Under Boy Scout Colors
by Joseph Bushnell Ames · English · Gutenberg #32173 · 377,398 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Under Boy Scout Colors
Author: Joseph Bushnell Ames
Illustrator: Walt Louderback
Release date: April 29, 2010 [eBook #32173]
Language: English
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UNDER BOY SCOUT COLORS
by
JOSEPH B. AMES
Author of "Pete, Cow-Puncher," "The Treasure of the Canyon," etc.
Illustrated by Walt Louderback
[Illustration: He jerked backward with all the strength he could summon]
[Illustration]
Approved by the "Boy Scouts of America"
New York
The Century Co.
1917
Copyright, 1916, 1917, by
The Century Co.
Published September, 1917
TO
THE MEMBERS OF TROOP FIVE
FROM A GRATEFUL SCOUTMASTER
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I THE LIVE WIRE 3
II THE NEW TENDERFOOT 12
III THE SILVER LINING 26
IV ON THE GRIDIRON 39
V TROUBLE AHEAD 53
VI THE QUARREL 65
VII IN THE LAST QUARTER 77
VIII THE GOOD TURN 86
IX AN ODD THANKSGIVING 96
X THE SURPRISE 108
XI ELKHORN CABIN 121
XII A CRY IN THE NIGHT 130
XIII WHAT THEY FOUND 140
XIV THE BOY WHO COULDN'T SWIM 147
XV THE RESCUE 157
XVI TREXLER'S TRANSFORMATION 171
XVII DALE'S CHANCE 184
XVIII A QUESTION OF MONEY 193
XIX THE ACCIDENT 202
XX FIRST AID 212
XXI LOST MINE HILL 223
XXII AROUND THE COUNCIL FIRE 232
XXIII A SURPRISE FOR VEDDER 237
XXIV THE MISSING SCOUT 243
XXV LOST MINE FOUND 253
XXVI THE WISH OF HIS HEART 264
XXVII THE SURPRISE 272
XXVIII WAR 282
XXIX "EVERY SCOUT TO FEED A SOLDIER" 294
XXX THE SILVER CROSS 301
XXXI THE RIOT WEDGE 308
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
He jerked backward with all the strength he could
summon Frontispiece
"Aw, quit it, fellows! It wasn't anything" 43
"What d'you want?" he demanded 99
The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole 153
The car crashed into the weather-worn railing of
the bridge 209
In an instant he was surrounded by excited boys 257
"Ranny!" he exclaimed impulsively. "You--you--" 269
"Hold fast, boys!" he cried. "Brace your feet and
don't let them break the line" 311
UNDER BOY SCOUT COLORS
CHAPTER I
THE LIVE WIRE
Dale Tompkins slung the bulging bag of papers over one shoulder, and,
turning away from the news-stand, walked briskly down the main street
of Hillsgrove. The rain had ceased, and the wind that had howled fiercely
all day long was shifting into the west, where it tore to tatters the
banks of dun gray clouds, letting through gleams and patches of cold
blue sky tinged with the pale, chill yellow of a typical autumn sunset.
The cold look of that sunset was well borne out by a keen nip in the air,
but Dale was too thankful to have it clear at all to complain. Besides,
he wasn't exactly the complaining sort. Turning up the collar of a rather
shabby coat, he thrust both hands deep into his trousers' pockets and
hurried whistling along, bent on delivering his papers in the quickest
possible time.
"I ought to get home by seven, anyhow," he thought calculatingly. "And
if Mother'll only give me a hurry-up snack, I'll be in time for meeting."
He rolled the last word under his tongue with the prideful accent of a
novice. Then, with a sudden start, one hand jerked out of his pocket
and slipped between the buttons of the thread-bare coat. For an anxious
moment it groped there before the fingers closed over a metal badge,
shaped like a trefoil, that was pinned securely to the flannel shirt.
A somewhat sheepish grin overspread the freckled face, and through
an open gate Dale shot a paper dexterously across the porch to land
accurately in the middle of the door-mat.
"I'd hate to lose it the very first week," he muttered, with a touch
of apology. Mechanically he delivered another paper, and then he sighed.
"Gee! A month sure seems an awful long time to wait when you know about
all the tests already. I could even pass some of the first-class ones, I
bet! That handbook's a dandy, all right. I don't guess there was ever
another book printed with so much in it, exceptin', maybe--"
The words froze on his lips, and he caught his breath with a sharp,
hissing intake. From somewhere in the next block a scream rang out
on the still air, so shrill, so sudden, so full of surprise and pain
and utter terror that Dale's blood turned cold within him, and the
arm, half extended to toss a folded paper, halted in the middle of its
swing, as if encountering an invisible obstacle. The pause was only
momentary. Abruptly, as if two hands were pressed around a throbbing
throat, the cry was cut off, and in the deathly silence that followed,
Dale hurled the paper hastily, but accurately, from him, and turned
and ran.
Eyes wide and face a little white, he tore across the road, splashing
through puddles and slipping in the soft mud. Whirling around the corner
into Pine Street, he saw a woman rush bareheaded out of a near-by
house and two men come running down an adjacent alley. Rather, he noted
them with that odd sense of observation which works intuitively, for his
whole being was concentrated on the sight of that slight, boyish figure
lying motionless in the roadway.
For a second Dale stared blankly, unable to understand. His first
thought was that some human agency had done this thing, but almost as
swiftly he realized that there was no one in sight who could have
struck the child unconscious, nor had there been time for such an
assailant to get away. Then, as he hurried closer through the gathering
dusk, he caught sight of a trailing wire gripped convulsively in the
small hands, and in a flash he realized the truth. In a flash, too,
he realized that the body was not as motionless as he had supposed. A
writhing, twisting movement, slight but ceaseless, quivered through
the helpless victim, from his thin, black-stockinged legs to the blue
lips. To the white-faced lad bending over him it seemed to tell of great
suffering borne, perforce, in silence--and he was such a little kid!
From Dale's own lips there burst a smothered, inarticulate cry. Every
idea, save the vital need of tearing loose that killing grip, vanished
from the older boy's mind. Heedless of a warning shout from one of the
men, he bent swiftly forward and caught the child by one shoulder.
What happened then Dale was never afterward able to describe clearly.
It was as if some monstrous tingling force, greater, stranger than
anything he had ever known, struck at him out of the air. In a twinkling
it tore him from the boy on the ground and hurled him almost the width
of the street. He crashed against the stone curbing and for a second
or two lay there, dazed and blinking, then climbed painfully to his feet.
"I oughtn't to have--touched him--with my bare hands," he muttered
uncertainly. "I must have got nearly the whole charge!"
He felt faint and sick and wobbly. From the horrified group gathered
helplessly around the unconscious boy across the street, a woman's
hysterical cry beat on his brain with monotonous iteration: "What can
we do? What can we do? It's terrible! Oh, can't you do something?"
"If we only had rubber gloves--" murmured one of the men, vaguely.
"Where's a 'phone?" interrupted another. "I'm going to get 'em to shut
off the current!"
"You can't," some one replied. People were constantly rushing up to gasp
and exclaim, but do nothing. "The power-house is clear over at Medina.
It'll take too long to get the connection."
"I'm going to try, anyhow," was the sharp retort. "It's better than doing
nothing."
As he dashed past Dale and disappeared into a neighboring house, the boy
moved slowly forward. He splashed through a puddle, and something he
had read, or heard, came back to him. Water was a perfect conductor,
and he had been standing in a regular pool of it when he grabbed the
child. No wonder he had been shocked.
"Insulation," he murmured, his head still swimming. "That's it! The
handbook says--"
The bag of papers bumped against his thigh, and somehow Dale's numbed
brain began to clear swiftly. How could he have forgotten that paper was
a non-conductor as well as silk or rubber? Rubber! Why, the bag itself
was made of some kind of waterproof stuff. He thrust aside a half-grown,
gaping youth.
"Give me a show, can't you?" he cried almost fiercely. Thrilled,
exhilarated with a sudden sense of power, he jerked the bag off his
shoulder. "The kid'll never live if he waits for you fellows to do
something." With extraordinary swiftness he pulled out several
thicknesses of newspaper and wrapped them about one hand and arm.
Similarly swathing the other, he dropped the rubber-coated bag to the
ground and stepped squarely on it. His eyes were wide and almost black
with excitement. "Oh, cut that out!" he snapped over one shoulder to a
protesting bystander. "Don't you s'pose I _know_ what I'm doing? I'm a
scout!"
A second later he had gripped the unconscious child again by an arm and
shoulder. This time there was no shock, only a queer, vibratory tingling
that Dale scarcely noticed, so intent was he on doing the right thing.
He must not bungle now. He remembered perfectly what the book said
about releasing a person in contact with a live wire. It must be done
quickly and cleanly, without unnecessary tugging, or else the shock
and burning would be greatly increased. Dale braced his feet and drew a
long breath. Then, suddenly, he jerked backward with all the strength
he could summon. The next thing he knew he was sitting squarely in a
puddle with both arms around the child, whose grip on the deadly wire he
had broken.
Instantly the hitherto inactive group was roused to life and movement,
and amidst a Babel of talk and advice they surged around the unconscious
lad and his rescuer. Before the latter realized what had happened, some
one had snatched the little chap from him and started swiftly toward
one of the near-by houses. After and around them streamed a throng of
men, women, and children, pitying, anxious, or merely curious, but, now
that the danger was past, all equally voluble with suggestions or advice.
Dale rose slowly to his feet, and stood for a moment staring after them
with a troubled frown. "Why don't they give him air?" he said. "If only
they wouldn't bunch around him like that--"
He paused hesitatingly, watching the procession mount the steps and cross
a wide veranda. The stress and excitement that had dominated him till
now seemed to have vanished, and a reaction set in. He wondered whether
folks wouldn't think him too "fresh" for thrusting himself forward as
he had done. The remembrance of the man to whom he had talked back made
him wriggle uncomfortably; it was one of his oldest customers. "Gee!" he
muttered, with a touch of uneasiness; "I reckon I must have sassed him
pretty well, too!"
Dusk had given place to night. Under a flaring gas-light at the curb
two early arrivals, who had stayed behind to guard the deadly, dangling
wire, were busy explaining the situation to several wide-eyed later
comers. They formed an animated group, and Dale, standing in the shadow
behind them, felt curiously out of it and alone. The wind, sweeping
up the street, struck through his wet clothes and made him shiver.
"Time I was getting started," he thought. "It must be awful late."
As he bent over to pick up his bag, the movement set his head to
throbbing afresh. His exploring fingers encountered a lump, where he
had hit the curb, that felt about the size of an ostrich-egg. Dale's
forehead wrinkled, and he opened the bag mechanically, only to find
the remaining papers were soaked through and ruined. Those he had wrapped
around his hands lay in the mud at his feet, soggy masses of pulp. And he
had delivered only four out of the lot!
Dale tried to smile, but his lips only quivered. With a second, more
determined, effort, he clenched his teeth tightly, slung the empty bag
over his shoulder, and started back toward the news-stand. But he went in
silence. Somehow the usual whistle was impossible.
CHAPTER II
THE NEW TENDERFOOT
It was close to half past seven before Dale delivered his last paper. He
had been delayed in the beginning by old Jed Hathaway's having to know
all about it, and insisting on hearing every little detail before he
could be induced to provide a second supply. Dale tried to be patient
under the cross-examination of the garrulous old newsdealer, but it
wasn't easy when he knew that each minute wasted now was going to make
it harder to get through in time for the scout meeting. When he was
released at last, he hurried all he could, but the minute-hand of the
old town-clock was perilously close to the perpendicular when he got
back to the square again.
Clearly, there was no time to go home even for that "hurry up" snack he
had been thinking about. There wasn't even time to get a sandwich from
the lunch-wagon, two blocks away. "Have to pull in my belt and forget
about it till I get home after meeting, I reckon," he thought.
In suiting the action to the word he realized that his hurried efforts
at the news-stand to clean off the mud had been far from successful. It
plastered his person, if not from head to foot, at least from the waist
down, and now that it was beginning to dry, it seemed to show up more
distinctly each moment. He couldn't present himself before Scoutmaster
Curtis in such a plight, so he raced across the square to his friend
Joe Banta's shoe-cleaning establishment, borrowed a stiff brush, and
went to work vigorously.
Brief as was the delay, it sufficed to make him late. Though not at
all sectarian, Troop Five held its weekly meetings in the parish-house
of the Episcopal church, whose rector was intensely interested in the
movement. These were scheduled for seven-thirty on Monday evenings.
There was usually a brief delay for belated scouts, but by twenty minutes
of eight, at latest, the shrill blast of the scoutmaster's whistle
brought the fellows at attention, ready for the salute to the flag and
the other simple exercises that opened the meeting.
Precisely one minute later Dale Tompkins burst hastily into the vestibule
and pulled up abruptly. Through the open door a long line of khaki-clad
backs confronted him, trim, erect, efficient-looking. Each figure stood
rigidly at attention, shoulders back, eyes set straight ahead, three
fingers pressed against the forehead in the scout salute, and lips
moving in unison over the last words of the scout oath.
"... To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally
straight."
"Colors post!" came crisply from the scoutmaster facing the line.
From the shadows of the entry Dale felt a sort of thrill at the precision
of the movement and the neatness with which the slim color-bearer, who
had faced the line just in front of Mr. Curtis and his assistant, pivoted
on his heel and bore the flag, its silken folds gently rippling, past
the scouts still standing at attention and on out of sight toward
the farther end of the room.
Of course it was only Courtlandt Parker, who was in Dale's grade at
school and a very familiar person indeed. But somehow, in this rôle,
he did not seem nearly so familiar and intimate. To the watching
tenderfoot it was almost as if he had ceased for the moment to be the
airy, volatile, harum-scarum "Court," whose pranks and witticisms so
often kept the whole grade stirred up and amused, and had become solely
the sober, earnest, serious color-bearer of the troop.
"A lot of it's the uniform, of course," thought Dale. "It does make a
whopping difference in a fellow's looks." He glanced down at his own
worn, still disheveled garments with sudden distaste. "I wish I had
mine!" he sighed.
A moment later, still hesitating in the background, reluctant to face
that trim, immaculate line, he caught the scoutmaster's glance,--that
level, friendly, smiling glance, which was at once a salutation and a
welcome,--and his head went up abruptly. What did looks matter, after
all--at least the sort of looks one couldn't help? He was none the worse
a scout because he had not yet saved up enough money for that coveted
suit of khaki. Nor was it his fault that he had lacked the time to go
home and brush up thoroughly for the meeting. He smiled back a little at
Mr. Curtis, and then, with shoulders square and head erect, he obeyed
the leader's silent summons.
There was a faint stir and a sense of curious, shifting eyes when he
appeared around the end of the line of waiting scouts. As he passed
Sherman Ward's patrol some one even whispered an airy greeting, "Aye,
Tommy." Though Dale did not glance that way, he knew it to be the
irrepressible Courtlandt, now returned to his position as assistant
patrol-leader. Court was the only one who ever called him that, and
the boy's heart warmed at this touch of friendliness. Then he paused
before the scoutmaster and promptly, though perhaps a little awkwardly,
returned the man's salute.
"I'm glad to see you, Dale," the scoutmaster said, in a tone which robbed
the words of any trace of the perfunctory. "I'd begun to think something
was keeping you away to-night."
The boy flushed a little. "I--I was delayed, sir," he explained briefly.
"I--I--it won't happen again, sir."
"Good!" The scoutmaster nodded approval, his glance sweeping meditatively
over the three patrols. He was slim and dark, with eyes set wide
apart, and a humorous, rather sensitive mouth. The boys liked him without
exactly knowing why, for he was not the popular athletic type of
scoutmaster, nor yet the sort of man who dominates by sheer force of
personality and commands immense respect if nothing more.
"Most of you fellows know Dale Tompkins, our new tenderfoot," he went
on presently, raising his voice a little. "For the benefit of those
who don't, I'll say that he passed an extra good examination last week,
and I've an idea he's going to be a credit to the troop. He will take
Arnold's place in Wolf patrol, which brings us up to our full strength
again. That's the one at the head of the line, Tompkins. Patrol-leader
Ranleigh Phelps will take you in charge and show you the ropes."
Dale's heart leaped, and a sudden warm glow came over him. He had never
exchanged a word with Ranny Phelps, and yet the handsome, dashing
leader of Wolf patrol probably had more to do with Tompkins' becoming
a member of Troop Five than any other cause. The boy liked Mr. Curtis, to
be sure, and was glad to have him for a scoutmaster, but his feeling
for Phelps, though he had never expressed it even to himself, was
something deeper than mere liking. To him, the good-looking, blond chap
seemed everything that a scout should be and so seldom was. Perhaps
one of the reasons was because he always contrived to look the part so
satisfyingly. Whenever the troop appeared in public, Phelps's uniform
fitted to perfection, his bearing was invariably beyond criticism, his
execution of the various manoeuvers was crisp, snappy, faultless. In
athletic events, too, he was always prominent, entering in almost
every event, and coming out ahead in many. And he was physically so
picturesque with his clean-cut features, gray eyes, and mass of curly
blond hair, his poise and perfect self-possession, that gradually in
the breast of the rugged, unornamental Tompkins there had grown up a
shy admiration, a silent, wistful liking which strengthened as time
went on almost to hero-worship, yet which, of course, he would have
perished sooner than reveal. When he had at length gained his father's
grudging permission to become a scout, it was this feeling mainly
which prompted him to make application to Troop Five. He had not dared to
hope that Mr. Curtis would actually assign him to Ranny Phelps's patrol.
"You mean I--I'm to stay in--in Wolf patrol, sir?" he stammered
incredulously.
The scoutmaster nodded. "It's the only vacancy. Both the others are
filled. Ranny will show you where your place is, and then we'll proceed
with the drill."
With face a little flushed, the tenderfoot turned and took a few steps
toward the head of the line. Just what he expected from his hero he could
not have said. Perhaps he vaguely felt that Phelps would step forward
and shake his hand, or at least greet the new-comer with a welcoming
smile. But Ranny did not stir from his place. Stiff and straight he
stood there, and as Tompkins paused hesitatingly, the shapely lips
curled unpleasantly at the corners, and the gray eyes ranged slowly
over him from head to heel and back again in a manner that sent the
blood surging into the boy's face and brought his lids down abruptly to
hide the swift surprise and hurt that flashed into his brown eyes.
"At the end of the line, tenderfoot," ordered Phelps, curtly. "And don't
be all day about it!"
The latter words were in an undertone which could not well have reached
beyond the ears of the lad for whom they were intended. The chill
unfriendliness of the whole remark affected Dale Tompkins much like a
douche of ice-cold water. With head suddenly erect and lips compressed,
he swiftly took his place at the end of the patrol, next to a plump,
red-cheeked boy named Vedder, who, save for a brief, swiftly averted
side-glance, gave no further evidence of welcome than had the leader.
In the brief pause that followed while the assistant patrol-leaders
procured staves and distributed them, the tenderfoot tried to solve
the problem. What was the matter? he asked himself in troubled
bewilderment. What had he done that was wrong? Naturally a cheerful,
friendly soul, he could not imagine himself, were their positions
reversed, treating a stranger with such chill formality. But perhaps
he had expected too much. After all, there was no reason why the
fellows should break ranks in the middle of meeting and fall on his
neck, when not more than a third of the crowd had ever spoken to him
before. For a moment he had forgotten that while he had long ardently
admired Ranny Phelps from afar, the blond chap had probably never even
heard his name before. It would be different when they came to know
each other.
Cheered by this thought, Dale braced up and flung himself with
characteristic ardor into acquiring the various movements of the drill.
These were not difficult, but somehow, try as he might, he could not seem
to satisfy his leader. At every slightest error, or even hesitation,
Ranny flew out at him with a caustic sharpness that swiftly got the
tenderfoot's nerve and made him blunder more than ever. Yet still he
found excuses for the fellow he so admired.
"You can't blame anybody for not liking to coach up a greenhorn when all
the rest of them do it so well," he said to himself after the meeting was
over and the boys were leaving the hall. "It's the best patrol of the
three, all right, and I'll just have to get busy and learn the drill,
so's not to make a single mistake." He sighed a little. "I wish--"
"What's the matter, Dale? Seems to me you're looking mighty serious."
A hand dropped on his shoulder, and Dale glanced swiftly up to meet the
quizzical, inquiring gaze of Mr. Curtis. He hesitated an instant, a
touch of embarrassment in his answering smile.
"Nothing much, sir," he returned. "I was just thinking what a dub I am
at that drill, and wishing--a complete uniform costs six-thirty, doesn't
it, Mr. Curtis?"
The scoutmaster nodded. "Would you like me to order one for you?"
Dale laughed a little wistfully. "I sure would!" he ejaculated fervently.
"The trouble is I only have about four dollars and that isn't enough."
"Not quite," The man hesitated an instant, his eyes on the boy's face.
"I'll tell you what we can do, though," he went on slowly. "If you like,
I'll advance the difference so that you can have it right away, and you
can pay me back whenever it's convenient."
For a moment Dale did not speak. Then he shook his head regretfully.
"It's mighty good of you, sir, but I guess I'd better--" He paused
abruptly, and a slow flush crept into his face. "Does a fellow _have_ to
have one? Would I be--that is, if I didn't have one for a while, will
it--make a lot of difference for the other fellows--will it look bad
for the troop?"
Mr. Curtis laughed suddenly, and his hand tightened a bit on the boy's
shoulder. "Bless you, no!" he exclaimed. "Get rid of that notion right
away. I thoroughly believe in every scout's wanting a uniform, and
working for it, and wearing it whenever he can, and being proud of it,
but I'd hate awfully to have him feel that he was out of place in Troop
Five without one. It's the spirit that makes the scout, not clothes,
and I'm just a little glad you didn't accept my offer, Dale. Keep on
saving for it, and, when you've enough, come to me. Meanwhile--you
say you didn't get the drill very well?"
"No, sir. I was rank."
"That's because you're new to it, and to the crowd, and everything.
It really isn't hard. If you can come around to my house after supper
to-morrow night, I'll coach you up in half an hour so you can't make a
mistake next Friday if you try. That'll put you on even terms with the
rest of the troop, and make you forget this little matter of clothes.
How about it?"
Dale's eyes brightened. "That would be corking, sir! Of course I can
come, only won't it be a trouble to you?"
"Not a bit. Come any time after seven. You know where I live, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. I'll be there, all right; and thank you ever so much for
helping me."
"You needn't," smiled the scoutmaster. "It will be a pleasure." He
dropped his hand and was turning away when his glance rested on the boy's
solid-looking shoulders and then traveled on down over the lithe frame.
"Play football?" he asked, with a touch of fresh interest.
Dale nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir; as much as I've had time for, that is.
Do--do you think I'd have any show for the team?"
"I shouldn't wonder. See Sherman Ward; he's captain. The season's half
over, but we need weight behind the line, and it wouldn't surprise me if
you'd do. Try it, anyhow. Good night; see you to-morrow."
Dale found his cap and slipped out of the building, a pleasant glow
stealing over him. "He's corking!" he muttered, as he followed the
flagged walk that led past the shadowy bulk of the stone church to the
street. "He makes a fellow feel--well, sort of as if he belonged!"
He had been a chump to let himself be troubled by Ranny Phelps's
brusqueness. "Of course he was peeved when I made such a mess of
things," he thought. "Just wait till next Friday, though, and he'll--"
Dale's progress along the walk and his train of thought stopped abruptly
at one and the same time. He had reached the side of the squat stone
tower that faced the street, but was still in the shadow, when the voice
of Ranny Phelps, somewhat shrill with temper and unmistakably scornful
of accent, smote suddenly on his ears.
"The idea of a mucker like that being in Troop Five--and in my own
patrol, too! It's simply sickening! You saw him to-night; so stupid he
couldn't even learn the drill, and did anybody ever see such clothes?
They look as if they'd come out of the rag-bag."
An indistinguishable murmur in another voice seemed merely to goad the
irate patrol-leader to increased frenzy.
"That's just it--a common newsboy! He'll be an ornament to the troop,
won't he? He'll make a fine-looking scout, he will! I can just see what a
rotten mess he'll make of the line if we should have to march in public.
Mr. Curtis must be crazy to take in such riffraff, and I've half a mind
to tell him--"
The rest of the remark was indistinguishable, for the speakers were
moving away from the church in the direction of the better class,
residential section. Presently, even the rising and falling murmur
of voices ceased, but still the figure in the shadow of the church
tower did not stir. When at last he moved slowly forward into the circle
of an electric light, something of the hard grayness of the stone
might almost have come into his face.
"'A scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout,'" he
said, half aloud, as he turned in an opposite direction to that taken
by Phelps and his companion.
Then he laughed. It wasn't exactly a pleasant sound. There was no mirth
in it; only scorn, derision, and, under all the rest, a note of pain that
could not quite be hidden.
CHAPTER III
THE SILVER LINING
"Say, fellows, did you hear about Jimmy Warren's kid brother?" eagerly
inquired Court Parker, skipping up to a group gathered about the school
steps next morning.
From force of habit, expectant grins wreathed several faces. "Huh!"
grunted Bob Gibson, suspiciously. "What's the joke?"
"Joke!" repeated the latest comer, indignantly. "There isn't any joke.
What gave you that idea? It came pretty near being serious, I can tell
you. One of the electric feed-wires got loose in the storm yesterday,
and hung down in front of Jimmy's house on Pine Street. Before anybody
else saw it, that crazy kid Georgie had to go out and grab hold of it
with both hands."
He paused an instant for breath, and a concerted exclamation went up from
the crowd that had gathered swiftly about him. "Gee!" exclaimed stout
Harry Vedder. "And the current still on, I s'pose?"
"Of course it was! Dad told me how many volts. I forget. Anyhow, Georgie
got hold and couldn't let go. They said he yelled to beat the band, and
then went clean out. A crowd got around right away, but nobody seemed to
know what to do. One man ran in and started 'phoning for 'em to turn off
the current; and while he was gone, what do you think happened? A kid
with a bunch of papers came along, and jumped right in and grabbed
hold of Georgie to pull him off the wire. They said that when the
current hit him it was like being kicked by a horse. He went clean
across the street and banged his head an awful whack on the curb. He got
up sort of groggy, but he must have been a game one, for he came right
back, wrapped some newspapers around his hands, and had Georgie loose
in a jiffy!"
"Great!" came in an appreciative chorus. Then one of the third-grade boys
piped up curiously. "But what good was the newspaper?"
"Insulation, of course," spoke up Sherman Ward, from the outskirts of
the group. He was tall enough to look over the heads of most of the
fellows, and spoke with a certain authority. "If he hadn't used them he'd
have got the shock as he did the first time. That's some idea, though,
fellows. I don't believe I'd have remembered, right off the bat, that
paper was a non-conductor. Who was he, Court?"
"Nobody knows; that's the funny part of it." Court thrust back a dangling
lock of brown hair with a characteristic gesture. "It was pretty near
dark, and everybody was excited, and all that, Mrs. Warren told Dad
when he was over this morning. She said she only noticed that he wasn't
so very tall and carried his papers in a bag over one shoulder. She
forgot all about him till after they'd got the kid into the house
and the doctor had come. Then when she sent somebody out to see, the
chap had gone."
At once the throng of boys was plunged into a fever of interested
speculation. The idea of an unknown appearing suddenly out of the
darkness, doing his spectacular stunt, and slipping away again without
revealing himself appealed tremendously to the imagination. The fact
that he was a boy and quite possibly one of themselves vastly increased
the interest. One after another the various fellows with paper routes
were suggested, but for the most part as quickly dismissed. One was
too tall, another delivered in a different part of town, two more were
part of the present assemblage and reluctantly denied any connection
with the affair.
"Maybe it was that fellow Tompkins," doubtfully suggested Bob Gibson,
when most of the other possibilities had been exhausted. "He goes past
Pine Street, doesn't he?"
A sudden low laugh touched with scorn, from the outskirts of the circle,
turned all eyes to where Ranny Phelps leaned against the iron railing.
"You're quite a joker, aren't you, Bob?" commented the blond chap, with
a flash of his white teeth.
Gibson sniffed. "I don't see anything so awful funny in that," he
retorted. "He does go past Pine Street about every night; I've seen him
often."
"Quite possibly," agreed Phelps, suavely. "I never said he didn't, you
old grumbler. He probably went past last night, but take my word for
it he didn't turn in. You don't suppose that thickhead would have the
gumption to do what this chap did, or the wit to know about paper being
a non-conductor, and all that? Not in a thousand years!"
Bob's mouth set stubbornly; he was one who never lost a chance to argue.
"I don't see it at all!" he retorted. "Just because you say so doesn't
make him thick. I noticed you picking on him last night, and I tell you
right now that anybody might seem--"
"He didn't _seem_ brainless--he _was_," interrupted Phelps with cool,
scornful certainty. "A fellow who could manage to fall over his feet
as many times as he did in that simple little drill, and make as many
breaks--"
He paused suddenly and bit his lips. At the farther edge of the wide
circle the face of Tompkins himself had loomed all at once into his
surprised consciousness, and something in the boy's level, unsmiling,
somber glance brought a twinge of shame to Ranleigh's heart. For an
instant he stood silent, striving to resume his usual cool nonchalance.
Then he turned away with a shrug.
"But after all," he drawled, "it's hardly worth while arguing about.
Who's got that seventh problem in Geom? It's a sticker, all right."
It was well enough done to deceive most of the fellows about him,
particularly since the sound of the last bell started the crowd up the
steps and into the school building. But Court Parker had noted the
direction of Ranny's glance, and a gleam of indignation flashed into his
eyes. For a moment he stood biting his lips; then his face cleared and
he pounced on Tompkins.
"Well, were you, Tommy!" he demanded airily.
"Was I what?" countered the other, briefly.
"The hero--the chap who leaped into the breach and saved Georgie Warren
from a--a--an electrocutive finish." Court's metaphors might be mixed,
but his vocabulary seldom lacked originality. Tompkins merely shrugged
his shoulders and frowned a bit.
"Is it likely?" he asked, with a touch of bitterness. "Even if I'd had
the chance, I'm too thick to--"
"Rot!" cut in Court, swiftly. As they went up the steps he flung an
arm impulsively around the other's shoulders. "Don't you worry about
anything Ranny Phelps says. Nobody ever pays any attention to him,
anyhow. I do wish I knew who that plucky chap was, though. It was a
corking thing to do. You haven't heard any one say, have you, Tommy?"
Tompkins hesitated an instant, an odd indecision in his face. A few
minutes ago he might have found a boyish pride and pleasure in his
friend's surprise at learning his part in the affair. Now he merely
shook his head. "Those I've heard--talking about it, didn't seem to
know," he returned shortly.
"Humph! Well, I guess I'll have to start my mighty brain working and do
the Sherlock Holmes stunt," decided Court, philosophically. "Say! Won't
Jimmy be crazy, though, to be away at school with all this happening to
his own family. I can just see him squirm!"
As they entered the coat-room his volatile mind leaped to another topic.
"There's one good thing, old top; you can come out for the troop team
now. That'll be great! Don't forget there's practice right after school
this aft."
Dale slapped his cap on a hook and turned away. "I'm not coming out," he
said gruffly, making for the door.
Court's eyes widened. "Not coming out for football!" he repeated amazedly.
"No!"
"Why not, for goodness' sake?"
"I don't want to," was the almost ungracious retort.
Court sniffed incredulously. "Tell that to your grandmother! Haven't
I seen you play often enough to know better? Wait a second." At the
entrance of the coat-room he caught Tompkins by the arm, and, whirling
him around, stared into his face. "If you think for a minute," he went
on with some heat, "that anybody-- You old idiot! You make me sick with
your silly notions. I'll--I'll settle you, though."
With which cryptic and somewhat fragmentary comment, he slapped Dale
briskly on the back and slipped into his seat, leaving the other to
seek his own place on the farther side of the room, unconsciously
heartened a bit by his fellow's friendliness. But a moment later his
forehead wrinkled perplexedly. Court had a little habit of impulsively
settling the affairs of nations offhand, and his last remark seemed
to indicate that something of the kind was in his mind at present.
"Well, whatever it is, he won't get me to come out for the team,"
decided Tompkins, his jaw squaring stubbornly. "They don't think I'm
good enough for them, and I'm not going to force myself where I'm not
wanted."
Those few words overheard just before had opened afresh the wound of the
night before and confirmed Dale's conviction that he was not wanted
in Troop Five. With the exception of one or two of the boys who had
been friendly before, he felt that the scouts agreed with Ranny Phelps
in resenting his presence in the crack troop of Hillsgrove. Because his
father was a working-man, because he himself sold papers to eke out the
family income, because, in short, he was poor and had come to meeting in
rather shabby clothes instead of a natty uniform, they looked down on him
as an interloper who had no business to be there. He would merely be
inviting further slights by appearing on the football field and trying
for a position on the troop eleven.
"I can just see Sherman Ward's expression if I did!" he thought bitterly.
"He's the niftiest one of the lot, with his father owning the iron works
and about half the town besides. He wouldn't waste much time on me, I
guess!"
Taken all in all, Dale failed to pass either a pleasant or a profitable
morning. He tried to keep his mind on the lessons, but that wasn't
easy. He had not yet decided whether or not to remain in the troop, and
this question seemed so much more vital and important than arithmetic
problems or dates in ancient history that his thoughts returned to it
again and again. He hated the idea of staying where he wasn't wanted, and
yet to leave now would look as if he were a coward, afraid to face the
jibes and sarcasms of the fellows who didn't like him.
The end of the morning session found the problem still unsolved. Dale was
a little slow putting his books away, and when he came to look for
Parker, who usually walked home with him, Court was nowhere to be seen.
As he left the building he noticed a bunch of high-school boys from
upstairs laughing and fooling on the corner. Ranny Phelps was among
them, and several other members of Troop Five, and unconsciously the
tenderfoot paused for an instant and half turned as if to seek the
other exit. A second later his lips tightened and a dull flush came
into his cheeks. He never went home that way, why should he take it now?
Swiftly he turned back, and with head high in a desperate effort to look
unconscious, he started briskly down the walk. He was within a dozen
feet of the jolly group when all at once there came a hail from behind.
"Hi, Dale!"
Astonished, he turned at the call to see Sherman Ward coming down the
school steps. For a moment it seemed as if he must have been mistaken,
but the older chap quickly settled that doubt.
"Wait a minute, kid," he went on; "I want to talk to you."
In an instant Dale's interest in the throng at the corner vanished.
Surprised, curious, a little on the defensive, he watched the approach
of the senior patrol-leader.
"I forgot to speak to you last night about football," Sherman began at
once with brisk, casual friendliness. "You play, don't you?"
"A--a little," stammered Dale, dazed by the absence of what he had so
fully expected in the other's manner.
"What position?"
"Er--tackle, and--and half-back--sometimes."
"You ought to be a pretty good back if you've got speed," mused the
older chap, his glance appreciatively taking in the boy's sturdy build
and good shoulders. "The season's well along and the team's made up,
but we need more weight. Troop One's the only team we're afraid of, but
we've simply got to lick them and nab the pennant. I'll try you out
this afternoon. Practice at three-thirty sharp in the field back of
my place. We'll go right over from school. You go this way, don't you?"
The throng at the corner had broken up, and the two were practically
alone. Dale nodded and mechanically fell into step. He had been steeling
himself for something so very different that in a second his defenses
were swept entirely away. Ward's perfect assurance of his readiness to
play made even hesitation seem the action of a selfish cad unwilling to
do his best for his troop. Besides, Dale did not want to refuse--now.
"How is it you never thought of being a scout before?" asked Ward, as
they cut across corners toward Main Street. "Wasn't there any troop where
you came from?"
Dale shook his head. "No; and after we got here Father--didn't want me to
join. He--he didn't seem to understand about it, and so--"
He paused; Ward nodded comprehendingly. "Sometimes they don't," he said.
"Well, it's all right now. You're in, and you don't look like a chap
who'd stay a tenderfoot long, especially with a scoutmaster like Mr.
Curtis. He's a corker, all right, and does everything to help a fellow
along. I shouldn't wonder if you'd be ready for second-class exams as
soon as the month is up."
Dale's eyes brightened. "I'll certainly try 'em, anyhow. I can pass a
lot of the tests now, I think, and I'm going to bone up on the others
hard."
"That's the boy!" smiled Sherman. "If I can help you in anything, let
me know. Well, this is my corner. So long. Don't forget practice at
three-thirty sharp."
With a wave of his hand he turned down Main Street, leaving Dale to stare
after him for a moment or two, an odd expression on his freckled face.
"Why, he's--he's not a bit what I-- He's just like--" He ended with a
deep-drawn breath and turned homeward, head high and shoulders squared.
Somehow the blue of the sky seemed suddenly deeper, the sunshine brighter
than it had been before. The crisp, clean autumn air had a tang in it he
had not noticed until this moment. He drew it into his lungs in great
gulps, and his eyes sparkled.
"The pants'll do," he murmured to himself; "so will the jersey. I haven't
any decent shoes, but I've played in sneakers before. And there'll be
time to deliver the papers after five."
CHAPTER IV
ON THE GRIDIRON
Ranny Phelps left the school building that afternoon in a distinctly
disagreeable mood. He had been feeling vaguely irritable all day, but
since noon there had developed grouchy tendencies, as Court Parker
termed them, and he was ready to flare up at the slightest provocation.
On the way down-stairs he had flown out at Harry Vedder, one of his
particular followers, for no other reason than that the stout youth
expressed an indolent conviction that the new tenderfoot could play
football better than he could drill, and that he would probably show
up on the field. The blow-up, instead of relieving pressure, as such
things often do, seemed to deepen Phelps's discontent, and seeing Ward
on the walk just ahead of him, he yielded to a sudden impulse and
hastily caught up with him.
"Look here, Sherm," he began hastily, "you're not really thinking
of--of--using that nut Tompkins, are you?"
The football captain glanced sidewise at him--a cool, level stare. "Why
not?" he asked briefly. "He's a member of the troop, isn't he?"
Ranny realized his mistake, but temper kept him to it. "Oh, yes! yes, of
course," he snapped petulantly. "Unfortunately he is, but I don't see
why you should encourage him. If he's shown that he--he--isn't wanted,
he may have the wit to--to--"
Conscious of Ward's prolonged, quizzical glance, the blond chap faltered,
and then, furious at himself and with his companion, he went on angrily:
"You needn't look like that. You know yourself he's the extreme limit.
Look at him now!" He waved one hand jerkily toward a group ahead, which
included the boy under discussion chatting eagerly with Parker and Bob
Gibson. "He's a disgrace to the troop with that horrible-looking suit,
all rags and frayed, and--and his hair brushing all over his collar; I
don't believe it's been cut in months."
"Well, what of it?" inquired the taller chap composedly, as Ranny paused
for breath. "What's his hair or his clothes got to do with his being a
good scout?"
"Everything!" snapped Ranny, biting his lips and striving to keep down
his temper. "A fellow that amounts to anything will--will keep himself
decent looking even if he is--poor. Besides he--you saw him last night;
couldn't do the simplest thing without making a show of himself. Take
my word for it, he'll never amount to anything. He's a dead loss, and I
wish-- I can't think what you see in--"
He broke off with grating teeth, maddeningly conscious of the futility
and ineffectiveness of his words. It wasn't at all the sort of thing he
had meant to say. He realized that temper had deadened judgment, and
that the whole must sound excessively silly and childish. He fully
expected his companion to greet the outbreak with open ridicule, but
when he looked up, he discovered with mingled annoyance and relief
that Ward wasn't listening at all. Instead, he was staring at the group
ahead with an expression of such frank curiosity and interest that
instinctively Ranny followed the direction of his schoolmate's eager
glance.
Eight or ten boys, mostly upper-grade grammar-school students and
about half of them scouts, were bunched together at the corner of a
cross-street. Apparently they had been halted by a man of middle age
who was talking with considerable animation, the while keeping one
hand on the shoulder of Dale Tompkins, who looked exceedingly sheepish
and uncomfortable. As Ranny stared, puzzled, he was amazed to see Court
Parker leap suddenly at his classmate with a piercing yell, clutch
him about the waist, and execute a few steps of a wildly eccentric
war-dance. Then he thumped the tenderfoot violently on the back, and
finally the whole crowd flung themselves on the boy in a body. As
Ward and Phelps hastily approached, the victim was engulfed by numbers,
but his vehement, embarrassed protests sounded intermittently above the
din.
"Aw, quit it, fellows! Lay off, won't you? It wasn't anything. I-- Cut it
out--do!"
"Here's the missing hero!" called Court Parker, shrilly. "Where's the
leather medal?" Suddenly he slid out of the throng and faced the
new-comers, his eyes shining. "What do you know about Tommy?" he
demanded. "_He's_ the mysterious guy who rescued Georgie Warren last
night. Fact! Mr. Pegram was there and saw him. He was the one who
'phoned the company to shut off the current, you know. Says Tommy was
cool as a cucumber and had all kinds of nerve And this morning he
never let out a peep about it, even when I asked him. Some kid, eh,
Sherm?"
Ward grinned. "The secretive young beggar!" he exclaimed. "By jinks! That
ought to mean a medal, sure! And he a tenderfoot only a week!"
[Illustration: "Aw, quit it, fellows! It wasn't anything"]
He moved forward toward the throng, eager for further details. Ranny did
not stir. His face was blank, and his mind, usually so active, failed
for a second or two to take in the meaning of what he had heard. When at
length he realized the truth, a sense of grudging admiration stole over
him. From one of those present at the affair last night he had had an
unusually vivid account of the accident. He understood the risks the
hitherto unknown rescuer had run, and fully appreciated his nerve and
resourcefulness. For a flashing second he was filled with an impulse
to follow Ward's example and add his brief word of congratulation to
the chorus, but the impulse was only momentary. In a second or two he
had crushed it back, passed the noisy group, and headed toward the
football field alone.
How absurd he had been even to think of such a thing! The details had
probably been greatly exaggerated. Doubtless, Tompkins had merely
blundered into the affair and done the right thing through sheer fool
luck. At any rate, he still remained precisely the same individual whose
presence Ranny had considered a blot on the appearance of the troop and
likely to injure its "tone." There seemed to him no reason why this
latest development should alter his treatment of the fellow a particle.
Ward and the rest reached the field not long after Phelps, and no time
was lost in commencing practice. Tompkins was started off with the
scrub, an organization composed mostly of scouts who were too small or
lazy or indifferent or unskilful to make the regular eleven, together
with a few outsiders who had been persuaded into lending their aid
merely for the fun of the game. It was a motley crowd, and Sherman had
his hands full holding them together. One or two, to be sure, were
stimulated by the hope, which grew fainter with each day of practice,
that they might supplant some member of the regular team in time to
play in _the_ game of the season, the struggle with the redoubtable
Troop One, which would end the series and decide the championship.
But the majority had no such dominating incentive. Their interest flagged
continually, and it was only by a constant appeal to their scout spirit,
by rebuke and ridicule, interspersed with well-timed jollying, that they
could be kept to the scratch. When Dale Tompkins was given the position
of right tackle, the boy whose place he had taken openly rejoiced,
and not a few of his companions viewed the escape with envy.
The regulars started with the ball, and the first down netted them eight
yards. The second plunge through the line was almost as successful;
the third even more so. The scrub played apathetically, each fellow for
himself. They lacked cohesion, and many of the individuals opposed the
rushes half-heartedly and without spirit. Little Saunders, the scrub
quarter, while working at full pressure himself, seemed to have grown
discouraged by past failures to spur the fellows on. Occasionally he
snapped out a rasping appeal for them to get together and do something,
but there was a perfunctory note in his voice which told how little
faith he had in their obeying.
To Ward, playing at left half on the regulars, it was an old story
which had ceased, almost, to fret him. He had come to feel that the
utmost he could hope for was to keep the scrub together and gain what
practice was possible from their half-hearted resistance. Keeping his eye
on Tompkins, he noted with approval that the boy was playing a very
different sort of game. He flung himself into the fray with snap and
energy, tackling well, recovering swiftly, and showing a pretty knowledge
of interference. But it was soon apparent that his work failed more or
less because of its very quickness. At every rush he was a foot or
two ahead of the sluggish Vedder at guard or the discouraged Morris
playing on his right. He might get his man and frequently did, but one
player cannot do all the work of a team, and the holes in the line
remained as gaping as before.
The regulars scored a touchdown and, returning to the center of the
field, began the process anew. There was a sort of monotonous iteration
about their advance that presently began to get a little on Sherman's
nerves. The crisp, shrill voice of Court Parker calling the signal, the
thud of feet over the turf, the crash as the wedge of bodies struck the
wavering line and thrust its way through it and on, on, seemingly to
endless distance in spite of the plucky efforts of the boy at right
tackle to stop it--it was all so cut and dried, so certain, so unvaried.
Now and again would come the tired, ill-tempered snap of Saunders's
"Get into it, fellows! Wake up, for the love of Pete!" Occasionally,
from left end, Ranny Phelps would make some sarcastic reference to Ward's
"great find," to which, though it irritated him, the captain paid no
heed. He was still watching critically and beginning to wonder, with a
little touch of anxiety, whether Tompkins was going to be engulfed in
the general slough of inertia. In this wise the play had progressed
half-way toward the scrub's goal-posts when suddenly a new note was
injected into the affair.
"Steady, fellows. Let's get together. It's just as easy to fight back
as to be walked over--and a lot more fun. Hold 'em, now!"
The voice was neither shrill nor snappish, but pitched in a sort of
good-natured urgency. One guessed that the owner of it was growing weary
of being eternally buffeted and flung aside. Ranny Phelps greeted the
remark with a sarcastic laugh.
"Great head!" he jeered. "You must be quite an expert in the game. Why
don't you try it?"
Dale Tompkins raised his head and dashed one hand across a dripping
forehead. "That's what we're going to do," he smiled; "aren't we, Morris,
old man? Come ahead, Vedder; all we need is a little team-work, fellows."
Stout Harry Vedder merely grunted breathlessly. But somehow, when the
next rush came, his fat shoulders dropped a little lower and he lunged
forward a shade more swiftly than he had done. Wilks, the weakest point
in the opposing line, caught unexpectedly by the elephantine rush, went
down, and Tompkins brought the man with the ball to earth by a nice
tackle.
"That's the stuff," he gasped as he scrambled up. "Good boy! I knew you'd
do it. Again, now!"
The regulars scored another touchdown, but it took longer than the first.
Insensibly the line in front of them was stiffening. The backs got
into the game; the left wing, stirred by a touch of rivalry, perhaps,
began to put a little snap into their work. By the time the regulars had
forced the pigskin for the third time over their opponent's goal-line,
the scrub seemed actually to be waking up. Vedder grumbled continually,
but nevertheless he worked; many of the others blustered a bit to
cover their change of tactics. It was as if they were doubtfully testing
out Tompkins's statement that it was more fun to fight back than to
be walked over, and finding an unexpected pleasure in the process.
Amazed at first, Sherman Ward lost no time in helping along the good
work. After the third down he gave the scrub the ball and urged them to
make the other fellows hustle. They took him up with a will. Saunders's
perfunctory bark became snappy and full of life; more than one of the
hitherto grouchy players added his voice to the general racket. But
through it all, the good-natured urgence of Dale Tompkins, with that
underlying note of perfect faith in their willingness to try anything,
continued to stir the fellows to their best efforts. The swiftly falling
autumn twilight found the regulars fighting harder than they had ever
done before to hold back the newly galvanized scrub. To the latter it
brought a novel sensation. For the first time on record they were
almost sorry to see the end of practice.
Streaking across the field to the shed which had been fixed up for a
dressing-room, they laughed, and joked, and vehemently discussed the
latter plays.
"Wait till to-morrow!" shrilly advised one of the scrub. "We won't do
a thing to you guys, will we, Tommy?"
"That's the talk!" agreed Tompkins, smilingly. "We'll make 'em hump, all
right."
He seemed quite unconscious of having done anything in the least out
of the ordinary. On the contrary, he was filled with grateful happiness
at the subtle change in the manner of many of the fellows toward him.
It wasn't that they praised his playing. Except Sherman, who briefly
commended him, no one actually mentioned that. But instead of Tompkins,
they called him Tommy; they jollied and joshed him, argued and disputed
and chaffed with a boisterous friendliness as if he had never been
anything else than one of them. And the tenderfoot, hustling into his
clothes that he might make haste to start out with his papers, glowed
inwardly, responding to the treatment as a flower opens before the sun.
From the background Ranny Phelps observed it all with silent
thoughtfulness. Quick-witted as he was, it did not take long for him to
realize the changed conditions, to understand that he could not
longer treat the new-comer with open, careless insolence as a fellow
who did not count. But far from altering his opinion of Tompkins, the new
developments merely served to strengthen his dislike, which speedily
crystallized into a determination to do some active campaigning
against him.
"With a swelled head added to all the rest, he'll be simply intolerable,"
decided Phelps. "I guess I've got a little influence left with the
crowd in spite of all this rot." His eyes narrowed ominously as they
rested on Harry Vedder chatting affably with the cause of Ranny's ill
temper. "I'll start with you, my fat friend," he muttered contemptuously
under his breath. "You need a good jacking-up before you indulge in any
more foolishness."
CHAPTER V
TROUBLE AHEAD
In spite of all that had happened that day, Dale did not forget his
appointment with Mr. Curtis. He hurried through supper, and pausing only
to tell his mother where he was going, he slipped out of the house and
started at a trot toward the scoutmaster's house. Mr. Curtis himself
opened the door, greeted the boy cheerily, and ushered him into a room
on the left of the hall, a room lined with books and pictures, with a
fire glowing and sputtering on the hearth and some comfortable arm-chairs
drawn up beside it.
"Well, young man," he said briskly as soon as Dale was seated, "I've been
hearing things about you this afternoon."
Dale flushed, and his fingers unconsciously interlocked. The affair
of the afternoon before had been "rubbed into him" at intervals all
day, so that he almost dreaded further comment. It seemed as if it had
been talked about quite enough and ought now be allowed to fall into
oblivion. He hoped Mr. Curtis wasn't going to ask him to go over all the
details again.
"You seem to have managed admirably," went on the scoutmaster, in a
matter-of-face manner. "What I'd like to know, though, is how you, a
tenderfoot of barely a week's standing, happened to be so well posted
on electricity and insulation and all the rest of it?"
"It--it's in the handbook," explained Dale, haltingly.
"So it is," smiled the scoutmaster; "but it isn't a part of the
tenderfoot requirements. I even doubt whether many second-class scouts
would be up on it. Have you gone through the whole book as thoroughly?"
Dale leaned back in his chair more easily. "Oh no, sir, not all! But that
part's specially interesting, and I--I like to read it."
"I see. Well, it was a good stunt--a mighty good stunt! It's the
sort of thing true scouting stands for, and I'm proud of you." In his
glance there was something that told a good deal more than the words
themselves, but somehow Dale didn't mind that. "I suppose, though,
you've been hearing nothing else all day and must be rather tired of
it, so we'll go on to this drill business. This is only one feature of
our work, and perhaps the least important since we're a nonmilitary
organization. But it helps set a fellow up, it teaches him obedience and
quick thinking, and is useful in a number of other ways, so we've
included it in the program. The movements aren't intricate. Suppose
you take that cane over in the corner, and I'll go through them with you."
Dale obeyed promptly, and, returning with the article in question, stood
facing the scoutmaster, who had also risen. With the feeling of being
under inspection, he had naturally taken a good position, shoulders back
and chin up, and Mr. Curtis nodded approvingly.
"That's the idea!" he said. "With the command 'Attention!' you take
practically that position, heels together, shoulders back, chin up, and
eyes straight ahead. Hold the staff upright with the thumb and first two
fingers of the right hand, one end on the ground and the upper part
against your right shoulder. That's the attitude you return to after
each one of the movements. Now let's try the first one."
There were not more than six or seven of these, and the scoutmaster's
instructions were so clear and explicit that Dale wondered, with a touch
of chagrin, how he could possibly have bungled so on the night of the
meeting. In less than half an hour he had the different evolutions fixed
firmly in his mind and the cane was laid aside.
"You'd better run through them every night for ten minutes or so until
they come intuitively, without your having to stop and think," advised
the scoutmaster. "The main thing is to put snap and ginger into it, so
that the whole line moves as one. How did the football go? You were out,
weren't you?"
"Yes, sir," the boy answered, his eyes lighting. "It was dandy! It's a
crackerjack team, all right, and we're going to work like sixty to get
that pennant."
"That's the idea!" smiled Mr. Curtis. He had returned to his chair, but
the boy remained standing beside the table. "It will mean work to take
the game from Troop One; they've a corking team, you know. But I think
if-- Won't you sit down again, or have you lessons to get?"
Dale hesitated. The pleasant room with its glinting fire was very
tempting. He had glimpsed a number of interesting-looking old weapons
and pieces of Indian beadwork, too, on the walls or arranged along
the tops of the bookcases, which he would like to examine more closely.
But, on the other hand, eight waiting problems in algebra and some
stiff pages of grammar loomed up to dissuade him.
"Thank you very much, sir, but I guess I'd better not to-night," he
finally decided. "I haven't anything done yet for to-morrow."
"You must come again, then," smiled the scoutmaster. "I'm always glad to
have you boys drop in, even when you haven't anything special to talk
over. Good night; and good luck with the football. I may see you at
practice to-morrow."
Dale found it hard to wait for that moment. He was devoted to football,
and he had not really played in almost a year. Small wonder, therefore,
that he looked forward eagerly to even humdrum practice. He did not
propose to stay on the scrub if hard work and constant effort could
lift him to something better. But even if he failed of advancement,
he loved the game enough for its own sake to give to it unceasingly
the best that was in him.
As the days passed it began to look as if the pleasure he got merely
in playing and in the belief that his efforts contributed a little to
the good of the team was to be his sole reward. All that week he played
left tackle on the scrub, save for half an hour or so on Friday when Ward
tried him at right half, only to return him presently to his former
position.
But if Dale was disappointed, he did not show it. He told himself that
it was too soon to expect anything else. Sherman would naturally wish
to try him out in every way before making a change in the line-up. So
the tenderfoot kept himself vigorously to the scratch, growing more and
more familiar with the various formations and carefully studying the
methods of the fellows opposite him.
It was this latter occupation which brought the first faint touch of
uneasiness regarding the strength of the team at large. He could not
be quite sure, for of course ordinary practice seldom brings out the
best in a player, but it seemed as if the fellows were a bit lacking in
unity and cohesion. Of one thing at least he grew certain before he
had been on the scrub two days. Wilks, at left tackle, was hesitating
and erratic, with a tendency to ducking, which would have been even
more apparent but for the constant support and backing of Ranny Phelps.
The latter seemed not only able to play his own position with dash and
brilliancy, but also to lend a portion of his strength and skill to
support the wavering tackle. Whenever it was possible, he contrived to
take a little more than his share of buffeting in the forward plunge,
to bear the brunt of each attack. There were times, of course--notably
when Ranny himself carried the ball--that this was impossible, and then
it was that Wilks's shrinking became unmistakable.
"He's got cold feet," decided Tompkins, with the mild wonder of one to
whom the game had never brought anything but exhilaration and delight.
"They must be mighty good friends for Phelps to help him out like that!"
He sighed a little wistfully. Ranny was letting no chance slip these days
to show his disapproval of the newest member of the troop. There were
others, too, who followed his example and treated the tenderfoot with
marked coldness. Even stout Harry Vedder, though occasionally forgetting
himself in the heat of play, lacked the good-natured friendliness of
that first day. To be sure, these were far from being a majority. They
included practically only the members of Ranny Phelps's own patrol;
the others had apparently accepted Tompkins as one of the bunch and
continued to treat him as such. But Dale's was a friendly nature, and
it troubled him a little, when he had time to think about it, to be the
object of even a passive hostility.
These moments, however, were few and far between. What with football
every afternoon, with lessons and occasional studying for the
second-class tests, to say nothing of his paper-route and some extra
delivery-work he had undertaken to add to his "suit" money, his days
were pretty full. Besides, that doubt as to the entire efficiency of
the team continued to worry him much more than any small personal trouble.
On Saturday they played Troop Six, and Dale sat among the substitutes on
the side-lines. It was an admirable chance for sizing up the playing
of the team as a whole, and before the end of the second quarter his
freckled forehead was puckered with worried lines. He had no fear of
their losing the game. Their opponents had notoriously the weakest team
in the entire scout league, and already two goals had been scored against
it. The tenderfoot was thinking of next Saturday, and wondering more and
more what sort of a showing the fellows would make then.
Earlier in the season, Dale had watched Troop One throughout an entire
game, and even then he had noted their clever team-work. As individuals,
perhaps, they might not match up to his own organization. There was no
one quite to equal the brilliant Ranny Phelps, the clever quick-witted
Ward, or the dependable Wesley Becker at full. But the boy knew
football well enough to realize that in the long run it isn't the
individual that counts. Freak plays, snatching at chance and the
unexpected, may sometimes win a game, but as a rule they avail little
against the spirit of cohesion when each fellow works shoulder to
shoulder with his neighbor, supporting, backing up, subordinating
himself and the thought of individual glory to the needs of the team.
During the past week Dale had felt vaguely that it was just this quality
Troop Five lacked. Now the certainty was vividly brought home, with all
the advantages of a sharp perspective. The center, alone, seemed fairly
strong and united, with Bob Gibson in the middle "Turk" Gardner at
right guard, and Frank Sanson at left. But Sanson got no help at all
from Wilks, who, in his turn, took everything from Ranny Phelps. Court
Parker made an admirable quarter-back, and Ward and Becker played the
game as it should be played. But Slater at right tackle and Torrance
behind him made another pair who seemed to think more of each other and
of their individual success than of the unity of the team. They were
great chums, Dale reflected thoughtfully, and in Ranny Phelps's patrol.
He wondered if that had anything to do with it. He wondered, too,
whether Sherman realized the situation.
"But of course he does!" he muttered an instant later. "Isn't he always
after them to get together, though sometimes it seems as if he might go
for them a little harder? I--I hope they do--before it's too late."
But somehow he could not bring himself to be very confident. To pull
together a team that has been playing "every man for himself" is one
of the hardest things in the world. Defeat will often do it more
thoroughly than anything, but, in their case, defeat would mean the
loss of all they had been striving for. It would have been better had
they been up against any other team to-day. Pushed hard and forced to
fight for a slender victory, they might have realized something of their
weakness. But the very ease with which goal after goal was scored
brought self-confidence and cock-sureness instead of wisdom.
"I guess we'll grab that little old pennant, all right," Dale heard more
than one declare in the dressing-room. "Why, those dubs actually scored
a goal on Troop One!"
The boy wanted to remind them that this was at the very beginning of
the season, and since then two of their best men had left Troop Six for
boarding-school. But from a raw tenderfoot and inconsidered member of the
scrub any such comment would savor of cheekiness, so he kept silent.
On Monday the practice started out in such a casual, perfunctory manner
that Sherman suddenly stopped the play and lashed out, sparing nobody.
He was white-hot, and not hesitating to mention names, he told them just
what he thought of their smug complaisance, their careless, unfounded
confidence.
"You fellows seem to think all you have to do is to show up on the field
Saturday and the other crowd are going to take to cover!" he snapped.
"You walk through the plays without an idea of team-work, or mutual
support, or anything. That isn't football; it's just plain foolishness!
Why, the lines are as full of holes as a colander--and you don't even
know it! I tell you, unless we get together and stop those gaps and work
for the team _right_, that game Saturday will be a joke."
He hesitated an instant, striving for self-control. When he went on, his
tone was slightly moderated. "Come ahead, now, fellows; let's get into it
and do the thing the way it should be done. We can if we only will."
Unfortunately, the appeal failed more or less because of its very
force. Sherman's one fault as a captain was a certain leniency of
disposition. He was a bit easy-going, and preferred to handle the
fellows by persuasion rather than force. The latter did not realize
that it wasn't the happenings of that day alone which had so roused his
wrath, that these were only the culmination of all their shortcomings
for weeks past, that they had been accumulating until the pressure
became so great that an explosion had to come. A few of the players
understood, but the very ones who needed his advice the most set down
the outburst to whim or temper or indigestion. Either they airily ignored
it, or else grew sullen and grouchy. In either case they failed to
make a personal application of his words, and the situation remained
practically unchanged.
CHAPTER VI
THE QUARREL
"Great cats and little kittens!" exclaimed Court Parker, stopping
suddenly beside the flagpole on the green. "I certainly am a chump."
"Just as you say," grinned the tenderfoot. "I'd hate to contradict you.
How'd you happen to find it out all by yourself, though?"
They were on their way to the scout meeting, and up to that moment had
been deep in a serious discussion of the football situation. But Parker
was not one to remain serious for very long at a stretch, so his sudden
outbreak failed to surprise Dale, even though he might be ignorant of
its cause.
"Why, I had it all planned to coach you up on the drill this week, so
you could put one over on Ranny," explained the volatile youth, as they
started on again; "but I clean forgot. Hang it all!"
Dale smiled quietly to himself. "I shouldn't wonder if I could get it
to-night," he said briefly. "It's not so awful hard, is it?"
"N-n-o, but you know Ranny; he's sure to try and trip you up. Oh, well,
no use crying over spilt milk! Just don't let him rattle you, and we'll
have you letter-perfect by next meeting."
Dale's lips twitched again, but he made no further comment as they
hurried along Main Street and turned in beside the church. It was
with very different feelings from the last time that he entered the
parish-house, hung up his cap, and joined one of the groups gathered
in the meeting-room. He was still the only one present without a
uniform, but to-night he wore his best suit, his hair was smooth and
glistening, and he could almost see himself in the brilliant polish
of his shoes. It all helped to increase his poise and the feeling of
self-confidence his knowledge of the drill had given him.
Mr. Curtis was away that night, and Wesley Becker was in charge. The
assistant scoutmaster was perfectly capable of conducting the meeting,
but being only a year or two older than many of the boys, it was
inevitable that discipline should tend to relax slightly. There were
no serious infractions, of course; the fellows, as a whole, were too
well trained and too much in earnest for that. But now and then a
suppressed snicker followed the utterance of a whispered jest, and
Wesley had occasionally to repeat his orders before they were obeyed
with the snap and precision that invariably followed the commands of Mr.
Curtis.
Dale was not one of the offenders, if such they could be called. In
the beginning he was too intent on going through the newly acquired
evolutions of the drill to have much thought for anything else. Later
on, the behavior of Ranny Phelps took all his attention.
The leader of Wolf patrol was far from being in the best of humors.
Perhaps the events of the afternoon had soured his temper; or possibly
the mere sight of Tompkins standing erect at the end of the line made
him realize that his efforts to put the tenderfoot in his place had been
more or less of a failure. At any rate, when staves were distributed and
the drill commenced, he at once renewed his nagging, critical attacks of
the week before.
For a time Dale tried not to notice it, trusting that his careful,
accurate execution of the manoeuvers would in itself be enough to
still the unjust criticism. But presently he began to realize that
Phelps was deliberately blind to his improvement, and a touch of angry
color crept into his face. In the next figure he made a minor slip,
and a snicker from Wilks increased Dale's irritation.
"Take your time, Tompkins, by all means," urged Phelps, sarcastically,
when Becker ordered a repetition of the movement. "Maybe by the end of
the evening you'll be able to do one of the figures half-way right."
Dale's lips parted impulsively, but closed again without a sound
issuing forth. A dull, smoldering anger began to glow within him, and one
hand gripped his staff tightly. What right had Ranny Phelps to shame
and humiliate him before the whole troop? He was doing his best, and he
felt that the showing wasn't such a bad one for a fellow who had been
in the troop little more than a week. Any decent chap would have
understood this and made allowances, would even have helped him along
instead of trying by every means in his power to make him fail. Dale's
chin went up a trifle, and his teeth clenched. By a great effort he
managed to hold himself in for the remainder of the drill, but the
anger and irritation bubbling up inside resulted in several more
errors. When the drill was over and the fellows stood at ease for a
few minutes before starting some signal-work, Phelps strode over to
the new recruit.
"What's the matter with you, Tompkins?" he said with cold sarcasm. "At
this rate, you're likely to spend the whole winter getting a few simple
stunts into your head."
Dale's eyes flashed. "It might not be a bad idea to learn a few of the
scout laws yourself," he snapped back impulsively.
"What's that?"
Ranny's voice was cool and level, but his eyes had narrowed and a spot
of color glowed on each cheek. The fellows near them suddenly pricked up
their ears and turned curiously in their direction.
"I said it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to learn some of the scout
laws," repeated Dale, heedless of everything save the anger and
indignation surging up within him. "There's one about being friendly,
and another that says a scout is helpful. Maybe you know them by heart,
but I don't believe--"
"That'll do!" cut in Ranny, harshly. "I certainly don't need any advice
from _you_ on how to--"
"You mean you won't _take_ any," interrupted Dale, hotly.
"Patrols, attention!" rang out Becker's voice sharply.
Neither of the boys paid any heed; it is doubtful whether they even heard
him. Tight-lipped, with fists clenched, they glared at one another from
eyes that snapped angrily. In another moment, however, Becker gripped
Phelps tightly by the shoulder and whirled him around.
"Cut that out and go back to your place!" he said sternly. "I called for
order."
Ranny glowered at him for a moment, and then, without a word, turned on
his heel and strode back to the head of the line. In the hush that
followed, Dale drew a long breath and swallowed hard. His face still
burned, and the fingers of his right hand were stiff and cramped from the
grip he had unconsciously maintained on his staff. With an elaborate
attempt at nonchalance, he listened to Becker's directions about the
signaling, but all the while he was wondering what the fellows thought
of him and wishing, with increasing fervency, that he had kept his
self-control instead of flaring up in that foolish way.
For the remainder of the evening Phelps seemed coolly oblivious of
Dale's existence. He did not even glance at the tenderfoot, though
on the way out the two stood for a moment within arm's-length in the
entry. He had apparently quite recovered his composure, but there was a
cold hardness about his mouth that brought a queer, unexpected pang to
Tompkins.
Not for the world would he have acknowledged it to any one--even to
Court, who, with several others, expressed unqualified approval of the
way in which Ranny had been "set down." It is doubtful, even, had he
been given a chance to live over the evening, if his conduct would have
been any different. But there could be no question of his keen regret
that instead of thawing Phelps's coolness by his increased proficiency at
the drill, he had only succeeded in vastly increasing the boy's animosity.
On Wednesday afternoon Dale was made the unconscious cause of still
further adding to Ranny's ire. After half an hour of play, Ward suddenly
ordered Larry Wilks out of the line-up and told Tompkins to take his
place.
At the command the tackle started, stared incredulously at Sherman,
and then, with lowering brow and an exaggerated air of indifference,
turned and walked deliberately off the field. For an instant Ranny stood
silent, a deep red flaming into his face. Then he whirled impulsively
on Ward.
"Are you crazy, Sherm?" he demanded hotly. "Why, you'll queer the whole
team by sticking in a greenhorn only three days before the game."
"I don't agree with you," retorted Ward, curtly. He spoke quietly enough,
but a faint twitching at the corners of his mouth showed that he was
holding himself in with difficulty. "Wilks has had plenty of warnings,
and has seen fit to disregard them utterly. Besides," his voice took
in a harder tone as his eyes followed the departing player he had counted
on using in the scrub, "I'd rather use anybody--little Bennie Rhead,
even--than a fellow who shows the lack of spirit he does. Take your
place, Tompkins. Frazer, shift over to right tackle on the scrub.
Edwards, you come in and play left guard for to-day. Scrub has the ball."
Ranny Phelps bit his lip, glared ill-temperedly, and then subsided.
Tompkins shifted over to the regulars, his mind a queer turmoil of
delight at the advancement, and regret and apprehension at this new
cause for bickering among the players. Practice was resumed, but there
was a notable feeling of constraint among the fellows, which did not
entirely pass off as the afternoon wore away. Ranny held himself coldly
aloof, playing his own position with touches of the old brilliancy, but
ignoring the chap beside him. Torrance and Slater, and one or two of
the scrub who were part of the Phelps clique, whispered occasionally
among themselves, or darted indignant glances at the tenderfoot as if
he were in some way responsible for the downfall of Wilks. Dale tried
not to notice it all, and devoted himself vigorously to playing the
game, hoping that by the next day the fellows would cool down and get
together.
But somehow they didn't. There had been time for discussion with the
disgruntled Wilks himself, and if anything, their animosity was
increased. It was so marked, and the effect so disastrous, or so it
seemed to Tompkins, to the unity of the team, that after practice the
tenderfoot hesitatingly approached Sherman Ward. It was not at all
easy for him to say what he had in mind. For one thing, the idea of even
remotely advising the captain savored of cheekiness and presumption;
for another, he wasn't personally at all keen to take the step he felt
would be for the good of the team. But at length he summoned courage to
make the suggestion.
"Say, Sherm," he began haltingly, after walking beside Ward for a few
moments in silence, "don't you think--that is, would it be better for
me to--er--not to play to-morrow?"
Sherman stopped short in surprise. "Not play?" he repeated sharply. "Why,
what--" He frowned suddenly. "Don't you want to?"
"_Want to?_ Of course I do! But it seems to me things would--would go
smoother if--I wasn't in the line-up. You know some of the fellows--"
He paused. Sherman's eyes narrowed. "Oh, that's what you mean, is it?"
For an instant he stood staring silently at the freckled face raised
to his. "You'd be willing to get out for--for the good of the team?"
As Dale nodded he reached out and caught the boy almost roughly by one
shoulder. "Forget it!" he said gruffly. "I know what I'm doing, kid. You
go in to-morrow and play up for all you're worth. If--if those chumps
don't come to their senses, it won't be your fault."
His jaw was square; his lips firm. It flashed suddenly on Dale that
Sherman couldn't very well follow his suggestion and continue to preserve
a shred of authority as captain. It would seem as if he were giving in to
the delinquents and allowing them to run the team. They would set him
down as weak and vacillating, and pay less attention than ever to his
efforts to make them get together and play the game right. A sudden
anger flamed up within the tenderfoot, and his teeth clicked together.
"Chumps!" he growled to himself, his fists clenching. "Can't they see
what they're doing? Can't they forget themselves for a minute and think
of the team?"
He wished the suspense was over and the moment for the game at hand.
Hitherto the days had fairly flown, making the afternoons of much needed
practice incredibly brief, but now the very minutes seemed to drag.
Saturday morning was interminable. Dale tried to forget his worries by
attending to the various chores about the house, but even in the midst
of vigorous woodchopping he found himself stopping to think of the
struggle of the afternoon, going over the different plays and sizing up
the probable behavior of various individuals.
But at last the waiting was over and he had taken his place in that
line which spread out across the field ready for the signal. And as
he crouched there, back bent, watching with keen, appraising eyes the
blue jersies dotting the turf before him, the tension relaxed a little,
giving place to the thrall of the game.
After all, why should he be so certain of the worst? Wasn't it quite as
likely that the fellows would be awakened and dominated, even stung
into unity, by the same thrill which moved him? An instant later he
lunged forward and was running swiftly, madly, his face upturned to the
yellow sphere soaring above his head and rocking gently in its swooping,
dropping flight.
When Ranny Phelps made a perfect catch and zigzagged down the field,
dodging the interference with consummate skill, the tenderfoot thrilled
responsive and mentally applauded. When the blond chap was at length
downed and the teams lined up snappily, Dale grinned delightedly to
himself at the realization of the fine beginning they had made.
But his enthusiasm was short-lived. Parker ripped out a signal, and the
ball was snapped back to Ward. Dale drove forward, bent on clearing the
way for Sherman. Beside him Ranny also lunged into the mêlée, but the
tenderfoot was instantly conscious of a gap between them that seemed as
wide as the poles apart. Into it the solid blue-jerseyed interference
thrust itself, and the forward rush stopped as if it had struck a stone
wall.
"First down!" shouted the referee when the heap of players disintegrated.
"Ten yards to gain!"
CHAPTER VII
IN THE LAST QUARTER
As Dale scrambled to his feet and sought his place again, his face
was flaming. He had a feeling that he must be partly to blame for the
failure. Perhaps he had been a bit too quick in his forward lunge. As
he crouched in the line, head low and shoulders bent, his hands clenched
themselves tightly. It mustn't happen again, he told himself.
But swiftly it was borne upon him that the blame did not lie on his
shoulders. A try around right end brought them barely a yard. Something
had gone wrong there, too. He could not tell just what it was, but it
seemed as if Slater and Torrance had failed somehow to back up Ted
MacIlvaine as they should have done. The tackle's teeth grated, and a
flood of impotent anger surged over him. They were playing as they had
played in practice, each fellow for himself, without even an effort to
get together and tighten up.
With the inevitable kick which gave the ball to Troop One, this fact
became even more apparent. Solid and compact, the blue line swept down
the field with a machine-like rush that carried everything before it.
They seemed to find holes everywhere in the opposing line, and only
the handicap of a high wind and the brilliant work of three or four
individuals kept them from scoring in the first quarter.
That such a calamity could be long prevented seemed impossible to Dale.
He greeted the intermission with a sigh of thankfulness. Brief as it
was, it was a respite. Sherman's bitter, stinging onslaught on the team
passed almost unheeded by the anxious tackle. He was thinking of the
three remaining quarters with a foreboding that made him oblivious to
all else.
To be sure, when play was resumed, the fellows seemed to show a slightly
better spirit. It was as if the first dim realization of their errors
was being forced upon them. But they had been split apart so long that
they seemed to have forgotten how to work together in that close-knit,
united manner which alone could make any head against these particular
opponents. Time and time again they were driven back to the very
shadow of their goal-posts, where, stung by shame or the lashing
tongue of their captain, they rallied long enough to hurl back the
attack a little, only to lapse again when the pressing, vital need
was past.
Then, toward the very end of that second quarter, when Tompkins was
just beginning to hope again, the thing he had dreaded came suddenly
and unexpectedly. Some one blundered, whether Slater, or Torrance,
or Ted MacIlvaine, the boy did not know. With a last swift rush the
blue-clad interference charged at the right wing, through it, over it,
and, hurling aside all opposition, swept resistlessly over the last
six yards for a touchdown. They missed the goal by a hair, but that did
not lessen the sense of shock and sharp dismay which quivered through
the line of their opponents.
Dale Tompkins took his place after the long intermission, a dull, bitter,
impotent anger consuming him. He was furious with the fellows who by
their incredible stupidity were practically throwing away the game.
He even hated himself for seeming to accomplish so little; but most of
all he raged at the blond chap next to him. Some of the others were at
least trying to get together, though their lack of practice made the
effort almost negligible. But Ranny Phelps remained as coldly aloof,
as markedly determined to withhold support and play his game alone as he
had been in the beginning.
It made a hole in the line which could not escape the attention of the
opposing quarter-back. Already he had sent his formation through it
more than once, but now he seemed to concentrate the attack on that weak
spot. Time and time again Dale flung himself to meet the rush, only to
be overwhelmed and hurled back by sheer numbers. Sometimes Sanson pulled
him out of the scrimmage, more often he scrambled up unaided to find
his place, sweat-blinded and with breath coming in gasps, and brace
himself for the next onset.
Silently, doggedly, he took his punishment, and presently, under the
strain, he began to lose track of the broader features of the game.
Vaguely he realized that they had been forced back again and again
almost against their own goal-posts, and there had rallied, tearing
formations to shreds and hurling back the enemy with the strength of
despair. Dimly he heard the voice of Ward, or Court Parker's shriller
notes, urging them in sharp, broken phrases to get together. But the
real, the dominating thing was that forward plunge, the tensing of
muscles, the crash of meeting bodies, the heaving, straining struggle,
the slow, heartrending process of being crushed back by overwhelming
weight--that and the sense of emptiness upon his left.
Then came a time when things went black for an instant before his eyes.
He did not quite lose consciousness, for he knew when the weight above
was lifted and two arms slid around him, dragging him to his feet. It
was Sanson, he thought hazily--good old Frank! Then he turned his head a
little and through the wavering mists looked straight into the eyes of
Ranny Phelps!
Wide, dilated, almost black with strain and excitement, they stared
at him from out the grimy face with a strange mingling of shame and
admiration that sent a thrill through the tenderfoot and made him pull
himself together.
"Take it easy," came in gruff, unnatural accents. "You want to get your
wind--old fellow."
"I--I'm all right," muttered the tenderfoot.
He passed one hand vaguely across his forehead. Some one brought a
tin dipper, from which he rinsed his mouth mechanically. His head was
clearing, but he couldn't seem to understand whether the transformation
in the chap beside him was real or only a creation of his bewildered
brain. But when he took his place again and dropped his shoulders
instinctively, another shoulder pressed against him on the left, and
that same hoarse, unfamiliar voice sounded in his ears:
"Together now, kid; we'll stop 'em this time!"
The words seemed to give Dale a new strength. Stirred to the very fiber
of his being, he dived forward to meet the onward rush. Still with
that new, stimulating sense of support where none had been before, his
outstretched hands gripped like tentacles around sturdy legs. There was
a heaving, churning motion; then the compact mass of players toppled
over, and he knew that they had succeeded.
Nor was it a solitary advantage. Unobserved by Tompkins, the whole line
had been slowly stiffening. Slowly, gradually, the other holes had
been closed up and the advance checked. When the kick put the ball in
their possession, a new spirit animated Troop Five. Scattered no longer,
but welded by stern necessity into a single unit, they forgot their
handicap, forgot that the minutes of the final quarter were speeding
in mad flight, forgot everything but the vital need of breaking through
that line of blue and carrying the fight toward those distant goal-posts
that loomed so far away.
Forming up swiftly, they swept forward for a gain of eight yards.
Before the opposition recovered from their surprise, they had passed
the fifty-yard line.
Here the blues rallied, and for a space the two lines surged back and
forth in the middle of the field. It was a period of small gains and
frequent punts, when neither side held the ball long, nor the advantage.
Thrilled by their success, exhilarated by that strange new sense of
comradeship with the boy beside him, Dale fought fiercely, heedless
of the shock of bodies, of pain, of weariness, of blinding sweat, or
hard-won breath. His only worry was a growing fear that they would not
have time to score, and this had only just begun to dominate him when the
unexpected happened.
They were battling on the enemy's forty-yard line. It was Troop One's
ball, and they had tried to force a gain through center. Shoulder to
shoulder, Ranny and Dale plunged forward to meet the rush. The advance
checked, Tompkins gained his feet swiftly and thrilled to see the
precious ball rolling free not a dozen feet away.
With a gasp he lunged for it and scooped it up without slackening speed.
At almost the same instant Ranny Phelps shot out of the scrimmage as if
propelled from a catapult, and a moment later the two were thudding down
the field, a stream of players trailing in their wake.
Dale caught his breath with the stinging realization that their chance
had come--their only chance! There were but two men between them and the
coveted goal, the full-back, and nearer, another player bearing swiftly
down on them, who must instantly be reckoned with. That would be Ranny's
task. He must stop the fellow, while Dale took his chance alone with the
other.
Dale glanced sideways at his companion, and his heart leaped into his
throat. Phelps was limping; something had happened to him in that last
scrimmage. His face showed white even through the grime and tan; his
under lip was flecked with crimson.
"Ranny!" gasped Dale, in a panic. "What-- Can you--"
"Don't--worry--about--me," came indistinctly through the other's clenched
teeth. "I'll--block--this fellow--somehow. You get the other--you've got
to!"
Taking a fresh grip on the ball, Dale spurted on. He was aware that Ranny
had sheered off a little to the right, and knew that he meant to stop
the boy racing up from that direction. But actually he saw nothing, and
even the crash of meeting bodies came to him as something far away and
unimportant. His clearing brain was fixed on the looming figure ahead,
the full-back, who alone stood between him and victory.
He must be passed--but how? A thought of hurdling flashed into his mind,
to be dismissed as too hazardous. There was only one way left. Without
slackening speed, he tore on, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer.
To the breathless onlookers it seemed as if he meant actually to run down
the opposing player. Then, in a flash, when he was almost within reach
of the hooking arms, he swerved suddenly to one side, whirled, darted
the other way, eluded the other's frantic clutch by the merest hair,
and with a sob of joy ran on, free, the ball still cupped in the curve
of his arm.
CHAPTER VIII
THE GOOD TURN
Ten minutes later the small building on the edge of the field was
thronged with joyous, excited boys in various stages of undress, who
celebrated the victory with shrill jubilations, snatches of song, or
exuberant outbursts of mere noise. The strain and tension of the
afternoon were forgotten; nobody remembered the nearness of defeat in the
recollection of that last splendid rally which had brought them all so
much closer together.
On every hand fellows were comparing notes and talking over details of
the struggle in eager fragments. "Remember the time--" "Say, how about
that gain through center when Ted--" "Some run, wasn't it?"
"Oh, you Tommy!" shrilled Court Parker, catching Dale's eye. "Awful punk
run that was--simply awful!"
Tompkins smiled back at him, but did not speak. He was luxuriating in
the restful peace which comes after strenuous physical action and the
consciousness of successful accomplishment. A feeling of intense pride in
the troop filled him. "They're a corking lot of fellows--corking!" he
said more than once under his breath as he looked around the room with
shining eyes. "How they did get after that bunch in the last quarter!
I--I wouldn't belong to any other troop for--for anything!"
Now and then, to be sure, his eyes strayed to the farther end of the
room, where Ranny Phelps was having his swollen ankle bandaged by two
of the most skilful exponents of first aid, and a faint touch of
questioning crept into them. Since that breathless moment on the
field when Ranny's efforts had left the way free for Dale, he had not
spoken to the tenderfoot nor by so much as a glance recognized his
existence. Dale wondered whether his mind was merely taken up with his
injury, or whether the change that had come over him in the heat of
the game had been only a temporary thawing.
As the days passed, the latter suspicion became a certainty. At their
very first meeting, in fact, the tenderfoot found Ranny as aloof as ever.
To be sure, Dale noticed that he no longer seemed to try to impress
his attitude on the others in his patrol. Apparently without rebuke,
stout Harry Vedder became quite friendly, and even Rex Slater and one or
two others in the clique treated him with a good deal more consideration
than they had before the game. But the leader himself made no effort to
disguise his coolness toward the new-comer, and Dale presently found it
hard to believe that the helping hand, the friendly voice, the touch
of that muscular shoulder as they fought side by side on the field in the
furious struggle against odds had been real.
He did not brood over it, because he was not of the brooding sort. More
than once he found himself regretting that impulsive action which had so
increased the other boy's antagonism, but for the most part he contented
himself with the unqualified friendship of most of the troop, and entered
with zest into the various scout activities.
Perhaps the most interesting of these were the long hikes and week-end
camping-trips. Mr. Curtis was a great advocate of the latter, and as
soon as the end of football made Saturdays free again, he announced his
intention of undertaking them as often as the weather permitted.
Unfortunately, there were not many sites around Hillsgrove which
combined the ideal qualifications for a camp--good drainage, wood, and
water. The latter was particularly scarce. There were one or two
brooks--small, miserable affairs with only a foot or two of depth, and a
muddy, half-stagnant mill-pond or so; but the single body of water
which would have been perfect for the purpose was definitely and
permanently barred to them.
It was a small lake, half a mile long and varying from two to four
hundred feet in width, that lay some four miles out of town. There was
a good bottom, depth in plenty even for diving, and the banks on one
side, at least, sloped back sharply and were covered with a fine growth
of pine and hemlock, interspersed with white birch and a good deal of
hard wood. The boys had often looked on it with longing eyes, but the
owner was a sour-faced, crotchety old man who was enraged by the mere
sight of a boy on his property. He had placarded his woods with warning
signs, kept several dogs, and was even reputed to have a gun loaded
with bird-shot ready for instant use on youthful trespassers.
Perhaps the latter was a slight exaggeration; certainly no one had ever
been actually peppered with it. But the fact remained that old Caleb
Grimstone, who lived alone and had a well-established reputation for
crankiness, had stubbornly refused all requests to be allowed to camp
or picnic on his property even when pay was offered, and at length all
such effort had been abandoned. As Court Parker remarked, no doubt with
a vivid recollection of sundry narrow escapes: "You can steal a swim on
the old codger if you keep a weather-eye peeled and don't mind doing
a Marathon through the brush; but when it comes to anything like pitching
a tent and settling down--_good_ night!"
Under such circumstances, it may be imagined that the announcement made
one morning to the group gathered about the school entrance that old
Grimstone had fallen through the hay-shoot and broken an arm did not
elicit any marked expressions of regret.
"Serves him right, the old skinflint, after the mean way he's kept us
away from the lake!" growled Bob Gibson.
"Yes, indeed!" sniffed Harry Vedder. "He's a regular dog in the manger.
It wouldn't hurt him to let us swim there in the summer, or camp once
in a while. He doesn't use it himself."
"Use it!" exclaimed Frank Sanson. "Why, they don't even cut ice off it."
"He's just downright mean, that's all!" put in Rex Slater. "Say, fellows,
what a chance this would be to get ahead of the old chap and camp out
Friday or Saturday--if Mr. Curtis would only let us."
"He won't," said Sherman Ward, decidedly. "Besides, it's a lot too cold
and looks like snow. How did he manage, Ted? Living alone with only those
dogs, it must have been some stunt to get word to anybody."
"He got out to the road and waited for the first team that came along,"
explained Ted. "The people took him into the house, and then sent Dr.
Maxwell out from town. He wanted somebody to come and look after him,
but old Grimey wouldn't hear of it. Said he couldn't stand the expense."
"The old miser! How does he manage to get his meals and look after the
stock?"
"Eats bread and milk and canned stuff, I guess. Bud Hinckley comes in
night and morning, I understand, to look after the horse and cow and wash
dishes and all that, but you know what Bud is."
"So lazy he'd like somebody else to draw his breath for him!" said
Court Parker, promptly. "Whew! What a lovely time the old man must be
having--and to-morrow Thanksgiving!"
As they trooped into school, the last words lingered in Dale Tompkins's
mind. To-morrow would, indeed, be Thanksgiving--the day of turkey, and
mince-pie, and good cheer generally. He had no more cause than the
others for sympathizing with Caleb Grimstone, but somehow the mental
picture of the soured old man sitting alone in his slovenly kitchen,
one arm in a sling, and eating bread and milk, with perhaps a can of
lukewarm tomatoes or corn, when every one else was feasting merrily
in company, made him vaguely uncomfortable.
He forgot it, however, in the excitement of a brisk game of land-hockey
up at Sherman's that afternoon, but after supper the picture returned
with renewed vividness, and with it something the scoutmaster had said
when he passed his second-class examinations a few days ago.
"Never forget the daily good turn, Dale, or let it slump into a
perfunctory sort of thing such as you would have to do anyway whether
you were a scout or not. A fellow can't always find big things, of
course; but when the opportunity comes, he isn't a true scout if he
cannot sacrifice his own comfort or pleasure or inclination to bring
help or happiness to some one who really needs it."
Dale squirmed a little at the recollection and tried to go on with the
book he was reading. But the tale had lost its savor, and presently he
raised his eyes from the printed page and frowned.
"Nobody else thought anything about it!" he muttered rebelliously.
"Besides, to-morrow's Thanksgiving; that's different from any other day."
A little later he put away the book, said good night, and went up to
his room. Having closed the door, he opened his closet and took out
his scout suit. It had come only the day before; already he had looked
at it more than twenty times, but the novelty had not yet worn off.
He wondered if fellows who had theirs merely for the asking felt half
as proud of it as he, who had worked for every penny of its cost. He
passed one hand caressingly over the smooth olive khaki, and then an odd
thought popped suddenly into his head.
He had tried it on, twice, but as yet he had not actually worn it.
Mightn't it mean even more to him if he wore it first in the performance
of a good turn that really counted?
Though the boy felt it only vaguely, and formulated it not at all even
in his mind, it was something of that spirit of consecration that of
old dominated the young candidates for knighthood, guarding their armor
through the long night-watches. Dale's face took on an expression of
determination, and as he put away his things his mind was oddly lightened.
Next morning he sallied forth, a trifle self-conscious in all the glory
of his new khaki, but warmed by the look in his mother's eyes as she
waved good-by from the door-step. Taking the shortest cut, he proceeded
to the rectory, and when Mr. Schofield appeared he saluted punctiliously.
"May I have one of the baskets, sir?" he asked.
The rector smiled. "Ah! You're going to take it to--" He paused
questioningly an instant; then his smile deepened. "Certainly," he said
cordially. "They're over in the parish-house. The ladies are packing
them now. Tell Mrs. Mason I said you were to have a good one."
Ten minutes later Dale was making his way briskly toward the Beldon
Turnpike, a large market-basket on one arm. The legs of a plump fowl
protruded from the covering; there were vegetables within, a can of soup,
celery, oranges, bananas, and a small pie. The weight was not a light
one, but Dale whistled cheerfully as he strode along.
He reached the turnpike without meeting any of the fellows, and after
ten or fifteen minutes' tramping along the straight, level road he paused
to shift the basket to the other arm. It was heavier than he thought.
Overhead the gray sky was a bit dispiriting, and the sharp, chill wind,
blowing across the open fields, made him glad he had buttoned his sweater
beneath the khaki coat.
Presently he began to speculate on what sort of reception he would
have, and for the first time the possibility occurred to him that his
welcome might not be altogether cordial. You never could tell what
point of view the cranky old man would take. He thought of the dogs,
too, especially after he had left the main road and turned into the less
frequented one leading past Grimstone's place. More than once people had
been chased by them, and it wasn't exactly pleasant to picture them
rushing out at him in a body the moment he set foot in the lane.
Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out
with a definite purpose, and he meant to carry it through. To be sure,
just before reaching the lane he cut himself a stout stick, and as
the old, weather-beaten frame house came in sight he unconsciously
made his approach as noiseless as possible. He was surprised and not
a little relieved to see no signs of the animals, but when he set down
his basket and knocked briskly on the back door, the snarling uproar
that instantly arose inside plainly advertised their whereabouts.
Dale tightened his grip on the stick and strained his ears for other
sounds. He had raised his hand for a second knock when the barking
suddenly lessened a little, and above the racket came a growling
admonition in Grimstone's harsh tones:
"Wal, come in, can't you? Are you deaf?"
CHAPTER IX
AN ODD THANKSGIVING
The note of ill temper in the voice was so apparent that Dale hesitated
for a second longer. Then, with a determined movement of his head, he set
his stick against the door-casing, picked up the basket, and stepped
into the kitchen. It was a long, low room, the walls and ceiling painted
a dirty gray. Two of the three windows were tightly shuttered, so that
Dale could barely make out the bent figure seated in a rocking-chair
beside a rusty, decrepit cook-stove. At his entrance the three dogs
began to bark again, but old Grimstone silenced them with a fierce
gesture that sent them cowering under a table.
"What d' you want?" he demanded, glaring at the boy from under bushy
brows. "I don't want to buy nothin', so you'd better git out."
"I haven't anything--for sale," returned the boy, finding it a little
difficult to explain his errand. "It--it's your Thanksgiving dinner."
"Dinner!" snapped the old man. "What are you talkin' about? I ain't
ordered nothin' from town."
"I know you haven't. It's one of the baskets from the church. I--I heard
you'd had an accident and were all alone, so I--I thought I'd bring it
out."
For a moment the old man sat silent, his hard, glinting eyes, full of
sour suspicion, fixed on the boy's face. "What for?" he demanded suddenly.
"What for?" repeated Dale, puzzled.
"Yes; what for? What d' you expect to git out of it? You ain't toted a
basketful o' truck all the way out here jest out of regard for me, I
reckon. Who sent ye?"
Dale flushed, and unconsciously drew himself up a little. "Nobody," he
returned briefly. "I'm a boy scout. We--we try to do a good turn for
somebody every day."
Old Grimstone bent slightly forward, staring in a puzzled fashion at the
trim, khaki-clad figure before him. His right arm, bulky with bandages
and splints, was strapped tightly to his body; the other hand, gnarled
and brown, with blue veins showing here and there, gripped the arm of
the rocker. There was suspicion still in his glance, but back of it
was the look of one groping dimly for something he could not understand.
Suddenly he straightened with a jerk.
"Wal, set it down somewheres, then!" he growled ungraciously. "I ain't
an object o' charity yet, but if you're bound to leave it, I s'pose I
can use it somehow. You'd better be startin' back right away or you'll
miss your dinner."
Dale placed the basket on a table and commenced to remove the paper. "I'm
not going back yet," he explained cheerfully. "I'm going to stay and cook
it for you."
For a moment there was silence. Then the old man grunted inarticulately;
it might have been with surprise, or incredulity, or almost any other
emotion. Dale's back was toward him, so he could not tell, but since
there was no actual prohibition, he proceeded with the unpacking.
Somehow he was beginning to enter more into the spirit of the thing,
beginning to feel an interest, almost an enjoyment, in doing it up
thoroughly. Having taken off coat and sweater, his first act was to
prepare the chicken for roasting. When it was safely placed in the
oven he shook down the fire, added some more wood, and then turned his
attention to a pile of unwashed dishes, which the indolent Hinckley was
evidently accumulating until he considered it sizeable enough to be
worth tackling. It was a task the boy ordinarily hated, but he meant to
leave the room spick and span on his departure. So he rolled up his
shirt-sleeves and plunged in, whistling softly as he worked.
[Illustration: "What d'you want?" he demanded]
Old Caleb Grimstone followed the boy's movements almost in silence.
He had gruffly told him where he could find a pan for the chicken, and
once he snapped out at one of the dogs who had come forth from under the
table and was sniffing at Dale's legs. But for the most part he sat
motionless beside the stove, his eyes, under their beetling brows, fixed
intently on the busy figure with that same puzzled questioning in their
depths.
At last, when Dale had pared the potatoes and put them on to boil, he
suddenly growled, "Are you one of them boys that come sneakin' around
the lake last summer?"
Dale reddened a little, but did not hesitate. "I was out here two or
three times, I guess," he acknowledged.
The old man sniffed. "I s'pose you call _that_ one o' them 'good
turns'--trespassin' on a person's property, an' payin' no attention to
signs, an' all," he remarked.
"I wasn't a scout then," said Dale. He got a broom from the corner, and
on his way past the old man's chair he paused, his eyes twinkling a bit.
"Anyhow, on a roasting hot day you know a fellow'll do 'most anything
to get a swim. I expect you were that way yourself, Mr. Grimstone, when
you were a boy."
"Huh!" grunted the old man, disagreeably, but he made no further comment.
Once or twice, as he swept, Dale glanced curiously at the silent figure
by the stove and wondered what the old fellow was thinking about. His
eyes no longer followed the boy with sharp suspicion. His head was
bent a little, and he stared blankly, unseeingly, at a knot in the
board at his feet. For a long time he did not stir, save once to lift
the thin, veined hand from the chair-arm, only to grip it again with
a force that made the knuckles stand out white against the brown skin.
At length, with a sigh, checked almost in its birth, he raised his
head and frowned at Tompkins.
"Ain't you goin' to baste that fowl at all?" he inquired sharply.
Dale started guiltily at the reminder and hastened to the oven. The fowl
was browning nicely, and as he spooned up the sizzling juices, he hoped
his forgetfulness wasn't going to make any difference in its flavor.
Apparently it hadn't. After a number of anxious inspections, between
which he set the table for two, put plates to heat, and arranged the
remaining contents of the basket as temptingly as he could, he decided
that the chicken was done, and Mr. Grimstone, peering doubtfully into the
oven and even testing the fowl with a fork, grudgingly agreed. When the
old man was served and his portion cut up so that he could manage it
with a fork, Dale took his first taste with a little feeling of pride
in his culinary achievement.
It was really a very appetizing meal, and the scout enjoyed it as only
a healthy, hungry boy can. Mr. Grimstone made no comment one way or
another. Once or twice he mumbled his annoyance at having to have his
meat cut up for him by a boy, but the number of times that the process
was repeated and the relish with which he consumed everything in sight
was proof enough of his satisfaction in the unwonted fare.
As the curious meal proceeded to its conclusion he seemed almost to thaw
a little. His manner was still crabbed and his voice sharp. He scowled
a good deal, too, especially after some comment which might possibly be
taken as approaching the amiable. But in one way or another, both at
table and later while the dishes were being done up, he asked a good
many questions in his short, snappy fashion.
Dale answered them readily, vaguely sensing, perhaps, that under the
old man's surface crustiness lay a certain awkwardness at handling so
unaccustomed a situation. After all these years of bitter warfare against
boys it must be rather embarrassing, he thought, to treat one of them
with even an approach to civility. So when he had told his name, and
the troop he belonged to, and one or two other details the old man
asked about, Dale went on to explain a little about their scout work and
play, their weekly meetings and drill and other duties, their hikes and
week-end camping-trips.
The old man listened almost without comment. He seemed more curious
about the principle of the daily good turn, to which he reverted several
times, always with expressions of doubt and skepticism. The idea of
mere boys giving time and labor and sacrificing inclination and pleasure
without thought of reward was incredible to him.
"It ain't natural!" he declared at last. "Mebbe one or two might, but
not many. You can't tell me any other o' them young limbs in town would
of give up their holiday to tote a basket o' truck out here an' cook it."
"Oh, yes, they would!" protested the boy, loyally, "if they'd thought
of it."
"Humph!" grunted the old man. "They didn't happen to, though."
"One was enough, wasn't it?" smiled the boy. "You wouldn't have known
what to do with two baskets."
The old man snorted doubtfully and did not pursue the subject farther.
A little later, Dale discovered, to his surprise, that it was after four.
He had no idea the time had flown so. He would have to hustle to get
back to town before dark. Fortunately, the kitchen was cleared up, so
after stoking the fire he got into his sweater and coat. Then he picked
up the wide-brimmed felt hat and carefully rearranged the depressions
in its crown.
"Good-by, Mr. Grimstone," he said, glancing over to where the latter had
resumed his place by the stove. "I hope your arm won't be long coming
around."
The old man frowned at him from under the bushy brows. His head was a
little bent, and the long, bony fingers curved over the chair-arm. It
was precisely the attitude with which he had greeted the boy's arrival;
yet the latter was conscious of a subtle, intangible difference, felt
rather than perceived.
"Good-by," he answered curtly. That was all until Dale reached the door
and was turning the knob. Then, "Much obleeged," came jerkily from the
thin, straight lips.
"You needn't be," smiled the scout. "I--I've had a very good time."
It was not exactly the polite fiction that perhaps it seemed. That was
the odd part of it. As he went briskly down the lane the boy realized
with surprise that not once had he thought regretfully of the rare
turkey-dinner at home, or the fun with the fellows he had missed that
afternoon. One of the dogs, still licking his chops from the dish of
scraps that Dale had given them in the shed, trotted after him, and the
boy bent to pat his head without a touch of nervousness.
"Your bark's a lot worse than your bite, old fellow," he said aloud.
He straightened up and glanced back at the rambling, weather-beaten
house, whose roof lines seemed to merge into the cold gray of the sky,
and something deeper than pity stirred him at the thought of the old
man sitting alone there in the twilight.
"I shouldn't wonder if he was a good deal like his dogs," he murmured
as he turned away. "I'm sort of glad--I found it out."
* * * * *
It was quite dark before Dale reached home. The return trip had been
much harder to make than the one that morning. The holiday was over and
there was no spirit of adventure to buoy him up, no consciousness that
he was going to be of use to some one who needed him. Also, there was
plenty of time to think of the good cheer he had missed at home--that
family feast to which, as long as he could remember, they had sat down
at three o'clock on Thanksgiving afternoon. It had become so fixed and
seemingly immovable that Dale had not even considered the possibility
of changing it. And so it was with a tired and lagging step that he
walked up from the gate and opened the front door.
Inside, he paused suddenly and sniffed. For an instant he stood
stock-still, eyes wide, mouth half open. Then, with a sudden, incoherent
exclamation, he tore down the hall, past the lighted dining-room,
and through the open kitchen door. The room was warm and bright, and
filled with the delicious odor of roasting turkey.
"Mother!" he cried, his face shining. "You didn't have it--
You--you--waited!"
His mother straightened from closing the oven door and smiled at
him--that wonderful, indescribable smile that somehow belongs to mothers.
"Of course I waited!" she said quietly. Then, as he leaped forward and
clutched her in a bear-hug, she laughed softly and asked, just a little
tremulously, "Didn't you think Father and I could do a good turn, too?"
CHAPTER X
THE SURPRISE
There was no school on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and as soon as Dale
had finished his chores he sallied forth to hunt up some of the fellows.
A light snow had fallen during the night, but the day was clear and
bright and just the sort for a good active game or a brisk hike. As
he skirted the north side of the green a shrill yodeling from behind
brought the scout around to see Court Parker bearing down upon him,
calling out:
"Say, where were you yesterday, anyhow? I didn't see you all day."
"I was--busy," returned Dale, briefly.
"Busy stuffing yourself, I s'pose. Well, you missed a dandy game up at
Sherm's. We're going to have another this afternoon."
"Won't the snow-- Say! Why couldn't we play 'Smugglers over the Border,'
or something like that? It's just the day for it."
Court's glance swept comprehensively over the snow-covered green and his
eyes brightened. "I hadn't thought of that. Now and then you do manage
to hit the little black circle, Tommy. Let's hunt up the bunch and see
what they say."
The crowd was presently gathered from several different parts of town,
and the majority approved of Dale's suggestion. Ranny Phelps and several
of his clique had other plans for the afternoon, but Ranny had a habit
of frequently failing to take part in the troop doings, unless these
were official and gave him a chance to appear in uniform, girded with
authority, so his absence was not unexpected.
Immediately after lunch the others betook themselves a mile outside
of town, sides were chosen, and the "border" laid out. This consisted of
about four hundred yards of a little-used road where the snow had not
been much disturbed. This was patrolled by a portion of the "custom
inspectors," with a reserve posted farther inland. About half a mile
back from the road a deserted barn did duty for the "town."
The smugglers gathered about half a mile on the other side of the border
and were allowed to cross it in any formation, singly, together, or
scattered, and make for the town at any speed they chose. One only of
their number was supposed to be smuggling, and he was equipped with
tracking-irons. The moment a sentry patrolling the border caught sight
of these tracks, his duty was to signal the fact to the reserve party of
inspectors and at once follow the track himself. The reserves coöperated
with him, trying by any means to catch the smuggler before he could
reach the town. If they succeeded, the game was theirs; but if the
smuggler eluded them and reached the barn safely, victory went to
the other side.
It was a typical scout sport, and for three hours or more the fellows
played it strenuously, varying it toward the end with one or two other
stalking games. These all met with unanimous approval, even Bob Gibson,
the habitual grumbler, admitting that it was more fun than he thought it
would be.
"We'll have to try some more of those in the book," Ward remarked as
they tramped back through the twilight. "That deer-hunt one sounds pretty
good, if you fellows will only make bows and arrows enough. I vote we
fix up a deer and go to it next Saturday."
It happened, however, that the following Saturday was devoted to
something even more interesting than deer-hunting. As Dale entered
the parish-house on Monday evening he passed Mr. Curtis, just inside
the door, talking earnestly with Wesley Becker.
"It was a big surprise to me, I can tell you," he heard the scoutmaster
say. "I can't imagine what has brought about the transformation."
"He doesn't say, I suppose?" asked Becker.
"No; it's just the curt invitation. He's hedged it about with all sorts
of prohibitions, but still it's wonderful he should have come around at
all."
"It'll be corking for the troop!" exclaimed Becker, enthusiastically.
"That's the one thing we've lacked, and if--"
At that point Tompkins passed beyond the range of their voices, but he
had heard enough to rouse his curiosity. Fortunately this did not have
to remain long unsatisfied. After the opening exercises the scoutmaster
faced the three patrols, a small sheet of paper in one hand.
"Attention, scouts!" he said crisply. "The troop will be much pleased to
learn, I'm sure, that Mr. Grimstone has given us permission to use the
north side of his lake for camping purposes."
For an instant there was amazed silence. Then a bedlam of surprised
comment arose, mingled with a torrent of eager questions, which Mr.
Curtis did not attempt to quell.
"Well, what do you know about that!" "Hurrah for old Grimey!" "Can we
skate there, Mr. Curtis?" "Will he let us swim in the summer?" "Can't
we go out this Saturday?" "How did you work it, sir?"
"One at a time," smiled the scoutmaster. "I'll answer the last one
first. I didn't 'work it,' as you so pithily express it, Vedder, at
all. I've failed several times to get this privilege from Mr. Grimstone,
and his letter this morning was as much of a surprise to me as to any
one. He doesn't state the reason for his change of mind."
A shock of sharp surprise sent the blood tingling into Dale Tompkins's
face and clenched his hands spasmodically. "Gee!" he muttered under his
breath. "I wonder-- Why, it must be! But I never thought of that--not
for a minute!" He paused an instant, his gaze growing introspective. "He
certainly is one good old scout," he murmured to himself. "I said his
bark was a lot worse than his bite."
Then he realized that Mr. Curtis was speaking.
"We're not to go beyond the dam at one end of the lake or the inlet at
the other. In other words, there must be no trespassing on the side
of the water where the buildings and orchard stand. He doesn't wish any
timber cut, and there are several other minor prohibitions. He says
nothing against swimming or skating, so I imagine both will be allowed.
As for camping there on Saturday, I'm afraid it will be too cold to
stay overnight, but there's no reason why we shouldn't hike out in the
morning and make a day of it."
So it was that the following Saturday morning found practically the
entire troop hiking briskly along the Beldon Turnpike at an early hour.
Ranny Phelps had complained that there wouldn't be much fun in just
a picnic affair, but he was there, nevertheless. The others had no
such criticism to make. They fairly bubbled enthusiasm, and in their
eagerness to reach the hitherto forbidden spot many of them would have
willingly gone the entire distance at scout's pace.
When they finally left the road and turned off into the woods along an
overgrown lumber-track, it was like exploring an undiscovered country.
Most of them had been there before, but with a difference. When one's
ears must be constantly open for the baying of dogs, with the necessity
ever present of being ready for instant flight, there is little chance
to appreciate the beauties of nature. Now, instead of having to creep
along through trees and undergrowth, they could boldly follow the
shore-line, investigate every little cove or promontory, discuss possible
camping-sites, and even make definite plans with the assurance that these
could be actually carried out in the spring.
At about eleven o'clock they reached the old swimming-place near the
head of the lake and halted by general consent. Hitherto, they had
considered the spot solely from the point of view of aquatic sport;
now they realized that a more ideal spot for a camp could scarcely be
imagined. A small, rocky point thrust its flat nose out into the lake.
One side was sliced off as with a knife, and here the depth varied from
six to eight feet; on the other it shelved more gradually. Back of it,
the level open space, facing south and hedged in by a thick shelter of
hemlock, would accommodate five or six shelter-tents with ease. Scarcely
a dozen yards away, a clear spring bubbled into a mossy basin.
In an instant packs were laid aside, and under Becker's direction one
party foraged for wood while another brought stones for an oven and
cut saplings for the crane or forked sticks to use in broiling meat.
Sandwiches and other ready-to-eat provisions were not looked upon
with favor. Every boy wanted something he could cook, and the variety
of chops, small steaks, eggs, bacon, ham, and the like that swiftly
appeared was endless. One enterprising scout had even brought a can
of twist-dough and proceeded deftly to brown it on sticks held over
the embers. On every hand were voiced regrets that they couldn't have
come prepared to stay overnight.
"I don't believe it would have been too cold, with the fire and
everything," said Bennie Rhead, after they had finished luncheon and
were sitting lazily around the blaze for a bit before tackling the
job of cleaning up. "Why, it's as warm as toast now."
"Naturally, with the sun pouring in here all the morning," smiled
Mr. Curtis. "You'd find it rather different at night. If we all had
sleeping-bags or tents that were really tight, we might undertake it. But
our sort of equipment isn't meant for winter, and there's no use risking
colds when you'll have all the time you want next spring and summer. By
the way, Sherman, did you send that letter to Mr. Grimstone?"
"Yes, sir. Ted and Ranny and I made it up, and all the fellows signed it.
I posted it on Wednesday."
"That's good. I wrote him, myself, but I wanted him to see that you
fellows, as well, appreciated what he's done." He rested his head against
a tree-trunk and glanced appraisingly around the glade. "What a place
this would be for a log-cabin!" he remarked.
"Immense!" exclaimed Court Parker, sitting suddenly upright. "With a big
stone fireplace at one end."
"And bunks!" added Sanson, enthusiastically. "And shelves where we could
keep pans and things. And--"
"We could camp here any time of the year then, couldn't we?"
"Sure! And think of coming in when your hands and feet are 'most frozen
from skating, and thawing out before a roaring blaze, and making some
cocoa,--oh, yum! Do you s'pose there's any chance, Mr. Curtis, of his
letting us--" Sherman broke off with a sigh. "I forgot. He doesn't want
any timber cut."
"No; and I'd scarcely like to ask him, anyway, after he's been so
decent," said the scoutmaster. "It would look as if we didn't appreciate
what he's done already." His glance swept thoughtfully around the
open space again as if he were seeing in his mind's eye the structure
that had excited such instant enthusiasm. "Of course, it would be
quite possible to cut enough timber for a cabin without in the least
hurting the woods; in fact a little thinning would do them good."
"Wouldn't it be a corking place to feed the birds from in winter!"
suddenly spoke up Paul Trexler, a silent, reserved sort of chap. "We
started up three or four covies of quail between the road and here."
"It certainly would!" The scoutmaster's tone was emphatic. "You've hit
the best argument in its favor yet, Paul. The woods are fairly teeming
with birds of all sorts; I noticed it as we came along. The place has
been barred to the public for so long that I dare say the wild creatures
have come to feel more or less safe here. With a cabin right on this
spot we could keep grain in fairly large quantities, and when the heavy
snows come, it would be easy to establish regular feeding-stations at
different points, and--"
A sudden yelping made him break off and turn quickly, to see a large dog
burst from the thicket at one side of the glade. With hair bristling and
teeth bared, the animal pulled up abruptly and started a furious barking.
The scouts leaped up and several snatched sticks from the woodpile. An
instant later, however, the low, sweeping hemlock branches parted, and
Caleb Grimstone himself stepped into the open. With a snarl he silenced
the dog and sent him groveling to heel. Then he faced Mr. Curtis and
the boys with an odd, embarrassed defiance that made the former suspect
his appearance had not been intentional, but was rather the result of
the dog's outburst.
"This is mighty nice, Mr. Grimstone!" exclaimed the scoutmaster,
advancing with outstretched hand. "You see we haven't lost any time
in taking advantage of your kindness."
"Huh!" mumbled the old man. "I was jest takin' a little walk, an' heard
voices--"
He paused awkwardly, glowering around the circle of wide-eyed boys.
"I had no idea you were able to walk so far," put in Mr. Curtis, quickly,
"or we'd certainly have invited you to eat lunch with us. Won't you
let the boys cook you something now? They're mighty proud of the way
they can--"
"I've had dinner," interrupted the old man, hastily. He fumbled for a
moment with the stout cane he carried; then his gaze returned to the
scoutmaster. "I heard you sayin' somethin' about feedin' birds," he said
curtly. "I didn't know you-- What was it you meant?"
Briefly Mr. Curtis explained their methods of establishing
feeding-stations through the woods and caring for them. When he had
finished, Mr. Grimstone nodded.
"Humph!" he commented grumpily, "I--I like the birds. One o' the reasons
I wouldn't--" He paused again and glowered at the boys. "_They_ couldn't
make a log-cabin," he stated positively. "It would be too much like
real work."
A sudden stir went through the group. Mr. Curtis smiled. "I should hate
to set them at it unless I really wanted it done," he laughed.
"How'd they know what trees to cut an' what to leave? They'd make a mess
o' the whole place."
"Not with proper supervision," argued Mr. Curtis.
"Would you look after it?" inquired the old man, sharply.
"Certainly! I'd gladly constitute myself general foreman."
"Humph!" There was a momentary pause, tense with suspense. A battery of
eyes, eager, expectant, pleading, was turned upon the old man, whose bent
shoulders straightened a bit. "Wal, you can go ahead, then," he agreed
crustily. "But all I can say is--"
A quick exclamation from the scouts drowned the remainder of his words.
"G--e--e!" came hissing from a score of lips in a long sigh of rapture.
It was followed by a bedlam of excited chatter.
"The greatest thing I ever heard!" exploded Ted MacIlvaine,
enthusiastically. "A log-cabin, fellows--think of it! A troop cabin!"
With eyes shining, he stepped suddenly forward and faced the crowd.
"Three cheers for Mr. Grimstone, fellows!" he cried; "and make 'em
good ones!"
When the last echo had died away, a faint touch of pink tinged the old
man's leathery brown skin. But his frown abated nothing of its fierceness
as he turned to the scoutmaster.
"Tut-tut--nonsense!" he grumbled. "I'll leave it to you, then; you'll
be responsible, mind! I s'pose you know what trees to take out--or you
ought to. Nothin' over eight inches, remember, an' not a scrap o' rubbish
left lyin' around when you're done."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned abruptly and stalked off, a
lean, bent, shabby figure with a nose like an eagle's beak and fiercely
beetling brows. To the boys staring after him he was an angel in disguise.
CHAPTER XI
ELKHORN CABIN
All that week the members of Troop Five could talk or think of little
else save the wonderful log-cabin which was to arise like magic on
the shore of Crystal Lake. That, at least, was the way many of them
pictured it as going up, but at the meeting on Monday night Mr. Curtis
gave a little talk in which he pointed out that the undertaking could
only be carried through by a good deal of hard, persistent labor, which
would undoubtedly grow more or less tiresome before the end was reached.
"Saturday is really the only day when we can all get together," he said,
"and there won't be many of them before the snow comes to put a stop
to things. If we mean to enjoy it this winter, we've got to give every
spare minute of our time to the work. There can't be any slowing down or
backing out. Now, if you'd rather wait till spring, when we can take
things more easily--"
"No, _sir_!" came in a swift, united chorus of protest. "We want to start
now. We want to have it this winter."
The scoutmaster smiled a little. "That's the way I feel myself," he
said; "so we'll consider that part settled. We'll meet here, then,
next Saturday morning at half past eight, prepared to put in a strenuous
day. I'll tell the different patrol-leaders what tools are needed, and
they can look them up during the week. There's another thing. We'll
have to buy considerable material, such as cement, boards for the floor
and roof, window- and door-casings, and the like. That money should be
earned by the troop, and I think it would be a good plan for Ward,
MacIlvaine, and Phelps to meet at my house to-morrow afternoon or
evening to discuss ways and means. Is that agreeable?"
It proved to be, when the question was put to vote and decided
unanimously in the affirmative. The meeting ended with the enthusiasm
over the project unchecked by this placing of it on a strictly methodical
and businesslike basis.
That enthusiasm continued throughout the week, and when the crowd
assembled on Saturday, Bennie Rhead, who was housed by a bad cold,
was the only absentee. The others, laden with axes, saws, hatchets, an
adz or two and some wide wood-chisels until they resembled a gang of
pioneers, were in high spirits and eager to begin work. Their interest
was heightened by the production of a plan Mr. Curtis had drawn up,
showing a cabin twenty by sixteen feet, with a big stone fireplace
opposite the door, two windows, and a double tier of bunks, one on each
side of the entrance.
During the week the scoutmaster had gone over the ground with Mr.
Grimstone and marked certain trees which were to be taken out, mainly
white pines from six to eight inches in diameter that were too closely
crowded to develop properly, so there was no delay in starting work.
Immediately on reaching the point, the entire troop was divided into
groups of three or four, each under the leadership of a boy who knew
how to handle an ax. As soon as he felled a tree the others trimmed off
the scanty limbs, sawed it into proper lengths, and stacked these up in
piles on either side of the glade.
By noon the piles had assumed such proportions that after luncheon half
of the wood-cutters were called off and set to notching the ends of
the log, about eight inches from the end, and this was work in which
everybody could take part. The notches were made on opposite sides of the
log, about eight inches from the end, and were a quarter the thickness of
the timber in depth. The logs averaged pretty much the same diameter, so
that, when fitted together at right angles with the under notch on one
side resting in the upper notch on the other, the whole length was snugly
in contact, with scarcely any chinks to be filled in.
"That's the great advantage of pine," said Mr. Curtis, when he had
explained the method to the boys. "Almost any hard wood will have bumps
and twists in it, but the trunks of pines growing as thickly as these
are practically straight from one end to the other."
"Are we going to build up the four walls solid, and then cut holes
for the door and windows and fireplace?" asked Paul Trexler, who had
evidently been reading up on the construction of cabins.
The scoutmaster shook his head. "That's the way many of them are made,
but I could never quite see its advantage. It's a mean job, sawing the
openings, and the full-length logs are lots harder to handle than shorter
ones, to say nothing of the waste of timber. Of course there'll have to
be full-length ones under and over the windows and over the door; but
if we measure accurately, there's no reason why we shouldn't leave these
openings as we go along, and so save time and labor. Spiking the door-
and window-casings to the logs will hold them together firmly enough."
The cabin had already been staked out, and when, presently, the lower
logs were set in place it was amazing what a difference the sight of
that simple rectangle made. Instantly the visualizing of their dream
became nearer and more concrete to the boys, its possibilities more
apparent. They could see at a glance its size and shape and spaciousness.
Entering through the door space, one could say that here would be the
bunks, there the windows, and that gap opposite, the fireplace. It
stimulated every one to renewed efforts. Blisters and tired muscles
were forgotten in the eager desire to get another tier of logs into
position. When Mr. Grimstone stalked into view, toward the middle of
the afternoon, he was greeted by urgent invitations to "Come ahead and
see how the cabin's going up!"
The old man responded stiffly, but it was impossible to maintain that
attitude long in the face of the boisterous, whole-hearted enthusiasm
of twenty boys. Inside of ten minutes he was chuckling over the awkward
efforts of one scout to handle an adz and showing him the proper method.
Within an hour, one would never have known him for the crusty, crabbed
recluse who had been at odds with the Hillsgrove boys for more than a
generation. He had shown the scouts a splendid place to get rocks for
the fireplace, and told them how to make, with two poles and some
cross saplings, a sort of litter for carrying the larger ones; he had
made the rounds of the wood-choppers and watched them interestedly,
criticizing, suggesting, and even cracking a dry joke or two at their
expense. But his interest seemed to center in the building operations,
to which he finally returned. When Mr. Curtis followed him a little
later, he paused at the edge of the glade, a quiet smile curving his lips.
The old man stood amid a group of boys who were notching the logs. He
had evidently been showing them some improvement on their methods, for as
the scoutmaster stood there, he heard one of them say: "Is that right,
Mr. Grimstone? Is that the way you mean?"
The old man nodded. "You've got it, son; you'll find that'll save you
a lot of time."
"Say, Mr. Grimstone," piped up Harry Vedder, from the other side of the
cabin, "won't you come over here, please?"
"You wait a minute, Dumpling!" admonished Bob Gibson. "I'm next. He
promised to give me some points about fitting 'em together."
The scoutmaster's smile deepened as he came forward. "I guess I'll have
to appoint you building foreman, Mr. Grimstone," he said. "Looks as if
you knew a lot more about log-cabins than I ever will."
From force of habit the other frowned, but his eyes were twinkling. "I'd
orter, I reckon," he returned. "I built enough of 'em when I was loggin'
up state. If it wan't for this pesky arm--"
"That needn't interfere. You won't have to lift a finger. The boys are
only too ready to work when they know how. Seriously, if you could
oversee the building part, it would help us a lot. Then I could give
all my time to getting out the logs, cleaning up, and looking after the
chimney."
"I s'pose I can," observed the old man, briefly. "I ain't fit for much
else jest now--an' the sooner you're done, the sooner the mess'll be
cleared up."
So it was arranged, and the following Saturday found Mr. Grimstone
promptly on the job. There was no question of his pleasure in the work,
in spite of the occasional grumblings to which he gave vent in odd
moments when he was not entirely lost in the novel occupation. To these
the boys paid scant attention. They seemed to realize that they were
merely superficial and really meant nothing, and from the first they got
on admirably with the old man. They even joshed and joked with him, and
before long he was retorting with sundry dry comments that sent them
off into shouts of laughter.
Under his supervision the cabin grew apace. When the logs were all cut
and carried in, Mr. Curtis devoted himself mainly to the stone chimney
which, though necessarily slower and more difficult work, progressed
very well. The opening was made to take four-foot logs, and the stone
facing filled up more than half that end of the cabin. The boys could
not wait for its completion to give it a baptism of fire. When the
sides were up three feet or more, they kindled a blaze and cooked lunch
there--the first meal to be prepared in the cabin.
Another celebration marked the setting of the ridge-pole; and when the
roof was laid, it seemed as if the end was actually in sight. In the
meantime, the important detail of earning money to pay for necessary
materials had not been lost sight of. It had been decided that the scouts
should go about this either singly or in groups, as they preferred. A
number of suggestions were made by Mr. Curtis, but it was impressed
upon the troop that there must be no appeal for either work or money
in any way that would in the least savor of begging. Whatever they did
must be real work, the sort that people wanted done whether or not a
scout cabin was in process of erection; and they must always give value
received.
The methods resorted to seemed endless. Three boys who were adept with
saw, hammer, and plane undertook the building of bird-houses, and their
products were so well made and attractive that they had a hard time
filling orders. Others raked up lawns, tended furnaces, cleaned cellars,
sawed wood, and did a score of other varied chores. One entire patrol
took up the subscription proposition of a big publishing-house and
devoted themselves to it with such ardor that they cleared up nearly
as much as all the rest together.
It can safely be said that few members of the troop had many spare
minutes in the month that followed the starting of the cabin. There was
no time for sports or games or reading stories. The public library was
deserted. Of course there were a few who tired of the constant pressure
and managed to escape a Saturday's labor by some flimsy pretext, but, on
the whole, they stuck to it with remarkable perseverance. And when the
last stone was in place on the chimney-top, the last chink filled, the
last nail driven, there wasn't a boy in all that twenty-five who didn't
feel a thrill of proud achievement at the result of their united efforts.
CHAPTER XII
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
Very seldom does reality come up to expectation, but this was one of
the rare exceptions. It was the very cabin of their dreams that rose,
a concrete fact, before their admiring gaze. As they stood off surveying
the walls of neatly fitting logs, the sloping roof where a covering of
split saplings concealed the useful, waterproof tar-paper, the square,
workmanlike chimney rising beyond, there was a moment of almost awed
silence, broken presently by Court Parker.
"Some cabin!" he exclaimed, voicing the feeling of them all. "It doesn't
seem as if we could have built that ourselves, fellows."
"We did, though--we and Mr. Curtis and Mr. Grimstone!" jubilated Ted
MacIlvaine. "Gee! Think of its being finished, and think of its being
ours! Come on inside."
They went with a rush and broke into eager loud-voiced admiration of
their handiwork. They tried the bunks, stout frameworks of pine with
lengths of heavy canvas stretched tightly over them, and pronounced
them better than any mattress, clamorously upheld the merit of one piece
of work over another, and discussed the need of a table, chairs, and
various other conveniences. Of course a fire was started, and when the
red blaze roared up the chimney they rejoiced at the perfection of
the draught. Then began a strenuous altercation as to what the cabin
should be called which bade fair to end in a deadlock, owing to the
wide variety of suggestions.
Neither the scoutmaster nor Mr. Grimstone took part in this. The former
believed in letting the boys settle such questions unaided, while the
old man so unaffectedly enjoyed the boys' delight that he simply sat in
the background, silent, but with twinkling eyes. When a lull came in the
dispute, however, he bethought himself of something.
"There's a pair of elk horns down to the barn you boys may as well have,"
he remarked. "You can hang 'em up over the fireplace for an ornament."
"Elk horns!" exclaimed Dale Tompkins. "They'd be dandy! Say!" he went on
eagerly, stirred by sudden inspiration, "what's the matter with that for
a name, fellows--Elkhorn Cabin?"
"Swell!" agreed two or three scouts at once. "That's better than any
we've had. Sounds like the real thing, doesn't it?"
A vote was promptly taken, and though Ranny Phelps and a few others were
against it, the majority approved. The horns, a fine pair of antlers,
were fetched and hung in place, and the cabin formally christened.
"And next week," said Frank Sanson, as they were packing up for their
tramp home through the crisp twilight, "we can come out to camp, can't
we, Mr. Curtis?"
The scoutmaster nodded. "Provided the weather is decent and you all get
your parents' consent, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't spent
Friday night here. It may be a bit crowded, but we'll manage some way."
As a matter of fact they did not have to. Indeed, there came very near
being no overnight hike at all. During the building of the cabin the
weather had been singularly favorable. It was snapping cold much of the
time but save for a flurry or two of snow, the days had been uniformly
clear. Now, however, as if to make up for her smiles, Nature proceeded to
frown. Wednesday was overcast, and all day Thursday a cold rain came
down to damp the spirits of the would-be campers. It turned to snow
during the night, and next morning found the country-side covered with a
mantle of white. The temperature was well below freezing and dropping
steadily, and Mr. Curtis, who had practically given up the idea of
occupying the cabin that night, was surprised toward the middle of the
afternoon by the appearance at his door of a group of white-flecked
figures, very rosy of cheek and bright of eye, carrying blanket-rolls
and hung about with cooking utensils and sundry parcels.
"We can go, can't we, sir?" inquired Ted MacIlvaine, eagerly, as he
dusted the snow off his coat. "You're not going to give it up, are you?"
The scoutmaster's eyebrows lifted. "Have you all got permission?" he
asked doubtfully.
"Yes, sir. We can go if you go," came in a prompt chorus.
For a moment Mr. Curtis hesitated. After all, there couldn't be any
risk about the trip even if the storm continued all night. The cabin
was weather-proof, and enough fire-wood had been cut to last them a
week. With plenty of food and good blankets they would be as snug as
possible, and he knew from experience the charm of the woods in a
snow-storm. Looking the bunch over appraisingly, he saw that there
were only seven--MacIlvaine, Parker, Dale Tompkins, Frank Sanson, Bob
Gibson, Turk Gardner and Pete Oliver, all self-reliant boys of the type
who were willing to stand a little roughing it without complaint.
"Are you the only ones who want to go?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," returned MacIlvaine. "Sherman's away, and Wes has a cold. The
others all thought--"
"Cold feet!" stated Oliver, derisively, running his fingers through a
thatch of bright, red hair. "They're afraid they might get a chill."
"Not much danger of that when you're around, Pete," laughed the
scoutmaster. "Well, you boys had better come in and wait. It'll take me
ten or fifteen minutes to get ready."
He appeared in rather less than that time, sweatered, mackinawed, with
high, laced boots, woolen cap, and heavy gloves. Over one shoulder swung
his blanket-roll, and strapped to his back was a good-sized haversack
of provisions. He knew from experience that some one was sure to have
forgotten something, so he always went prepared to supply deficiencies.
It was a joyous, hilarious bunch that made their way through the town
and out along the Beldon Turnpike. Most of them had their staves, and
two had brought snow-shoes along. Their attempts to use these unfamiliar
articles occasioned much amusement among the others.
It took the better part of two hours to reach the cabin. The snow had
drifted considerably, and the road was scarcely broken through. After
they reached the woods the going was especially hard, and a general shout
of rejoicing went up as the first sight of the sloping, snow-covered roof
loomed up through the twilight. When the door was unlocked they entered
with a rush, packs and blanket-rolls were dropped, and a fire started
at once. When this was blazing merrily, Mr. Curtis divided the boys
into two squads, one of which undertook preparations for supper and
straightened up the cabin generally, while the others scraped a path
through the snow down to the shore of the lake.
There were minor mishaps, of course, in the culinary department. A
few chops were burned, and the baked potatoes resembled lumps of
charcoal rather than things edible. But there was plenty for all, and
nothing had ever tasted so good as the supper eaten there on the
floor before the dancing flames. Afterward, when things were cleared
away and the boys sprawled out on their blankets before the fireplace,
the two lanterns were extinguished and only the red glow of the fire
illumined the half-circle of eager young faces. The wailing of the wind
in the pines and the soft, whispering beat of snow against the windows
served only to intensify the cozy warmth and cheer of the cabin.
Instinctively the boys drew closer together and, snuggling in their
blankets, discussed for a space the unbelievable stupidity of any
sane person preferring a humdrum evening at home to this. Then some one
besought Mr. Curtis to tell a story.
"What kind of a story?" asked the scoutmaster, smiling.
"Oh, a ghost story, of course!" urged several voices at once.
Mr. Curtis laughed, stretched out his legs comfortably, thought for a
minute or two, and then in a slow, sepulchral voice began a narrative
which he called "The Headless Horseman of the Harlem." It was a tale
full of creeps and thrills, abounding in dank vaults, weird apparitions,
wild storms, midnight encounters, and various other appropriate
settings and incidents. The boys drew closer still, luxuriating in the
"spookiness" of it all, and then, just as some of the more impressionable
were beginning to cast nervous glances behind them, he ended with a
ridiculous climax that brought forth a shout of laughter and turned
the whole thing into a farce.
A "round-robin" followed, the scoutmaster starting a yarn and leaving it
at an exciting and dramatic moment for the boy on his right to continue.
The absurdity of these continuations kept the crowd in a constant gale
of merriment, and when the round was made they clamored for another.
But it was growing late, so Mr. Curtis substituted a brief anecdote
of scout bravery which had a humorous twist. It was the story, so often
repeated in scout annals, of a little fellow plunging unhesitatingly to
the rescue of a bigger boy who had stumbled beyond his depth in a
swimming-hole. The stronger lad seized his rescuer about the neck and
forced his head below the water. The youngster was unable to free
himself, but with head down and breath almost gone, he hit bottom,
and then, calmly walking along it, he tugged along his struggling
friend until the bank was reached.
"He simply kept his head, you see, and used his brain, which is one of
the best things scouting teaches us," concluded Mr. Curtis. He stood up,
stretching. "Blankets out, fellows," he went on, "and everybody in bed."
Each bunk had been planned to accommodate two occupants, so there was
no crowding or necessity for makeshifts. The fire was piled up with
fresh logs, and though there was a good deal of preliminary laughter and
chattering, the boys were too tired to stay awake long, even under the
novel conditions. Bob Gibson was one of the last to close his eyes. He
had the outside of one of the lower bunks with a full view of the fire,
and though few would have suspected his gruff, matter-of-fact manner to
overlay even a touch of poetry or imagination, he lay there watching
it for a long time, fascinated by the leaping, dancing, crimson-yellow
flames, until sleep at length overtook him.
How long he lay oblivious to sights and sounds he had no idea. But it
must have been hours later when he found himself sitting bolt upright,
every nerve tingling and in his ears the echo of that strange, horrible
cry that had shocked him into complete wakefulness.
"What's that?" came in a tense, frightened gasp from one of the boys
across the room.
Bob did not answer. He sat there shaking nervously and straining his
ears for a repetition of the ghastly sound. The fire had died down
to a bed of dull red embers, and there was a noticeable chill over
everything. He caught his breath as a dark shadow swiftly passed him and
then realized, with a feeling of keen relief, that it was Mr. Curtis. A
moment later the scoutmaster had thrown an armful of light wood on
the embers and the fire blazed up, illumining the pale faces of the
boys, strained, startled, but all tense with expectation.
Suddenly the cry came again, a piercing, strangled, high-pitched scream
that turned the blood cold and brought out beads of perspiration on more
than one forehead. It seemed to come from just outside the cabin door.
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THEY FOUND
By this time MacIlvaine and Frank Sanson had tumbled out of their bunks,
and Bob followed their example.
"Wha--what is it, sir?" he asked, striving to keep his voice steady.
"I don't know," returned Mr. Curtis, briefly. He had slid into his
riding-breeches and was hurriedly dragging on the heavy boots. "That's
what we'll have to find out."
Bob hastily caught up his trousers. "It--it sounded like somebody
being--choked," he said shakily.
Every one was out on the floor now, grabbing hastily for his clothes.
Oliver caused a momentary spasm of mirth by trying to crowd both feet
into one trouser-leg, but for the most part the boys huddled on their
things in silence, shivering a bit from cold and nervousness. In about
two minutes they were ready, and, catching up their staves, they hurried
out into the open, the scoutmaster leading the way.
It had stopped snowing, and overhead a few stars gleamed coldly out
of the blue-black sky. The wind had died down and the snow-clad woods
stretched away before them, dim, white, oppressively silent, the
tree-trunks black, the laden hemlocks distorted into queer shapes and
shadows.
The bright gleam from the scoutmaster's flash-light, sweeping the
snow about the cabin door, showed it unbroken by a single footprint
of man or animal. They pushed on through the group of hemlocks, showering
themselves with icy particles, but still they neither saw nor heard
anything unusual. Then, just as some of the sounder sleepers were
beginning to wonder whether they might not have dreamed it all, there
rang out suddenly from among the tall laurel-bushes to their left a
piercing, gurgling scream.
The horrible sound, so much clearer and more blood-curdling in the
open, seemed to paralyze them all. For a fraction of a second they
stood motionless; then Mr. Curtis plunged forward through the snow,
and the rest followed in a straggling group, eyes starting and hands
spasmodically clenching their staves.
"It's somebody being--murdered!" gasped Bob Gibson, huskily. "I knew the
minute I heard it that something awful--"
He broke off with a queer, inarticulate murmur. Mr. Curtis had stopped so
suddenly that the boy just behind narrowly escaped running into him.
Throwing back his head, he sent peal after peal of laughter ringing
through the silent woods. The scouts stared, dazed, as if they thought
he had taken leave of his senses.
"What is it, sir?" begged two or three voices at once. "What--"
The scoutmaster choked and gurgled speechlessly, waving one arm
helplessly toward the woods ahead. Several of the keenest-eyed thought
they saw a vague, dark shadow moving silently across the snow; but it
meant nothing to them, and they turned back to their leader, as
bewildered as before.
"What a sell!" gasped the latter, striving to regain his self-control;
"what an awful sell!" He succeeded in choking down his laughter, but
there were tears of mirth in his eyes as they swept the staring circle.
"It's nothing but an owl, fellows," he chuckled.
"An owl!" exclaimed Ted MacIlvaine, incredulously. "An owl--making a
noise like that!"
The scoutmaster nodded and wiped his eyes. "An owl," he repeated. "There!
Listen!"
_To-whoo-hoo-hoo, to-whoo-whoo._ A full, deep-toned note, like the
distant baying of a hound, was wafted back through the woods. The
strained expression on several faces relaxed, but they still looked
puzzled.
"That's more familiar," smiled Mr. Curtis. "It's a great horned owl. You
look as if you didn't believe it yet, Bob," he added, "but that's what
it is, all the same. I've never heard it give that other sound, but I
ought to have known--" He broke off, chuckling. "He certainly gave us
a shock! I suppose we'll never hear the end of it. Let's get back to the
fire; it's sort of chilly here."
They lost no time in following the suggestion. Back in the cabin they
fed the blaze with fresh wood, and, sleep being out of the question for a
while, gathered close around it, giggling and chattering and laughingly
comparing their emotions on awakening to that blood-curdling scream
coming out of the night.
"I was scart stiff," frankly confessed Court Parker.
"Same here," echoed several voices.
But Bob Gibson declined to treat the incident with the careless levity
of the others. "I'd like to shoot the beast!" he growled vindictively,
thinking of the way his nerves and feelings had been played upon.
"It would be the best thing that could happen," put in Mr. Curtis,
decidedly. "We'll have to see if we can't manage it. Most owls are not
only harmless, but a real benefit, living as they do mainly on rats and
mice. But this creature can do more damage than any other bird except
one or two species of hawks. A single one of them will destroy whole
covies of quail, kill partridges, ducks, and song-birds, to say nothing
of all sorts of domestic fowls. I'll have to bring out a shotgun and
see if I can't pot him, or there won't be any birds left for us to feed."
He made several trips to the neighborhood of the cabin during the
following ten days, but it was not until the week after Christmas
that he got sight of the big marauder and with a fine shot brought him
down from the top of a tall hemlock. Several of the scouts who were with
him rushed forward to secure the bird, and were surprised at the size
of the buff-and-white body, with its great spread of wing, fierce,
hooked beak, and prominent ear-tufts.
"We ought to have him stuffed," said Frank Sanson, holding it up at full
length. "He'd certainly make a dandy trophy for the cabin."
Mr. Curtis agreed to undertake it, and that night sent the bird to a
taxidermist in the city. It came back several weeks later, mounted in
the most lifelike manner, and became one of the principal decorations
of the cabin. Court at once christened it "Bob's alarm-clock," much
to the mystification of the fellows who had not been present on that
memorable night. They knew that something unusual had happened, but
were never able to find out just what, for the "advance-guard," as the
seven called themselves, kept the incident carefully to themselves,
and Mr. Curtis never told.
Long before this an ample supply of grain had been taken out to their
headquarters and several feeding-stations established in different
parts of the woods. These consisted mainly of rough shelters made of
saplings, hemlock boughs, or stacks of old corn-stalks, furnished by Mr.
Grimstone, in which the grain was scattered. There could be no question
of their value, for from the first the snow about them was covered
with bird-tracks of every variety. Before long, too, scouts visiting
these stations to replenish the supply reported that the birds were
growing noticeably tamer. Instead of flying off at the first sight of
the boys, they sat in the trees and bushes around the shelters with
an air almost of expectancy. Later they took to swooping down on the
grain the moment it was poured out, without waiting for the scouts
to move away. The climax came when one day Dale Tompkins excitedly
reported that: "A chickadee came and lit right on the bag to-day, sir.
He didn't seem a bit afraid, and only hopped off when I began to scatter
the grain."
"They'll do more than that if you treat them right," returned the
scoutmaster. "I've known of several cases where not only chickadees,
but wrens and juncos and snow-sparrows and even wilder birds have grown
so fearless that they've fed readily from the hand. Why don't you
fellows try it? The main thing is to get them used to your bringing
food to a certain place, and, when they're about, not to make any
sudden movement that might frighten them. It would be rather fun to
see how many varieties you could tame."
The idea met with general favor and when put into practice was remarkably
successful. There also developed not a little good-natured rivalry among
the boys as to which would first report the presence of a new bird at
the feeding-stations; all of which helped to keep up the interest in the
work and prevent it becoming monotonous and tiresome.
CHAPTER XIV
THE BOY WHO COULDN'T SWIM
The usual January thaw carried away most of the snow and made things
generally sloppy and unpleasant. But it was followed by another cold
snap, which put a glassy surface on the lake and drew the boys thither
in greater numbers than ever. Almost every afternoon as soon as school
was out a crowd of scouts, with skates slung about their necks and
hockey-sticks in hand, might have been seen hurrying along the turnpike.
Those who owned wheels made use of them; the others rode "shanks' mare,"
skylarking as they went and hilariously seizing every chance of a lift
that came along.
Nor were they all members of Troop Five by any means. Mr. Grimstone had
needed very little persuasion to grant the privileges of the lake to
Hillsgrove scouts generally, and many were the exciting games of hockey
that enlivened the winter afternoons. More often than not the clear,
cold ring of steel on ice, the grate of swiftly turning runners, the
sharp crack of wood against wood, the excited shouts and yells of shrill
young voices, resounded on the lake until the gathering twilight made it
difficult to distinguish one swiftly moving figure from another.
From its rocky elevation the log-cabin overlooked the active scene, smoke
rising from its hospitable chimney and the red glow of a blazing fire
gleaming in the windows and winking through the often opened door. Here
congregated those who were too indifferent or unskilful to indulge in
hockey, while every now and then a player would dash in to thaw out. On
Fridays there was pretty sure to be a crowd spending the night there,
and then the odor of crisping bacon or broiling chops mingled with the
fragrance of the pines; the laughter and joshing kept up throughout
the evening, and from the gray farmhouse across the lake an old man,
glimpsing the cheery yellow gleam, would chuckle to himself and rub
his knotted hands softly together.
"Them boys are havin' a good time ag'in to-night," he would murmur.
"Reckon I'll hev' to step over an' see 'em in the mornin'."
Whenever he appeared he was sure of a hearty welcome, for underneath
that crustiness, caused by years of loneliness and narrow living, the
scouts had found a spirit as young and simple and likable, almost, as a
boy's. And the old man, reveling in this novel, pleasant intercourse,
felt sometimes as if he were beginning life all over again.
In this wise the winter passed with its usual mingling of work and play.
Coasting, hockey, snow hikes, and the like mixed healthfully with regular
lessons, the bird-feeding, studying up for merit badges or first- or
second-class tests, and other scout duties and activities. The skating,
particularly, was unusually prolonged, and the first signs of March
thaws met with general regret.
"Well, we can have one more good game, anyhow," remarked Frank Sanson, as
they came out of school at noon. "Maybe it will be a little soft, but
it will bear all right. Who's going out?"
There were a number of affirmative replies, though the general opinion
seemed to be that the ice would be too sloppy to have much fun.
"I'm going to try it, anyhow," Frank declared, as he got on his wheel.
"See you fellows out there."
"Don't take any chances before we come," Sherman Ward called after him.
"Remember you can't swim."
Sanson sniffed and shouted back a hasty denial of the charge.
Nevertheless, as he rode home for dinner he was glad the time was coming
when no one would be able even to hint at his deficiencies in that line.
When it came to taking care of themselves in the water the boys of
Hillsgrove had been more or less handicapped in the past, and like a
number of others, Frank could swim only a few strokes. This spring,
however, with the lake at his disposal, he meant to devote every spare
minute to gaining proficiency in the art, so that when the time came
for their summer camp he need ask no odds from anybody.
He finished dinner early and, with skates and hockey-stick, rode briskly
out to the lake. He expected to be the first one there, but on the
wood-road he noticed the fresh tracks of another bicycle, and, reaching
the cabin, he found Paul Trexler standing before the fireplace, in
which a lively blaze was going.
"Gee! You couldn't have had much dinner," he remarked.
"I brought it with me," exclaimed the boy, who was a rather silent lad
with an unusual capacity for enjoying his own company. "Anybody else
coming out?"
"Sure; quite a bunch. Tried the ice yet?"
"No; I was just going to."
"Come ahead, then," urged Sanson, briskly. "It'll be about our last
chance, and I don't want to lose any time."
They put on their skates at the edge of the lake and then tested the
ice. It was noticeably soft, especially near the shore, but seemed
firm enough. Farther out it was better, and as they skated up and down
together Frank decided that they would have their game even if they did
get pretty wet before it was over.
"Guess I'll go up a ways and sort of explore a little," said Trexler,
presently. It was almost his first remark since leaving the cabin, and
his tone did not indicate any special desire for company.
"All right," nodded Sanson. "Go ahead, only be careful about the ice.
Mr. Grimstone says there are springs up there, and you know this is
just the weather to make them dangerous." For a moment or two he stood
watching the thin, stooping figure sweeping up the lake; then he smiled.
"He's a queer duck," he murmured. "I should think he'd get awful tired
of just playing around with himself that way. Wish the others would
hurry up."
There were no signs of them, however, so he set himself to master an
intricate figure he had been trying for several days past. Though there
were no swimming facilities about the village, the annual flooding and
freezing over of a flat meadow on the outskirts gave the fellows a
very decent chance for skating, of which most of them had availed
themselves. Sanson was one of the most proficient in the sport and
enjoyed it thoroughly, especially now that the spacious lake gave them
so much greater scope. His runners cut the ice in sweeping, graceful
curves, and each time the momentum carried him nearer to the completion
of the figure. Once or twice he noticed Trexler up toward the outlet,
but it was in a vague sort of way, with a mind concentrated on his own
evolutions.
"It's coming all right," he said aloud, pausing for a second to get his
breath. "I've got the hang of it now. One more try and I can make it."
But Fate willed otherwise. As a matter of fact, Frank did not make that
final effort which was to bring him success. He skated over to a clear
spot on the ice and was swinging along to get up speed when a sudden
panicky cry from up the lake made him stop and whirl around with a grind
of steel runners that threw up a shower of icy particles.
Trexler was nowhere to be seen! For a fraction of a second Frank stared
open-mouthed at the bare expanse of ice narrowing to the outlet, spanned
by the old stone bridge. Then his sweeping glance paused at a dark,
irregular patch in the glistening surface where something seemed to
move feebly, and with a smothered cry he dug his skates into the ice
and sped up the lake.
[Illustration: The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole]
The distance was not really great, but to the frightened boy it seemed
interminable. Almost at once he recognized the spot as open water in
the midst of which Trexler's white face and clawing hands striving
frantically for a hold on the treacherous, splintering edges stood out
with horrible distinctness--Trexler, who could not swim a stroke!
Frank shuddered and dug his teeth into his under lip. For the matter of
that, he himself was almost as helpless. With a sick, sinking pang it was
borne in on him that the few halting strokes he had learned to take in
smooth water last summer would be next to useless in an emergency like
this. But he did not pause nor lessen his speed. He only knew that he
could not hesitate, with that anguished face and those clutching hands
to spur him on.
"Hold on a minute longer, Paul!" he cried, when he was within twenty feet
of the hole. "Don't let go. I--I'll--get you out!"
Jerking at the lever of his skates, he kicked them off. The hockey-stick
was still in his grasp, and, with this outstretched, he flung himself
flat on the ice and wriggled forward. He paid no heed to the ominous
cracking beneath him; there was no time for caution. Trexler had lost
the slight grip he had had on the crumbling edges of the hole and was
beating the water madly with his hands. His eyes, wild with despairing
horror, were fixed on Frank with a desperate pleading that made the boy
oblivious to everything save the vital need of haste.
With a sharp thrust of both feet, he pushed himself forward. The stick
slid over the jagged edges of the hole and straight into the groping
hands that closed over and hung upon it with the tenacious grip that
knows no reason.
"Don't jerk it!" cried Sanson, sharply, as the ice creaked and cracked
beneath him. "Just hold tight and let me draw you in."
But Trexler was too far gone to heed. There came another crack more
ominous than the others. Even now, by letting go the stick, Frank could
have escaped by rolling swiftly to one side or the other. He wanted
to--desperately; but something within him stronger even than his fear
clenched his fingers around the tape-wound hickory.
In another second the ice on which he lay gave with a crash and plunged
him into the icy water.
CHAPTER XV
THE RESCUE
As he went under, Sanson's first feeling was one of utter panic. The
shock and cold, above all the horrible sense of suffocation, started
him struggling as madly and ineffectually as Trexler had done a moment
before. Then all at once, out of the whirling turmoil of fear which
filled his soul, some vague remembrance of the brief lessons last summer
stood forth, and he thrust downward with his feet. The motion was almost
entirely instinctive, but the result was curiously steadying. The moment
that downward movement ceased, his brain seemed to clear and he got a
grip on himself.
"I mustn't come up under the ice," he found himself thinking, as he
pushed vigorously upward again.
Then his head cleaved the water and he gulped in the blessed air in
long, deep breaths. An instant later this was cut off by the grip of arms
about his neck as Trexler, whom he had momentarily forgotten, clutched
at him with all the strength and determination of despair.
That there were approved methods of releasing such grips Frank knew
from repeated perusals of the scout handbook, but not a vestige of
them stuck in his mind now. Full of wild panic, he struck out blindly
with all his power. Trexler's head went back under the impact; his
grasp slackened. Sanson had a momentary glimpse of the white face with
half-closed eyes and twisted lips all a-swirl with water, and again
that impulse that was stronger than panic made him reach out and catch
hold of the boy's shoulder. At almost the same instant something hard
grazed his cheek, and he realized that the force of his blow had sent him
against one side of the hole. With a grasp of thankfulness, he caught
at it, finding the ice here fairly substantial. He drew Trexler's body
closer to him, and for the first time since the plunge he had a moment
in which to think.
"I mustn't try and climb out or it'll break," he muttered. "Why don't
the fellows come? They must have got out by now." He quite failed to
realize how short a space of time it was since he had first started to
Trexler's aid. "I can't hold on here much longer. I'm freezing now, and--"
His voice broke a little, but he bit his lip and choked back the sob
in his throat. Then, summoning all his strength, he tried to shout for
help, but the result was a hoarse croak that could not have been heard
a hundred feet away. To his utter astonishment it was answered from close
at hand.
"Hold tight, Frank; we're coming!"
It was Sherman Ward's voice. Sanson could scarcely believe his senses,
even though a moment later he heard the scrape of skates and the grating
of a sudden stopping. It took him a moment or two to realize that he
had become turned around and was facing the inlet and the bridge, so
that the fellows had been able to approach from down the lake without
his seeing them.
"Get that branch there," he heard Sherman order crisply. "Hustle! Can
you keep up a bit longer, Frank?"
"S-s-sure!" answered Sanson, through chattering teeth. "Only be as
qu-quick as you c-c-can. P-P-Paul--"
"We'll be there in half a shake. That's it, Dale. Shove it across. Now,
you fellows hold fast to that end while I go out."
There was a scraping sound and the end of a stout branch appeared in
front of Sanson. Then, more slowly, Sherman's head and shoulders came in
sight as he crept cautiously out along it.
"I'll take him first," he said. "Can you raise him up a little?"
"I'm afraid not. My arm's all numb, and--"
"All right," interrupted the patrol-leader. "I'll manage. Hold fast back
there."
He wriggled forward a bit more and, reaching down, managed to catch
Trexler under the arms. To draw him out of the water was a more difficult
business, but Sherman had good muscles and accomplished it without
accident. The ice creaked and groaned, but evidently had not been much
weakened by the treacherous spring, and it held. The arm with which
Frank had been supporting the boy had absolutely no feeling in it, and
the strain of gripping the slippery ice was growing unendurable. He
shifted his hold to the stick, however, and a moment later he was half
lifted, half helped out on the solid ice.
"Yours for the cabin, quick!" said Ward, tersely. "Here, Ted, give us a
hand."
MacIlvaine stepped quickly forward, and together they hustled Sanson
across the ice. At first, Frank could scarcely move his feet and had
to be practically carried along. But gradually the rapid motion, the
stumbling, recovering, and general jolting-up began to send the blood
tingling back into his chilled body. Ahead of them he could see Ranleigh
and Dale Tompkins supporting Trexler, and making even better speed than
his own conductors. The sight of that limp body, with one hand dangling
helplessly, brought to Frank a sudden stinging pang of remorse and
apprehension as he remembered the frenzied blow he had struck the fellow.
"Paul--" he gasped; "is he--"
"It's the cold and shock mostly, I think," answered Sherman. "He's all
in, but not really unconscious. Did he go down?"
"I don't think so. Not more than once, anyway."
There was no more conversation until after they reached the cabin. Frank
was able to stumble up the rocky slope unaided, and, once inside, his
clothes were stripped off and he was rolled in blankets that had been
heated before the roaring blaze. Muffled in these, with some of the boys
deftly rubbing his legs and arms, it wasn't long before a delicious
languor crept over him and he actually felt like dozing off to sleep.
He might have yielded to the impulse but for his anxiety about Trexler.
Paul lay in the opposite bunk and was being subjected to the same
treatment as Frank, but he did not seem to be responding as readily
as the more robust fellow. Of course, he had been longer exposed to
the cold and shock, but Sanson did not think of that. He was still
worrying over the ruthless manner in which he had struck the boy, and
fearful that in some way the blow might be responsible for Trexler's
condition. When Mr. Curtis and the doctor appeared, summoned by one of
the fellows who had ridden hastily back to town on his wheel, Frank
watched them apprehensively. When the scoutmaster at length came over
to his bunk he sat up abruptly and poured forth his doubts and fears
before the older man had time to say a word.
Mr. Curtis listened quietly, and when the boy had finished he smiled
reassuringly and shook his head. "You needn't worry about that, Frank,"
he said. "The doctor says he'll come around all right. He's pretty well
done up from the exposure and shock, and you know he's never been so very
strong. I don't think your hitting him has had much to do with it, but
even if it had, no one could blame you. It was a question of that, or of
both of you going down, and in such an emergency almost any methods are
right. How are you feeling yourself?"
"Oh, I'm all right now, sir. There's nothing at all the matter with me.
I don't see why I can't get up."
"Better not just yet. There's nothing special you can do. I have a car
over by the bridge, and when Paul is fit to be moved, we'll all go back
together."
"But I've got my wheel here," protested Frank.
"Let somebody else ride it in," returned Mr. Curtis. "After such a
dousing there's no use taking chances." He paused a moment, his eyes
fixed quizzically on the boy's face. "You can't swim, can you, Frank?"
he went on presently.
"Oh, yes, sir!" the boy said hastily.
A faint smile curved the man's lips. "How much?" he asked quietly. "About
six strokes?"
Sanson flushed, and a guilty grin overspread his face. "Make it eight,
sir," he chuckled. "A fellow can't seem to fool you at all."
"And yet you went in after--"
"But I didn't!" interrupted Frank, earnestly. "I was reaching out with
my hockey-stick, and the ice broke and dropped me in. I didn't mean to
at all."
"Broke without any warning, I suppose," murmured Mr. Curtis. "You
couldn't possibly have escaped--even by letting go your stick."
The boy's flush deepened, and he wriggled uncomfortably. "I--I--" he
stammered, and then was silent.
The scoutmaster gave a low, contented laugh, and something in his glance
sent an odd thrill through Sanson. He didn't analyze it. He only knew
that all at once he had ceased to feel embarrassed and was happy and
comfortable, and back of it all not a little proud of the thing which
had won his scoutmaster's commendation.
"I won't bother you any more," smiled Mr. Curtis, as he turned away. "I
had an idea that was about how it happened, though."
A pleasant glow crept over the boy, continuing even after he had got into
his clothes and was making his way along the shore toward the bridge.
It was still present to a certain extent next day, and, combined with a
touch of remorse that lingered in the back of his mind, brought him in
the afternoon to the Trexler house to inquire for Paul, who had not
appeared at school. He did not expect to see the boy, and when Mrs.
Trexler asked him to come in, he was seized with a mild sort of panic.
"I was afraid of a cold, so I kept him home to-day. I know he'll want to
see you," she said as Frank stepped into the hall and closed the door
reluctantly behind him. "I want to--"
She broke off abruptly, and Frank, flashing a single startled glance at
her, saw that her eyes were full of tears. Instantly he dropped his own
and stood awkwardly twisting his cap and wishing he hadn't come.
"I know boys hate being thanked," Mrs. Trexler went on presently in a
voice which wasn't quite steady, "so I won't pester you with--with a
mother's gratitude. I just want you to let me--"
She bent over suddenly and kissed him on the forehead. The boy flushed
crimson and mumbled something about its being only what any fellow would
have done. Would Paul go on this way, too, he wondered apprehensively
as he followed her down the hall. He supposed it was natural for a woman
to get all worked up, but if a fellow--
"Some one to see you, Paul," said Mrs. Trexler, cheerfully, pausing
beside an open doorway.
She motioned for Frank to enter and then, to his relief, departed,
leaving the two boys alone. Paul had been reading beside a window, but
as Sanson appeared he stood up slowly. Though looking much better than
he had the afternoon before, his face was still a little pale, and the
visitor perceived, with a sudden sense of returning composure, that
he, too, was overcome with embarrassment. Somehow the discovery made
things a lot easier.
"I--I'm awfully glad you came in," Trexler stammered. He put out his
hand awkwardly, but there was a vigor in his lingering grip that told
something of the feelings words refused to express.
"You--weren't in school, so I thought maybe you were--sick, or
something," Sanson returned. "Gee! What a dandy room!"
Now that the worst was over he began to be rather glad he had come,
and stared about him with eager interest. Certainly it was a room to
excite any boy's enthusiasm. Long and rather narrow, there were two
windows on one side through which the winter sun poured cheerfully.
Against the opposite wall, and filling almost the entire space, was
a large glass-fronted case, containing the most amazingly realistic
reproduction of woodland life the boy had ever seen.
Fastened in one corner was the gnarled crotch of a tree with a great,
roughly built nest of twigs and leaves from which two baby hawks,
their down just giving place to feathers, thrust up inquiring heads.
At the other end of the case stood a section of a silvery white oak,
with one long branch extending along the back. An owl perched here,
teased by a blackbird with outstretched wings and open beak, and there
were several birds'-nests among the branches. The lower part of the
case was filled with small bushes, clumps of grass, and reeds, among
which Frank noted quantities of other nests, some with eggs and some
without, more mounted birds of various sorts, and several animals,
such as a mink, two squirrels, and a skunk, all in the most lifelike
attitudes. Turning from an eager inspection of the case, he stared at
Trexler in amazement.
"It's the greatest thing I ever saw!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say
you did it all yourself?"
Paul nodded, his pale face tinged with color, his eyes sparkling. "It
isn't hard when you know how to stuff things," he said. "I took lessons
in the city before we came out here last year. It's been lots of fun
fixing them up."
"But how the deuce did you get 'em all?" Frank turned quickly back to
the case again. "You must be a dandy shot."
"But I'm not! I hate to kill things--especially birds. You see, I go
off for long tramps a lot, and in the winter especially you often find
birds that have been frozen, or killed by flying into things. Some of
them people gave me. A farmer that I know out near Alton shot that skunk
and the mink in his chicken-yard. The quail and that woodcock came from
down South. A cousin of mine sent them up, and I got Mother to let me
take the skins off before she cooked them."
"How about the hawks--those are hawks, aren't they?"
"Sure. Red-shouldered hawks. I s'pose I oughtn't to have taken them,
but I wanted to try taming some. I knew where there was a nest, and last
spring I got up the tree with climbers and took two. They were awful
funny the way they'd sit up and cry whenever they saw me coming. I guess
I must have fed 'em too much, or something, for they died in about a
week. I won't try it again, you bet!"
Paul looked rather sheepish as he made this confession, and hurried on
to another subject. "It's the same way about the eggs. I used to take
only one out of a nest, but Mr. Curtis said even that was pretty hard on
the birds, so I stopped. I haven't taken any since I've been a scout.
It's more fun, really, taking pictures."
"Pictures of birds' eggs?"
"Oh, eggs and nests and birds--anything wild. It's dandy sport. I've got
quite a lot of good ones if you'd like to see them."
Frank quickly acquiesced, and as Paul went over to a desk for the
photograph book, his eyes followed the boy with an odd expression in
them. Hitherto he had regarded Trexler with a certain measure of
tolerance as a queer, unsociable sort of fellow, who seldom took
part in the sports and pastimes of the troop, but preferred moping by
himself. It had never occurred to him that the solitary rambles could
be productive of anything like the results he saw about him. As he
glanced again at the case, a dawning respect began to fill him for
the boy who could do all this and yet remain so modest that not a
whisper of it leaked out among his companions.
That respect deepened as Frank turned the pages of the album and
examined scores of photographs of feathered wild things. There were not
alone pictures of the commoner birds, but many of the shyer sort, like
the cardinal, the oven-bird, and several varieties of thrush which rarely
emerge from the deep woodland, and they had been taken in all sorts of
positions. Trexler had even succeeded in getting a very good photograph
of the great blue heron, and his account of the difficulties of that
enterprise filled Sanson with enthusiasm.
"It must be great!" he exclaimed eagerly. "I wish I could go along with
you some time and see how you do it."
"Why don't you? I'd like to have you--awfully."
There could be no mistaking the earnestness of the invitation, and Frank
took it up promptly.
"All right; that's a go. You let me know the next time you go out, and
I'll be there like a runaway freight-train." He rose to go, for to his
surprise it was growing dark; he had no idea he had stayed so long.
"You've certainly got a corking place here," he said, glancing around
for the last time. "Why, you ought to be able to rake in a whole lot
of merit badges. There's taxidermy and bird study and--"
"I'm only a second-class scout," interrupted Trexler, briefly. He flushed
a little and twisted his fingers together. "You see, I--can't swim. But
I'm going to learn," he added determinedly. "I'm going to start in the
minute the water's warm enough and keep it up till I get the hang of
it, even if it takes all summer."
"Same here," laughed Frank, as they reached the front door. "We'll be
two dubs together, won't we? Good-by, and thanks for showing me all the
stuff."
Out in the street he thrust both hands deep in his pockets and started
briskly homeward, whistling. Presently he stopped and laughed rather
sheepishly.
"Gee!" he muttered. "It's funny how you can get a fellow's number
wrong--it sure is!"
CHAPTER XVI
TREXLER'S TRANSFORMATION
Sanson's account of his visit to Paul Trexler was received at first with
a good deal of incredulity. But when he persisted that he wasn't trying
to play any trick general curiosity was aroused among the fellows, and
they began to drop in at the Trexler house to see for themselves the
wonderful case of birds and the even more wonderful photographs. Before
he knew it Paul became almost a public character.
At first he did not like it at all. Excessively shy by nature, he had
gone his solitary way for so long that he didn't know how to take the
jokes and banter and mild horse-play of a crowd of boys. But gradually
he grew accustomed to it, and when he found that the fellows weren't
making fun of him, as he at first supposed, but really regarded him with
a marked respect for his unusual talents, he began actually to enjoy
the situation.
He came to know the boys better, to find pleasure in their companionship.
He no longer went off on those solitary tramps, for there was always
some one ready and eager to accompany him. And little by little even
these excursions began to grow slightly less frequent as he discovered,
with a mild surprise, that there was a good deal of fun to be extracted
from the regular sports and games and doings of the crowd.
Frank Sanson was mainly responsible for this. Keen, eager, full of
enthusiasm about everything, he flung himself into all the school and
troop activities with a zest which made him one of the livest boys
in Hillsgrove. He could enjoy an occasional tramp in the woods with
Trexler because of the novelty and interest of their search; but he
could not understand any one wanting to devote himself exclusively
to such an occupation.
"You miss half your life in not going more with the fellows, Paul," he
remarked one day in early April. "Why don't you leave the old camera
at home and come on up to the ball-field with me? We're going to have a
great old practice to-day."
"But I can't play baseball," protested Trexler.
"Shucks! How do you know? Did you ever try?"
"N-o, but--"
"It's time you started in, then," interrupted Sanson. "Of course you
can't expect to make the team this year, but you'll have a lot of fun
playing with the scrub. Hustle up or we'll be late."
So Trexler went, mainly because he didn't exactly know how to refuse
the boy he had come to like so much. But it was with a good deal of
inward trepidation that he trailed after Frank to where Ranny Phelps,
who captained the team, was chatting with Mr. Curtis's younger brother,
just home for the Easter holidays. He had a feeling that he was going
to make an awful exhibition of himself, and that conviction was not
lessened by the slight lifting of the eyebrows with which Ranny greeted
Frank's request that his friend be allowed to practise with the others.
But out in the field, nervously adjusting a borrowed glove, Paul was
conscious of an odd, tingling sensation altogether different from
apprehension. The day was typically April and fairly breathed of spring.
Birds darted hither and thither, singing joyously. Beyond the low
stone wall at one side the feathery outlines of a wild cherry, pale
green, with touches of white blossoms just bursting into bloom, was
etched against the sky in delicate tracery. Farther still, a man was
plowing, and from the long straight furrows came that moist, fresh,
homely smell of newly turned earth that one gets only in springtime.
Out of the deep blue sky, flecked with fluffy, idly drifting clouds,
the sun shone warm and caressing. From all about came the sound of
quick, clear, eager voices, to which was presently added the crack of
leather meeting wood, the thud of feet drumming the turf, and the duller
sound of leather pounding against leather.
There was something about it all that stirred the boy and sent the
blood running like quick-silver through his veins, yet which made him
feel curiously alone and out of it. Other springs had meant to him
the beautiful awakening of nature, the return of the birds he loved,
the charm of wood and stream and open country-side at its best. But
somehow that failed to satisfy him as it had in the past. Vaguely he
felt that something was missing, he could not say just what. A feeling
of emulation stirred him, a desire to take his part in the clash and
struggle and ceaseless competition from which, till now, he had held
aloof. Admiringly, with a faint touch of envy, he watched Frank Sanson
make a difficult one-hand stop with seeming ease. Why hadn't he come out
before and learned the game and how to uphold his end with the others?
Was it too late even now? he wondered.
"Hi, Paul! Get under this one!"
The shout from Sanson roused Trexler to the realization that a fly
was coming in his direction. He ran back a little, then forward. The
ball seemed to be dropping with the speed of a cannon-shot, but he
forced himself to meet it without shrinking. Thrusting up his hands
awkwardly, he staggered a bit under its momentum, as he caught at it,
and a burning sting tingled in the bare palm which had taken most of
the impact. The ball, bouncing off, rolled to one side, and a laugh
went round the field as he chased after it and threw it in. When he
returned to his place Paul's face was crimson, but his lips were set
in a stubborn line and he scarcely noticed the pain in his hand.
"I _will_ get the hang of it!" he muttered under his breath. "I'll learn
to do it right if--if it takes all season!"
He stuck to his position as long as any of the others, and on the way
home, with some embarrassment, he spoke to Frank of his determination.
The latter was delighted and offered to help him in any way he could.
As a result, from that time forth the two rarely went anywhere without
a baseball. Whenever there were a few minutes to spare they used them
for throwing and catching. On the field, before and after the regular
work, Frank knocked out flies or grounders, and in many other ways did
his best to give his friend as much as possible of the practice he needed.
A baseball player isn't easily made to order. The normal boy seems almost
to absorb his knowledge of the game through the pores of his skin,
gaining proficiency by constant, never-ending practice that usually
begins as soon as he is big enough to throw a ball. But much can be done
by dogged persistence, and Paul Trexler had that quality to a marked
degree. As the days passed, dust began to gather on his camera and on
the cover of his book of bird photographs. In this new and strenuous
occupation he found little time for the things which had formally
absorbed him. He regretted the many long tramps he had planned, but
somehow he failed to miss them as much as he expected. Each noticeable
improvement in his game filled him with a deep, abiding satisfaction,
surpassing even the delight which he used to feel on securing a fine
photograph. The climax came that afternoon when he was allowed to play
on the scrub in place of one of the fielders who had not shown up. Not
only did he fail to make any mirth-provoking blunders, but he even put
through one play that brought forth a surprised, approving comment
from Ranny Phelps himself.
"I don't know what you've been doing to him, Frank," the latter said to
Sanson, who passed on the remark afterward. "I've never seen anybody
improve the way he has. Th
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