly fifty-one
miles from Blythedale Home to Temple Camp and you're looking great,
kid.
"All I want is that fifteen bucks so I can get a good start. I was
thinking I'd bang down to New York and get a job on a ship. But I
can't chase around in these blamed calico things, I'll get pinched
_sure_. Say, kid, how about that lake; what's on the other side!
Could I get through to Catskill that way without going on a road?
Hsh--_listen_."
"That's only a bird house that kinder creaks in a tree when the wind
blows. Collie Edwards put it there; he's a Star Scout."
"Didn't you hear voices--men?"
"No, it wasn't voices, Danny. Now I'm sorry I bought a scout suit
and some things, because I haven't got that money. I only got eleven
cents of it now--that's all I got."
"You got a suit and things?" Danny asked, aghast.
"Yes, because I never had any and they kept saying how I have to have
one, because I'm a scout. Honest Danny, I'm sorry."
The elder boy sat on the shelf dangling his legs and contemplating
his half-brother in a daze.
"If you're mad I don't blame you, but it isn't my fault," said Skinny.
"Now what am I going to do? _Now_ what in blazes am I going to do?"
was all that Danny could say.
"Could--maybe you could wear the suit," Skinny ventured. "Then
people wouldn't know you got out of a reform school. You can have it
if you want it; anyway, it's too big for me. Curry had to laugh at
me in it. They don't make them like the shape I am."
Something in this last wistful remark touched the brother. Even in
his troubled preoccupation he reached out and ruffled the younger
boy's hair. "Who's Curry? Did you tell him what I did to Kinney for
making fun of you?"
"No, because he's a nice fellow; he's an assistant scoutmaster. They
all kinder laugh at me, but just the same I'm good friends with them."
"I couldn't pay railroad fares with a scout suit, kid."
"Maybe you could hook a ride, you're so smart. I guess you could do
it if you wanted to like the way you do 'most everything. I never
told them about you 'cause I couldn't."
Danny only gazed at him in a kind of blank abstraction. Sometimes
great anxiety finds relief in a trifling, irrelevant act. "Here,"
said he impulsively, "here's a letter I picked up. You better chuck
it on the counter or somewhere. Who's Danville Bently; did you ever
hear of him?"
"There's lots of fellers come here I never heard of," said Skinny.
"Anyway, most of them don't bother with me; even my own patrol
doesn't."
"Well that's a guy that isn't coming," said Danny. "He's giving them
a stall till August. Maybe I might be him, huh?" He laughed at the
absurdity of the idea. "Hide inside of somebody else. Ever hear of
that? Go ahead, read it, it's open."
It was then that Skinny, all in innocence, made a remark much deeper
than his wit had intended. He was great for blundering remarks. His
sober and literal answers were one of the jokes of camp. "You can't
hide inside of a scout if you're not a scout; you can't do that," he
said, looking wide eyed at his half-brother.
Danny reached forward and ruffled his hair again. Skinny was
accustomed to that. It was done to him twenty times a day.
CHAPTER VI
IN THE DIM LIGHT
"Just the same I think I can," said Danny. "And just the same I
think I will."
It was in just that casual, reckless spirit that Danny McCord first
proposed the impersonation of Danville Bently at Temple Camp. He
thought of it as a joke, and then the idea captivated him. He was
amused by Skinny's terror at the very thought. It would be hard to
say just when or how he passed from humorous to serious consideration
of this preposterous enterprise. But once decided, the terrified
Skinny could not dissuade him. He had unbounded confidence in
himself, this fugitive boy, and he knew nothing whatever about
scouting.
Skinny's disbursement of his funds had dashed the brother's hopes.
He had not the wherewithal to make good his escape. But he might
remain at camp, pretending to be this boy whose coming was postponed
for a month. It was such a bit of daredevil effrontery as left
Skinny speechless with fear and apprehension.
"You'll--you'll be sorry," was all he could stammer, as he stood, a
pathetic little figure, in the dim glow of the smelly old red
lantern. "Remember what I said when you were going to take Mr.
Burt's Ford for a joy ride--remember what I said."
"You said you wouldn't tell," said Danny, ruffling the little
fellow's hair in that fraternal way he had. I dare say the best
thing about this dubious brother was his condescending but genuine
fondness for Skinny. He trusted him. "And you didn't either,
because you're a little brick."
"Even if they had _killed_ me," said Skinny emphasizing the word with
nervous tension; "even then I wouldn't tell. Even if they had
_killed_ me!"
"Don't get excited, Tiny," Danny laughed, pulling Skinny toward him
and unclenching the little fellow's fist; he had even dug his nails
into the palms of his hands. "Sure you didn't tell. And am I
blaming you because they chased me up to Blythdale? And I'm not sore
because you haven't got any money, kid."
"No, but now you're going to get into more trouble. If you stay here
they'll come and find you."
"Not if I'm Danville Bently, kid. Do you want me to start away from
here without any money? I was going to go and get a job on a ship.
How can I do that now? This is my only chance, Teeny-weeny; don't
worry."
"That's what you said before and you went to reform school."
"And I got away from there, too."
Skinny gazed at his half-brother, admiringly, trustful, but
panic-stricken. "You're going to get in a lot of trouble, Danny," he
said in fearful agitation. "I know you licked Kinney and he was
bigger than you, and you climbed over the fence of Garrett's Field
with me so I could peek under the circus tent, and I know you got
away from the Home----"
"Hey, don't call it a home, kid."
"I don't blame you for it," said Skinny loyally, "only now you're
going to get found out, because being a scout is--kinder you got to
know all about it, how they do and everything. I know you're all the
time laughing at them, Danny, but anyway, you got to know how they do
and everything." His panic apprehension was pitiful, but Danny only
laughed.
"Give us the letter, kid, and I'll burn it up. Now I tell you what
you do; you're going to be a bully little kid and stand by me like
you always did; hey?"
"Yes, but----"
"You chase down and get that primer or whatever you call it, that you
kids use."
"That's the Scout Handbook, it ain't a primer."
"Yere, you get that. How much oil is there in this blamed magic
lantern; will it burn a couple of hours? Gee, it makes your face
look red kid----"
"I gained two pounds, Danny, up here."
"_Yere_? The blamed thing makes us look like a couple of Indians----"
"Now I got a thought, Danny. A red light means danger. There's
danger waiting for you Danny."
"All right, tell it to wait. Now you chase down and see if you can
sneak in and get your book and your new suit and bring them up here.
Bring anything you've got that you don't need. Go on, chase yourself
now and if you wake them up I'll know you're a ham scout. That gosh
blamed bird-house--are you sure that's what it is?"
They both listened. In the stillness of the night was a creaking
sound followed by another like the breaking of twigs. "Is it
somebody walking!" Danny whispered.
"I never heard it just like that before," Skinny whispered in terror.
"Shall we look out?"
"If I start running, don't you say who I am," said Danny. "They
might have dogs out, I don't know. _Shh--ut up_."
Skinny McCord had many times been hurt by boys who meant him no harm.
Occasionally his pride had been touched when bantering comrades had
referred to his humble origin and poor abode in Bridgeboro. But when
Danny mentioned the possibility of dogs being on his trail, something
in that narrow chest of little Skinny McCord rose and he flushed with
anger. Instinctively he felt what officialdom does not feel, the
degrading character of setting a beast to catch a human being.
Truly, indeed, human nature can sink no lower than this. To the
powers of law enforcement belongs the contemptible distinction which
places them below the level of the vilest criminal.
"_They wouldn't do that!_" whispered Skinny.
"Oh, wouldn't they, though!"
"I'll do what you want me to," Skinny said.
CHAPTER VII
DARK PLANS
There came a time when they said of Skinny that he had been
frightened into participation in his half-brother's bizarre and
daring plan. But that was not true of him. He tried, as we have
seen, to dissuade Danny. When the worst came to the worst and he
knew that he could not dissuade him, he was loyal. He was loyal in a
dastardly business.
This wonderful big brother of his could not teach him anything in the
matter of stealth; he was a little demon at that. He had accustomed
himself to stepping carefully and making no noise in the days when he
went barefoot in the slummy east end of Bridgeboro whence he had
emanated one day to stare wide eyed at the scouts practicing archery.
There happened to be a vacancy in Connie Bennett's patrol (Elks), so
they took him in. He was their mascot. They didn't even mind his
not having a scout suit. He had a winsome smile when they jollied
him and they liked him immensely. He was not only glad, but proud to
run on errands.
When the McCords moved to Bridgeboro and hired three rooms in
Corkscrew Alley down near the marsh that bordered the river, Danny
was not with them. He had already taken his departure, under escort,
to Blythedale Boys' Home, which he was right in saying was not a home
at all. He had been sent thither because of his escapade with Mr.
Burt's Ford, though this had by no means been his first escapade.
But it was the crucial one. So the scouts of the First Bridgeboro
Troop, of which Skinny was an obscure and lowly member, had never
seen the enterprising Danny. His colorful career came to a halt in
Irontown and soon afterward the hapless family moved to Bridgeboro,
where Mr. McCord had secured a job in the paper mill. Danny's mother
was dead and Skinny was the child of Mr. McCord's second wife.
Whatever else may be said of Danny, he had always afforded Skinny all
the sturdy advantages of a big brother.
Skinny missed him when he moved to Bridgeboro. The hoodlums down in
Corkscrew Alley called him _Owleyes_ and _Jumbo_ and other piquant
appellations. Once or twice he was moved to tell them that things
would be different when Danny returned. When he got in with the
scouts he never mentioned Danny. He had too much pride and these
strange, wonderful boys of the upper world would not understand.
They would not appreciate the knock-out blow administered to the
unhappy Kinney. And now, at last, when Skinny had attained to the
glory of a real scout suit, here was this brother come to Temple
Camp, a fugitive, and with all his wonted assurance proposing a
scheme for hiding which struck poor Skinny dumb with terror.
Silently he sped through the woods back to camp and stealthily, ever
so stealthily, up to the Martha Norris Memorial Cabins, where his
troop was quartered that season. A splendid organization was the
First Bridgeboro Troop, with four full patrols, and they held sway in
these four cabins which represented one of the camp endowments. In
the Elks' cabin all was still.
With every nerve on edge, Skinny crept to the rustic lockers at the
end of the building. He was so fearful that he jerked his foot up in
nervous excitement as he turned the key of his own locker. He paused
after the slight click, listening. His heart beat like a
trip-hammer. No sound, no stir. Only the audible breathing of Vic
Norris. One of the other boys turned over and settled down in deeper
slumber. Somewhere outside an owl hooted. Skinny stood stark still.
The plaguey hinges! He eased the swing of the locker door as he
opened it inch by inch. There was his old pasteboard suit-case; he
was the only boy in the patrol who had not a duffel bag. On top of
it lay the bundle containing his scout suit and hat just as he had
brought the treasured purchase back from Kingston. He had not dared
to wear this flaunting regalia nor even to tell his patrol about it.
He did not know whether or not they knew about it. Would the paper
rustle as he lifted the bundle? No; he lifted it out carefully.
Then he opened his suit-case and got his Handbook. So far, so good.
Softly he closed the door and locked it. Then with his precious
Handbook and the bundle he crept stealthily over to the trail which
led up through the woods.
Now his heart beat more easily. Action is always stimulating, and
being launched on this perilous business it was not so hard to go
ahead. He had not done much so far, but what he had done had been
successful. He had done what Danny had told him to do and it had
been easy. It seemed to Skinny that this was a dreadful thing his
brother was about to attempt, but Danny must know what he was about.
"Why it's going to be a cinch," his brother assured him when he had
donned the suit; it fitted him much better than it fitted poor
Skinny. When he tossed the hat on, he looked like a scout indeed and
poor Skinny was even moved to feel a certain pride in him. He was a
fine looking boy, there was no denying that, with an easy nonchalance
about him that was captivating.
"You--you won't be a really truly scout," Skinny warned him. The
warning seemed to include a confession that Danny did look like one.
"And what are you going to do when he comes--that other feller?"
"I'll be on my way," said Danny lightly.
"You'll be using up the money that's going to pay his board, too,"
Skinny said.
The answer did not comfort him. "Sure, he'll be out of luck," said
Danny.
Skinny gazed at this daring brother of his in mingled admiration and
terror. "Will you--Danny, will you--if I get fifteen dollars, will
you _not_ do it?"
"Where would you get fifteen bucks, kid? You should worry," he
added. "Let's take a look at that book. Does it tell all about it
and everything? How you drill and everything?"
"_Now you see_, you don't know anything about it," Skinny said
excitedly, in a pitiable way of triumph. "They don't drill at all;
they track and stalk and all like that, and win merit badges, and all
like that. Now you're going to get in trouble." He clenched his
little hands nervously and almost cried as he spoke. "You're going
to get in trouble Danny. They're smart, scouts are, and they'll find
out. Just because _I'm_ not so smart and they make fun of me like;
and just because _I_ can't do all the things they do, you needn't
think they're not smart. That's where you're all the time wrong, you
think boy scouts----"
"Who makes fun of you?" Danny asked with a queer scrutiny in his eyes.
"Now you're going to get into scraps, too," poor Skinny said.
"You're going to call them kids and everything. Even if they make
fun of me they're not mad at me."
There was a grim look in Danny's eyes and a menacing sneer in his
voice as he said, "_Is--that--so!_" In the lowering comment was real
feeling for Skinny and a high contempt for Temple Camp and all its
scouts.
"You should worry, kid," he said. "Go on back and go to bed. All
you've got to do is not notice me. Don't be coming around. Act just
like if you didn't know me. All I want to do is just lay low for
three or four days; I'll get away with it that long, don't worry. If
you had the money I'd beat it, but I can't bang out of here without a
red, and that bunch after me. What am I going to do? I know what's
troubling you, kid. You think it's kind of like stealing, using up
that what's-his-name's board money. You're a little brick, kiddo.
But I'll only be here two or three days. And when he gets here next
month--why these guys won't know till then there was anything phony
about me! And _you_ won't be hooked up with it at all. Now trot
along and turn in, Tiny, old pal."
"Won't I see you any more after you go away from here? Maybe you'll
go all the way around the world on a ship, hey?"
"_Suuuuure_, you'll see me again. And you'll get paid back for your
suit too. Don't I line up pretty nice as a boy scout. How do you do
that--what is it, a salute they've got?" He wriggled his thumb
against his ear in a funny way and laughed at Skinny and gave him an
affectionate shove. "Go on back now or you'll be walking in your
sleep," said he. "And whatever you do, don't let on when you see me
again."
"I can look at you, can't I?" said poor Skinny.
CHAPTER VIII
STEALTH
Well, if it was for only two or three days it would not be so bad,
poor Skinny reflected as he went back through the darkness. Still
his conscience troubled him and he was beside himself with fear. The
only gleam of light he saw in this sorry business was that Danny did
have a way of succeeding in the things he undertook. He trusted
Danny to avert the catastrophe which would naturally ensue in such a
daring and perilous business.
He hoped that during those dreadful two or three days the scouts at
camp would not overstep their prerogative of banter where he was
concerned. Or at least that Danny might not see them in full swing
with their raillery. The historic Kinney of Irontown had got over
the licking that Danny had given him. But poor Skinny had never got
over it.
As he wandered, fearful and conscience-stricken, down the wooded
slope a thought came to him. There was a rich boy in camp, Helmer
Clarkson. That boy wanted a canoe and had tried for the Hiawatha
Prize--a fine canoe to win which a scout must swim across the lake.
Helmer had started (according to rule) with a rowboat escort, and
like many another hopeful candidate had returned in the boat. So
Helmer had decided to fall back on the less heroic plan of asking his
father to buy him a canoe. If he had not already done this, then
Skinny had a plan. He would swim across the lake, win the canoe, and
sell it to Helmer Clarkson. Then he would give the money to his
erring brother.
He knew the camp people would regard him contemptuously for selling a
prize, but at least he could help Danny, and put an end to this
dreadful thing that Danny was doing. All this might be done
immediately--the next morning. The only difficulty would be that his
comrades would laugh at him as soon as he proposed the heroic
enterprise. Alas, they would not know how heroic it was! They would
make a great joke of his trying for a prize--especially this prize.
They would decline to accompany him with a boat. They would probably
tell him, as they had so many times told him, that if he had to be
taken into the boat it would probably sink it. Skinny weighed
sixty-four pounds, not counting his heart, which weighed tons just
now.
Well, he thought as he trudged along, if Danny could do such
wonderful (albeit dreadful) things, he, Skinny could do this. And it
would straighten everything out. Perhaps he could even do it before
Danny presented himself to the powers in Administration Shack and
signed up. That would be between ten and eleven in the morning. He
wondered if Helmer Clarkson had any ready money; surely he must have
some. Fifteen dollars was all that Danny had demanded. He would
sell the prize canoe to Clarkson for fifteen dollars. Well, that was
settled and things were not so bad.
As he passed down through the dark woods, he thought of his fugitive
brother hiding in that little dank switchman's shanty. What would be
the first thing he would do in the morning? Thus preoccupied with
his thoughts, Skinny found himself approaching the cabin before which
the white pennant flew. In there they would be sleeping with one eye
open, as the saying is. If he could--if he only _could_--"lift" that
pennant. What a glory for the Elks! It would raise him in their
esteem; they might take him seriously. Then perhaps they would
listen when he talked about trying for the Hiawatha Prize. He was
elated; he believed that the whole situation was in his hands; Danny,
all unknown to the camp, might be on his way in the morning. This
whole business was not so bad after all.
Never in all his trembling little life had Skinny moved with such
stealth and caution as when he now approached that coveted pennant,
He was about to try to do what Warde Hollister had failed to do; what
Ellis Carway (who was an Eagle) had failed to do. He retreated a few
yards, and sat down on a stump. He knew that he was out of his
sphere, that this sort of thing was not expected of him. He felt
that he was intruding into the heroic field where he had no business.
He removed his shoes, tied the laces together, and hung the shoes
around his neck. They were almost worn out; you could have stuck a
finger through the soles.
Now, trembling in every nerve, he approached the cabin. The door
stood ajar. He advanced a pace and paused listening. No sound. He
took another step. No sound. He could reach out now and lift the
staff. He paused, fearful to move. Straining his eyes he looked all
about the staff. Then, ever so cautiously, he stooped, and shuddered
as the clasp on his belt clinked. He felt all around on the ground,
for he had heard scouts speak of cord attached to the staff and tied
to the arm of some drowsy slacker on his cot. That was not
considered good scouting, but it had been done.
But here there was no cord; these unknown scouts were playing the
game right. The usual way with the patrol holding the white pennant
was to sleep in turns, with one scout always awake to listen. In a
full patrol no one scout would have to remain awake very long.
Skinny stood up and with trembling hand reached out and grasped the
staff. Still no sound. There was a cricket chirping and he wished
it would keep still. He had heard of rocks laid against the staff so
that when it was lifted one would fall upon another. But nothing
happened as he slowly raised the staff up, up, up----
What a queer little goblin of a boy he seemed, as he reached one foot
far forward so as to cover all the ground he could with every pace.
With each grotesque straining of a leg his face unconsciously assumed
an aspect of demoniac fear. Then all of a sudden he started to run,
his shoes flapping back and forth against his chest and shoulders
like an outlandish bulky necklace. He held the white pennant in his
trembling hand.
[Illustration: SKINNY STARTED RUNNING WITH THE WHITE PENNANT.]
He had done it!
CHAPTER IX
FOR DANNY
He would have been proud of his achievement in any case, but he was
doubly elated now, for it simplified the matter of Danny. With this
"really and truly" scouting triumph to his credit, the Elks could not
take him otherwise than seriously. They would escort him in his swim
for the Hiawatha Prize and perhaps that very next morning Danny, his
secret hero, would be on his way. The criminal and dangerous
character of what Danny was going to do at Temple Camp impressed
Skinny, but his conscience was not troubled about Danny's final
exploit at the reform school.
When he reached the Elks' cabin, he found his patrol leader, Connie
Bennett, waiting for him. It was well that he returned with the
white pennant for this saved him the embarrassment of explaining his
absence. The white pennant was always an excuse. It was a midnight
passport even with the powers of Administration Shack.
"_I got it, I got it!_" he said excitedly. "_Look what I got!_"
"You little demon," said Connie. "So that's what you went after."
"_I got it, I got it!_" was all that Skinny could say.
"They didn't chase you?"
"They didn't hear me--even."
Connie softly closed the cabin door so as not to awaken the sleepers
and together he and Skinny stood outside.
"Calm down," said Connie; "you're all excited. Bully for you, but
calm down."
"Wait--wait a minute and I'll calm down. I--can't do it all of a
sudden. Now--now I'm going to do something else--wait till I tell
you----"
Connie put his arm over the quivering form of the little Elk mascot
who seemed now to be launched upon a wild debauch of heroism. "Hsh,
all right, Shorty. You did fine; gee, I have to laugh. The patrol
won't believe you did it."
"Now you got to help me do something else," said Skinny, gulping with
excitement and satisfaction.
"Surest thing."
"You got to--to-morrow morning early I'm going to swim across the
lake and get the Hiawatha Prize."
"Goodness me!"
"Yop--I'm going to swim across and get it. So will you get all the
patrol up early so some of you can row across while I swim?"
"Listen, Shorty," said Connie. "You did one peach of a stunt; the
patrol will go crazy when they hear it. Why Hunt Ward tried for
that; you remember. The Silver Foxes tried for it--Roy Blakeley.
That was the time he didn't do all the laughing."
"And maybe now they won't make fun of me, hey?"
"Listen, Shorty; go in and go to sleep now. And don't be thinking
you can do everything just because you did this."
"I'm going to, I'm going to----"
"No you're not. You're not going to try for the Hiawatha canoe,
because that isn't in your line. See? You little sneaky devil, you!
Went in your bare feet, huh? Go on in and go to bed now and don't
talk ragtime. What's the matter, aren't you satisfied?"
"I got to go----"
"Yes, you _got to go_--to bed. To-morrow we'll go over to
Administration Shack and have them take your picture. You can put on
your new togs, dress up in your regular scout suit, all dolled up
like a Christmas tree. You know they want pictures for _Boys' Life_,
fellows that win awards and do stunts and all that. You go to bed
now and when you get up in the morning put on your new scout duds.
What the dickens are you afraid of? Nobody's going to kid you. And
we'll go over and let Mr. Wainwright take a snapshot of you holding
the pennant. _Alfred McCord of the Elk Patrol, Bridgeboro, New
Jersey, holding the white pennant taken from a cabin where it was
supposed to be guarded at Temple Camp, New York_. How does that
sound? Go on in now, and remember when you get up in the morning put
on your scout suit. That's your patrol leader's order. You're all
right, Shorty, you're a little winner!"
So this was the sequel of his triumph. "_Put on your scout suit._"
A fine mess he had made of it. He knew Connie Bennett for a sober,
sensible boy, who more than most patrol leaders had some notion of
leadership and discipline. So Connie had known about the scout suit
and had just not pushed him in the matter of wearing it. But now
there was to be no more nonsense. Here was the penalty of heroism.
What was he to do? It was clear from the way Connie spoke that the
try for the Hiawatha Prize was quite out of the question; they did
not regard him as a swimmer. What he would be expected to do, would
be compelled to do, was put on his new scout suit and go to
Administration Shack with his patrol and have his picture taken as
the capturer of the white pennant. And all his fine plan of helping
Danny to get out from the shadow of fearful peril would go for
naught. This was Skinny's first experience in being a "really truly"
hero.
There was a vein of something running in the McCord family. I don't
know whether you would call it a vein of the heroic or just a vein of
recklessness and rebelliousness. Diffident and sensitive little
Skinny had a touch of it. Perhaps it was this that bound him to
Danny. At all events there was this about him. His temperament was
one of sweet diffidence, of a smiling shyness which made him a
subject both for banter and affection. At the other extreme in his
strange make-up was the capacity for utter frenzy. I suppose you
might say that he was highly strung and afraid to show it until
something tipped the scales of his delicate nature. There was no
such thing as authority then.
They would not take this capturer of the white pennant seriously.
Well then, he did not care. There was only one person in the world
who could have dominated him then, and that was Danny. But it was
for Danny that he was now possessed by a will so strong that it made
his poor little body tremble. Danny could not help him; he was going
to help Danny. He was possessed, inspired, this little fellow who
smiled quaintly when they made fun of him. He did not sleep that
night; he lay trembling with a towering resolve.
Early in the morning, while still his comrades were sleeping, he
crept out of bed, pulled on the only clothes he had and started out.
The grass was all covered with sparkling dew; the air was crisp and
clear, the birds were making a great chorus in the trees as if they
had over-slept and were in a hurry. Skinny had a queer little trot,
something between a walk and run, that boys took delight in
imitating. He did not look in the least like the scout on the cover
of the Handbook.
He went down the hill on which the memorial cabins stood, casting a
glance up through the woods to the point where the little shanty was.
So clear was the morning that he might even have glimpsed it through
the trees, only it was in the overgrown cut and below the line of
vision. He wondered what sort of a night Danny had spent. The
thought recurred to him (it had recurred many times in that eventful,
sleepless night) that maybe bloodhounds had found him--found his
half-brother who had knocked Kinney senseless--and had barked their
beastly exultation to human pursuers. But that could not be;
Blythedale Reform School was too far way for that sort of pursuit.
Nevertheless Skinny's blood tingled at the thought.
He was barefoot, for the business he was on required no shoes. He
trotted down around the main pavilion, cut through the big open
"grub" shed and pattered along the board walk to Administration
Shack. This was the holy-of-holies of Temple Camp, sanctum of
officials, where there was a safe and a counter and a young man
forever playing away at a typewriter machine. Skinny had never
before ventured upon the veranda of this official lair, and he trod
with reverence. Above the bulletin board near the door was a framed
set of rules for the information of guests. Skinny wanted to confirm
his knowledge by one of these and he read it with delight:
XI The office will be open for the
transaction of general business
from 10 to 11 o'clock A.M. and
from 2 to 3 o'clock P.M.
So Danny could not enroll as Danville Bently until ten o'clock. He
hoped that Danny had not yet destroyed the letter and that it might
still reach the office. He went around to the side of the building
and tried to look through the window, but it was too high. So he
dragged a bench over from the "grub" shed and stood on that.
Within was a large glass case filled with forest trophies. And there
in a corner (he had seen it before) stood the Hiawatha Prize canoe.
He just wanted to make sure that it was there. Down he jumped and
off he ran toward the float where the boats were knocking and
clanking their chains. The water was rough and looked cold. He
pulled off his faded shirt and shabby trousers and walked out to the
end of the springboard. Even his light weight caused its metal parts
to squeak; it always squeaked in the morning owing to the dampness of
the night and the few hours of disuse. For just a moment he paused,
then plunged into the lake.
CHAPTER X
WON
Over near the opposite shore of the lake there was a man fishing from
a boat that morning. He sat motionless in the early solitude, a
lonely figure against the somber background of wooded shore. Across
the lake was a ribbon of light, like a silvery stream flowing in the
dark water. It seemed to scatter into bits of tinsel where it
touched the base of the densely covered heights. The lone fisherman
was not in its path.
Suddenly he raised his rod, swinging the long line far off from the
opposite side of his boat, and just then something caught his eye.
About fifty yards distant an object was moving across the shimmering
band. At first he thought it was a freakish manifestation of this
glimmering sheen. Then he saw that it was a foreign object,
progressing slowly, steadily. It reached the clearly defined border
of this shining area; then he lost it for a few moments.
Now it appeared again coming straight toward him; by-times he caught
a glimpse of a face; an arm appeared and disappeared regularly. On,
on the swimmer came with slow, unswerving progress. The fisherman
heard a distant bell; like an answering peal it echoed from the
solemn heights near by. Distant voices could be heard, thin and
spent. The man could not hear what they said as they seemed to
dissolve in the air. But the bell continued ringing. He felt rather
than heard distant excitement. The ringing and the voices were
mellowed by the intervening space, yet he sensed that something was
wrong over at the big camp.
The swimmer was now in plain view of the fisherman--close at hand.
He did not seem to be in trouble, but a swim across Black Lake was by
no means an easy feat, and the man hauled in his line and sculled
over to intercept him.
"Don't touch me--keep away!" Skinny fairly yelled.
"Don't you want to come aboard?"
"No, you keep away from me!"
The boy seemed in a frenzy; it was evident that he was nearly
exhausted with only his will power to keep him going. The man,
apprehensive of disaster, sculled alongside him. Soon the little
fellow's feet were on the bottom and as he staggered through the
shallow water it was evident that he was at the point of collapse.
"_Keep away, don't touch me!_" he kept saying. Then he groped
blindly for the branch of a projecting tree, and so guided his
tottering way to the steep bank, where he sank down unconscious. He
could not quiver in every nerve as he did in his former triumph, for
oblivion came and he knew not that he, Skinny McCord, had won the
Hiawatha prize canoe!
The fisherman did not know that this drenched and ghostly pale boy
had done anything more than a rash stunt. He lifted him gently and
laid him in the boat and started to row across toward camp. But he
did not have to go far. Across the lake at top speed the camp launch
came chugging, filled with eager, shouting passengers.
"Is he all right?" a voice called. "Isn't drowned, is he?"
"No, but he's fainted," the man called back.
"Did you pick him up?"
"No, he made the shore."
Up she came to the old flat-bottomed boat that rocked in the swell as
Councilor Wallace caught hold of the unpainted rail while two scouts
lifted Skinny into the launch. All the Elks were there, and Doc
Carson, first aid scout of the Ravens, and Tom Slade, the young camp
assistant. Yes, the little devil was all right. He opened his eyes
and closed them again. Connie Bennett, his patrol leader, brushed
the soaked hair away from the small white forehead, and the eyes
opened again and the quivering lips smiled at Connie. "You're all
right, kid!" said he gently. He pulled away a bit of water-weed that
was plastered across the little fellow's face. "Want to try to sit
up?"
"I see him a comin'," said the fisherman, "an' I kinder surmised
somethin's wrong. He wuz swimmin' all ragged--I never see nuthin'
like it. But he yells to me not ter touch 'im. Just screeches at
me. Then he goes reelin' up the shore 'n' grabs hold on a tree 'n'
goes twistin' roun' 'n' down he goes. Maybe he wuz escapin' thinks
I."
"No, he wasn't escaping," said Connie. "He just had a kind of a
craze on. He did a stunt and he thought he'd like to try a still
bigger one."
"He's a lucky kid," said the fisherman as he rowed away.
"Lucky patrol," said one of the boys.
They took him over to camp and into Administration Shack and laid him
on the couch there. And in a little while he was quite restored and
able to go up the hill to his patrol cabin. His slim little form
looked funny in a bathrobe as he trudged along, tripping now and
again. The Elks clustered all about him proudly. Stut Moran
playfully pulled the tasseled cord tight about him and tied it in a
knot; it made him look still funnier, and he smiled that bashful
smile of his to see them amused at his expense. "Looks like a
champion prize-fighter on his way to the ring," said Stut.
"Well you've got a nice new dry suit anyway," said Connie. "And
you're going to put it on and have your picture taken for both things
that you did. Jumping jiminies, kid, you sure did break loose! What
are you going to do next? Why, you crazy little midnight sneak! How
the dickens did you suppose you were going to prove you swam across
the lake when you got up at about fourteen-twenty A.M. and started
off without any escort. Suppose that man hadn't been there. It's
all right, kid, we're not kicking; we've got the Hiawatha canoe, gee
we've got no kick. I'll say that. But cut out the hero stuff for a
couple of days. Why, you skinny little grasshopper, you've been
running wild!"
"Can I get it right away?" Skinny asked. "The canoe, can I get it
right away quick? Right away now, can I get it?" he persisted,
tripping over the bathrobe which was as much too big for him as his
lost scout suit. "Can I honest and true get it right away _now_?"
"Who's going to stop us!" laughed Connie.
"We'll be out paddling in it this afternoon," said Vic Norris.
"Do you know what I was thinking?" Bert McAlpin asked.
"Skinny doesn't think, he acts," said Connie.
"No, but on the level," said Bert. "I never took such an awful lot
of interest in it before--I mean the regatta--but, _jiminies_, as
long as we've got the Hiawatha canoe why can't a couple of us train
up and go in for the Mary Temple Cup? Skinny's too small, but it's
all in the patrol anyway. You know what Roy Blakeley's all the time
saying--united we stand, divided we sprawl. I say let's a couple of
us train for the canoe races. Skinny's got us started now and we'll
do big things. _Oh boy_, the white pennant! And now the canoe. Oh
boy, Skinny's the big noise in camp."
He did not make much noise as he sat down on the edge of his cot, his
clamorous comrades all about him. He had never tasted glory before.
He had not only made a sensational hop, slap and jump into fame; he
had aroused in his patrol the thirst for still greater achievement.
He was bewildered, frightened.
"Listen here, kid," said Connie, "I'm so blamed excited I can hardly
talk straight. Listen here. The breakfast horn will be sounding in
a few minutes. We're not washed up yet, we got called up in such a
hurry. While we're getting ready for breakfast you get on your new
scout suit and we'll meet you over at 'eats.' Now no more blamed
nonsense, you do what I tell you and put on your scout suit, and come
over to 'eats' all dolled up right so the bunch will know the fellow
that did these things is a scout. Understand?"
Skinny understood, and he just sat on the edge of his cot, nervous
and anxious to be left alone. To these enthusiastic, planning
comrades, his achievement was a climax. But it was no climax to him;
it was just one step in what he intended to do. He was bewildered
and nervous at their talk about future triumphs with the prize canoe.
Connie's order to him about the new scout suit troubled him. You
see, Skinny had not intended to be a hero. He was a hero worshipper,
and his hero was Danny. He had never thought to complicate matters
by being a hero himself. Now he saw that being a hero was a nuisance.
CHAPTER XI
IF
Skinny knew that Danny was wise, that he would not appear in camp
before half past nine, because there was no boat or train which would
permit his arrival before that time. Danny's attention to detail in
his free and lawless progress commanded admiration if not respect.
He never committed a silly blunder. Also Skinny knew that this
runaway brother of his could not commit the perilous act of false
registration until the office opened at ten o'clock. So there was
time enough for what he had planned to do.
Hurriedly opening his old suit-case, he pulled out the only extra
shirt and trousers that he had and put them on. Then he locked the
suitcase again so that no prying comrade might discover that the new
suit was not there. Just as he started from the cabin the breakfast
horn sounded. He hurried along with that funny shuffling sideways
gait of his and paused at the cooking shack to get an apple and a
sandwich from Chocolate Drop, the colored chef. Any scout
contemplating a short hike was welcome to this customary refreshment.
He wanted it for Danny. He wondered how Danny had spent the night
and hoped he had not been aroused by all the fuss caused by his early
swim. At cooking shack he took occasion to ask Chocolate Drop if he
knew where Helmer Clarkson stayed.
"He dat boy wots folks done send 'im big grapefruit 'n' boxes wi' dem
figs. Sho he done sleep up dere yonder in one dem woods cabins. You
know dat cabin wi' de skunk skin tacked on de do'? Lor' Massa
Skincord, dat boy am rich! Him folk send him _great big_ crate full
of fruit. Dat ain't good fer no young boy, dat ain't. Bein'
diffrent, _dat am bad_. I say ter Massa Slade, I say, dat ain't no
camp scout business. Share one, share all, in dis yer camp, dat's
wot I say. You gwine straight up dat path, you'll find it."
It was little enough that poor Skinny knew about the unwise procedure
of rich parents with their sons at camp. I dare say Chocolate Drop
was right; there was too much pampering. Certainly no one had ever
sent Skinny a grapefruit or a box of figs. Something in the little
fellow's wistful look touched the kindly heart of Chocolate Drop, who
reigned unquestioned monarch in the fragrant cook shack, and he made
up an extra sandwich and handed it to him together with four cookies.
"You watch out you don' get bit by dem rattlesnakes," he warned.
Rattlesnakes were the terror of Chocolate Drop's life. "You jes'
good as dat Clarkson son. Now you scamper off ter breakfast."
But Skinny did not go to breakfast. He started up the hill,
encouraged, elated. He was going to do business with a boy who had
expressed a desire for a canoe, and whose people were so rich that
they sent him figs and grapefruit. He did not know just exactly how
he would approach such a boy; he dreaded this more than he had
dreaded his swim across the lake. But, of course, rich boys could be
talked to.
He was not exactly afraid; he felt that luck had favored him thus
far. He had lifted the white pennant and had been able thereby to
conceal the real purpose of his absence at night. He had won the
Hiawatha canoe. And now he was going to sell it to a boy who was so
rich that he received delicacies by parcel post. That would be easy.
Then he would hurry on up to the old shanty in the cut and give Danny
the food and the money. After that he would, of course, worry about
Danny's escape from the reform school. But at least the dangers at
Temple Camp would be averted.
On arriving at the cabin with the skunk skin tacked on the door,
Skinny was astonished to find that it was the very cabin from which
he had taken the white pennant. The place looked different in the
daylight. He had not seen the skunk skin on his nocturnal raid, nor
the quaintly worded sign above the door which read:
THE ALLIGATORS OF ALLEGHANY
But he saw clearly the hole from which he had so stealthily lifted
the pennant staff. The Alligators had not gone down to breakfast;
there were voices inside. He wondered whether his little
masterstroke would leave them prejudiced against him. Hardly that,
he realized, for scouts are good sports and cheerful losers. Perhaps
they would even give him credit, as the saying is. He was not
doubtful about scouts, but he was a little afraid of a rich boy.
The voices inside were loud and angry; the occupants of the cabin
seemed all talking at once and excitedly.
"Awh, forget it, and come ahead down to eats, will you?"
"I'm through," said another boy.
"If you're talking of breakfast I haven't even started yet," said
still another. "For the love of Mike, will you cut it out and come
on down."
"I'm through," said the boy who had made this pronouncement before.
"All right, we're satisfied," another said.
"Do you take back what you said?"
"No, I don't take back what I said."
There was a pause and Skinny tremblingly knocked on the door. It was
opened by a tall scout whom he had seen before.
"Does Helmer Clarkson live here!" he asked, his voice shaking a
little. He had quickly decided that he would not mention the affair
of the white pennant.
"Sure, you're welcome to him," said a boy from within. "We give six
coupons free to anybody who'll take him."
"Cut that out," said another boy.
"Here, put him in your pocket and take him home," said still another
as he pushed a rather small boy through the open door. It was
evident that the victim of this hearty eviction was the Rockefeller
of Temple Camp, Helmer Clarkson. He was an effeminate looking boy;
rather sissified, Skinny thought. It was easy to believe that he was
of a sort to be the recipient of dainties from home.
Skinny, in his simplicity, went straight to the point. "Do you want
to buy a canoe!" he asked.
"What canoe?" asked a boy from inside.
"The Hiawatha Prize canoe," said Skinny, addressing Clarkson, as they
all gathered about the doorway staring and listening. "I heard you
wanted to buy a canoe and I'll sell you that one for as much--I
mean--only fifteen dollars." He was too simple to place the price at
a little more than Danny needed. The canoe was actually worth
seventy dollars.
"What's the big idea?" somebody asked.
"_You!_" laughed another. "What are _you_ doing with the prize
canoe? You mean that one in the headquarters building?"
"I won it by swimming across the lake," said Skinny, blushing to the
roots of his hair, "and I don't want it because--because it's my own
business why I don't want it. So do you want to buy it for fifteen
dollars? I heard you wanted one."
"I'm leaving this camp and I don't want it," said Helmer Clarkson.
"He hasn't got the price," a boy taunted.
For answer Helmer Clarkson displayed the contents of a neat wallet
which almost staggered poor Skinny. "I've had enough of this camp,"
he said, "and I'm going home on the noon train from Catskill."
"It's only fifteen dollars," poor Skinny said. "Maybe I'd take ten."
"If you gave me the canoe for nothing I wouldn't stay here," said
Helmer Clarkson in a very mincing manner. "If you'd come around two
or three days ago--even yesterday--I might have given you twenty-five
dollars for it. I can spend fifty dollars for one if I want to. But
I've had enough of this crowd, thank you. I'm going home."
Poor Skinny's hopes were dashed. He cast a forlorn look at the
scouts, who were laughing heartily. They were not laughing at him;
for once he was not the victim. They were laughing (and that with a
kind of tolerant contempt) at Helmer Clarkson.
"Yes, we got no canoes to-day," one boy sang.
"I don't want to play in your yard," sang another.
"Tell him why you're going home, Ellie," a third shouted.
"I'll tell him," another volunteered. "You know we had the white
pennant up here--we took it away from that Virginia troop over near
Turtle Cove. Each one of us is supposed to stay awake forty minutes
every night and listen. Last night our little sleeping
beauty--_that's him_--falls asleep at the switch. Somebody walked
away with the pennant. We even knew somebody was hanging around,
because just a little while before that I sneaked out and caught a
fellow nosing about. On top of that Sweet-dream Ellie has to go to
sleep when his turn was on. And--listen, get this--when we jump very
gently on his neck he gets sore and says he won't play any more."
During the recital of this indictment, Helmer Clarkson held himself
aloof in silent dignity. "I'm through with the scouts for good,"
said he. "It was only an experiment anyway. But I certainly do love
canoing----"
"Sure, in the bathtub," interrupted one of the boys.
"_Chief Dead-to-the-world_ sailing down the Alleghany River," mocked
another.
"If it wasn't for my leaving," said Helmer, ignoring them, "I'd be
only too glad to buy your canoe. I'd have given you more than
fifteen dollars for it."
Skinny looked from one to the other of this cheery group; they seemed
an interesting patrol, notwithstanding their family disturbance.
Then his eyes fell on Helmer Clarkson in a woebegone, incredulous
gaze. He realized that by his own act of "lifting" the pennant he
had effectually prevented the sale of the canoe. If he had not
stolen up in the dead of night, so softly that the dozing Helmer
never heard him, he might now have fifteen dollars--thirty
perhaps--with which to speed his erring brother forth to safety.
What a tragic word is IF!
CHAPTER XII
SCOUT LAW NUMBER TWO
He had taken the white pennant. He had won the Hiawatha Prize. He
had brought glory to his patrol. But all he had to give Danny was
two sandwiches and four cookies. Hero though he was, he could not
face his colleagues, for he had no scout suit to put on. So long as
there was hope of selling the canoe, he had not considered what his
patrol would think of this. He had thought only of Danny. But now,
as he trudged on up through the woods, a forlorn little fellow, he
wondered what Connie and the others would say when they heard that he
had tried to sell the prize canoe. They would certainly hear that,
and he could not tell them why he had attempted such an unscoutlike
business. There was never any buying and selling of prizes at Temple
Camp.
He trudged up through the woods, cautiously looking back now and
then. It seemed to him a very long time since he had seen Danny, so
much had happened in the meantime. He found him sitting on the shelf
in the shanty, his knees drawn up to form a reading desk on which the
Scout Handbook lay open.
"Hey, Tiny, this is some book," said he. "Honest, do they do all
these things, or is it just bunk? Here's a good one on
page--page--here it is, sixty-six. This is the one for me. Here's a
gold medal you get for saving a guy's life, only you've got to risk
your own. If you lose your life you're out of luck. If you get away
with it they hand you this----"
"I know all about it," said Skinny.
"That ain't so worse," said Danny, idly running over the pages.
"Wait till I find--oh here it is, here's a pippin! Here's where a
guy makes out he's a smuggler--page four hundred and thirty--and the
bunch has to track him. If he gets to the nearest town he's K.O. I
ought to be able to get away with that, Tiny." It was certainly in
his line. "They got some good dope here, all right," he added. "You
can even be one if you're not in with a bunch."
"That's a pioneer scout," said Skinny.
"Here's a nifty--listen to this one. They got a lot of badges you
can win. Here's one on riding a horse----"
"I know all about them," Skinny repeated.
It was evident that scouts had merits which Danny could admire, but
had no desire to imitate. His rather nonchalant attitude toward
scouting troubled poor Skinny. He had spent the whole night in
nervous tension, planning and striving to save Danny from his own
folly. And here was Danny leisurely inspecting the Scout Handbook,
commenting upon its features with eminent fairness, and apparently
without a care in the world. It must be admitted that so far as
looks were concerned there was not a boy at Temple Camp more
scoutlike than he. Poor Skinny's suit fitted him to perfection; it
was in line with this blithesome young scapegrace's luck that his
ungainly little half-brother had in his innocence bought the suit too
large. Though, indeed, poor Skinny would never in any suit look as
natty as this self-sufficient brother of his. The only false note in
Danny's ensemble was a rakish tilt of the scout hat, which gave him a
rather too easy-going and sophisticated air.
"I brought you something to eat," said poor Skinny. "I was afraid
they'd find you, those reform school people, but I'm glad they
didn't. There's two sandwiches here, and four cookies. I bet you
didn't sleep much--I bet."
"You lose your bet," said Danny. "I was dead to the cruel world.
Some blamed bird or other, that was screaming like Hail Columbia,
woke me up."
"Those are blue jays," said Skinny.
"They'd be black and blue jays if I caught them," said Danny. "I
went over there to a spring and washed up. Then I came back and
started giving this book the once-over. What time is it anyway? Can
I go and do my act yet?" He ate the sandwiches while Skinny talked.
"I tried to get fifteen dollars for you so you wouldn't have to stay
here and I swam across the lake so as to win the prize canoe; I did
it early this morning, Danny, and I won it. But the feller I tried
to sell it to because he's rich and has grapefruit sent him and
everything--that feller wouldn't buy it, because he's mad at his
patrol and he's going home, because they're sore at him on account of
his not staying awake so nobody could take the pennant. I'm the one
that took it. So I'm the one to blame, because I can't give you
fifteen dollars."
Danny was a boy who was always ready to do anything. Consequently
nothing that any other boy did astonished him. He was interested in
propositions to do things. He was not so interested in things that
had been done. So all he said was, "You should worry."
"I got to worry," said poor Skinny.
"And I've got to stay here and I might as well have some fun," said
Danny.
Poor Skinny was aghast at Danny's utter inability to perceive the
peril in which he stood. This impersonation of another boy at Temple
Camp was to be merely another casual adventure in the blithesome
career of Danny. He had lost no sleep over it, he apprehended no
complications. He would cross bridges when he came to them. He was
not annoyed by Skinny's near success in the matter of the canoe.
What Skinny had done did not seem to impress him as an exploit.
Since he was not able to supply fifteen dollars, Danny accepted
scouting as a means of escape. And he was not going to worry about
it.
"Will you promise--cross your heart--that you won't say I told you to
do it?" Skinny asked, with panic fear in every feature. "Will you
promise--honest and true, cross your heart--that you won't ever even
look at me?"
"Go on down and get your breakfast, kid," said Danny.
"I tried to get you the money so you could go away."
"Sure, you should worry; go down and eat, Tiny."
"And you won't go to the office till about half past ten, because on
account of the train?"
"Leave it to me, kid."
"You're going to get in a lot of trouble," Skinny warned,
pathetically apprehensive.
Poor little fellow, he had done the best he could to avert this
bizarre and perilous undertaking of Danny's. He had risked his life.
He was doomed to trouble with his comrades because of the missing
scout suit, and because of his attempt to sell the reward of his
heroism. They would not even laugh at him and make fun of him any
more. He wondered if he had better go ask the Alligators of
Alleghany not to mention the offer he had made at their cabin. But
that would only discredit him with them; it would look sneaky.
Such troubles to arise from good intentions and deeds of skill and
prowess! Poor Skinny, his excursion into the field of heroism had
not been propitious. And pressing down upon him more heavily than
all these perplexities was the terrifying thought of Danny. What
might happen there made Skinny shudder. Such an act of effrontery as
his half-brother was launched upon quite unnerved this poor little
scout who had been so humble and obscure. Yet he was staunch in
loyalty to Danny. He would bear the scornful taunts (as he had
always borne the humorous taunts) of Temple Camp if that were
necessary. And when the worst came to the worst he would be loyal to
Danny. It was odd that through all this disheartening mess, he did
not once recall with pride and elation that he was the winner of the
Hiawatha Prize. He had forgotten all about the canoe.
CHAPTER XIII
ALIAS DANVILLE BENTLY
He hurried along with his queer, shuffling gait to the big shed where
meals were served in pleasant weather. He was always insignificant
looking unless you looked straight into his eyes. There was
something indescribable about those eyes that haunted one. They
bespoke a latent frenzy that could carry that homely little frail
body to any heights of heroism. But all you saw as he hurried along
was a little codger who somehow reminded you of the slums. He had
the scared look so familiar in homeless dogs.
As he moved between the long tables a few scouts who had never
noticed him before, turned and stared at him. "Honest!" one scout
asked his neighbor. "Sure, that's him," said another; "that's the
one." By no means all of them knew of his triumphant swim. At one
table they were talking about the "lifting" of the white pennant, but
no one seemed to know that he was the hero of that affair. One would
have to be a pretty big hero to divert the attention of the Temple
Camp scouts while they were eating breakfast. One remark he did
overhear as he made his way to the tables of his own troop. "Special
bargain sale in prize canoes," he heard a boy say. "Business is not
so good today," another boy answered. Skinny flushed but did not
glance at the authors of this cheap sarcasm.
The Bridgeboro Troop occupied two tables, the Ravens and the
Chipmunks at one, the Silver Foxes and the Elks at the other. As
Skinny edged into his seat only one voice greeted him. The exuberant
Roy Blakeley of the Silver Foxes called. "Hey Skinny, you were in
the swim all right, but not here.
Sticks and stones can break your bones,
But looks can never hurt you."
But there Roy Blakeley was mistaken. Looks did hurt Skinny; they
were like blows to his sensitive nature. And now nothing but black
looks greeted him. Something was wrong evidently; something very
serious. For there was no criticism, no half-humorous slurs and
sallies. The members of his patrol passed him things at the table,
and once or twice asked such service from him, and it was pitiful to
see him respond with such alacrity. But no one talked with him--with
this boy who had "lifted" the white pennant and won the Hiawatha
canoe. He thought it must be because he had not donned his scout
suit.
After breakfast he went off by himself and wandered up into the
woods. He often did that to get away from the bantering scouts, but
this morning he was beset with forebodings. Something was wrong,
everything was wrong. The atmosphere he had felt at breakfast
pervaded the whole quiet woodland. Something played on the strings
of his delicate nature, causing them to vibrate with strange
apprehension. He felt nervous, ill at ease; he knew something was
going to happen. Up in the woods was an oriole's nest which he had
been watching, for he intended to take it when it was deserted and
claim the Audubon Prize. He sat down on a stump and looked at it
now, hanging up in the tree like a dried rag. He had no more
interest in the prizes. He had won the hardest one of all to win,
and it had brought him nothing but trouble.
After a little while, he wandered back to camp again, haunted by that
strange sense of foreboding. A lonesome, forlorn little waif he
seemed; hopelessly an odd number; not one single sign of the scout
about him. Just a little codger from Corkscrew Alley. Passing a few
yards from Administration Shack he saw the usual coming and going by
which he knew that the office was open. There were the usual
loiterers on the porch, scoutmasters hurrying in and out, new boys
glancing around as they emerged and pausing to read the notices.
Suddenly a rather tall boy with his scout hat tilted at a rakish
angle came out, folding a paper. That was the set of rules that they
gave to every new arrival. He also held a red card and Skinny knew
what that meant, It meant he was registered as a scout without troop
affiliation and was assigned to the big dormitory which, with several
group cabins, formed what was called Pioneer Row.* So Danny had come
through the routine of enrollment without trouble. Skinny was even
proud of him, he looked so natty, so self-assured, so different from
those bewildered looking new arrivals who glanced bashfully about
seeming not to know what to do with themselves. There was one whole
patrol of them and they seemed as helpless as a pack of sheep.
* A pioneer scout is one without a troop or patrol. See page 24 of
the Scout Handbook.
As Danny stepped down off the porch he passed between two scouts who
were catching ball and he raised his arm in an offhand way
intercepting the ball and throwing it to a third boy. How proud
Skinny would have been of this charmingly nonchalant brother, except
for that frightful secret! Even as it was he felt relieved and a
little proud, Danny was so attractive and seemed so safe--so equal to
any emergency.
Skinny hardly knew where to go so he went down to the springboard.
Still that vague feeling of presentiment beset him and made him
nervous. Sitting on the springboard were Connie Bennett, his patrol
leader, and several of the Elk Patrol. Seeing Skinny approaching,
Stut Moran and Vic Norris strolled away. "Cut that out," Connie said
to them, but they paid no attention.
Skinny could not bear the tension; his little frame was trembling
with nervous excitement. "What's the matter?" he forced himself to
ask. "If I don't want to wear my--a--scout suit I don't have to, do
I? If I don't want to have my picture taken in it, I don't have to."
Hearing him speak, Stut and Vic turned and paused, Vic calling, "Come
on, you scouts, let him alone. Don't you know what we said?"
The others started from the springboard to join Stut and Vic. Skinny
remained on the springboard, scarlet with embarrassment. Like a
little statue of lonely poverty he stood there on the board from
which he had plunged for his sensational swim.
"Can't you tell me if it's about the suit?" he called almost
imploringly.
They seemed to be conferring and he waited. Then Connie beckoned and
he went to them, like a dog doubtful of its welcome. Thus it
happened that one of the most memorable events of Temple Camp
occurred on the grassy patch near the shore, just under the big
willow tree where they painted the boats before launching them.
Scouts will show you the spot now.
"I'm going to give you the chance to deny it, that's only fair,"
Connie said. "Did you try to sell the Hiawatha Prize to a patrol
from out in Pennsylvania?"
"Yes, I did," Skinny said. He was trembling, not in fear, but in the
pride of his frankness.
"You did!"
"Yes, I did--I said I did."
There was a tense pause.
"A prise! You tried to sell it for money," exclaimed Vic Norris
incredulously.
"Didn't you know those scouts are going in for the canoe races the
same as we are!"
"No, I didn't know that," Skinny protested, breathing heavily.
Such an altercation could not fail to attract lookers-on and perhaps
a dozen boys were now standing about listening.
"Well, you knew we were going in the races with it," Connie said.
"And you knew that prizes kind of go to patrols. You ask anybody in
Temple Camp--ask Tom Slade--if he ever _heard_ of a scout trying to
_sell_ a camp award. Jimmies, I didn't believe it when I heard it.
You sneaked up to those fellows' cabin and asked them if they wanted
to buy the Hiawatha canoe for fifteen dollars. Did you or didn't
you?"
"If you can prove you didn't, we won't chuck you out," Bert McAlpin
said.
"I said I did," said Skinny, standing his ground, but with a tremor
in his voice, "but I didn't sneak."
"Good night!" groaned Hunt Ward disgustedly.
"What did you want to do it for?" Connie asked. He alone seemed
disposed to be considerate.
"Because--it's none of anybody's business what I did it for," Skinny
said.
"Why it's like the gold medal; would you sell that?"
"Yes, I would if I thought--if I was sure it was right to do it,"
Skinny said.
Perhaps some of the onlookers sympathized with him, he was so small,
so insignificant looking; and withal so eager and earnest. Tears
were rolling down his cheeks now and he raised his shabby little
sleeve to wipe his eyes and still stood his ground in trembling
defiance. "I would and it's none of nobody's business," he said.
"_Oh, is that so?_" sneered Stut Moran. "If you wanted money as bad
as all that why couldn't you steal it like you did apples from
Schmitter's Grocery when you'd have got in trouble if Mr. Ellsworth
hadn't taken you into the troop?"
Skinny trembled, but said nothing. "Did I--I--did I act all right
since I was in the troop?" he finally managed to get out.
"Sure, trying to sell prizes," Vic Norris shot at him angrily. "Gee
we've had enough of Corkscrew Alley in our troop. You don't belong
in the troop anyway, you dirty little slum rat, you----"
There was a slight stir in the group and there in front of Victor
Norris stood a boy he had never seen before, a boy whose scout hat
was tilted at a rakish angle and whose half-closed eyes were like
cold steel.
"Do you take that back?" said he.
"You mind your own business; I take nothing back," said Vic.
The blow fell so swiftly that he was sprawling on the ground before
the onlookers knew what had happened. They will tell you now at
Temple Camp that that blow sounded as if it fell on a wooden surface,
so terrific was the force of it. The dazed victim rubbed his eye
half-consciously and made as if to rise. Like lightning his
assailant brushed aside an interfering spectator and looked behind
him to see if any official might be approaching. "Don't get up till
you take it back," he said in quick, businesslike fashion. "You'll
just go down again. Keep away, you fellers. Well?"
"I take it back," cried Vic Norris.
"Tell him, don't tell me," said the strange boy, indicating Skinny.
And he strolled away as if the matter no further concerned him.
CHAPTER XIV
THE PIONEER SCOUT
But it was not Vic Norris who was hurt; it was Skinny. He would not,
he could not, tell them the truth. He must live in the shadow of
their cruel thoughts. Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster of the troop,
arrived in camp on Friday for the week end, and tried to smooth over
the difficulty. But Skinny would not tell him why he had made his
astonishing offer to the departed Helmer Clarkson. Nor would he say
why he would not wear his scout suit. He was as stubborn as a little
mule in those matters. Mr. Ellsworth told the Elks that they would
just have to take Skinny as they found him, that there was no
explaining him. He reminded them that at all events they had the
canoe, and the white pennant.
So they took Skinny as they found him, and they found him different.
He seemed worried and preoccupied, and took little interest in the
patrol. They never asked him to wear his scout suit and he continued
to be, what he had always been in camp, an odd little figure in a
faded blouse. Those in the Bridgeboro troop who were most discerning
noticed how he seemed always in fear. But when they made fun of him,
as they were wont to do at camp-fire, he smiled bashfully in the same
old way and was delightfully ill at ease.
He occasionally went out in the prize canoe with scouts of his patrol
and sat wedged into one end like a funny little figurehead. You
would never have dreamed that he was the boy who had won that trim
craft which skimmed so lightly in the water. But he seemed to
appreciate being taken out in it. Perhaps after all it was not
Skinny who had won the canoe. It was the frenzied and despairing
soul of Skinny which had done that. Anyway, they often took him out
in it and he sat very still and upright as he was told to do.
The Elks soon lost the white pennant; a scout in a Vermont troop
walked away with it one night during Vic Norris' watch, so Vic had
two black eyes in a way of speaking. Bert McAlpin tried to get it
back and was caught red-handed. Then Connie himself tried and got a
good laugh from the Vermonters. Skinny was not particularly
interested in these attempts; he was too much worried about Danny to
concern himself with patrol exploits. He saw Danny every day and
occasionally spoke with him, but they were not much together. The
terrible thing that Danny was doing made Skinny afraid of him; he
stood in awe of such daring and effrontery.
As for Danny, he was not in the least troubled. On the very day of
his arrival he hiked to Catskill, keeping off the highway, and sent a
telegram collect, in the name of Temple Camp, advising the father of
Danville Bently that his son would be expected on August Second.
Having come safely through the formality of enrollment, no
embarrassing questions were asked him and indeed he had no further
intercourse with the management. Temple Camp is a big place and he
was soon absorbed in its life. Nobody cared where he lived or
anything else about him; they were all too busy with scouting.
And he was busy with scouting too. He might have taken his second
class tests, he might even have qualified for the first class, but he
cautiously refrained from any step which might bring him face to face
with trustees and councilors. Since he did not seek the first class
ranking he could not try for merit badges. He became, in short, one
of those nondescript scouts who are to be found in every summer camp,
boys who have taken the scout oath and put on scout suits and let it
go at that. He was too large to be thought of as a tenderfoot;
moreover his prowess and skill lifted him out of that class. He was
good at everything, but he did not fit his exploits into the scout
program.
He bunked in Pioneer Row with that miscellaneous company whose
members had come to Temple Camp without troop or patrol. Many of
them were instances of the one lucky boy in some homekeeping scout
unit. Some of them were active and clever, but they were deprived of
the advantages of group spirit. A boy scout is better off with his
patrol in a vacant lot than alone at the best of scout camps. The
big sleeping quarters of Pioneer Row had more the atmosphere of a
boarding school dormitory than of a scout camp. In a sense they did
form one big troop--too big.
After the first few days of his life in this rather inglorious
department of the spreading community, Danny lost all fear of being
found out at camp. The whole thing had been so easy! And Temple
Camp was so embracing and friendly! He was an adaptable boy and he
felt quite at home. He still feared the grim authorities of the
reform school, for he knew that he had been committed to that hated
institution by the State and that the long arm of the law was
reaching out for him. But as the days passed and nothing happened,
his fear subsided. He was so cozy and remote that discovery from
either quarter seemed an altogether unlikely sequel of his good
fortune. And August Second was so far away!
Once or twice he feared that Skinny might inadvertently, or in a
spasm of outraged conscience, say something. But nothing happened
and whatever fears he had were lulled to sleep. Yet there was one
person there whom he should have feared and that was himself. But he
not only did not fear himself; he did not fear anybody. The only
trouble was that he would have to sneak away before August Second.
Well, he thought, the authorities would have ceased their search for
him by that time, and he would go away on a ship.
All the boys in Pioneer Dormitory liked Danny. He was more
sophisticated than most of them and they stood somewhat in awe of
him. He seemed to know a good deal about the world and they
respected him for it. His rather nonchalant attitude toward scouting
had something engaging in it; but there was one serious boy who was
not too ready to fall under his spell.
This was Holman Sharpe, a pioneer scout from a farm in New Hampshire.
He was not summering away from his troop; he had no troop. Nor was
he, as so many of those boys were, the single remaining member of a
disintegrated troop. He was a registered pioneer. In the lonely
section where he lived there were no boys to form a troop. So he had
sent to National Headquarters for blanks and had been enrolled as a
pioneer scout, which was a very different thing from the unattached
scouts of Pioneer Row.
This boy went in for scouting with both hands and feet and the
easy-going Danny was greatly amused by him. He was one of those boys
who take themselves very seriously. Such boys are found in schools
and colleges, wrestling with their studies to the exclusion of
everything else, forgetting life in the interest of learning.
Scouting is not a good field in which to do this. There is nothing
about scouting to study; it is just a form of life. But this boy
conceived it as a sort of curriculum and the Handbook as a sort of
text book. He was certainly born to be a student. It is not so
certain that he was born to be a scout.
To this serious New England boy, Temple Camp was a sort of
university, the merit badges all representing study courses. He was
out for promotion; he did not care so much about fun. His Handbook
was all marked up with memorandums of his progress and notes of his
plans. He was a canny boy and did not forget about the future. He
even took into consideration the time when he would be too old for
scouting and had his plans all made for joining the _Veteran Scout
Association_. In an envelope he had three dollars laid away with
which to buy the veteran pin several years hence.
Everything in the Handbook was law and gospel to him and he had set
about the strenuous labor of squeezing it dry. He would get his
money's worth at Temple Camp by doing every single thing that was
even casually suggested in the scouting program. He had never had
any give and take with other boys and he could not conceive of
scouting being carried lightly and airily, as Roy Blakeley of the
Silver Foxes, carried it. He went in for scouting with a vengeance.
What Danny did, he did easily, and he was highly entertained by the
way Holman would come in carrying his Handbook and some maps and
papers, and sit down on his cot, which was next to Danny's, to go
over them and enter notes in his field book.
"Busy with your homework?" Danny would quiz.
"I've just hiked fourteen miles," Holman answered him one day. "I'm
going to write it up to-night, and there's test four all finished on
the first class badge. If you took all the miles you've used up
flopping around in the woods to-day, I bet they'd run over fourteen
and you'd have a seven mile double to lay up on your first class
tests. I mixed some dough and cooked my dinner, too, while I was
off, so I'm claiming the cooking badge on that. I don't know whether
I'll get it or not."
"Did you ever study algebra!" Danny queried.
"Well, it's not exactly a part of scouting," said Holman.
Danny, sitting on Holman's cot with his knees drawn up, pulled his
hat down over his forehead, which gave him a sophisticated, even a
tough, look. "But I had the fun of flopping around in the woods,"
said he. "You hike so fast you never see anything."
"Make hay while the sun shines," said Holman in his businesslike way.
"Why, you were telling me about following those marks and you came
plunk on a rattlesnake; he's a pretty big one, I guess."
"He was; he isn't any more," said Danny.
"You've got to look out how you kill those fellows. But what I was
going to say was, you could use that stuff on the stalking test if
you wanted to. Did you have any witnesses?"
"Only the rattlesnake and he's dead," said Danny.
"I'm only telling you how you waste your chances," said Holman. "You
can do things, all right, only you don't think. I heard a scout over
at the Kit Carson tents say you jumped over Outlet Brook."
"Yere?"
"I've got it planned out so I can use one stunt on two tests."
"Wholesale only, huh! What's that red book?" Danny asked, kicking it.
"That? That's the English Handbook. I'll wager you that's the only
one in camp. I guess you never even read the American one, do you?"
"Oh, I gave it the once over; there's some pretty good dope in it.
Ever think you'd like to make a stab for the Gold Cross?"
"Life saving with imminent risk?" (Holman quoted accurately).
"That's something pretty high up; that's out of the ordinary."
"I was thinking I'd grab it--just for a stunt," said Danny.
Holman shook his head, "That's one of the big things--that's the very
biggest," said he. He knew all about it.
"That's the one for me," said Danny.
"I sort of don't like the way you refer to it,"
"That's the snappiest one in the book," said Danny.
"Talking about books," said Holman, "you ought to look over this
English Handbook; it's by General Baden-Powell. There's a section in
it about deduction; deducing facts from clues and signs. Why you can
even look at a scout's shoes and tell where he has been if you know
how."
"I don't care where's he's been," said Danny.
"It's an interesting phase of scouting just the same."
"Phase, huh? That's just detective stuff. You don't want to be one
of those guys, do you?"
"Oh, that's part of scouting--mental effort."
"Yere?"
"Now, for instance, I've noticed something. I even made a note of
it."
"I bet you did."
"I don't believe there's a scout in this camp ever noticed that
tattoo mark on your arm."
Danny started.
"Surprises you, eh!" Holman laughed. He did not often laugh. "Yes
sir," he said in a way of small triumph, "I noticed it when you
rolled up your sleeve; the time you reached down in the water after
the compass that little big-eyed youngster is always losing. You
rolled it away up--remember! I noticed. I said, 'That boy has known
a sailor.' Now am I right?"
"Right--the first time."
"I wondered why the letters were D. M. since I knew your name was
Danville Bently. But I hit on it. Now tell me if I'm right."
"Sure, you're always right."
"They name ships the _Molly B_ and all like that. If a ship is
called after a woman named Molly B. Smith, they just call it the
_Molly B_. I'll wager that M is your middle initial--Danville M. as
you might say."
"_Geeee_, that's wonderful!" said Danny. "That's _simp_-ly
wonderful! I bet you're going to keep it to yourself too."
"Oh, trust me for that," said Holman Sharpe.
Their talk was interrupted by the little tenderfoot office boy from
Administration Shack who called from the open doorway at the end of
the long row of cots.
"Danville Bently, you're wanted in the office," said he.
CHAPTER XV
THE SERENADE
Danny was nervous, but he did not show it. He had never before been
summoned to the office. He had thought that by keeping out of scout
activities he would be safe in the refuge of self-imposed obscurity.
Lost in the nondescript company of the big dormitory, and keeping as
much as he could out of touch with the management he had hoped and
believed that his daring stunt of impersonation would succeed.
Now, as he made his way up toward the main body of the camp, he
wondered, almost tremblingly, what was amiss. Had poor little
Skinny's conscience given way under the strain? No, he knew better
than that. The thin cord would never break. Would he find himself
face to face with the warden of Blythedale School? Or perhaps with
the real Danville Bently? There is many a slip....
The usual group was lolling about the steps of the official building.
From his place on the railing, Roy Blakeley called, "Hey what are you
doing up here at the hole of holes? (meaning holy of holies). And
how are things down in Pie Row? How is Sophomore, Senior,
Post-graduate Sharpe these beautiful days! I hear he's going to hire
a bookkeeper. Hey Bent, why don't you come up to camp once in a
while so we won't forget what you look like? Don't remember to do
your good turn daily."
In the office the young clerk in khaki showed Danny into the sanctum
of the powers, where he waited nervously while Councilor Wainwright
finished reading a letter. "Well my boy," said that official,
glancing up pleasantly; "how do you think you like camp?"
"It's one camp, all right," said Danny. "It's big enough, I'll say."
"We thought perhaps we'd hear from you--see your name up on the board
or something, glorifying Florida."
Danny winced a bit at this. "We've got a scout down there that takes
care of all those things for us," said he. It was this good-humored
nonchalance of his which drew people to him. Discerning men
construed his slightly sneering attitude to mean that he was
impatient of little people and little things. The councilor chuckled
appreciatively. "It takes all kinds to make a square mile of camp,"
he said.
"Now, Bently," he continued, deliberately going to the matter in
hand, "this is what I wanted to see you about. Sometimes things get
around to headquarters rather late. I understand you punched a boy
the first day you were here."
"Did he tell you?"
"Of course he didn't. That was a good scout you punched."
"It was a good punch I gave him."
"I heard it was. But, of course, he had just lost his temper."
"I did a good turn, I helped him to find it."
"Well, my boy, we won't go into that now. We usually find up here
that a boy who is free with his fists is--well, it's a kind of a
habit with him. There are those who hit and those who don't. I
think I can't recall a single instance up here of a boy hitting
another boy who didn't before the season was over do the same thing
again. Now, honor bright, you've slugged fellows before, haven't
you?'
"Sure, a guy named Kinney back in----"
"So you see. Now I just want to warn you not to do that sort of
thing again. If you do, you'll go right back to Florida, Bently.
This camp isn't the Madison Square Garden or the Chicago Stadium. We
don't expect our guests to take the law in their own hands--ever. Of
course, what I say to you applies to every boy here, and there's
going to be a notice out there on the board so none of you young Jack
Dempseys can come back at us. Any boy that uses his fists leaves
this camp--quick. Just you read what it says in the Handbook on
being a gentleman. You ever get any hints out of the Handbook?"
"There's some pretty good dope in that," said Danny.
"I'll say there is."
"And there's a lot of play-in-the-backyard stuff too."
Councilor Wainwright laughed heartily at this frank young critic.
"Well, let's hear from you on some of the good stuff," said he. "You
scouts down in the dormitory,--we hardly know you're alive up here.
All right, my boy, no hard feelings."
Danny went out, greatly relieved. More than that, he inhaled a kind
of fresh assurance that everything would be all right. Loyal little
Skinny was like the Rock of Gibraltar. Blythedale Reform School was
so far away. Danny felt more secure than ever in this woodland
refuge. And Danville Bently, the real Danville Bently was--why, by
this time he was in Europe with his people. The only person that
Danny had to fear was himself. Well, that would be all right, he
would keep his fists where they belonged. No danger. He even felt
that he had gained something; Councilor Wainwright seemed to like him.
But there was a black cloud on the horizon. You would not think of
calling Roy Blakeley a black cloud, yet he was the black cloud in
this instance. He was a boy who would sit contentedly on a fence
thinking of nothing in particular, then suddenly be aroused to
mirthful enterprise as by an inspiration. Surely he was one of the
spirits of Temple Camp. Boys returned home in the autumn and talked
of him all winter. His patrol, the Silver Foxes, shone by his own
reflected light. They were (to quote the voice of Temple Camp) a
bunch of jolliers.
If Danny had not been called to the office it is probable that Roy
would never have conceived the mischievous idea of descending with
his bantering cronies upon the defenseless Pioneer Row. But his
piquant sallies to Danny upon his visit to the seat of the powers
reminded him that he had neglected Pie Alley, which was his name for
that lowly suburb. Roy invariably acted upon every random
inspiration.
"Come on, let's go down to Pie Alley and kid the life out of
Sophomore Senior, the Student Prince of scouting," said he.
"We'll tell him he's awarded a typewriter machine," said Warde
Hollister.
"We'll tell him all the tests for merit badges have been changed,"
said Ralph Warner.
They would have been accompanied by a clamorous escort except that it
was rest hour and most scouts were either asleep or reading in
reclining postures in their cabins. So no one went upon this
memorable expedition but Roy and two of his patrol, Ralph Warner and
Warde Hollister. Reaching the big, sprawling, shingled dormitory,
they serenaded the subject of their call like knights of old. They
knew that Holman Sharpe would be resting. Holman did everything that
was on the scout program. He was getting his money's worth.
Roy was something of a balladist and he saluted the victim with a
minstrel lay:
"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, come out of the door
The badge list is changed and there's ninety-six more."
This failing to arouse him they tried again.
"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, get up and come out
And the fourth test on plumbing we'll tell you about."
Still again they tried to lure him with soft melody.
"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, come out with scout stealth
And we'll hand you the medal for personal health."
Holman Sharpe did not come out, but he looked out through the open
window.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ACCUSED
"Don't you scouts know it's rest hour?" said Holman. "You'd better
look in your handbooks and see what's on page three thirty-seven.
What are you scouts doing down here at this time of day?"
"It's a lie!" said Roy. "You can't believe a word the Handbook
says--you can't even believe the punctuation. It says you can find
comfort in the woods and we looked all around and didn't find any--we
even used our searchlights, I'll leave it to Warde. Hey, Sharpy,
come on out, the National Council has decided that a hobby-horse
isn't an animal so you can't name a patrol after it. Honest, I'll
leave it to Ralph Warner. You can't press the leaves of a hat-tree
either--there's a new rule--so if you have any you better throw them
away. The rules are all changed, you can't get the printing badge by
finding footprints any more. Hey, come on out, Sharpy."
Holman did not immediately respond to this merry summons, but Danny
who was in the dormitory strolled out smiling and sat on the steps.
Holman's methodical activities amused him, but he had never poked fun
at him.
"Hey, Florida," said Roy; "how 'bout it--isn't it true they're going
to give crutches for veteran scouts? You better put in your
application while you're young, Sharpy. You better start saving up."
Holman emerged upon the porch. There was nothing sissified about
this boy; it was not for that reason that they took delight in
"jollying" him. It was that he was so terribly sober and earnest.
He was going to be a scout by the book; he thought that if he could
pass an examination in scouting he would be a scout. He was studying
it, cramming, and he thought that boys who were just naturally scouts
and did not study it very hard, were slackers.
Roy had fifteen merit badges and had enjoyed the fun of getting them.
But this serious boy was not having the time of his life being a
scout. He should have been at boarding school, where he would have
won honors. Handbooks and tests and awards will help, of course, but
scouting is a matter of fine spirit. The scout who thinks only of
getting ahead, of swimming fifty yards because the book prescribes
it, is apt to forget about his comrade scouts. A curriculum is a
pretty poor sort of a pal.
"I should think you scouts would know this is rest hour," said
Holman. "If you want to get anywhere in scouting you've got to
relax. You come around here with your nonsense when I'm supposed to
be storing up a little energy."
"Tell us all about that," encouraged Ralph Warner, winking at Danny,
who was highly amused.
"On account of your yelling I'll have to make it up to-morrow when I
ought to be stalking," said Holman.
"There may be some truth in that," teased Warde. "Hey, Sharpy, why
don't you go out on a hike with your friend and neighbor some night
for no reason at all?"
"With Bently, you mean? I'd never accomplish much. I guess he's a
sort of more of a tramp than a scout. I'd never learn much from him.
I've only got eight weeks here."
"You let him say that about you, Florida?" Warde asked.
"Sure, let him go as far as he likes," laughed Danny. "I don't claim
to be a scout."
"I don't see what you're here for then?" said Holman.
"I can tell you the reason," said Roy. "He's here because he's here.
Am I right, Florida?"
"Surest thing," laughed Danny. He was hugely entertained as he sat
on the steps watching this show.
"He's wasting his father's money," said Holman. "If that's any
comfort to him."
"How do you know his father's got any money!" Warde shot back.
"He deduced it by deduction," said Danny.
"If he'll let me help him on scout stuff, I'll be glad to do it,"
said Holman.
"There's your chance, Florida," Warde and Ralph shouted together.
"I don't believe I could make the grade," said Danny.
"You could if you tried; you don't try," said Holman.
"Hey, Sharpy," said Roy, "there's something we came here to see you
about. Let's quit fooling. These two silver-plated foxes and myself
were appointed a committee to come here and ascertain--did you get
that word, _ascertain_? We have to find out if it's true what all
the fellows are saying that you went down to Catskill with Tom Slade
in his Ford and then came back and said that you crossed Valley Creek
by means of a ford and then claimed the _new discovery prize_ on
account of finding a way to get over Valley Creek not by the bridge.
If you did that it was dishonest and conduct unbecoming to a scout.
Are you claiming that prize or not? Yes or no--or both. Did you
deliberately accidentally deceive the Council or not?"
"You'd better look out how you talk about dishonesty and deceiving,"
said Holman rather heatedly.
"I call your attention to law one on page something or other of the
Scout Handbook," Roy persisted.
"That's the wrong page," said Warde.
"Then it's page sumpty-sump," said Roy. "A scout's honor is to be
toasted--trusted. If he violates his honor by telling a
lie--comma--or cheating--comma--he may be directed otherwise told to
hand over his scout badge--period. Holman Sharpe of Pie Alley, if
you did that we demand that you hand over your scout badge to this
committee of solid-silver foxes. Lying cannot be tolerated in Temple
Camp--unless you're lying down so as to relax and store up energy."
By this time Danny was laughing aloud; there was just the faintest
suggestion of Skinny about his countenance when he laughed. But
Holman Sharpe was clearly ruffled and he advanced, not exactly
menacingly, but with something in his manner which showed that he did
not at all catch the humor of their reference to dishonesty and
deception. He was a serious and literal boy and construed the use of
these words in any case as a slur and an insult.
"You said something about a scout's honor," he said. "It's on page
thirty-four if you want to know where it is. You better look out how
you talk about mine. The first thing you scouts know, one of you
will get what he good and plenty deserves." Granted, this boy knew a
good deal about scouting; but he did not know much about scouts.
"If I said anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it," said Ralph.
"Well you said--your leader said that lying isn't tolerated at this
camp. That's as much as calling me a liar." Now he did advance,
flushed and angry.
"Cut it out," said Roy good-naturedly, seeing which way the tide was
setting.
"As long as you spoke of a scout's honor--" Holman began.
"Cut it out, you blamed simp," said Ralph, his tone changing suddenly
to disgust.
"I'll remind you of law ten,* too," said Holman.
* This law refers to bravery and standing up for the right.
"Yere, we know all about it," said Ralph. "Don't tell us about
scouting. We were here before you ever heard of this camp. You
better learn to take a joke----"
"Sure, that's another law," said Roy.
"And as long as you're making such a fuss about lying," said Ralph
contemptuously, "if you want me to make you out a liar, I'll do it.
How about calling Florida a tramp? Who the dickens do you think you
are, calling scouts tramps? _Wasting his father's money_; can you
beat that? _Gee_, as long as you want to be serious, I'll say you
were lying."
This was intended more as a compliment to Danny, whom they all seemed
to like, than as a slur to Holman. Certainly nothing was further
from the minds of these young Silver Foxes than to start a quarrel.
But the serious Holman always carried his "honor" around with him as
he did his field book. He chose to take Ralph's remark as an insult
and he struck him more from a sense of duty than from anger.
Scarcely did the astonished Ralph realize what had happened when
Danny sprang between, spreading his arms to separate the two.
"That's enough, cut it out," he said. But indeed there was no chance
of a fight. Holman having done his duty stalked into the dormitory.
Warde and Roy, highly aroused by his act, followed him protesting.
So there for the moment stood Ralph, his hand against his face with
Danny standing before him saying, "That's enough, no more."
Just at that moment Councilor Wainwright, carrying his big flat chart
book and inspection record, came around the corner of the building
and paused suddenly.
"At it again, Bently?" he queried with grim cordiality.
CHAPTER XVII
THE MASQUERADER
The councilor did not wait for an answer. "Not hurt much?" he
commented rather than asked. "Suppose you come along to the office
with me, Bently."
To Ralph Warner's astonishment, Danny accompanied the councilor
without so much as a word. When Warde and Roy presently reappeared,
there stood Ralph recovering from his surprise rather than from the
hurt, which was not serious.
"He won't come out," said Warde, referring to Holman. "He did his
duty--can you beat it? Where's Florida?"
"Gone with Wainey," said Ralph. "He went before I knew it. I guess
Wainey thinks he did it."
"What did he want to go for?" Roy asked.
"Search me," Ralph answered.
"Come on, don't bother about Sharpy," said Warde. "Gee, I'm sorry
Wainey had to come along just then. Honest, isn't that just like
him?"
"Can you beat it?" Roy asked. "If the world should come to an end,
he'd sure be the first one there. Jiminies, Ralph, don't be sore, it
wasn't Sharpy hitting you, it was the Scout Handbook."
"Sure," laughed Warde.
"I understand," Ralph agreed. "Gee, that feller must be crazy."
"He's troubled with static," said Roy; "come on, let's beat it."
None of the three of them had the least notion that Florida, as they
called him, was deliberately posing as the culprit. Councilor
Wainwright's threatened warning had never appeared on the bulletin
board and the three Silver Foxes did not apprehend any very serious
sequel to the little affair. They supposed that the councilor did
not intend to take notice of it; certainly not to act upon it at that
time. They inferred that he wished to see Danny about something
else, and encountering him by chance, had asked him to go along.
That was the way they saw it, and they thought no more about it. Or
if they did, it was in a way of humorous dismay at Holman Sharpe's
unexpected conduct. You may say they were not ideal scouts. You
may, if you choose, say that Holman was a true scout. Those are
matters of opinion. In any event, Roy and his comrades cherished no
malice. "Only there ought to be a badge for that," said Roy; "the
slugger's badge. Otherwise, Sharpy will think he wasted his time.
Forget it. He saw his duty and he did it nobly. I hope young
Snoopy, the boy councilor, forgets it."
But Councilor Wainwright was very far from forgetting it. En route
to Administration Shack he said what he had to say and it was a model
of cordial brevity. "Well, my boy, you'd better pack up and get
started; you know what I told you. And we won't have any
explanations, eh? It seems you and I don't understand each other--no
hard feelings. Maybe we'll hear of you as a heavyweight champion
some day. Let's see, you were paid up for the month, I think?"
"That'll be O.K," said Danny.
"What was it, another one on the eye?" the councilor asked cheerily,
as he hurried along. You would have thought him a fight fan.
"N--not so good," said Danny, "I've done better."
"Well, now you see Temple Camp can make good its threats too."
"Fifty-fifty," said Danny. "Don't aim unless you'll shoot."
"That's the idea," said the Councilor, in great good humor. Danny
rather liked this man who was as good as his word; he had a
sportsman's respect for him. For Danny was always as good as his
word. Scout or not, he was that.
In the office the business was very brief. Up to the point of
judgment Temple Camp was easy-going. But after that the procedure
was summary. The board of the absent Danville Bently had, as we
know, been paid by check for the month of July. The letter from
Florida which Danny had found and destroyed, shifted this payment to
cover the month of August. It was now the middle of July and Danny
had used up two weeks' value of Mr. Roswell Bently's money. The
unused balance of thirty dollars together with forty dollars to make
up the amount of his transportation home, was given to him, and this
extra forty was billed to his supposed parent.
Thus, after two weeks of masquerading, this escaped inmate of a
reform school stood expelled from Temple Camp wearing a scout suit
and with seventy dollars in his pocket.
With the same nonchalant air that had made him a leader at Blythedale
School he ambled out of the office and back toward Pioneer Row.
Seeing Roy and his two companions near the wig-wag tower he strolled
over to them. His pace was random, his general demeanor idle. He
had that about him which seemed to say that nothing was of very much
importance; a kind of sneering sophistication. By the record he was
certainly not a good boy. When he did a good thing it was with a
certain appearance of mockery at goodness. He had not much use for
the fuss and feathers of scouting.
"Hey, you guys," said he, pausing in a kind of half-interested way.
"Can you all keep your mouths shut? That little racket is all over;
see? Keep away from the office and those bosses. No matter
what--keep your mouths shut."
"Was Wainey talking to you about it?" Warde asked.
"Now what did I say about keeping your mouth shut?"
"Is he going to jump on Sharpy?" Ralph asked. "Gee whiz, I don't
want him to."
"For what?" Danny asked. "Sharpy didn't slam you, you only dreamed
it. Forget it. None of us know anything about it. Nobody's going
to talk to you and you don't have to talk to anybody. It's all
settled. If you want to pull the scout stuff now's your chance.
Nobody's going to talk to you about it, so just keep your mouths
shut. Go on down to the lake and kid somebody along and forget it."
It was odd how silent and respectful they were, these boys who were
never able to keep still. They did not even pester him with
questions. Somehow they felt that this boy, who had not a single
scout achievement to his credit, was their superior. "Sure we
won't," Warde said.
"Don't make a lot out of nothing," said Danny, as he walked away.
He ambled down to Pioneer Row and into the big dormitory. He had
been told to get his things, but of course, he had no things to get.
He strolled down the aisle between the cots till he came to the one
on which Holman Sharpe was propped up, reading. In the interval
since the altercation the bell had rung and the rest period being
over the place was rapidly deserted. Only Holman remained in the big
bare place, engrossed with his clerical labors. Danny rather
disrespectfully threw a book or two out of the way and kicked another
to the floor, clearing a place so that he could sit on the foot of
the cot and talk.
"That the English one?" he asked, poking Sir Baden-Powell's book idly
with his foot. "Never mind, let it alone; won't hurt it to be on the
floor. How you feeling, Harpo-Sharpo?"
"I'm just finishing; I'm going to take my twenty yard swim this
afternoon."
"Can't swim the lake yet, huh?"
"No, but I will."
"Sure you will. Listen here, professor. They've got some kind of
darn crazy rule in this summer resort about scrapping. Not that
you're a scrapper, because you don't know how to hit. They're
putting up a notice about it, I understand. If they find out you
passed one to that feller--what's his name--they'll can you. It's
not a part of the game. You can stick out your tongue at a scout,
but you can't paste him. That's the only thing I know about
scouting, but I know that. You can take that one lesson from me. So
as long as I'm not a boy scout anyway--I mean a regular feller like
you--I'm going to be the one that hit foxy silver polish or whatever
his name is. You get the idea? I'm only here for two weeks more
anyway, and you've got work enough on hand to keep you here till New
Year's. On the dead level I don't see how you're ever going to get
away with it unless you cash in on that astronomy stuff and eat your
meals by deduction. So I'm starting----"
"You mean you're going to take the blame?"
"Sure, I haven't got anything else to take away with me. I suppose
I'm entitled to a little disgrace if I want it. Now--now, just a
minute! You have to do your good turn, don't you? All right, now
don't go shouting about your upper cut--it was a punk hit anyway--and
you're all hunk here till they close the show or your health breaks
down from over study. You see I'm not losing anything, because I'm
not booked up for rewards. Now I've got those silver gold dust
triplets or whatever you call 'em, fixed. All you have to do is just
remember that you had a dream about slugging a boy scout. So long,
Sharpy, old scout, and good luck to you."
CHAPTER XVIII
TO PASTURES NEW
One might suppose that such a boy as Danny would have at least the
quality of understanding himself; he was nonchalant and self-assured;
so easily the master of a situation. But strangely enough, now that
he had plenty of money and could go upon his way with comparative
safety, he felt neither safe nor comfortable. He had suffered no
scruples at masquerading at the expense of an unknown scout, but now
that the unused balance of this board money was handed him, he felt
like a thief. Such is the strange quality of money! There are those
who will accept favors of every sort, except money. As long as he
had been a guest (?) at camp he had not thought of himself as doing
anything dishonest. Risky no doubt, but not stealing. But now his
act was reduced to its common denominator. He held the money, not
simply what the money represented. And he felt exactly as if he had
stolen it. It needed only these crisp bills to remind him of the
outrageous fraud he had been perpetrating.--Money to return to
Florida.
This climax of affairs troubled him, for it showed him that he was
not so sure of himself. In a way, Temple Camp had found him out, or
at least revealed him to himself. He had avoided scouting so as to
keep under cover. Then he had deliberately sauntered to his own
destruction by accepting the dismissal which should have been Holman
Sharpe's. That is, he had done a good turn, which of course, is
scouting. In the course of this renunciation he had found himself in
possession of seventy dollars. And he could not keep it. He was
thoroughly annoyed with himself at this. He was found out--he had
found himself out. He had tracked himself and found himself. He
alone had done the whole business!
"They must think I'm joy riding in a baby carriage, needing money,"
he said to himself. He was not willing to put his act of returning
the money on the somewhat weak and "kiddish" grounds of honesty.
Such a resourceful, skillful boy as he, could travel without money.
And so forth and so on. Anyway, he sauntered with his finest
nonchalant air into Administration Shack, giving a little sneery look
at the stuffed birds and snake skins displayed there. He could
never, never go in for scouting. Oh no! He pulled out one of the
chairs around the big writing table, sat down, pulled a Temple Camp
envelope to him, put the money into it and addressed it, "To the
Managers of Temple Camp."
He scaled it over to the young clerk at the desk as he went out.
"Here's a love letter for Wainey and the bunch," he said. "Tell 'em
I didn't need it."
"Sorry you're going, Scout Bently," said the young scout clerk.
"That's all right, so long, old man."
"You'll find it pretty hot in Florida this time of year, won't you?"
"I'm not there yet."
"You going down on the bus?"
"No, I'm going to hike down and get the six thirty-two."
"Well, hope to see you again."
One thing he wanted to do and that was to find Skinny. Poor Skinny,
he would be relieved by the departure of this unconcerned young
masquerader. In that two weeks he had obeyed Danny's order and not
sought him out. He had smiled shyly on the two or three occasions
when they had passed each other by and once at night, when all the
scouts were at campfire, he had ventured down to the deserted Pioneer
Row to have just a few words with his dubious hero if Danny were
there. But he could not find him. "He's scared, because he thinks
maybe I look like him," Skinny said to himself. As if he, Skinny,
could look like that resourceful and daring adventurer! He had
thought much about Danny, and worried about him, in those two weeks.
Once he had seen a strange man coming along the path west of the
storehouse holding a boy by the collar and he had been seized with
panic fear that it was Danny in the clutch of the Blythedale
authorities, until he saw that it was just a visiting parent
indulging in pleasantries with his son.
But Skinny was not to be found on that afternoon of Danny's sudden
departure, and Danny took the trail around the lake without seeing
him. He went that way because he wished to avoid villages and the
open roads. The route was longer and much more difficult than that
via the highroad, but he could get to Catskill without passing
through Leeds. His intention was to hook a ride on a train to New
York and then, having no money, to use his wits. But, of course,
Danny never knew from one minute to another what he would do.
So Holman Sharpe was able to proceed uninterrupted with his strenuous
cramming in the interest of scouting. We should not be too severe
with Holman. Realizing what Danny was doing for his sake, he tried
to find him and insist that they tell Councilor Wainwright the truth.
But Danny had already gone. That was the great thing about Danny, he
was always as good as his word and acted promptly. Whether it was
hitting a boy in the eye or making a sacrifice, it was all the same.
He hated talk and posing.
Thus baffled in his effort to make amends, Holman contented himself
with the comfortable view that after all his "studies" were more
important than the unprofitable loitering of a boy like Danny.
Making good use of one's time was surely the paramount virtue,
greater than generosity and sacrifice. We shall meet Holman again
some day and it will be interesting to note how his studious
concentration worked out. He cared more for scouting than he did for
scouts.
Nor should we be too lenient with Danny. He had a kind of
sophisticated contempt for the prescribed routine of scouting and it
was not exactly in the spirit of self-sacrifice that he saved Holman
from summary dismissal. It amused him and annoyed him to see this
smug candidate for scout honors delving in books and planning to do
things which he, Danny, could do so easily. As long as Holman liked
that sort of baby play, Danny was quite ready to assure him his
continuance of it. But it was with a tolerant sneer that he did it.
And generous acts are not done with a sneer.
Moreover, Danny knew that in a couple of weeks the real Danville
Bently would arrive and a crisis occur. He had done his stunt of
masquerading, and had been able thus to lie low in the perilous days
following his escape from the reform school. He went away owing
Temple Camp (or the real Bently) the amount of two weeks board, but
he had balked at taking the cash that had been proffered him, and had
gone penniless.
It may be added that he succeeded in finding the trail through the
mountain pass across the lake, which Holman Sharpe had tried four
times to follow in doing test four for the first class scout badge.
CHAPTER XIX
THE NEW ARRIVAL
Perhaps poor little Skinny's big eyes stared a little more than usual
on his hearing of Danny's departure. But he did not fear for Danny.
He knew that Danny was equal to anything, that he led a charmed life.
He did not know why Danny had left (nobody seemed to know that) but
he was not greatly surprised. Back home, Danny had always been the
true free lance, coming and going at will. He had followed a circus
as far as Ohio and come safely home. To Skinny he was superhuman.
Down in that stout little heart, Danny, with all his dubious
qualities, was the real hero. He could do anything he wanted to do.
All that troubled Skinny was that he wanted to do such dreadful
things.
Early on the afternoon of August Second he trembled as a little group
of new arrivals came down the woods path from the road where the bus
had set them down. He stood, a poor, shabby little figure, on the
porch of Administration Shack watching those khaki clad boys with
suit-cases and duffel bags, as they were piloted into the office. He
was just the queer little mascot of camp, a law unto himself, and no
longer bothered because he did not wear the scout regalia. They took
him around with them, rowing and hiking, because of a superstition
that he brought good luck. Sometimes they took him out in the canoe
that he had won in an insane frenzy, and he was always shyly pleased
to go. Ask any scout in camp about that phenomenal exploit and he
would tell you that Skinny did it in a fit and could never do it
again. But he was always on hand on Administration porch to gaze at
new arrivals. He was the court fool, the camp pet, always in
evidence, staring in amazement at the great world.
Among these new arrivals on that day was a tall, merry faced boy,
whose natty scout suit set off his trim, slender form. He was
distinguishable from the others (a patrol and a two patrol troop) by
a spotless white scout scarf which, instead of being tied in a knot
was drawn through a wide silver ring. His belt was white, too, a
noticeable variation in the scout raiment. He climbed to the porch
rather hesitatingly behind the others, but he was not embarrassed at
the patrol of authority, for he gave Skinny a funny wink which
aroused the little fellow to eager laughter. When Skinny laughed the
skin of his thin face tightened about his mouth, giving the
appearance of an older person's smile, but his big eager eyes
redeemed this rather pitiful effect.
"What's the white scarf for?" he ventured to ask upon the strength of
that pleasant wink.
"Polar Bears of Florida," said the boy.
"They don't have polar bears in Florida," Skinny ventured.
"No, that's the funny part of it," the boy laughed.
Skinny did not realize till this boy had gone inside that he was the
real Danville Bently of Wave Crest City, Florida. He did not venture
into the office for there was a rug on the floor and somehow he was
always timid where there were rugs. But he stood at the window
looking in. He wondered if something involving himself would now
happen. His nerves were all on edge. There would be an explosion,
he thought. The tall boy stood aside waiting till the others were
enrolled. Skinny felt that this was for a purpose. The boy looked
very conspicuous in there with his white scarf and belt in striking
contrast to his khaki attire. Skinny now noticed that the hat he
held had a white cord on it also. He seemed to be waiting just from
politeness, but Skinny's little hands trembled in panic excitement.
The others emerged, singly and in groups, and now the tall boy was at
the counter. There was evidently some trouble and the clerk began
running through a card catalogue. Councilor Tenny was called and
together the three talked at the counter. Then Tom Slade, the young
camp assistant, appeared among them. Pretty soon he began laughing
and Skinny was relieved. The new boy laughed too. But Councilor
Tenny did not laugh. He shook his head as if puzzled. Then they got
a letter and read it. Pretty soon the new boy came out laughing.
"Well you don't have to worry," Tom called after him. "But it's
blamed funny we never got that letter."
"I know my name if I don't know anything else," laughed the boy. "I
wish I was as sure of my first class badges as I am of my--what d'you
call it--identity?"
"Beats me," said Tom, pausing on the steps. "All right, Bently,
don't worry; we like mysteries here."
"I'll write to my dad and he'll straighten it out," the boy said.
"This is a great place, Bent, we have dark and bloody mysteries,"
said Tom. "Long as you know who you are, you're all right. Get
busy--eats at six." That was just his off-hand, hearty way with new
arrivals.
So the worst was over and Skinny had not been torn to pieces or
struck dead. Temple Camp survived the dreadful fraud. Tom Slade had
even laughed; he loved so to have a joke on the office.
"Will you let me show you where you're going to go?" Skinny asked.
"Are you going to the dormitory? I'll show you. 'Cause my patrol
went on a hike, so I'll show you."
"I'm going to Tent Village, wherever that is?"
"I'll show you--it's dandy there. Is your name--what's your name?"
he asked, hurrying along by the new boy's side.
"Danville Bently."
"Have you got a patrol?"
"Sure, but I don't carry it around with me; I just came from Europe.
A chap was here for a couple of weeks and gave my name, that's what
all the fuss was about. Nobody seems to know anything about him."
"Will--they won't catch him, will they?"
"If he was slick enough to do that, I guess they won't if you're
asking me."
"He was smart, hey? Even if he wasn't maybe kind of a hero, he was
smart, hey?"
"There have been lots of worse ones; look at Robin Hood."
"Even he was bad, but he was a hero, hey?"
"I'd kind of like to know who he was. I hope I'll turn out to be as
smart as he is."
"You're not mad at him?" Skinny asked.
"I never get mad at anybody. My dad's the one that loses, and he'll
have a good laugh over it."
"Why do you wear white? It looks awful different?"
"Why do kids ask questions?"
"You're a second class scout?" Skinny asked, noticing the badge.
"I'll be a first class one in a few days or I'll kick myself. Have
you got seven miles around here that you're not using, so I can hike
it?"
"That's in test four," Skinny said. "Do you want me to go for a
witness?"
"Sure, you're always welcome."
"I know a good test four hike and I can always go, because mostly my
patrol are away doing all kinds of things. I can always go--if you
want me to. I won the Hiawatha canoe for swimming across the lake;
I'll show it to you, but most of the time it's out."
"Ever hear of Dutch Henny's Cave?"
"Sure I did. I bet you read about it in the Temple Camp booklet,
hey? It's just seven miles. I'll show you Spook Falls too, because
they make a noise like crying at night. That's a good test five hike
for second class, because it's just a mile; they go scout pace."
"How 'bout twelve on the first?"
"You mean getting a new scout? That's hard, because they're all
scouts up here. If you ask me things, I can tell you."
"Good."
"Now we're coming to Tent Village," said Skinny. "It's good it's all
full in Pioneer Dormitory, so they don't put you there. Can I be
special friends with you? Are you going to get prizes and awards?"
"Search _me_; I'm going to get a lot of fun," said Danville Bently.
CHAPTER XX
SKINNY'S PROTÉGÉ
The next day a notice somewhat more lengthy and conspicuous than the
usual hastily written announcements appeared on the big bulletin
board at Administration Shack. It was typewritten and signed by the
two resident trustees. Skinny gazed at it, appalled.
The management of Temple Camp is mortified to make known that the
honorable uniform of scouting has been lately used to perpetrate a
gross and criminal fraud in this community. On July First a boy
representing himself to be a scout, enrolled and secured assignment
to quarters at this office. He registered the name of Danville
Bently of Florida, a scout who was expected at that time. This
unknown boy was lately dismissed from camp for sufficient reasons at
the end of two weeks enjoyment of the camp's hospitality. A letter,
deferring the arrival of the true Danville Bently, failed to be
received at this office and was probably intercepted.
The management of this camp has regretfully had occasion to warn its
guests against canvassers representing themselves to be connected
with the movement, but never heretofore against any one wrongfully
impersonating a scout.
Loyalty to this camp and jealousy for the honor of the scout uniform,
will prompt any one who has any knowledge or suspicions of the
whereabouts and identity of this miscreant, promptly to bring same to
the attention of the management.
This certainly set the matter forth in its true colors and Skinny was
aghast. What would they say if they knew that this "miscreant" was
also a fugitive from a reform school? But the affair was over and he
would not worry any more about it. The bulletin was just a random
shot in the dark and nothing happened. Danny was safe. No one knew
Danny as he did or they would not put out such notices.
He became devoted to Danville Bently. The only way that Skinny could
make friends with a boy was to catch him early, before he was drawn
into the activities of the camp life. Every newcomer had a rather
slow day or two before becoming acquainted, and this was particularly
so with boys who came without their troops. After a new boy became
involved in the camp life, he saw Skinny simply as the little mascot
and was content to "jolly" him as every one else did. He was not
likely to take this queer little fellow seriously and to make a pal
of him. Skinny knew this from bitter experience and he capitalized
his knowledge of camp and the neighboring countryside with every new
arrival. New boys were glad enough to hobnob with this eager little
guide while there was nothing else to do and had no scruples about
deserting him as soon as they were drawn into the camp life. Skinny
knew that he must strike while the iron was hot, as the saying is,
and he was always to be found, a gaunt little figure, waiting on
Administration steps when the bus came in. No boy could possibly
dislike Skinny. But on the other hand no boy could possibly make a
permanent comrade of him.
But Danville Bently did just that. The contrast between Skinny and
himself was ridiculous, but he seemed not to notice it. A boy who
deliberately chose Skinny's company was apt to get himself laughed
at. But no one dreamed of laughing. Perhaps no one dared to laugh
at this tall boy with the white scarf and belt who ambled about with
the cadaverous little gnome who took such conspicuous delight in his
company. Once again Skinny had done the unexpected and won a real
prize. Truly indeed he never did anything on a small scale.
At first the camp paid no attention while this shabby little janitor
showed the new tenant around the enchanted place. That was Skinny's
customary job. But when Howell Cross, of the First Vermont Eagles
(and an Eagle Scout) asked Danville to go on a point hike and he
pleasantly declined, the big heroes of Temple Camp began to sit up
and take notice.
"Sorry," said he, "but I'm going out on the lake with Alfred McCord.
Tell your patrol I appreciate their asking me." Howell and the
others who stood by were astonished not only because it was a
compliment to the new boy for the Eagle Patrol so to honor him, but
because none of them had ever before heard Skinny called by his real
name Alfred. They were to hear that name a good deal in the future.
"Can't you go out on the lake with him any day?" one of these scouts
asked.
"Sure, so why not to-day?" said Danville.
"It's up to you."
"How do you like it in Tent Village?"
"All right."
"If you don't like it with the singles you can be a season member of
my patrol," said Eagle Scout Cross. "I'm one short, he's away with
his folks. They let you do that up here, you know."
"Oh, he knows," laughed another scout. "I guess little sqeedunk told
him everything."
"He never told me he stole the white pennant," said Danville not
unpleasantly, but with just a touch of sharpness.
It was the first time these well known scouts of camp had come face
to face with the tall boy with the soft southern accent, and they
observed him closely. They were all scouts of achievement; the
Vermont Eagles were a crack patrol and Howell Cross, their leader,
was a hero with a following. There were, alas, drones at camp, but
this circle was finely representative of scouting. They saw nothing
about Bently to suggest the laggard or slacker, or mere "guest" at
camp. He had what even Howell Cross had not, and that was a certain
picturesqueness; but it was of a sort that revealed no crink or
cranny where boyish ridicule could penetrate. An odd hat, or even
too much attention to ostentatious details of scout attire (shades of
Pee-wee Harris) was pretty sure to arouse mirth and banter in this
big community. But the full white scarf with belt and hat cord to
match, worn by this tall, self-possessed boy, excited no humorous
comment. They asked him respectfully about it.
"Polar Bears," said he. "And I know there aren't any in Florida and
that's the funny part. I bet I've said that fifty times since I came
here."
"We can sure tell you a long way off," said Howell pleasantly. "Does
the silver ring mean anything?"
"It only means my sister gave it to me when I joined the scouts."
"Gee, it's nifty all right. It's not a patrol ring?"
"Yes it is, we all got them."
"You don't have to tie it in a knot, gee that's good."
Ordinarily the mention of a sister would have given Temple Camp just
the chance it loved. They would have used the sister to belittle
their victim. They would have said, "Oh joy, he's got a little
sister." But they just were not moved to do that. They looked at
his white scarf gathered into the shining silver ring, and at his
belt, and everything about him. They were interested, respectful.
And a trifle puzzled. That he should have an engagement with Skinny
McCord! And that he seemed to have every intention of keeping it,
just as if it were a real engagement.
CHAPTER XXI
TEMPLE CAMP TAKES NOTICE
They even lingered in group form, watching him as he ambled off down
toward the lake. He had been at camp nearly a week, and he was still
quietly devoted to Skinny. He had not exploited Skinny nor made any
ostentatious show of being his champion. Yet he was devoted to him
in an easy-going unpretentious sort of way. He had never said, nor
even thought, "I might as well be nice to the poor kid." Evidently
he did not know that Skinny was just a poor little codger--a mascot.
Somebody would have to tell him about that. The funny part of it was
that he did not get himself laughed at.
Skinny's winning of the Hiawatha canoe had not brought him any
lasting glory. The white pennant had been lifted many times since he
had scampered off with it, eager and trembling. But now scouts began
to wonder how he had secured this permanent award of the tall,
polite, easy-going boy with the white scarf. They did not exactly
begin to take Skinny seriously, but they were puzzled. They tried to
find a weak point in Bently, some idle or effeminate quality, but
there was just nothing to get hold of.
Skinny was waiting at the lake, eager and anxious. He lived in
perpetual dread that Bently would "fall down" on him. But Bently
never did. He came ambling down with that pleasant smile which
always reassured Skinny.
"Did they ask you to go on bee-line with them?"
"Point to point, you mean?"
"Yes, they call it bee-line for short. I never went on one, but I
know all about how they do; you have to go across brooks and climb
over things and everything; you'd have a lot of fun. That feller
that was kidding me at camp-fire last night--you know that fat
feller?--he went through a house, even. Are you sure you're going to
go out with me?"
"I ought to be the one to know," said Danville.
"Did they try to get you to not do it?"
"No, why? How are we going; in your canoe?"
"Yes, but it's out, my patrol is using it. Maybe we better take a
boat, hey? That's it, over in the middle of the lake."
"Seems to be coming in, let's wait for it."
They sat down on the springboard to wait. The lake was dotted with
boats; every one seemed to be out fishing.
"I couldn't swim across again, because I was crazy that time," said
Skinny.
"You can do things when you're crazy," Danville said.
"_I_ can," said Skinny, "but not any other time. I got to get all
crazy like. Do you? It don't count so much if you're crazy like.
That's why everybody forgot about it. They said I was lucky."
"They said that about Lindbergh."
"If I get good and mad, then I can do things. Only most of the time
I can't get mad. They're nice to me up here, that's sure."
"Yes, that's good."
"Are we going to stay friends like! I don't mean just jollying me,
but are we going to stay friends like this?"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a mascot. Do you mind if I don't have a regular scout
suit?"
"I never noticed."
"Here they come now, they're coming in. That feller paddling in
front is Hunt Ward. That other one paddling is Connie Bennett, he's
my patrol leader. That other one belongs in a troop from Rhode
Island; he goes around with them a lot; he likes my patrol."
The Hiawatha canoe, with its merry trio, glided toward the float,
Connie brought it around, and it paused rocking alongside. "H'lo
Skinny," Hunt called.
"Can I go out in it now?" Skinny asked. "This feller's going with
me, can I use it?"
They glanced at Danville who stood by, watching them. "You ought to
have been down here an hour ago," Hunt said to him, "and you could
have gone along. We've got some perch."
"Now is just as good," said Danville.
"She's all full of water, wait till we get her on the float and tip
her," Connie said.
The three voyagers proceeded with the rather clumsy task of hauling
the canoe up on the float and turning it over.
"You don't need to haul her up," Danville said. "Here, let me show
you."
He kneeled on the float, and reached over, pulling the opposite
gunwale up and toward him. By a quick application of dexterity and
strength the canoe was tipped up sideways against the edge of the
float, and the water poured out of it. Then Danville eased it down
into the lake again. By this trick he did a two man job while the
others stood watching and feeling a little superfluous. Yet it was
more than a trick, for when Connie tried to do the same thing he
could not with all his strength raise the canoe to the necessary
angle. "That's some wrinkle," he said. He preferred to view it as a
trick rather than as an exhibition of extraordinary strength. "I
guess you've got to know how," he said.
"Oh, yes," laughed Danville.
They had intended to jolly Skinny and discourage his project of using
the canoe. The Elks thought a good deal of this canoe. They liked
to see it safely in its locker when they were not using it. They had
intended to say as usual, "Oh, you don't want to use it." But here
was an embarrassing complication. The tall, smiling boy with the
white scarf had modestly shown them a trick and a strength of arm not
to be ridiculed. This was no time or place for authority or banter.
He was quite master of the situation. It would be quite absurd to
remind Skinny of dangers.
"I suppose it's all right for us to go out in his canoe, isn't it?"
Danville asked. There was no hint of sarcasm in his remark and his
handsome open face was wreathed in a friendly smile. But just the
same these Elks felt a rebuke. A strange, uncomfortable feeling was
upon them that this boy was their master, mentally and physically.
If they had been sure that he meant that pronoun Ids in a sneering
sense, they could have got back at him. But they did not know what
he meant, any more than they knew how he had tipped the canoe. They
were wise scouts and they made no mistake. Somehow or other no boys
ever made a mistake with Danville Bently. They sensed something.
They were embarrassed--and respectful.
"Sure, it's his. Why can't he use it if he wants to?" Connie said.
He seemed inclined to be reasonable.
"That'll be dandy," said Danville.
Just as Howell Cross's group had watched him rather puzzled, so now
these three returning voyagers lingered there on the float watching
him as he paddled away with Skinny wedged up in the bow like an
uncanny little doll. He paddled, as he did everything else, without
the slightest fuss or effort. He had that about him which suggested
that he could make up his mind without the slightest fuss or effort,
that he would jump off a roof without the slightest fuss or effort.
"I can't make _that_ guy out," said the scout from Rhode Island.
"Gee, that white scarf looks plain out on the water huh?"
"Notice how he holds his left hand!" said Connie. "I think he
compensates with his right wrist, honest."
"No, it's the long back sweep," said Hunt. "Geeeee! Look at the
reach he's got!"
"He kind of reminded us it was Skinny's canoe," said Connie. "Did
you notice how nice he did that?"
"Sure, and he paddles the same way," laughed Hunt. "He _does_ things
the same way he _says_ things. You never know what he means. Looks
easy till you try to do it."
"Any other scout came up here with a bib around his neck they'd kid
the life out of him," said Connie.
"Nothing about him looks like a bib to me," said the scout from Rhode
Island.
CHAPTER XXII
PARTNERS
"Just flop around, hey?"
"Yes, that's the way I like to do," said Skinny. "If I was in the
bow of a rowboat I couldn't look at you, because you'd be facing
backwards. I like to look at you with your white scarf. I like
canoes better than rowboats, don't you?"
"They're not so good for dancing or scrapping."
"That's the way you talk, and it's why fellows can't make you out,"
said the simple Skinny.
"Well, as long as you can make me out it's all right," said Danville.
"How 'bout it, are you going to help me?"
"Will you let me! You mean getting your first class badge? Are you
going to do it?"
"Might as well, hadn't I?"
"And that's all you've got to do? I mean just test four?"
"N--no, I've got two things to do," said Danville as he paddled idly,
occasionally letting the paddle drip. "This scouting is a blamed
nuisance."
"Now I can tell you're fooling. Kind of sometimes you remind me of
my brother, only he's only a half a brother. Anyway, you're not so
fresh like he is. He gets in a lot of trouble being reckless."
"That's the way to do it," said Danville. "Where's the other half of
him?"
"I mean we got different mothers," said Skinny. "Once a feller got
fresh with me and he knocked him kerplunk. Another feller----"
He was about to stumble into a reference to Danny's pugilistic
exploit at camp, but caught himself just in time. He could not trust
himself talking about Danny, and it made him feel false and
dishonorable, so he changed the subject.
"Only just one test you've got to take to be in the first class?
Two, you said two."
"Yep, the other's missionary stuff, training a boy to be a
tenderfoot--twelve. I'm not so stuck on twelve except when it's
twelve gumdrops for a cent. You don't happen to know any boys that
want to be trained as tenderfoots or feets, whatever it is? I
suppose we might kidnap one from a farm. But first how about Test
Four? Tell me about that seven mile hike, or if it turns out to be
any more than seven miles the boy scouts will have to give me a
rebate. I've been climbing up the Alps this summer and I'm tired."
"Those are in Europe, hey?"
"And they're up in the air--in Switzerland. Where is this lion's den
or whatever you call it? Maybe I could go in a taxi. I've got to do
it before my dad comes up or I won't be able to stick him for a pony
next winter."
"I can never make out whether you're honest and true for scouting or
not," poor Skinny said.
"Oh, I'm honest and true," said Danville. "Tell me and let's plan it
out and get it over with."
"You got to be serious about it," Skinny warned.
"All right, I'll start crying if you say so. As I understand it I've
got to hike seven miles and seven miles back and write up an account
of it--all the time being serious. Now is this cave just exactly
seven miles? I don't want to make that hike and then find I didn't
go far enough. And if I should find I hiked farther than necessary
I'd be good and mad at you. I'm not going to give them any more than
they ask for; I'm a stingy chap."
"Is it a real pony--a live one!" Skinny asked.
"If it isn't I'll have my dad arrested for swindling."
"Would you have anybody arrested?"
"I might if I happened to think of it. Let's talk about something
pleasant. If I do that fourteen mile hike and close up on the first
class tests, will you find me a boy to train as a tenderfoot!
That'll be the only thing left to do. Maybe you could leave the
scouts and then I'd start in training you--no?"
"They wouldn't let us do that. Just the same we'll find some feller
that's not a scout."
"All right then, I guess I might as well take a hop, skip and jump
into the first class. Will you go with me to-morrow morning and hold
my hand?"
"Sure I will; then I can tell them I was the one that went with you,
hey? I can be the one to prove it."
"Sure thing; you tell 'em."
"Are you all excited about it?" Skinny asked.
"Oh I think I'll sleep to-night."
"And to-morrow you can write to your father that you're a full first
class scout, hey?"
"Don't forget about the boy I have to catch and train for a
tenderfoot."
"Yes, but that isn't exactly a test, kind of."
"Now if you weren't such a little peach of a scout I might use you."
"And I could go in your patrol, maybe; hey? Because my patrol
wouldn't be mad if I did."
"Oh, is that so? Well, we'll have to be careful not to make them
mad. I suppose they'd beat us up if they got mad; and they wouldn't
let us use your canoe."
Skinny seemed to be thinking. "If you're breaking in a new feller
then maybe you won't bother with me any more; hey?"
"Then again maybe I will."
"I bet when you get your first class badge, then you'll start getting
a lot of merit badges; I bet you'll win a whole lot of them."
"Six or eight at a time, huh?"
"And when you've got your first class badge you can try for camp
specials too. Those are things that are not in the Handbook, like
the Mohawk Archery set for tracking; you get a target easel and a lot
of targets and a real Indian bow and arrows and everything. You've
got to track somebody, or an animal, five miles through the
woods--then you get it."
"I kind of like that."
"First you've got to find tracks--I'll help you. There's a feller up
here named Roy Blakeley; don't you let _him_ help you. He told one
scout where there were some tracks and they were nothing but railroad
tracks. So do you want to try for that prize after you get your full
badge?"
"That's the one for me. Tell me about this canoe; how did you win
it?"
"I was all kinder crazy like--kinder like my fingers were asleep. So
I even couldn't hold myself back. Do you say a feller can be kinder
good even if he's reckless. You don't have to be so terrible if
you're bad, do you?"
"Guess not."
"If you like me a lot----"
"That's it."
"If you like me a lot and I do something--kinder--maybe--if I'm kind
of not so good all of a sudden--then would you like me just the same?"
Danville Bently gazed amusedly at the poor little fellow wedged into
the point of the canoe. There was something pathetic about Skinny's
very posture as he sat there, serious, eager, insignificant. He
looked out of place and uncomfortable in this beautiful canoe, as if
he did not yet comprehend how he had even won it.
His own spectacular excursion into the field of heroic enterprise was
like a fairy tale to him now. But he was strong on hero worship.
Danville lifted the paddle and poked him with it; Skinny was used to
that sort of thing.
"No, I only like Sunday School boys," said Danville. "They've got to
be perfect to suit me."
Skinny looked at him as if he did not know whether to believe this or
not.
"So if you've been committing any murders or robbing any banks, it's
all over between us. Shall we flop around toward camp again now, and
wash up for eats?"
"To-morrow morning you'll go on Test Four!"
"To-morrow morning. Then for the archery set and the new recruit."
"Can I be partners with you while you're doing all that?"
"Sure--or falling down on it."
"Sometimes fellers forget when they have dates with me."
"Well I've got a good memory."
CHAPTER XXIII
HENNY'S CAVE
Skinny did not quite comprehend this rather whimsical boy. But here
was a prize he had every intention of keeping. He no longer worried
about Danny. That dreadful affair which had cost him sleepless
nights was at last over. Danny had triumphed (if you call it
triumph) and gone upon his dubious way. All that remained of that
fearful nightmare was Skinny's love and admiration of the checkered
hero.
Danny was far away and safe. His genius for beating any game would
carry him through every difficulty. There was one place where he
would always be safe and that was in the stout little heart that beat
beneath the the shabby and faded shirt of his little half brother.
There Danny dwelt, but nobody knew it. Only Skinny wished that they
would take that dreadful notice from the bulletin-board.
But now he had a new worry. He feared that he would lose this scout
of the white scarf, just as he had lost his prize canoe. Because he
knew that prize canoes and tall scouts with white scarfs were not for
him. He made no complaint that his canoe had been absorbed into his
patrol, even if he himself had not been absorbed into it. He had
never quite comprehended the glittering romance of his induction into
scouting and that fine patrol.
But he did want to "keep in" with Danville Bently. And he lived in
mortal fear of losing him, even as he had lived in mortal fear of
Danny's being found out during that awful fortnight of his presence
in camp. He saw that Danville was admired, that the whole camp was
puzzled at his choice and he feared that any moment this splendid,
picturesque boy would be lured into the maelstrom and be lost to him.
Particularly he was afraid of the Vermont Eagle, Howell Cross. What
had he, Skinny, to offer as against the delights of comradeship with
that crack patrol! He slept hardly an hour that whole night, fearing
that something might happen to ruin his sponsorship of Danville's one
remaining test for first class rank. His high strung nature was all
worked up with fear and expectancy. Again his "hands felt as if they
were asleep kinder, all tingly," the same as when he had plunged into
the lake, and when he had lifted the white pennant. Because, you
see, the whole thing was too good to be true. That night they
"kidded" him at camp-fire, but he did not mind. He went up to Elks'
cabin and lay restlessly all night, waiting for the morning.
He did not dare to approach Danville at breakfast where he sat with a
group from Tent Village. But after breakfast he went down to the
lake and there was Danville waiting. Again his hero of the white
scarf had not failed him.
"I thought maybe I only dreamed it," said Skinny.
"I guess it will turn out to be a pretty strenuous dream," Danville
answered. "Well, are we all set?"
"Sure, and I got Chocolate Drop to make me some sandwiches; see?
He's a good friend of mine."
"One cook is better than a dozen scouts; huh?"
"Sure, but are you going to join Howell Cross's patrol for the
season?"
"Don't you know I've got a patrol of my own?"
"That's what I can never remember, because kinder you seem all by
yourself, as if there weren't any fellers like you. Do they all wear
white scarfs and belts like you?"
"Yep. Come on now, for the big parade."
"I'll show you," said Skinny eagerly.
Henny's Cave was an ideal destination for scouts making the fourteen
mile hike specified in Test Four. It was exactly seven miles distant
through the woods and supplied en route much material for the
required written description. An observant scout would not miss the
crooked willow tree with the two trunks a few yards east of the path.
If his hearing was keen he would find Spook Falls down in the hollow,
and note this crystal cascade as one of the things observed. But few
were the scouts who saw in the chewed and broken branches at one spot
a clue to the location of a beaver dam a quarter of a mile or so off
the trail.
The cave itself was an interesting natural phenomenon with a rocky
entrance as well concealed as that of any pirate's lair. Inside it
was as large as a small room, dank and dark. But if you directed a
search-light here and there against its wet, rocky walls you would
see scores of names and initials scratched upon the surface to prove
that the weary artists had achieved their seven mile hike and might
claim credit for Test Four. The verification was usually enough for
the presiding powers.
It was nearly noontime when Danville and Skinny approached this
romantic destination after their long hike over mountains and through
dense woods. "I'm glad I don't have to write up the account of it
with my feet," said Danville. "This is some spooky place; I bet
ghosts live here. Let's take a look inside and then we'll sit out
under this tree and eat."
"You have to stoop down and crawl under that rock," said Skinny, "and
then you walk between those two others; it's really one big rock
that's split; then you're on the inside. In the middle it's water so
you have to step around the edge, but there's plenty of room where
it's dry. There's lots of little red lizards inside. If you catch
one by the tail it's good luck."
"Not for the lizard."
"No, for the feller that catches him by the tail."
"You got a flash-light!" Danville asked.
[Illustration: HE LED THE WAY, CRAWLING ON HANDS AND KNEES.]
Of course Skinny had no flash-light; he had nothing mentioned in the
alluring scout equipment list. But he did try to "be prepared" in
his humble way and he had a metal shaving-stick box containing a few
matches. This gloomy cave was his exhibit and he proudly led the
way, crawling on hands and knees under the slab of overhanging rock
which was a sort of vestibule leading under an uprooted tree. Part
of this great root (enough to keep the fallen tree alive) still had
anchorage in the ground, but the sun-baked tentacles of the rest of
it hung in air like some outlandish whip-lash curtain and through
this mass the visitor must crawl, assailed by these lifeless,
dangling pendants. This grotesque approach opened upon a cleft
between great rocks, or the parted halves of one great rock, and here
the explorer could walk erect through a passage roofed by the great
tree that had fallen over the top of the cleft. It was an intricate
entrance to the dank, secluded chamber within, an earthly and rocky
dungeon where one's voice sounded strange to one's own ears.
Probably the disturbance caused by the breaking apart of that great
rock had forced open this tiny apartment in the dense hillside, who
shall say how many years ago? Nor did any one know who Henny was,
whose name was perpetuated in this gloomy retreat. There was a
legend that he had lived on a farm and had been buried alive here in
a quick transformation of the uncertain walls. Enterprising scouts
had searched for his bones, but there seemed to be nothing left of
the unknown Henny save only his name. Of course, the place was one
of Captain Kidd's many safe deposit vaults, but no vestige of his
fabulous treasure was ever found by Temple Camp excavators.
"_Great Scott!_" said Danville as he looked about in the darkness,
and gropingly felt for the dank walls. "Gives you the shudders; I
feel as if I were buried alive. Where are you anyway!"
"Here I am," said Skinny, delighted at Danville's reaction to the
place. "Look out where you step, there's all water. The ground
slants up in one place and it's dry there. Wait till I light a
match."
To Danville the feeling of confinement in this gruesome hole was all
but unnerving. It needed only the warning that it was not safe to
move in the darkness to give him the feeling that he was indeed
buried alive in this ghostly, stifling place. One little glint of
uncertain light he did see, cheerful reminder of the bright world
without, and this was the only beacon to show where the intricate
entrance was. It was a mere speck of light leaking through under
those weird tree roots and through the rocky passage.
"Wait till I strike a match," said Skinny.
"_Hsh, listen!_" whispered Danville. "Did you hear a sound?"
"No, you always kind of hear noises in here," said Skinny.
"No, but I heard something moving. I thought it was you, but you're
on the other side of me. Hurry up, your matches won't last anyway.
I wish we had a candle or something."
Just as he said this there was a slight rustling near him like the
sound of paper being crumpled. He knew that Skinny had no paper.
CHAPTER XXIV
MISSING
The startling thing that followed, happened suddenly. Skinny struck
a match and in its brief uncertain light Danville saw him stumble and
fall. For just a second he was aware of something that looked like a
log and he supposed that Skinny had tripped on this. Then he sniffed
smoke and in less than half a minute the tiny place was full of
suffocating fumes. Yet there was no blaze, only a little red glow
which shed no illumination.
"Quick, get out of here," Danville gasped. "See that little streak
of daylight? Follow that, it's the entrance."
"I know, you come too," Skinny said, as he began coughing.
"Get down and crawl," Danville was just able to say; "keep near the
ground!" He was overcome by a paroxysm of coughing but he heard,
half-consciously, a sound which he thought to be Skinny crawling
away. "All right?" he asked, his senses reeling. He heard Skinny
answer, but the words were not clear. He did not know whether that
was because Skinny could not speak clearly or because of the drumming
in his own ears. His eyes were streaming and he fought for every
breath.
He would have fallen unconscious if he had not lowered himself to a
crawling posture. Even so the ground seemed uncertain under him,
like a yielding mattress. But he was in muddy water and the wetness
reminded him to pull off his scarf and saturate it in the puddle.
Hardly conscious of what he did, he pulled the dripping scarf over
his head and face, gathering up the end of it between his teeth.
His head swam, his hands trembled, but with his face swathed in the
dripping scarf he was measurably restored. He was conscious of the
gritty taste of thin mud in his mouth, and the stinging in his eyes
diminished. For a few seconds he was sufficiently master of his
senses to wish that he had reminded Skinny to wet his shirt and take
it in his teeth. He called but the word he uttered did not sound
like Skinny to his swimming brain.
He was just conscious enough to know that he must act quickly. His
improvised mask afforded but incomplete and temporary relief, and he
knew that he was tottering on the brink of oblivion. But by pulling
the scarf away from his eyes he was able to see that little glint
which told of the fresh air and the bright, clear world outside. On
hands and knees he crawled toward it. Suddenly his hand lay against
something soft; he felt cloth, then hair, then a face. His senses
were reeling now, his head bursting. He gathered more of the wet
scarf into his mouth. In a vague way he realized that this soft
object was Skinny, that the little fellow had not escaped, but had
sunk unconscious.
He could not speak to ask a question. What he did he seemed to be
doing in a trance. But he got his arm around the prostrate form and
hauled it with him toward the tiny beacon. To his ebbing senses the
fume-filled place seemed vast, he was oddly persuaded that he had
miles of suffocating area to cross, hauling his limp burden. Even
the little glint of light deserted him. It did not disappear, but
there were other lights, not real, but in his reeling brain. They
came and went like stars and he knew not which light to follow.
Still he moved, slowly, uncertainly; one might say unconsciously. He
fell over his lifeless burden, let his throbbing head rest for just a
moment on the soft body, then gathered the wet scarf again into his
mouth and knew that he was still alive by the gritty, earthy taste in
his mouth. He could not keep his stinging eyes open, but he thought,
or rather felt (for his mind was not capable of thinking) that he was
near the entrance. Instinctively he reached out a clammy hand and
groped for the light, as if it were something tangible that he could
get hold of. His cold, trembling fingers closed upon a bit of root
in the rocky passage. The knowledge of this inner entrance had quite
passed from his mind, but instinctively he clutched the root and
pulled with all his might, dragging the body after him. He knew (as
one is conscious in a dream) that he was pulling with one hand,
dragging something with the other, and helping his progress with both
feet, in this final, supreme, spasmodic effort.
And it brought him to where the air was a little clearer. Even here
in the passage it was thick and stifling, but it was mixed with the
pure air of heaven. He never knew how he groped his way out. But
there came a moment when he pushed the muddy, drenched scarf from his
mouth and breathed freely, though his head pounded and his eyes
stung. He was under the tilted root of the great tree, brushing the
dangling tentacles aside with his hand as he crawled through,
dragging his burden after him. Not until he emerged on the rugged,
green hillside did he pause. He heard a bird singing. Just as he
sank back in utter exhaustion he saw several crows in flight
overhead; their cawing sounded miles away. Idly, half-consciously,
he tried to count them.
Hazily, he looked at the face of the boy he had dragged to safety.
It was streaked with blood and dirt from contact with the rocky
earth. The eyes were closed; the body lay limp, in a way to strike
terror, with an arm extended as if the prostrate thing were making a
speech. The victim wore a scout suit which was in shreds and covered
with mud. Danville blinked his stinging eyes, trying with his slowly
returning senses to comprehend this strange sequel to his harrowing
adventure. He did not know what to make of it; all that he knew was
that the boy was not Skinny.
And Skinny was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER XXV
FROM ABOVE
At the moment when Skinny had crawled out of the cave an inspiration
had come to him. He had no idea what had caused the suffocating
fumes which had filled the place. The cave, as he remembered it,
contained nothing inflammable into which his lighted match could have
fallen; nor anything on which he could have tripped. Yet he had
stumbled on something of considerable bulk. However, he did not
pause to consider these mysteries.
He emerged into the fresh air and daylight, coughing incessantly. He
called to make sure that Danville was following, but there was no
answer. Astonished and concerned, he re-approached the entrance,
calling. Not hearing any answer he was seized with panic fear. To
reënter the cave was quite impossible. Even the outer entrance under
the tree root was smoky, and the passage between the rocks was filled
with the dense fumes. That was at about the moment when Danville
thought to soak his scarf in the muddy water. Skinny shouted into
the volume of emerging smoke, but it stifled him, even where he stood
in the open, and he was compelled to withdraw from the entrance.
It was then he had his inspiration. He remembered that very early
that summer he and Charlie Avery, a new boy from Long Island, had
seen a little speck of light in the low roof of the cave. Charlie
had poked his scout staff up through this and Skinny had gone out and
scrambled up to see if it had penetrated through to the open air. He
found that it had, and that by reason of a rather odd condition.
This cave was part of a jumble of dense brush and fallen trees; it
had probably been made in some terrific storm. A tree on the hillock
above the cave had been blown over, doubtless from the same cause
which had uprooted the one below that formed part of the intricate
entrance. Indeed the spot was a tangled jungle of rock and dense
brush and fallen trees, and the cave only a grotto caused by the
upheaval.
In falling, this tree above the cave had wrenched part of its root up
and it was just in this depression, now soggy and overgrown, that
Charlie Avery's staff had gone through. If the little dungeon
underneath had been lighted one could have seen the disturbance
caused by that wrenching from above, and it was one of the standard
jokes of Temple Camp to tell a new boy there were snakes in the cave
and then direct his groping progress against a dangling end of root
that hung down into the dank, earthy vault. The startled visitor
usually reacted very satisfactorily to this. Here, you will
understand, the roof of the cave was thinnest, and the ground in the
excavation where the root had been was soft because of the water that
was continually collecting in it and seeping through into the cave.
Some day there would be a cave-in here, but no one ever worried about
it.
Skinny knew about all this and now it occurred to him that he might
work open a hole in this soft depression and release the fumes more
rapidly than they would escape through the entrance. It was, indeed,
the only rescue work that he could do. He was already fearful that
it would be too late to save his friend. If his effort resulted in a
cave-in, even so that would release the smoke and probably not
completely engulf the victim.
Breaking off a branch from a tree, he began churning it around in the
soft earth with feverish excitement. He became possessed, just as
when he had won the prize canoe. His emotional power (which no one
knew about) gave him strength, and he strove with maniacal effort to
get the stick down, pushing it, then working it in a circle. Soon it
broke and he secured another, so large that he could hardly handle
it. When it became blocked by rock or bits of root he actually cried
in nervous excitement and gave vent to his annoyance by screaming.
One cannot keep this sort of thing up very long; the nerves give out
if the strength does not. Skinny was on the verge of hysteria. But
still he strove like a little David with his great unwieldy Goliath
of a stick, pushing, twisting, pulling, crying, falling and rising
again, and hanging on it to pry open a hole into that stifling tomb
below.
At last something happened. The stick plunged, Skinny lost his
balance and went sprawling into the depression. But he smelled
smoke. He had been successful, the long stick had penetrated into
the cave. Right beside him a thin column rose and dissolved in the
air. He rose, breathing excitedly, and holding a cut knee. But he
did not care. He grabbed hold of the stick again, pulling the end of
it around in a large circle to enlarge the tiny hole he had made. He
tripped, he stumbled, and again cut himself sorely when he went
sprawling on a bit of pointed rock. But he was up again, pulling,
hauling, wrenching. He was in a state of frenzy, this insignificant,
staring little fellow whom they "jollied." He seemed to be fighting
the whole universe, wrestling with the elements. Blood was streaming
from his cut leg, his face was dripping with sweat, his eyes were
wild.
Suddenly the ground on which he stood settled, he heard a dim thud,
and the stick descended till only a few inches of it remained above
surface. Now the smoke came out freely; there was no cave-in, but
something had happened. In his small way, Skinny had changed the
face of nature. Frantic with joy he brushed the smoke away from his
face and tried to haul the stick up. Then he saw something which he
could hardly believe; it seemed like magic, and to conjure his whole
maniacal striving into a tumultuous dream. As he raised the long
stick a snake was coiled loosely about it.
Slowly, almost mechanically the drowsy reptile included Skinny's leg
in its slow winding. It tightened around the stick and the little
thin limb binding them together like things bound around with cord.
The action of the snake was not belligerent, it seemed asleep and
made the horrible affair seem unreal. Its movement was like the
weirdly slow motion pictures sometimes shown so as to reveal detail
to the spectators. There was something appalling in its slow, drowsy
tightening.
CHAPTER XXVI
WITH THE SMOKE
_Dreamy_, that was the way it seemed to the panic-stricken Skinny.
The thing was so unreal! Following immediately upon his frantic
striving, this loathsome thing had slowly emerged upon the stick and
by a kind of sluggish inevitable instinct incorporated Skinny's thin
leg in its unconscious coiling. There he was bound by this living
horror to the big limb hie had been using.
So drowsily deliberate was the long snake that it would have seemed
not amiss to remind it of its ghastly error. But if its instinctive
action had been purposeless it was none the less effectual. It was
tightly coiled around these two dissimilar supports; it seemed as
free of malice and intention as so much binding rope. But even in
his astonishment and fright, Skinny saw that it was a great
rattlesnake; its bony appendage looked like a pine cone lying against
the branch. Bound to this branch as he was, he could not stand and
he sank down exhausted and terror-stricken in the depression. It was
the usual sort of climax to his heroic achievements.
He was in no condition to ponder on the cause of this singular
happening, but the reader will surmise the facts. The snake was
probably in a stupor caused by the fumes below when Skinny's long
implement descended into the suffocating cave. Instinctively it had
coiled itself about the stick and was lifted out before its coiling
was complete. The depth of its stupor may be conceived by its drowsy
action of including the adjacent leg of its rescuer as it settled
into coiled inertness.
If Skinny could have stood erect perhaps he would have had some
command of himself, would have thought of something to do. But he
was at the same disadvantage as a person is who has been knocked
down. He was powerless till he could rise; and he could not rise.
His whole little trembling body seemed involved in this ghastly
attack. If he had been bound and thrown into that little muddy
jungle, he would have felt less fearful, less at the mercy of a foe.
But this horrifying thing had occurred without a struggle on his
part. He had striven like one possessed, till his stout little heart
beat like a trip-hammer, and then, in the proud moment of his triumph
this deadly reptile had slowly, silently, probably unconsciously
coiled its slimy, clinging form around his leg, and he had gone down
in defeat--perhaps to death.
But he got hold of his senses. Should he dare to call? If Danville
was alive and conscious, he would hear and perhaps rescue him. But
how? What could Danville do that he, Skinny, could not do? Anything
that either of them tried to do would be perilous, might precipitate
a fatal sequel. If he moved or shouted, he might arouse the torpid
thing whose clammy coldness he could feel against his torn stocking.
His leg was not bound for its whole length, but he dared not even
wriggle his foot. The reptile was so tightly coiled that the
circulation was embarrassed in his leg and his foot was asleep. Yet
he dared not seek relief by moving it about. His predicament was
appalling, unnerving, especially to a boy of his highly strung nature.
He tried to bring himself to scream. That might either bring help or
death. Quick help or quick death. But probably Danville was already
dead. The smoke was pouring out like smoke out of a chimney; it was
a good job this little mascot had done. Why did not Danville shout,
or appear? Surely, if he was safe, he would not fail to see the
smoke rising from the jungly hillock; he would scramble up and
investigate. The thought of the smoke caused him to indulge the hope
that this mounting column he had released might be seen at camp; that
if he just lay motionless perhaps some one would come and rescue him
from this grotesque predicament. But in his heart he knew that it
would not be seen at camp, seven miles distant.
The smoke was thinning out now and loathsome little bugs with many
legs crawled rapidly about, seeking their wonted shelter under damp
logs; they were part of the exodus from that stifling inferno,
hardier than humans in their battle with the deadly fumes. One of
them crawled aimlessly across Skinny's face, but he dared not move
his arm to brush it away. He saw one of his familiar little red
lizards making its way up the stick and across the rattlesnake as if
it did not mind this poisonous reptile in the least.
Suddenly a thought came which startled him. This loathsome snake
would come out of its stupor now that it was in the pure, clear air.
It would realize where it was and would sting him. It would sting
him right where its horrible head lay, a little above his knee. He
strained his eyes, pressed his chin into his chest, and looked at
that frightful head. The little beady eyes were open; it was hard to
believe that the snake was stupefied. But at least it did not shoot
out its cruel, darting tongue. It remained quite motionless. It
seemed satisfied if he was. But why should it remain long inert when
these escaping denizens of the cave were able to make good their rush
to safety?
Skinny knew that his only chance lay in prompt action; that when the
snake began to move, it would not release itself and crawl away. It
would bite him and he would die in an hour. That was what Uncle Jeb
Rushmore had said, about an hour "_more ner less_." Well, he was too
wrought up to lie there waiting for death; he must do something. The
thought occurred to him that if he had a jack-knife, he could stab
the snake. But you see he had no jack-knife, he had nothing that
scouts have. So he resolved to shout. Perhaps Danville was alive
and would hear him. And perhaps his voice would not arouse the
drowsy reptile to bite him. If it did and Danville came, then
Danville would know what had happened. He believed that if Danville
had not been stifled to death, he would be emerging into
consciousness by now.
By rolling over just a little bit he might be able to look down into
the opening he had made. He had not directly made that opening; that
is, he had not worked it all out with his stick. He thought he must
have dislodged a stone that had fallen into the cave, and thus broken
the root-bound earth. Suppose he looked down into that dark
inferno--suppose there was light there. Something, he knew not what,
had caught fire there. And suppose the rock he had dislodged had
fallen on Danville lying prostrate and overcome....
Skinny had too much imagination. Well, he must not imagine things
now, but act. He made up his mind what he would do. He would shout.
That, of course, would agitate his body and probably arouse his
torpid foe to deadly action. If that occurred he would quickly
wrench his tattered shirt off, pull it around his skinny little leg,
and tie it in a knot. Then he would reach for a stick which he saw,
slip it under the encircling shirt and turn it, drawing the shirt
tighter and tighter around his wounded limb just above the point of
the deadly bite. He thought that the bite would be just about where
the head was, on the front of his leg just above the knee. He had
the stick all picked out. Suddenly the wild thought came to him of
reaching down and grabbing the serpent by the neck. But he was so
placed with relation to it that he could not apply the necessary
strength. Shouting was best, at least as a first recourse.
So he shouted.
CHAPTER XXVII
SKINNY'S HERO
Danville Bently was not fifty feet distant from Skinny. He was
bending over the boy he had rescued and was just recovering from his
consternation at finding him a stranger when he heard the shouting.
It was rather odd that Skinny's frantic call caused this prostrate
boy to open his eyes, by which Danville knew that he still lived. He
closed them again, as if he had been disturbed in slumber.
Danville scrambled up through tangled brush to the summit of the
overgrown mound which enclosed the cave. Smoke was still coming from
the hole; the place looked like a miniature volcano in the crater of
which lay Skinny, the long branch which he had used tight against him
like a stilt.
"Don't--don't touch me," he breathed almost in anguish; "keep
away--look--the snake."
Danville could hardly believe his eyes. "He bit you?" he asked
quickly.
"No he didn't--he's sort of asleep or something--don't scare him--he
came out where I made a hole so--so as to save you. He's dopy from
the smoke, I guess."
"He's not so dopy," said Danville, as the reptile shot out his
tongue; "he's awake enough to do that. Lie still, that isn't what he
bites you with; don't get excited. I wish I had my scarf if we need
a twister."*
* Meaning a tourniquet, or bandage drawn tight by turning an inserted
stick.
For a moment he paused, thinking and glancing about. Skinny lay
trembling, not daring to stir. Somehow he was more fearful and
excited than he had been before his friend's arrival; something was
to be done and it might precipitate a fatal sequel. "Anyway you got
safe," he said.
"Keep still--I know--now just, just a second," Danville said.
He moved with lightning stealth now. Quickly he took out his
jack-knife, opened it, and held it between his teeth while he hurried
to the nearest tree and pulled off a large piece of bark which was
already warping away from the dried trunk. This was perhaps a foot
in diameter. He next pulled off his shirt, tore a strip from it and
looking about picked up a stick suitable for his purpose. Thus
completely prepared he stole up, motioning Skinny to lie still, and
laid the stick and the torn strip of shirt on the ground within easy
reach. Then with lightning dexterity he slipped the piece of bark
downward along Skinny's leg till it was stopped by the snake's coiled
body. But it lay between that cruel head and Skinny's flesh, and
being rounded to the curve of the tree, it fitted rather nicely.
With another movement that can only be described as instantaneous, he
plunged his jackknife into the drowsy reptile's head. He was none
too quick, for even as he did so its horrid tongue was darting, and
scarcely had the knife touched its scaly head when its fangs were
plunged against the bark. But there ended its deadly power; it was
pinned to the protecting bark, and a trickle of blood flowed from
Skinny's leg where the knife had pierced through. There was a
spasmodic tightening of the coils around his little limb, then a
loosening bringing infinite relief.
[Illustration: HE PLUNGED HIS JACK-KNIFE INTO THE REPTILE'S HEAD.]
"Did he bite me?" Skinny asked pitifully.
"No, he's gone out of that business," said Danville, lifting Skinny's
big implement of rescue with the snake hanging limply over it. "See?
Look at the size of him, will you! That was a blamed funny thing to
happen, hey! He got busy just too late."
"Don't--don't drop him near me," Skinny pleaded, as his rescuer
dangled the loathsome body. "My leg stings, I think he bit me."
"No he didn't, Alf; I just jabbed you with my knife. Look." He held
up the curving slab of bark and there upon it was a tiny wet spot,
appalling evidence of the deadly substance that had been ejected from
those deadly fangs. "He struck out, but it was meant for a home run
all right," Danville said. "Come on, don't be scared, come down and
see my new boy friend. I'm going to pass you up now, I've got a new
pal."
Skinny did get up at that. "See where I made a hole?" he said. "All
the smoke came out here and maybe it saved you, hey?"
"I think I must have been out when you started, Alf. I pulled
somebody out, I thought it was you; I guess I came blamed near
getting suffocated. I don't know how I got out, all I know is I got
out. I guess some scout from camp must have hiked here ahead of us;
he's still dopy. What the dickens happened anyway? There wasn't
anything that would burn in that damp place, was there?"
"Whatever it was, it was damp," said Skinny; "that's what made the
smoke so thick; it was smudge smoke, like what scouts use for
signals. Even little bugs came out. I lit a match and then I
stumbled over something that was never there before. Anyway, one
thing sure, you'll get the Gold Cross. You'll get it for saving me,
and you'll get it for saving that other feller. I bet I know who it
is, too; it's Pompy Arliss in that Brooklyn troop, because he's out
for Test Four, and I was telling him about the cave. But I didn't
know he was on his test to-day. You know the feller I mean, that
wears his hair all sticking up? He's all the time kidding me."
They scrambled down, working their way through the thick underbrush
and over rocks, making slow progress because of Skinny's bleeding
leg, which soon they had to bandage effectively before going on.
"And how about you?" Danville asked.
"As long as I know I didn't get bit by poison," Skinny said in his
quaint way; "as long as I know that I don't care."
"I mean about the Gold Cross," Danville said. "Is that bandage too
tight--no? I mean about what you did."
"I didn't save anybody, I only tried to," said Skinny. "You don't
get it for only trying. But maybe if you were still in there I'd
have saved you, hey? But you get it twice, kinder. And I'm just as
glad, too, because now I got a friend that's a hero. So are you
going to stay my friend even now I Even when you get the Gold Cross,
are you? I won't be mad if you don't--but are you? Because now
Howell Cross and all those scouts will _surely_ be after you!
Because the Gold Cross is the biggest, _specialest_ thing in
scouting. Even it's greater than being an Eagle--even. It's for
saving life when you risk your own, like you did--twice even.
Because that snake might have killed you, mightn't he? So now you'll
get your first class badge, and you'll get the Gold Cross, and will
you let me be the first one to see it? I bet you're proud, hey--that
you'll get it? Do you know who'll give it to you? Not anybody that
belongs at camp--not trustees even. A commissioner! A national one!"
"No!"
"Honest, I cross my heart. So will you go around with me kinder
steady, even after that?"
"No, that's asking too much," Danville laughed.
"I can tell you're joking."
For answer Danville only drew the little, limping fellow close to
him, and so they picked their way down through the brambly thicket
off the eminence which enclosed the little cave.
"Sure I'm proud, Alf," laughed Danville frankly.
"Then why don't you act so?"
"Do you want me to dance a jig in this jungle!"
"You'll be the big hero of Temple Camp, that's what you'll be. Even
they print all about you in the newspapers, when you get the Gold
Cross."
"And do you think I'm going to forget all about the pal that was with
me when I won it?" Danville asked, rather more earnestly than was his
wont.
"Because," said Skinny with that nervous eagerness that Temple Camp
was so fond of mimicking, "now I got a friend that's a hero and I can
talk about him. Because my brother Danny, I couldn't talk about him
to fellers, but I can talk about you all I want--how you're a hero."
"Take your time, I haven't got it yet," said Danville.
"Sure, you've as much as got it."
"Don't count your chickens till they're hatched. When I get it I'll
have it."
They picked their way down by a circuitous route and around to the
entrance of the cave where Danville's rescued victim of the fumes sat
on the ground with hands clasped around his updrawn knees, blinking
and looking about in a dazed kind of way. Skinny stopped short, his
whole thin little body trembling.
"Danny!" he cried. "It's Danny, it's my brother! It's Danny that
you pulled out of the cave! Danny, nobody knows where you are, and
they didn't catch you, hey? The reform school people--Danny?"
"Who's the guy you've got with you?" Danny asked uneasily.
CHAPTER XXVIII
IT RUNS IN THE FAMILY
There was no chance of escape now. The simplicity and trustfulness
of Skinny's nature supervened and there, in the very presence of his
wretched half-brother, he told about the whole miserable affair of
Danny's masquerade at camp. Danville Bently, greatly astonished, sat
on a rock listening. He did not seem to be angry, his face was a
puzzle. He had picked up his dripping, muddy scarf and held it
dangling in the final pause when the two half-brothers had ceased
speaking. While still they talked he had glanced rather curiously
from one to the other, paying to each the tribute of friendly
attention. And now, when he spoke, his casual remark bore no
reference to Skinny's concealment, to Danny's fraud, or to his
dubious record.
"You'd never guess that scarf used to be white, would you?" he asked,
looking at neither Skinny nor Danny. "That was white silk. Lucky
I've got a couple more of them." Then after a pause, "I'll bet you
found it pretty damp in that blamed rat-hole. What did you haul the
log in there for?"
"So as to keep the leaves from spreading," Danny said. "I carried
them in and piled them between the log and the wall."
"Some bed," said Danville. "You must have got good and tired of
eating fish. How'd you do, fry them?"
"Yep, that's easy."
"And that what's-his-name you took the blame for--Sharpe? He just
let it go at that, huh!"
"I don't take any credit," Danny said. "I'd have been found out when
you showed up anyway. Sharpy's nothing but a flivver; let him have
his fun."
"Look how I can wring the water out of this darned thing," Danville
said. "Lucky there was water in the cave, hey? I wish you could go
back to camp with us. It's a sticker, what we're going to do now.
We all came through with our lives fine and dandy, and now we don't
know what to do."
"You're not mad at him?" Skinny asked.
"I never get mad," said Danville. "Only I don't see how he's going
to go back to camp--I'm kind of mad about that. We could have some
fun."
"Oh I'll go back," said Danny, desperately. "I'm out of luck; what's
the use trying to beat the game? You did the kid a good turn, and
you did me one too; you saved the both of us. I've got the camp
after me at one end and the school bunch after me at the other--I'm
through. Come on, we'll go back and you can get your Gold Cross,
we'll take care of that, won't we, Tiny? What do you think we
are--half-baked sports? Just because I pulled a slope* on the
reformatory? Hey, Tiny, tell him how I smashed Kinney, and that boy
scout for what he said."
* The elegant phrase meaning escaped.
"I did tell him, he knows," said Skinny.
"Sure, I'll go back; all they can do is give me over to that bunch of
dopes at Blythedale and I'll get a couple of years extra, if I don't
pull another slope on them. They sleep standing up, that menagerie
of yaps. What I did for Sharpy, the boy detective, I can do for you.
I may be black, but I ain't yellow."
"What color would you say I am--not counting the mud on me?" said
Danville. "I never said I wanted any Gold Cross. I saved Alf
because he's my side partner. And as long as I saved you I might as
well finish the job. I'm not going to say I came to this place at
all; I'm not going to say I saved either one of you. And I'm not
going to make a strike for the badge on this hike. It's all off. If
I say I saved Alf then there'll be a whole lot of questions, and nix
on lying. Nobody knows we came here and nobody needs to know it.
I've got twenty dollars and I'll give it to you--ten for smashing
Kinney, and ten for that other fellow for what he said. Will you
look at the mud on that twenty spot? It went right through my
clothes. You visited me for two weeks in camp only I didn't know it,
and my dad will pay the bill. Why don't you go back to reform
school?"
"Would you?" Danny asked.
"Hanged if I know; only won't they get you?"
"Not if I can once get on a ship."
"Well, you have to mind your business, and I have to mind mine. And
maybe I can't see my way clear to go by notices on bulletin boards.
Anyway, I forgot all about saving anybody's life and making the
fourteen mile hike, and you're a darned good scout only you don't
know it. I'd rather be you than Sharpy. I came up here to have a
good time and not to be a detective. I don't care a hang about the
Gold Cross. You can't prove anything by me."
"You mean you're not going to tell--how you found him, and how you
saved us both?" Skinny asked excitedly. "You mean you're not going
to get the _Gold Cross_?"
Danville Bently shook his head and made a wry face. "I don't like
it, it costs too much," said he. "I'm a stingy scout and I won't pay
the price. Come on, what do you say we eat! Tea for three. How the
dickens can you cut two sandwiches to make three helpings? There's a
sticker. Got a lead pencil and I'll see if I can do it by geometry."
CHAPTER XXIX
JUST AS EASY----
Thus ended the adventures of Danny McCord in the neighborhood of
Temple Camp. He had been an expensive luxury during his brief and
colorful sojourn. He had cost poor Skinny much worry, and he had
cost Danville Bently the Gold Cross for heroism. He went forth upon
his way with Skinny's scout suit (much the worse for wear) and the
twenty dollars that Danville had insisted on his taking. His
unexpired term at reform school must also be charged against his
account.
Yet I like Danny, even though I do not approve of him. The blow he
struck the historic Kinney, as also the blow he struck Vic Norris,
was rather to his credit; he was a pretty good big brother, even if
he was not such a very good boy. And the blow that he did not strike
Ralph Warner showed him capable of sacrifice. It was because of this
sacrifice that Holman Sharpe remained at Temple Camp and filled three
note books before the season was over.
We shall meet Danny again in a future story and you are warned not to
expect to find angelic wings sprouting on his pugilistic shoulders.
He had, I think, the raw material of a scout, but it was very, very
raw. He should not be dismissed, however, without mention of an
incident which recalled him to Danville Bently after the lone Polar
Bear had returned to his beautiful home in Florida. It was in
November that Danville received an envelope enclosing ten dollars and
a slip of brown wrapping paper on which was scrawled, "Here's a ten
spot, see you later about the rest. Danny." The envelope was
postmarked Porto Rico, so it seemed likely that Danny had succeeded
in ingratiating himself with the captain of some ship or other. He
must have made a rather interesting cabin boy.
On their way back to camp, Danville made no mention of Danny and he
closed the Gold Cross matter with a few words that his little
worshipper, Skinny, had cause to remember. "What's the use talking
about it?" said he. "If I won it, I won it. Only nobody knows it.
And nobody's going to know it. The Gold Cross is only kind of like a
receipt and I don't need any receipt."
"It's people knowing that counts," said Skinny.
"What they don't know won't hurt them," said Danville.
On reaching camp they parted, Danville going to Tent Village to wash
up. When Skinny next saw him, he wore another scout suit, and a new
white scarf, its wavy and spotless folds falling loosely below where
it was gathered into the silver ring, which took the place of the
usual scout knot. You would never have supposed he had saved two
lives and almost lost his own. And lost the Gold Cross for heroism.
His easy-going self-possession was the most conspicuous thing about
him; that and the snowy scarf which was the badge of the distant
Polar Bear Patrol. Skinny thought he must be a "specially rich
feller." And so he was, indeed, with a richness that only
generations of gentle breeding can impart.
As for Skinny, he was pretty dirty and he shuffled up to Martha
Norris Memorial Cabins in fear and trembling lest his sorry
appearance and sore knee cause embarrassing questions. But no
questions were asked, perhaps because Skinny always had a sorry look.
"Playing in the mud?" was all that Vic Norris asked of this little
fellow who had opened an outlet for the deadly fumes in Henny's Cave.
"Must have been tracking mud-turtles," said Hunt Ward. And that was
all that any of them said on the dangerous topic of Skinny's
adventures.
Perhaps this was because they had something else to say to him. They
had something to ask him, and they asked it in ever so nice a way, so
that their questions furnished the answer. Connie Bennett, the Elk
leader, had told them to leave it to him, that he would "fix it."
And he did fix it. He knew just how to handle Skinny.
"Hey kid," said he, "listen. I want to ask you something."
Skinny was not accustomed to be consulted and he gazed at Connie with
pleased and eager eyes.
"Listen kid, do you like it in Tent Village!"
"I only go there because Danville Bently is there," said Skinny.
"Sure, and I bet you have a lot of fun there too. Now listen,
Shorty; you know Holly Hollis back in Bridgeboro--lives up near where
Blakeley lives, on the hill?"
Skinny did not know; he knew nothing about the grand upper world of
Bridgeboro. He had once pushed his ramshackle little wagon up to
Terrace Avenue with a clothes basket full of washing for one of the
gorgeous houses up there. But Holly Hollis he did not know. He
listened, wide-eyed, to this boy who was paying him the compliment of
conferring with him.
"I'll tell you how it is, kid. You know the other Bridgeboro Troop
that busted up; the one they had in the brick church!"
Skinny did not know, but he listened.
"Well, anyway," said Connie, "they busted up; couldn't get a
scoutmaster, I guess. You know Holly, that--he's a sort of a slim
fellow? Sure you do! Well, he's an Eagle Scout and he wants to come
up here."
"I don't think there's any room in Tent Village, or in Pioneer Row
either," said Skinny innocently.
"Sure there isn't, not for a new scout. This is the middle of the
season. So we were thinking--now listen. We were thinking if you
wanted to stay over there in Tent Village with Bently, they'd put up
a cot for you--we'll fix that. Then we could do a good turn to Holly
Hollis and let him come up here and bunk in with us, as long as
you're having so much fun. And I'll say that Bently's one fine scout
all right. Hey, Vic?"
"Sure thing," said Vic Norris.
"You're a lucky kid," said Bert McAlpin.
"Every scout in camp is after that guy," said Stut Moran.
"I'd like to be you all right," said Connie. "Only trouble with him
is he's so darned hard to get in with; you never know how to take
him. But jiminies, you seem to have him buffaloed, you little
rascal."
Skinny smiled, elated, and his wonderful, eager eyes were full of
pleasure and pride.
"How do you do it, anyway?" Vic Norris asked.
"Do you mean I won't be a member any more?" Skinny asked.
"Well--no, not exactly that, as you might say," said Connie, as he
motioned to the others to let him do the fixing. "You wouldn't say
exactly that. But if we form two troops when we get home in the
fall, like Mr. Ellsworth says, jiminies, why you'll have your pick of
patrols, won't you?"
"Y--yes," said Skinny doubtfully.
"Why sure, why won't you? I'll see to it you stay in our troop if
you want. I'm only talking about now, up here at camp. Gee, I
thought you were so strong for doing good turns; didn't you, Vic?"
"I sure did," said Vic Norris.
"Skinny's all right, he's one little peach of a scout," said Stut
Moran. He did not explain why they did not cling to such a little
peach of a scout.
"Why, look at the camps at Bear Mountain," Connie argued. "They bust
up troops and patrols just like with dynamite up there. It's all
like big families in a lot of those camps. Then when they go home
they get together again. You're having a dickens of a good time over
there in Tent Village. Where Bently is, that would be good enough
for me. _Jimmy crinkums_, I don't know how you got next to that
fellow, kid. White Scarf, that's what everybody's calling him."
Skinny was proud, elated, to hear these comments on his hero. He was
too guileless to see that what these Elks wanted was an Eagle Scout.
He honestly believed, in his stout little heart, that they were keen
for a grand good turn. Moreover he did not aspire, he did not dare,
to confer on equal terms with these colleagues of his. Yet some
little quiver of pride caused him to say:
"It isn't like as if I was expelled is it--so people will think you
threw me out?"
"_Threw you out?_" gasped Vic. "Say, how do you get that way! Let
any scout say that in my presence--just let me hear him. _Threw you
out_--good night! No, but we thought you'd like the idea. We
thought we were giving you a big chance. Can't you see it?"
"Y--yes," said Skinny.
"And you'll be up here all the time, won't you?"
"Yes, if you want me to."
"_Want him to_, did you hear that?" said Connie.
Skinny's simple honesty caused them some embarrassment. They were
doing this thing artistically, lulling their own consciences, and
loading their act onto the back of that willing beast of burden, the
good turn. They did not expect anything quite so logical and
pathetic as what Skinny now did. He pulled up from under his torn
white shirt a piece of string that hung round his neck, detached his
locker key from it and handed it to Connie. He was quite too
guileless to do this for effect, but it was a little masterpiece and
it made Connie feel mean. He was jarred by this perfectly honest
response to all he had been saying.
"Oh, you needn't give us that," he said with brusque good-humor.
"You're not exactly what you might say getting out."
"Holly Hollis will have to have a locker," said Skinny. "Anyway, I
haven't got anything in it much."
It is rather to the credit of Bert McAlpin that he turned away,
rather ashamed, and pretended to be busy as Connie hesitatingly
accepted the key.
The deed was done. It was not as good a piece of work as Skinny had
done that day. But of course, nobody knew about that.
CHAPTER XXX
FIXED
Skinny did not understand, but Danville Bently did. Still the little
outcast Elk had a certain feeling of humiliation. He knew he had not
been "let out," but it might look that way, and he was afraid that
Danville would think so. What Danville really did think, Skinny
never knew.
But the diplomatic Elks knew, for Danville told them that very
evening. Having attended to certain other matters which pleasantly
evidenced the esteem in which he was held by the management, he
strolled up to Martha Norris Memorial Cabins just before supper, a
time when he thought the Elks would be at their patrol cabin.
It was characteristic of Danville that he seemed never to take
particular notice of things that were unusually costly and
attractive. Perhaps this was because he had been brought up in
refined luxury. In any event he seemed always quite at home. He was
one of the very few boys at camp who could enter Administration Shack
with perfect ease and speak familiarly to the trustees and
councilors. So he did not take particular note of the three
beautiful large cabins which housed the First Bridgeboro Troop. He
did not even notice the big radio set in the Elks cabin as he stepped
inside, greeting the scouts who were hurriedly brushing up for
supper. He was thinking of Skinny and not the realm from which
Skinny had been so neatly ousted.
"I wonder if you fellows want to give me the key to the boat-locker
where Alf keeps his canoe?" he asked in his easy-going way. "Seems
he forgot to ask you."
If it had been some one else they would probably have challenged his
right to come on such an errand, but there was something about
Danville which made them all feel a trifle ill at ease. There was a
certain atmosphere about White Scarf, as they called him, which
caused them to respect him.
"There's only one key," Connie said.
"Yes, that's the one he wants," said Danville.
"How are _we_ going to get in the locker then?" Vic Norris asked.
"That canoe is patrol property; that's a rule in our troop about
prizes."
"Tent Village has got two boats assigned to it," said Bert McAlpin.
"Gee, what more do you fellows want?"
"You mean the scouts in Tent Village? I don't know," said Danville,
shrugging his shoulders. "I'm talking about Alf's canoe. We're not
going to be in Tent Village, we're going up on the hill; Black Hill
you call it?"
"You mean Overlook Cabin?" Connie asked in surprise.
"Mmm, soon as they clear it out for us."
"That'll cost money--twelve bucks a week not counting board," Connie
said.
"Yep, so I understand."
"The bosses will have something to say about that."
"I've engaged it," said Danville, then he added rather oddly: "You
don't suppose I'm not acquainted with my own father, do you?"
"Gee, that's some perch," said Connie.
"Not so bad," said Danville. "How 'bout the key?"
"You going to take the kid up there?"
"N--no."
"Bunk up there alone?"
"No, Alf and I are going together."
"That's what I mean," said Connie.
"It isn't what you said," said Danville. "How about the locker key?
They tell me in Administration Shack you'll have to hand it over. In
fact, they wouldn't let you do this thing at all if I hadn't asked
them to let us have the cabin. You can't let out a member of your
patrol up here, without your scoutmaster. But as long as it's O.K.
with Alf I don't suppose anybody cares; I'm sure you don't. Only if
you don't let him have his prize canoe you'll get the management
interested and then you won't be able to have your Eagle Scout at
all. You fellows ought not to complain at handing over his canoe;
you're getting an Eagle Scout."
"Hey, Bently," said Hunt Ward in a sudden burst of familiarity; "is
it true that you're an Eagle Scout? A lot of scouts say you are?"
"No, I'm not."
"Nobody seems to know about you," Vic said.
"Tom Slade seems to think it's all right if Alf wants to go up on the
hill," said Danville, ignoring their personal queries. "Seems to me
you Elks are getting your own way pretty soft and easy. Only you'll
spoil everything if you don't hand over the locker key."
"You told--you talked to Slady?" Connie asked.
"Oh, yes. I don't think there'll be any trouble as long as I hire
the cabin and you hand over the canoe; 'long as Alf has a place to
stay."
"Did they take your word for it before hearing from your father?"
Connie asked.
"Why, sure; why not?"
"Scouts can't do business with the management," Connie said.
"So? Well, I must have caught them napping, I suppose," said Bently.
"How 'bout the key?"
"Here it is, tell him we wish him luck and hope he won't get
drowned," said Connie.
"If he does, I'll let you know," said Danville. "And I congratulate
you on getting an Eagle Scout; that's some nifty haul."
"Can you blame us?" Bert McAlpin asked.
"No, an eagle's an eagle," said Danville.
"Poor kid, he's only a little mascot," Vic said. "I haven't been up
there on Black Hill since we were having signal tests last summer.
Are there two bunks in the cabin? I thought there was only one."
"There are three," said Danville. "So we can each have one and a
half. Well, so long."
"Gee williger, that guy has a way of managing things," said Connie.
"I only hope Wainwright doesn't put the kibosh on it. Gee, if we
can't get Holly now, good night, I'll be sore! There's only two
other Eagle Patrols in camp. An eagle has got wings, and when you've
got wings you can fly."
"We'll fly all right," said Bert McAlpin. "That gives us a look in
on three awards, Yellowstone Park----"
"The kid will be just as happy," said Connie.
"Sure, he will," said several others in chorus.
CHAPTER XXXI
HOLLY HOLLIS
Overlook Cabin had not been built for season occupancy. It had been
thrown up as a little storehouse for paraphernalia used on the hill,
which was called Black Hill because it rose above a treacherous marsh
and overlooked Black Lake. The reader will find helpful the
accompanying rough sketch of the locality. Black Hill, as will be
seen, lay to the east of the camp. The slope was gradual from the
south where the highroad passed. But on reaching the brow of the
hill one looked down from a dizzy precipice.
Between this precipice and the lake was a marsh about which weird
stories were told, but the worst that was actually known of it was
that it was the foregathering place of a choral society of frogs
whose croaking made it seem weird enough at night. From the lake you
could pole a boat into this marsh, but not all the way to the base of
the cliff. Sometimes, after heavy or prolonged rains, the marsh
would be entirely submerged, but usually it was visible as a rank and
vivid green area with patches of scum.
The cabin on the brow of the cliff had been built for the
accommodation of certain scout activities which had been conducted
there. Close to the edge was a rather odd contrivance, conspicuous
from the lake below, and newcomers seldom failed to ask about its
purpose, though now in its time of disuse and comparative
dilapidation, few took the trouble to ascend the hill and view it at
close range. This was a square wooden frame about eight or ten feet
in size, standing upright and held by means of braces in the ground.
It was loose and rickety from the force of heavy winds. Stretched in
this was a sheet of canvas, bound to the frame with windings of light
rope, by which it could be tightened. The canvas came to within a
few inches of the frame all the way round.
[Illustration: Map of Scout camp and surrounding country]
This affair was known as a signal easel and had been used for
practice in signalling. Illuminated at night by a bonfire at a safe
distance in back of it the screen was as brilliant as the silver
screen of the movies. Then a scout standing between it and the
precipice was revealed in striking silhouette as he manipulated
wigwag flags. From all the way across the lake he could be seen, a
weird and vivid sight in the night time, and in this way codes were
tried out and practiced. Once, on a memorable occasion, that
redoubtable showman, Pee-wee Harris, had given a motion picture
exhibit here with his prize outfit at the appallingly low admission
fee of ten cents. But there being no gate, the place was overrun by
deadheads and the exhibition ended in a riot.
The cabin was filled with old signalling paraphernalia, flags and
smudge buckets. It had three bunks and some rough camping
necessities used by hunters in the winter. A ghost was also said to
live there, but if so he must have been of a retiring nature for he
was never seen. The rental charge which Connie Bennett had mentioned
was made so as to limit the use of the place to older visitors at
camp, field men and the like. Eagle Scouts may come and go, but it
is probably true that Danville Bently was the only boy of scouting
age at camp who could so easily have made arrangements to use the
place.
It was here that he and Skinny settled down to a kind of frontier
life, to a companionship which Danville regarded in a humorous way,
but never so as to belittle his odd companion. They ate down at
camp, of course, and usually attended camp-fire, but otherwise they
led a life apart, stalking, tracking and hiking about the woods.
Danville did his fourteen mile hike, but there was no boy to train
for a tenderfoot, so there he remained for the time being; he seemed
not greatly interested in scouting progress merely for its own sake.
He was easy-going and casual, a good looker-on. He seemed never to
think about how near he had come to wearing the Gold Cross; so far as
Skinny could see, that badge of the highest heroism meant nothing to
him. Perhaps he did not care for things because it was so easy for
him to get them. The pomp and fuss and honors and awards did not
appeal to him.
He showed no resentment toward the Elks for their shabby treatment of
Skinny, but the Elks knew that he had seen them at their worst and
they avoided him. Every scout in camp felt that here was a boy of
unlimited reserve power; a boy who would never do a thing simply for
a thrill or a badge, but who would prove invincible when aroused to
act for a purpose. They all respected him and there was no hint of
banter in the nickname of _White Scarf_ by which he came to be known.
That spotless white scarf was a familiar sight in camp and singled
him out from all other scouts and made him conspicuous.
As for the Elks, they got what they wanted and basked in the glory of
it. An Eagle Scout is a wonderful thing, embodying all the heroic
romance of scouting. He is a glory to his patrol. And at Temple
Camp such a one was an asset to his patrol since only certain
endowment rewards were open to Eagle patrols. Holly Hollis came not
unheralded by his new patrol colleagues, and it must be admitted that
he filled his place with a becomingness never achieved by poor little
Skinny. On the evening of his arrival he attracted a good deal of
attention as he passed through the "eats" pavilion with the Elks on
his way to supper. A number of scouts arose and gave him the full
salute, and there was a rather discordant attempt on the part of a
few enthusiasts to sing
"You can't go higher than an Eagle,
As every scout should know;
You have to stop when you get to the top,
It's as high as you can go."
He wore his full regalia with his Eagle badge above his left breast
pocket, and his sleeve was covered with his twenty-one merit badges.
A slim boy he was, with very black hair and a look in his pleasant
face that bespoke something rather more than powers--a touch of the
venturesome. No stick-in-the-mud was this Eagle of the darting and
roaming black eyes.
And those eyes did not fail to notice things, for no sooner had he
taken his place at table than turning to the proud Connie he asked,
"Who's that fellow over at the third table with the white scarf?"
He was to know that fellow well before his season at Temple Camp was
over.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE NIGHT BEFORE
Again there was great excitement around the camp-fire. Again they
were making merry at the expense of Skinny. Again Skinny smiled
shyly, just as he did on that night when they made such ostentatious
show of helping him find his compass. Seeing him bashful and
discomfited, scouts who did not even know him (for now the big camp
was crowded) laughed, and added their bantering comments to the
general chorus. Few knew his last name; fewer still knew his first
name, or who he was or where he bunked. He was just the little camp
mascot. They were talking about the Eagle race, which was one of the
big events of camp, and some waggish scout had suggested Skinny to
accompany one or other of the three Eagle Scouts in this contest.
And another boy had scorned this suggestion, saying that Skinny was
too heavy. And so on, and so on.
Each summer, at the height of the season, this gala contest was held.
It was dated to occur at that time because then there were likely to
be several Eagle Scouts at camp. Eagle Scouts are none too prevalent
and if rigid testing were the invariable rule, they would be even
less prevalent. It often happened that a whole season passed at
Temple Camp with only one or two Eagles present, and these not at the
same time. Once the race (most spectacular event of the season) had
not been held because there were no contestants. This event was the
world series of Temple Camp, establishing a supreme hero, an Eagle
Scout with a sensational triumph to top his glory. Despite the song,
one could get a little higher than an Eagle, and that was by a
thrilling victory over other Eagles. Such a victor was always the
great hero of camp.
Just as no scout is eligible for merit badges until he is in the
first class, so no scout but an Eagle of twenty-one badges was
eligible to try for this Mary Temple Cup which carried with it a two
weeks' holiday at the Grand Canyon for the victor and his patrol.
Transportation papers were always inside the cup, a tempting beverage
indeed, proffered by the pretty hands of the young daughter of the
camp's founder. So you can hardly blame the Elks for coveting this
prize; they were not the first in this glorious republic to resort to
political maneuvers to acquire an eligible contestant. There were
just three such contestants now, Howell Cross, Ellis Carway and Holly
Hollis.
Everything was set for the morrow and they were making merry at the
expense of Skinny. His shy smile illumined his pale, temperamental
face, and his characteristic embarrassment was amusingly evident in
the fitful glow of the mounting blaze.
"Hey, Howell, don't you think if Skinny took off his shoes and shirt
he'd be light enough?"
"How 'bout you, Eagle Carway? Skinny means good luck. I took him on
a hike and found an oriole's nest, honest. You can't lose with
Skinny."
"Sure, if you should fall in a faint he'd take the oars right out of
your hands and glide to victory; he wouldn't stop till he got to the
Grand Canyon."
"How 'bout you, Holly? Skinny used to be an Elk, honest. But he's
way above that now, he's up on Black Hill."
"Trouble with Skinny is he'd sink the boat. If he started smiling it
would go right down. Why his smile alone weighs forty pounds, don't
it, Skinny? What are you blushing about, Skinny? What would you do
if you had to take the cup from Mary Temple?"
"Yes, and suppose she should kiss you--good night!"
"I'm going to have Skinny root for me," said Eagle Scout Cross.
"Sure, the human megaphone. Stand up, Skinny, and let the three of
them draw lots for you; don't be afraid. Who wants Skinny to man the
tiller?"
And so forth and so on. All three Eagles had chosen their steersmen
from their own patrols; they laughed pleasantly at the idea of Skinny
as steersman of a racing shell. Holly Hollis, who sat across the
fire, made a funny grimace at him. Danville Bently wondered how much
Hollis knew of Skinny's ups and downs in the scouting field, and
especially his fate in the hands of his honor seeking colleagues.
The funny grimace didn't mean much.
"Never mind, Alf," said Danville as they walked up the hill. The
night seemed unusually black after the glare of the camp-fire. "If
you help them to have fun, what more do you want?"
"I don't mind," Skinny said. He was perfectly at ease with Danville
and always talked freely. "Even I want them to win--my patrol, I
mean. He smiled at me, that Eagle Scout, did you see?"
"Yep, I saw."
"I can call it my patrol even now, can't I! Connie said I could."
"Sure, if you want to; 'long as I don't have to call them mine."
"Are you mad at them?"
"No, no, Alf."
"They're my patrol just like Danny is my brother, ain't they? I got
to be loyal."
"Yes, sure, I understand, Alf."
"Can I help liking Danny?"
"No, I can't help liking him either. I have a sort of hunch that he
could win that race if he were an Eagle."
"Then I'd have a lot of honor, hey!"
"Sure would."
"I bet you could win it, too."
"I've got my job," said Danville.
For a few minutes they walked on up the hill and neither spoke.
Then, noticing that Skinny's shoulders were shaking, Danville paused
abruptly. The little fellow was gulping. Danville broke his rule
and called him kid.
"Alf--what's the matter, kid?" he asked feelingly. "Don't--what's
the matter, Alf! Can't you tell me?"
Skinny couldn't tell him, because he didn't exactly know.
"Anyway, they were right, because I didn't have any scout suit," he
sobbed.
"Well, you've got me, haven't you? Aren't you satisfied?"
"Yes, but I want them to win and go out there to the cannon,* because
they're my patrol and I'm not mad at them. Only I don't want to go
and see the race, because I'll get all excited like, because I want
them to win. Do you think they'll win?"
* He meant canyon.
"Who can tell who will win, kid? We'll stay up on the hill all by
ourselves and watch it from a distance. Will that be all right?"
"Yes, but do you think they'll win?"
"I think Hollis has got the stuff in him."
"You've got to be an Eagle, haven't you?"
"Yes, but you see there are three Eagles? And we can't tell who'll
be the big scream when the day is over."
No indeed, no one could tell that.
CHAPTER XXXIII
VICTORY AND THEN----
The precipice was not a bad place from which to view the finish. It
was not close enough to the excitement for most scouts, but it
afforded a good gallery seat. Danville was glad that no one came up
there. He had a big piece of charred wood with which he intended to
mark the name of the winner in big letters on the signal canvas as
soon as the race was over. Then he and Skinny would shout and draw
attention to it. He hoped for Skinny's sake that the name would be
Hollis.
The race, as you will see by the map, began at the northwestern end
of the lake, followed a southeasterly course and ended where the
shells passed an anchored skiff in which were spectators, who had a
good view of the approaching shells. The lake was dotted with boats
and canoes and it required a constant zigzagging about of the camp
launch to keep them off the course. It was a gala scene.
After a while the launch chugged away along the course and there were
fifteen or twenty minutes of tense waiting. Soon its shrill whistle
could be heard and Skinny was trembling with excitement as it
reappeared with its _clear the way_ pennant flying and its whistle
calling a warning to keep the course clear.
Then they came in sight, the three shells, red and shining in the
bright sunlight. They seemed to be abreast, throwing out three white
V's of light spray as on, on, on they came. Every nerve in Skinny's
little body was on edge as he stood near the brow of the precipice
trying to identify the salmon colored pennant of the Elks. Then he
saw it--yes, he saw it. It was one of the two shells that glided
abreast; the other had fallen behind. He could see the form of the
rower bent forward and back, the long oars feathering, the slender
shell moving nearer, nearer, under the impetus of that steady,
increasing leverage.
The third shell, manned by Ellis Carway, seemed now quite out of the
running. Its heroic Eagle was doing ragged and erratic work, never
getting the full benefit of his strokes. In that short course he
could never make up what he had lost. But the other two seemed
evenly matched. Suddenly Howell Cross's shell, with the blue pennant
of his patrol, shot ahead. Skinny trembled, his eyes stared, he
quivered with excitement.
He might have saved his fears. Howell had his spurt, and having
spent his reserve energy, could only maintain his former speed. The
time for a spurt is at the end and Holly Hollis knew this. Easily he
shot ahead in an excess of effort that would surely carry him past
the skiff. He would not have to pause for breath till he could pause
for good. Now he was half a length ahead. Now a full length. And
then amid a wild chorus of cheers and the waving of hundreds of
flags, he swept forward past the skiff. The Eagle of the Elk Patrol
had won them the cup and the trip to the Grand Canyon, and the glory
of being the banner patrol of Temple Camp. Skinny's patrol.
Then something happened which caused Danville Bently to run along the
cliff excitedly trying to make out just what the trouble was. There
was a sudden change in the tone of the shouting below. He came to a
point where he could descend with caution and as he did so, he
perceived the dreadful thing that had happened. Hollis had evidently
turned his victorious shell quickly so that the tremendous force of
its impetus would not carry it against the steep shore (see map) and
it had swept into the marsh and capsized. And there he was quite out
of reach of it, sinking in the treacherous rank growth. Danville
made out that he had tried to swim only to be caught in the mire.
From where Danville was descending cautiously the victim looked like
only half a boy, the upper half. He seemed standing up right in the
swamp.
"Do your feet touch?" Danville heard some one call.
"Help, help!" was the frantic answer.
It had always been said that there was death in this marsh. There
was a story of a duck hunter who had been swallowed up in it. If
Hollis had not tried to swim and remained by his inverted shell, he
would have suffered nothing worse than an inglorious climax to his
spectacular triumph. But he had somehow got to the very center of
the horrible place where no boat could penetrate. The excitement on
the neighboring shore was frenzied. Some one tried to pole a boat
into the marsh; it got stuck in the thickening growth and could not
be moved either way. And meanwhile, Hollis' frantic cry for help
rose as he sank lower, lower....
Then suddenly a great white thing seemed to fill the sky. It
tumbled, shook, like some airplane run amuck. And with a loud sound
of splitting wood it settled flat upon the enveloping marsh. They
saw, but they hardly knew what they were witnessing. They stared
aghast. Then as they saw a little living form reach out from the
safe area of canvas that lay flat upon that frightful consuming mud a
cheer went up--and another, and another, until the heavens seemed
rent with a swelling chorus of mad acclaim. But it was not for the
victorious Eagle they were screaming their lungs out as their fears
subsided. It was just for the little outcast scout who, in such a
sublime frenzy as only his trembling body could experience, had torn
and wrenched the signal easel from its lodgment and crashed down with
this spreading parachute to the rescue of the boy who had brought
glory to the Elk Patrol.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE PRICE
Given time they managed to get a boat in somehow, poling it this way
and that and finally taking the marsh, as one might say, by flanking
tactics. With the large area of resisting canvas lying upon the
yielding morass, there was no great need for hurry. The frame was
broken, but it could not sink. And the Eagle Scout, beneath whose
weight the loosened canvas sagged, was safe. No boat could have
saved him. No swimmer could have averted that imminent tragedy. But
the eager-eyed little fellow who squatted there on that outlandish,
sustaining rug, glancing at the Eagle Scout as if he were a god, had
done it. His shirt was in shreds; a great rent in his faded trousers
exposed his whole thin little leg. He did not look like a boy scout
at all; you could not find a picture on all of your scout posters
that bears the faintest resemblance to him.
As the boat neared the canvas a tall boy with a white scarf gently
pushed a couple of scoutmasters aside and helped the bewildered
Skinny into the boat. He seemed to intimate that Skinny belonged to
him and the rest should take notice and keep their hands off. Then
he allowed them to help Holly Hollis aboard. And so they made slow
progress out of the dreadful place and nothing was left there but the
big broken frame with its soiled expanse of canvas. A very big
triumphant pennant for such a little boy!
They were all crowding at the landing place and the diving board bent
dangerously under the weight of gaping scouts. The Elks were there.
Even Chocolate Drop, the darky cook, had come down in his white cap
and apron, gazing as if he saw a ghost. And no one said a word about
the race.
"Can't I go up on the hill with you fellows?" Holly asked.
"Sure, only you'll have to come down again," said Danville. "Wait
till you get your bathing trunks off and are all washed up and
rested, then come up and make us a call. Eagle Scouts are always
welcome."
But Holly Hollis shook his head and brushed Connie Bennett aside and
interrupted Vic Norris, who seemed to have something to propose.
"No, I mean to stay," said he. "You're the ones I belong with. I
resign from the Elk Patrol."
"You can't do that, you're our Eagle Scout," said Connie.
"And where would your Eagle Scout be if it wasn't for the little chap
that gave his place to him, and just now risked his life to save
him--_for you_!" said Danville Bently. "I don't know whether they
have diamond studded crosses; all I know is that the Gold Cross isn't
good enough for him. But he'll get it all right. And if your Eagle
wants to come with us, why just remember that the eagle is a free
bird; he flies high and goes where he pleases--he belongs up on
precipices and crags, with others who jump off cliffs. Do you get
that, Connie Bennett? And you're going to lose him! Look in his
face--you can tell what he's thinking. I guess he never knew that
he's filling Alf's place in your patrol. Tell him about it, why
don't you? How about you, Holly? Do you follow the Gold Cross--or
the Elk Patrol?"
"I follow the Gold Cross," said Holly. "An Eagle is nothing but a
lot of merit badges."
"So that's that," said Danville Bently.
Yes, that was that. They played for big stakes, Connie and his
patrol, and they lost. They lost both the Gold Cross and the Eagle
Scout. They paid the penalty. You dance and you pay the fiddler.
You may have what you crave, but you pay the price. And sometimes
the price is very large. You may play high for an Eagle Scout. And
the Eagle Scout may bow before the Gold Cross awarded for the heroism
that is made divine by the spirit of sacrifice. For it is not true,
as the song says, that an Eagle is as high as you can go. You can go
higher than that if there is an elemental frenzy in your soul. The
price of the Gold Cross is very, very high. For you must forget
yourself and then they will remember you. Even if you are a ragged
little codger out of Corkscrew Alley, they will scream your praises
to the sky.
An Eagle is not as high as you can go.
THE END
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