CHAPTER XTHE SWASTIKA

FARMER’S FRIEND PLUG CUTTHE TOBACCO OF QUALITYA SOLACE TO THE TIRED TOILERTHE AROMA OF THE HARVEST FIELD

FARMER’S FRIEND PLUG CUTTHE TOBACCO OF QUALITYA SOLACE TO THE TIRED TOILERTHE AROMA OF THE HARVEST FIELD

FARMER’S FRIEND PLUG CUT

THE TOBACCO OF QUALITY

A SOLACE TO THE TIRED TOILER

THE AROMA OF THE HARVEST FIELD

Harry took a whiff of the aroma of the harvest field. “The harvest field could sue for damages on that,” he thought. But despite his scout prejudice against tobacco, he was forced to admit that this little package had done him a good turn. Here was the unmistakable proof of a human presence, and it had not been here long, for it was fresh, unstained, and dry.

He put it in his pocket and went down the bank into the long meadow grass that skirted the river. It was easy enough for him to see where some one had preceded him here. The tall bent grass showed the trail plainly. He plodded on through this marshy patch till presently he found himself on the dry, abrupt shore of the river. Naked roots projected here and there, worn smooth with the friction of feet, and he was able to pick out a beaten path which ran along the stream’s edge. But the earth was hard and there was no sign of footprint. Stooping, he examined the ground carefully and presently discovered something which brought him to his hands and knees. This was a little mark in the earth about two inches long, knobby at one end and pointed at the other, as if some one had attempted to draw a pollywog in the sand. But Harry knew it for the imprint of a nail. He took an ordinary stride and found another one—then another. There was no sign of shoeprint, for the earth was too hard, but he found the nail impressions, printed crosswise for, maybe, half a mile. Then one appeared lengthwise and he turned up from the path.

So far, so good. But here was a stubbly field with never sign of trail or footprint. He tied his handkerchief to a branch of a tree where the trail ended and walked straight ahead for a few feet until he discovered a dim light flickering through the trees, which proved to come from the upper window of a small, dilapidated house. Under the trees in the little grove which surrounded it, he saw a stooping figure. He advanced stealthily to the edge of the grove and watched. By the light from the window he could see clearly a burly country fellow of, maybe, twenty-five years, who drew something from his pocket and, lifting the edge of a flat stone from the ground, placed it underneath. Harry skirted the grove without making a sound and reached a point in front of the stranger and about fifty feet from him. Here he stood behind a tree, watching the fellow as he packed some loose earth under the edge of the stone. Then, gliding noiselessly from one tree to another, he presently stood before the stooping figure, now pressing the stone down with all the strength of both arms. He spoke in the low, nonchalant, half-interested tone that was characteristic of him:

“Hello, what are you doing?”

“HELLO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“HELLO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

The fellow sprang to his feet, amazed at this apparition which seemed to have dropped from the clouds.

“M-me?”

“Yes, you—what are you doing?”

“Who are you, anyway—what are you doing here?”

“I’m standing here,” said Harry, quietly. His manner was easy and his voice low, almost sociable. “What are you doing, digging a hole?”

The fellow instantly became as excited as Harry was calm, and tried to hide his confusion under a torrent of abuse.

“I guess you’re one of them scout fellers that’s always puttin’ their noses in other folks’ business. Do ye know ye’re on private land? I thought them scout fellers had a rule not to trespass. You get out of this double quick, or I’ll fix yer. You can’t prowl round this farm in the middle of the night—you nor none of yer hifalutin crew. What are ye doin’ here, anyway—where d’ye come from?”

“How do you know ‘them scout fellers’ have a rule not to trespass?” asked Harry, gently.

“That’s all right, how I know.”

“You’ve met some of them?”

“None o’ your business!”

“You’ve seen one or two of them quite lately?” Harry asked, with just a touch of sharpness in his voice.

The fellow saw that he had fallen into a trap.

Almost in his first sentence he had admitted a knowledge of the boy scouts, and he stood embarrassed before Harry’s rather contemptuous smile.

“Are you goin’ ter clear out o’ this or not?”

“Not,” said Harry.

The fellow stooped and picked up a rock. Harry did not move. He dropped the rock and put his hand around to his hip pocket. Harry also put his hand in his hip pocket, and the fellow started back.

“Here, is this yours?” said Harry, tossing him the package of tobacco. “What’s the matter—did you think I was going to shoot you?”

They stood contemplating each other, Harry quietly amused, the other afraid to speak lest he say too much.

The countryman put the package in his hip pocket.

“I thought you had plenty of room there,” said Harry; “no pistol after all, eh? You see, you shouldn’t have picked up the rock. That was a bad move, because men with pistols in their pockets don’t pick up rocks. And I have nothing but this rifle and I’m not going to use it. I’d no more think of using it than I would of using that tobacco. The only dangerous thing you have about you is your ‘Farmer’s Friend Plug Cut,’ and it’s no friend to you either, for it gave you dead away.”

“You think you can come up here with your city gab, don’t you, and scare honest folks on their own land, that don’t trespass, nor ask no favors, neither.”

“The scouts been asking for milk—or maybe water?” Harry asked, smiling. “What made you think you might be tracked? Because you knew there were scouts about?”

“Who said I thought I’d be tracked? I ain’t a-scared to have my spoor follered—”

“Where did you learn that word—spoor?”

Harry’s voice and manner were now a little sharp. Every time the fellow spoke he was tripped up. The more he said, the more he gave himself away. The active mind of his inquisitor balked and confounded him, and he had no resource except in a tirade or an attack, and these he wished to avoid, partly from genuine fear of this strange boy, and partly because he had no wish that the altercation be heard in the house. Harry saw that he had him. And he went on, speaking in short, choppy sentences, looking the other right in the eye, and sending each word straight to its mark like an arrow. He had no more fear or hesitancy than if he were talking to an infant. The great creature who stood before him looked at him as a grizzly bear might look at its keeper.

“Look here now. In the first place, you didn’t come down the road. Why not? When you had to cross it, you tried to vault up to the bridge and went down like a bag of oats. Then you tried to swing across the road like a monkey and went down again like a bag of meal. Why were you so anxious not to leave a footprint, eh? Then, after all that trouble, you left the ‘Farmer’s Solace’—or whatever you call it—Plug Cut, and went down the bank marking out a trail as clear as Broadway. Then, when I show up, the first thing you tell me is the rules of the boy scouts? What doyouknow about the boy scouts? You’ve been trying to imitate them with your smattering about ‘spooring.’ Who said anything about spooring? Hold on, now—I know what you’re going to say. Of course, there’s no crime in all that. You can come down the road standing on your head for all I care, but just the same I’m going to see what’s under that stone.”

“I thought a scout feller was supposed—”

“Oh, a scout fellow is supposed to put this and that together,” Harry interrupted with some impatience; “and if you think I came here for the benefit of my health you’re mistaken.”

He stepped toward the stone and saw the other look apprehensively at the house. His predicament was a sore one, and Harry had foreseen and counted on it. If he precipitated a scuffle, it would rouse the inmates of the house. If he didn’t, the game was up. He fell back on the only course open to him—a weak attempt at explanation.

“Haven’t I got a right to pick up what I find, hey? What business have you got to trac—follow me, anyway? Haven’t I got a good right to bring home anything I find?”

Harry disdained to answer. Kneeling, he raised the edge of the stone. But the wretched boy who watched him could not quite stand by and see that done. He put his big hand on Arnold’s shoulder, and roughly thrust him back. Like lightning Harry’s hand was on his ankle. He tripped, staggered clumsily, and went down with a thud. When he had pulled himself together Harry was standing a few feet away examining his find, but keeping a weather eye on his new acquaintance. There was a wallet containing money and a letter. The wallet and the money he thrust into his pocket; the letter he read as best he could by the light from the window. It was dated several days before, and read:

Dear Walter,—I have no objection to the canoe if Mr. Wade approves. You say several others have them. You had better take Al Wilson to Ticonderoga with you and be sure you are getting a good one. I should say the one you mention would be a bargain if it is in good condition.Your examination papers are here and I want to talk over this matter of the mathematics with you. Suppose you run down home over Sunday. You could go back Monday or Tuesday, and I’ll give you the money while you are here.Yours,Father.

Dear Walter,—

I have no objection to the canoe if Mr. Wade approves. You say several others have them. You had better take Al Wilson to Ticonderoga with you and be sure you are getting a good one. I should say the one you mention would be a bargain if it is in good condition.

Your examination papers are here and I want to talk over this matter of the mathematics with you. Suppose you run down home over Sunday. You could go back Monday or Tuesday, and I’ll give you the money while you are here.

Yours,Father.

Yours,

Father.

All this was a puzzle to Harry, for there was no Walter in the Oakwood troop. But he betrayed not the slightest surprise as he spoke to the other boy.

“So you stole Walter’s canoe money, eh?”

“I found it in the road,” was the sullen answer. “I was going to—”

“Sure you were—you were going to hide it. What’s the matter—afraid to let your folks know you found something in the road?” His tone was full of contempt now, and he paused, in a quandary what to do. He knew he could not arrest the farmer boy, and he was not sure that he wanted to. He did not know that the crime had been all but murder. His only feeling was that of disgust, and he surveyed the great, clumsy figure before him from head to foot.

“Go on into the house,” he said impatiently. “Who’s in there, your mother and father?”

“My mother.”

“Well, go on in and go to bed.”

“What are you going to do?” the wretched fellow asked desperately.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, if you mean about you. I’ve got to consult my scoutmaster. Go on in and go to bed—How old is your mother?”

“She’s nearly seventy.”

Harry surveyed him slowly, contemptuously, from head to foot. He did not understand dishonesty. “Well, go on in,” he repeated, “and don’t wake her up. I guess you’re about through for to-night.” He paused, looking steadily, curiously, at the other, as one might look at a strange animal. Then he wheeled about and went silently off across the field.

“Blamed if I know who Al Wilson is, or Walter, either, but if they buy a second-hand canoe in Ticonderoga they get stuck. Jiminy, but that Kid’s the greatest! I wonder what he’s been pushing into now.”

Gordon squatted before the dying signal-fire, an occasional gape of stupendous dimensions distorting his round face. Below him the camp slept peacefully. The dim light glimmered in the invalid’s tent, occasionally blurred by the shadow of the “First Aid” boy moving to and fro. Gordon knew now that his mind’s-eye picture of Arnold arriving like a conquering hero was an extravagant vision. He knew that the Albany scouts knew it, too.

“Al Wilson couldnothave done it,” said he, “nor any of the rest of ’em. Nobody can do impossibilities. These fellows think it’s easy to bring a ca-a-a-a—” He was trying to say canoe and gape at the same time.

“Hello, Kid,” said a low, careless voice, almost in his ear. “What are you doing here?”

“Harry!”

“Sure—who’d you think? Where’ve you been, anyway?”

“But Harry—”

“Who the dickens is Walter?”

The younger boy clutched his friend by the arm. “Harry—I—he’s a boy here—they—did you—why—”

“I’ve got forty dollars belonging to him. What’s the news, anyway?”

CHAPTER XTHE SWASTIKA

In the morning it began, bright and early. Harry lay alone in the tepee, dead to the world. Mr. Wade had been quietly roused by Gordon and had accorded Harry this resting-place with strict instructions to pay no attention to reveille. Gordon had crept back among the sleeping Hyenas.

It started when the two boys who had gone in search of Harry returned to camp a few minutes after reveille, passing the Hyenas’ tent.

“How’s Walter?” they called to the one or two who had risen promptly.

“All right when we turned in. Any news?”

“No—couldn’t find a sign of his friend. He may have gone back to Ticonderoga. He didn’t come along this road—that’s sure.”

“Maybe he’s up on Dibble Mountain making rice puddings.”

“Keep quiet, you’ll wake him.”

All this Gordon heard in a delicious half-sleep.

“We met a chap on a bicycle from a summer place up Crown Point way—said he was hunting for a hand-bag a lady left on a stone wall—auto broke down and she sat on the wall to wait for them to fix it.”

“I haven’t it,” called one Hyena.

“You can search me,” said another.

“Guess she’ll never see it again.”

“Oh, she may, you can’t tell; the bicycle chap may find it. Nobody’s likely to have noticed it on a stone wall at night—it’s early yet. Honest, didn’t you hear anything of that Oakwood chap?”

“Didn’t we tell you, no?”

“Gone back to the log jam, I guess. The kid’ll be awful disappointed. He’s got the bee in his bonnet that his friend’s as clever as he is,—he’s a mighty nice little fellow.”

“Sure, it’s fun to see him grin when you jolly him. Wade’s stuck on him, all right.”

“Yes, and he’s got Al hypnotized.”

By this time the Hyenas were dragging themselves heavily from their cots and sleepily aiding the conversation.

“I’d like to know what was the use of sending that message, anyway. We might have known it wouldn’t do any good. Why, man alive, if any one did sneak down that road, it must have been an hour before we got the fire started. Chuck my belt over here, will you, Dan?”

“Well, it was good exercise, anyway. Oh, but my arm is stiff!”

The camp was soon astir, and Gordon, wrestling desperately to suppress his scout smile, came forth with the last stragglers. He stood in the fresh morning air, watching the routine, which began early. A boy with a pointed stick moved about, spearing papers and depositing them in a box for burning. “No news of your pal?” said he, as he passed. Gordon smiled and said nothing. Another boy was hurrying here and there, filling, trimming, and wiping lanterns. “Hello, Oakwood,” he called, “guess your patrol leader was asleep at the switch when we sent that little fire note—don’t you care.” Several others were rigging a rope fence outside Walter’s tent, where a Red Cross flag had already been raised. Everything seemed to move like clockwork. Two boys came in for firewood and departed for more. One was sorting and chopping the pieces. Others were setting the long table-board with plates, while the savory odor of coffee came from the lean-to. Gordon wandered among these early toilers, responding to a pleasant word or a good-natured taunt from each, fascinated with this first view of genuine camp life.

Mr. Wade sat at a small table under a tree, while several scouts hovered near, waiting his leisure. Al Wilson, standing at his elbow, beckoned to Gordon.

“Don’t you worry,” said he. “No doubt your friend is all right. I think he may have gone into Ticonderoga. Most of the folks around here know our camp, and I guess you’ll see him come walking in before the day’s over. And don’t think that he ought to have made good—it was impossible.”

“The fellows sayyoucould have done it,” ventured Gordon.

“Well, I couldn’t. I might have made out the message, but that’s all the good it would have done me. None of us can do the impossible, can we, Mr. Wade?”

“Not as a rule,” said Mr. Wade, intent on his writing. Presently he handed three small pieces of birch-bark to a boy, on each of which was written in lead pencil, “10:30.” These were for the patrol leaders and meant, “Come to council.” Atwell, leader of the Hyenas, received his while helping to raise the colors, and was puzzled. Al read his in silence and was puzzled, too, but knew better than to question his chief. Frankie, leader of the Elephants, standing in the door of his tent, took his with great condescension.

“Frankie got a pretty picture card?” asked a passing scout. For answer, Frankie let fly a huge, overripe pear, which went to its mark with deadly precision.

“I suppose you know those Hyenas are a bunch of jolliers,” he remarked to Gordon, who stood near.

“I don’t mind that,” Gordon answered.

“Well, you would if you were I. But I’ve got a way to fix them. It’s my corporal’s idea. You’re going to be here through to-day, aren’t you? Well, you’ll see some fun. I’ve got to attend council at ten-thirty, and after that I’ve called a special patrol meeting to consider the plan.”

“Peek-a-boo, Frankie,” called a passing boy.

“That’s one of the worst of the lot,” said Frankie, confidentially.

“What’s the plan?” Gordon asked.

“You’ll see—it’ll be the LaughingElephantsby to-night.”

In a little while came the call to prayers, then breakfast. There was a camp historian in the Albany troop whose business it was to record the doings of each day and to read the entries of the day before, every morning before the campers rose from the early meal. Since the patrols often went about their pleasures separately and the boys were wont to wander off in pairs for a day of fishing, stalking, or exploring, it fell out that this record often contained matter unfamiliar to the camp as a whole, and so its reading was awaited with interest.

This morning, owing to the affair of Walter Lee, it would have a special interest. For Mr. Wade had been so much occupied during the evening and night before that none had ventured to question him.

When the meal was finished Henry Earle, the historian, rose at his place and, according to custom, first announced the camp routine for the day.

Plans for any special expeditions were submitted to Mr. Wade and then handed to Earle. From these he now read:

“The Raven patrol attends to the cooking from to-day until the 10th inclusive. Not more than two members to leave camp at one time for longer than an hour. No sentry duty. Collins relieved of all patrol duties because of troop duty.” (Collins was “First Aid” boy.) “The Hyena Patrol canoes to the Lake this afternoon for fishing. Elephant Patrol to accompany them for outing and assistance.” (Smiles from the Raven Patrol.) “Meals as usual. Camp-fire yarns to-night. Blake to go into the village for mail and errands; must have commissions and letters before eleven o’clock. Patrol leaders in conference with scoutmaster at 10:30. No leaves of absence for this evening.”

“The Raven patrol attends to the cooking from to-day until the 10th inclusive. Not more than two members to leave camp at one time for longer than an hour. No sentry duty. Collins relieved of all patrol duties because of troop duty.” (Collins was “First Aid” boy.) “The Hyena Patrol canoes to the Lake this afternoon for fishing. Elephant Patrol to accompany them for outing and assistance.” (Smiles from the Raven Patrol.) “Meals as usual. Camp-fire yarns to-night. Blake to go into the village for mail and errands; must have commissions and letters before eleven o’clock. Patrol leaders in conference with scoutmaster at 10:30. No leaves of absence for this evening.”

He thrust the papers into his pocket and took up his book. The brief record of Walter Lee’s return, with the circumstances, was read. Gordon’s name was mentioned without comment or compliment. The troop listened attentively.

“The suspicions of robbery were entertained,” Earle read, “because of a footprint and other signs near the chasm. The visit of two country boys to camp a few days ago and the conversation they heard about Walter’s visiting home to get money for a canoe were regarded with some suspicion. It was thought that the fugitive might have taken the road under the hill, and as the friend and scout partner of Gordon Lord was supposed to be waiting for him on the road under Dibble Mountain, a Morse signal message was sent up telling Lord’s whereabouts and asking him to watch the road. But the fugitive, it appears, did not take the road.”

“The suspicions of robbery were entertained,” Earle read, “because of a footprint and other signs near the chasm. The visit of two country boys to camp a few days ago and the conversation they heard about Walter’s visiting home to get money for a canoe were regarded with some suspicion. It was thought that the fugitive might have taken the road under the hill, and as the friend and scout partner of Gordon Lord was supposed to be waiting for him on the road under Dibble Mountain, a Morse signal message was sent up telling Lord’s whereabouts and asking him to watch the road. But the fugitive, it appears, did not take the road.”

At this sentence the boys started, and a stir of surprise passed round the board. Even the quiet Al Wilson looked inquiringly at Mr. Wade. Gordon wrestled valiantly with his scout smile, and looked straight before him.

“At ten minutes after two this morning,” the reader continued, “a scout, Harry Arnold by name, leader of the Beaver Patrol, 1st Oakwood, N. J., Troop, brought to camp and delivered to Mr. E. C. Wade, Scoutmaster, a wallet containing two letters and forty dollars belonging to Walter Lee.”

“At ten minutes after two this morning,” the reader continued, “a scout, Harry Arnold by name, leader of the Beaver Patrol, 1st Oakwood, N. J., Troop, brought to camp and delivered to Mr. E. C. Wade, Scoutmaster, a wallet containing two letters and forty dollars belonging to Walter Lee.”

Murmurs of astonishment followed this announcement. Gordon’s eyes were riveted upon a distant tree.

“The full details of how he received and read the Morse message, made sure that no one had gone along the road, traced the robber by means of finger prints on the flooring of a bridge, and followed his trail over hard land by the print of a nail embedded in his shoe; how he came upon the thief in the very act of hiding his booty near his home, took it from him and brought it here; these details belong to the history of the 1st Oakwood Troop, Oakwood, N. J., and will constitute a glorious page in that troop’s annals.”

“The full details of how he received and read the Morse message, made sure that no one had gone along the road, traced the robber by means of finger prints on the flooring of a bridge, and followed his trail over hard land by the print of a nail embedded in his shoe; how he came upon the thief in the very act of hiding his booty near his home, took it from him and brought it here; these details belong to the history of the 1st Oakwood Troop, Oakwood, N. J., and will constitute a glorious page in that troop’s annals.”

Gordon, still looking straight before him, had conquered his scout smile; yet he was not wholly victorious, for instead his eyes were brimming over.

“Where is he? Where is he, anyway?” shouted several boys, jumping up. Cattell rose, knocking over a cup, stumbled round the board, and clapped Gordon on the shoulder. “Where is he?” he shouted. “Let’s have a look at him.” Al Wilson came around and placed his arm over Gordon’s shoulder, smiling, saying nothing. Some one suggested the tepee, and it was not till a roystering, shouting group had started in that direction that Gordon got himself under control. They did not wait for him. They had forgotten him. But Harry Arnold, his chum, his friend, his idol, had made good, as he always made good, and they were going to honor him. This was joy enough for Gordon. Then, realizing what they were bent on doing, he rushed pell-mell in pursuit, and coming between them and the closed tepee, spread out his arms.

“You can’t go in, fellows,” he panted. “He’s asleep and Mr. Wade doesn’t want him waked up. He’s awfully tired—honest, he is!” Then, as they paused, he said, as if on second thought, and so as not to make their disappointment too heavy, “But if you come quiet, you can peek in and take a look at him if you want to.”

An hour later Harry sat down to a belated but welcome breakfast, served by enthusiastic Ravens who rejoiced in their special privilege to minister to his comfort. A continually changing group lolled about the long board, asking questions and commenting on his exploit. He answered all their questions in his easy, careless way, correcting when they overrated the difficulty of this or that.

“Oh, no,” he said, answering one of Al Wilson’s questions, “hard ground’s better than soft when there’s a loose nail in a shoe or anything sticking on the sole—there’s nothing hard about following that—anybody could do it.”

“That’s just like him! That’s just like him!” cried Gordon, excitedly.

His breakfast over, Harry wandered about, a dozen Albany scouts surrounding him. Gordon walked over to the boy who was clearing the table and whispered to him confidentially. “You can’t get him to wear a belt,” said he. “Red Deer tried to, and his corporal gave him an alligator-skin one, but he wouldn’t wear it—he just wears that book-strap. And we can’t get him to wear the scout uniform—he likes that blue shirt,—he’s very funny about some things.”

“Eccentricities of genius,” suggested Al Wilson, who stood near.

“He won’t even wear a coat,” said Gordon.

“Never mind,” said Al, “let him wear what he likes.”

There was never a happier boy than Gordon Lord that morning. In the excitement of Harry’s coming his own adventure of the day before had fallen into the shadow. No one spoke of that now, but Harry knew about it and had praised him, and that was enough. He was constantly near his friend, feasting on the praises which Harry, much to his discomfort, was forced to hear. The rule requiring a scout to “smile and look pleasant” was obeyed by Gordon to the full ability of his mouth. But the climax of his triumph was reached as they sat about under a huge oak waiting for the early dinner which was to precede the trip down to the lake. Harry lolled indolently on the sward, amusing himself with mumbly-peg, and occasionally joining in the conversation.

“Wonder if that bicycle chap found the bag he was after?” one said.

“Like enough—nobody’d see it in the dark and he was out early.”

“What kind of a bag was it, anyway?”

“Oh, kind of—this—what do you call it—mesh-work, he said.”

“Bottle of smelling salts in it?” asked Harry, as he twirled his jack-knife and sent it plunging into the earth.

The boys stared.

“Sure,” answered one of those who had met the bicyclist. “What do you know about it?”

Harry laid the blade of his knife between two fingers, eyed it critically, and struck the bone handle with the first finger of his other hand. The knife made four complete somersaults and landed upright in the grass.

“Handkerchief—sixteen cents?” said he.

“Sure!” cried the astonished boy.

Harry fumbled in his pocket, brought forth the reticule, and slung it by its chain to the boy who had spoken. Then he held his knife suspended vertically and, forming a ring with his thumb and finger about twelve inches below it, dropped the knife through the ring.

“Can you do that, Kid?” he said to Gordon, who sat near him.

“Where’d you get this bag?” asked the boy who held it.

“Picked it up on a stone wall near where there’d been an automobile accident.”

“How did you know there was an automobile accident?” chimed in another.

“Oh, I don’t know—just noticed it—that is, the signs of it—there was an auto, that’s sure, and somebody doing acrobatic tricks in the road. Who does the bag belong to, do you know?”

“Lady in Crown Point, that’s all I know.”

“We’ll have to hunt her up, Kid; here” (handing the knife to Gordon) “try this—it’s a good trick—I bet you pull your fingers away. This is the hardest one I ever did.”

“Then you admit there’s something hard youcando,” laughed Al Wilson, admiringly.

“Oh, yes,” Harry laughed back. “I’m the star mumbly-peg player—hey, Kid?” And he slapped Gordon on the shoulder. But Gordon was too astonished to speak.

The meeting of the patrol leaders with Mr. Wade had taken place earlier in the morning, but no one had been able to get a clue as to what it was all about. Frankie carried himself with an air of profound mystery—but that was for reasons of his own. Of course, Al Wilson knew, but you couldn’t pry anything out of Al with a crowbar.

The dinner hour came, and it was a merry company that gathered around the rough, tree-shaded board. The trip to the lake was discussed, talk of canoes, fishing tackle, and such things went round, and an occasional remark, in a particularly loud, significant tone, about Frankie and the Elephants, passed from one Hyena to another. But the Elephants paid no heed to these flippant observations.

When Mr. Wade rose from the table, he asked the entire troop to gather in fifteen minutes under the “assembly tree.” This was a spreading oak from whose low branches hung a variety of forest trophies, masterpieces of whittling and willowworking (the product of rainy afternoons), and other specimens of camp handiwork. About six feet from the ground a rough board with ragged ends had been fastened to the trunk, on which was carved the quotation:

And this, our life, exempt from public haunts,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunts,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunts,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

This had been their meeting-place ever since they started camp. Here two of Frankie’s patrol, the Stetson brothers, having come from the city to join the scouts, had stood in the dim, solemn light under the thick branches, and taken the Scouts’ Oath to do their duty to God and country, to help others at all times, and to obey the Scout Law. Here Fred Brownell, Hyena, had stood before the Court of Honor and received from Mr. Wade’s hand the badge for marksmanship, which Frankie’s vote had helped to award him. For Frankie was incorruptible in the discharge of public duties, and his worst jollier could be sure of justice at his hands.

The full troop always gathered here for morning prayers and to sing the patriotic anthem when the sun went down. There was always a quiet atmosphere under this green roof, and the boys, as they straggled into the old tree’s shade, removed their hats and stood together in little groups. Harry and Gordon stood apart.

Presently Mr. Wade came out of the tepee and through the assembled boys to his usual place, directly under the rustic sign.

“Scouts,” he said, “it is written in the law that it is a scout’s duty to be useful and to help others, even though he give up his own pleasure or comfort or safety to do it, and that he is bound to carry out an order to the very best of his ability, and to let nothing interfere with his doing so.”

(“He means you,” whispered Gordon.

“Nonsense!” answered Harry.)

“If he be a good scout, he may conceive a mere suggestion, a hint, to be an order, and map out his own path of duty as if he were acting under command. The path may lead him among strangers. He may have to decide his duty, standing alone, without counsel, in the darkness of the night. But that is the law.”

(“He does mean you,” protested Gordon.

“Keep still, will you.”)

“The hint may come to him in such a way that an ordinary boy—I had almost said an ordinary scout—could not have known his duty from it. We are not all equally favored by Providence.”

(“There, what more do you want?” whispered Gordon, excitedly.

“Nonsense,” said Harry, blushing a little.)

“He may limit himself to the letter of the law if he chooses,” continued Mr. Wade, “but he usually follows its spirit. The path of his duty may wind its way through hardship or suffering or peril, but these things he will not see.”

(“Tha—”

“Keep still, I tell you!” whispered Harry.)

“If he be a scout favored by the gods and have the gift of prowess—”

(“That’s you, sure!”

“Oh, give us a rest!”)

“—the measure of his achievement may be large, and applause and admiration follow after him to pay him tribute.”

(Harry managed with difficulty to control Gordon.)

“The path may lead him to the wounded, the dying. It may bring him face to face with the guilty and the desperate.”

This time Gordon had no chance to whisper, for a shout went up that echoed back from the hill to meet another and still another, yelled out by a score of boys, who waved their arms and threw their hats in the air.

“Hurrah for Oakwood! Hurray for the Beavers! Hurray for the Beavers’ leader! Hurray for Gordon Lord!”

Mr. Wade’s upraised arm could not stem the tide, nor could Gordon turn it all upon his friend. His attempt to do so, the tendency that he had shown from the first, only increased their admiration and enthusiasm for him. It was as if a dam had burst and overwhelmed him—a dam which had been seeking vent for two days. Harry patted Gordon proudly on the shoulder.

“Hurray for Oakwood!” went up again and again. “Hurrah for Harry Arnold! Three cheers for Kid Lord!”

A rousing “tiger” was given, and then Mr. Wade motioned again for silence.

“I have been authorized by our three patrols,” he said, “represented by their leaders, to present to Harry Arnold, leader of the Beaver Patrol, 1st Oakwood, N. J., Troop, and to Gordon Lord, one of his scouts, the swastika badge of gratitude.

“These badges were made especially for our troop,” he went on, looking toward Gordon and Harry, “and were planned by us as a means of offering some grateful tribute to those who, whether scouts or not, may chance to do us some special service. Intrinsically they are mere trifles,” he said, holding up a small swastika of narrow band silver, “but they will serve as souvenirs to keep in memory deeds of which you two boys may be justly proud. They are given ‘lest you forget’ for your memories, it appears, are poor. One of you has already forgotten his achievement of last evening in praising the achievement of his friend; and his friend’s interest in mumbly-peg seems to be so great that he can remember little else.”

A general laugh followed this.

“He’s got eyes in the back of his head,” Frankie whispered confidentially, in Harry’s ear. “He’s on to everything.”

“These little testimonials of our admiration and gratitude are given you with the wish that you will remain with us as long as you can. But we realize that you are searching for your own troop, and we must not detain you long. It is the earnest request of our three patrols, who agree in this if in nothing else” (he glanced slyly at Frankie and at the Hyenas’ leader) “that you, at least, remain for camp-fire this evening and let us have you for our guests one night more.”

Harry stepped forward and received the little silver swastika badge in his easy, offhand, but not ungrateful manner; then Gordon, beaming with pride and delight, and smiling his scout smile from ear to ear. It was the first honor he had received from the Boy Scouts, and though many honors were to come his way, there was never another one which gave him just the same pleasure. And though he was destined to learn much, there was one thing that he never learned, and that was why, with such a fellow as Harry Arnold to admire, scouts, young and old (to say nothing of scoutmasters), loved to make him smile his scout smile and persisted in helping him, in jollying him, in liking him, and in cheering him like wild Indians whenever they got the chance.

CHAPTER XIFRANKIE SQUARES ACCOUNTS

“Come, come, hurry up, Frankie! Don’t be all day! Are you all there? Where’s the Stetson twins?”

“Coming,” answered Frankie, as he and three of his patrol reached the shore. “What’s in that bottle?”

“Soothing sirup, in case you cry,” said a boy, who was bailing out the dory.

Frankie and his scouts got into the boat, and soon the Stetson twins (aged ten, the very youngest of the troop, and known as “tenderfeetlets”) came down. One of them, “Giant George,” was hardly big enough to see without a magnifying glass, if you care to believe Atwell, but he made up in fearlessness and resolution.

“There mustn’t be more than one boy in the boat with Giant George,” spoke up Brownell. “Mr. Wade says we must run no risks. Who’s willing to volunteer to paddle the canoe occupied by Giant George?”

“I’ll take that job,” said Harry Arnold.

“Got a good muscle?” asked Brownell, seriously.

“I guess I can manage it,” smiled Harry.

“All right; now, let’s see. Frankie, Corporal Tommy, Eddie Worth, and Charles Augustus Denning in the dory—here, Atwell, it’s up to you—get in and keep your eye on this bunch. Now, William Stetson, hop in the canoe there with Oakwood” (meaning Gordon), “and I’ll make up the trio.” This left four members of the Hyena Patrol, who got into the other canoe.

The stream flowed about a quarter of a mile from camp, and, passing under the three roads which had figured in the night’s adventures, wound through a beautiful, wooded valley into Lake Champlain. The dory, flying Frankie’s official banner ostentatiously at its stern, headed the procession, and the three canoes hovered about it, gliding easily upon the current. Now one of them would swerve near the majestic flagship to make some slurring comment on the Elephant Patrol, now dart forward like a playful child to await the squadron under low-hanging boughs farther down the stream. Now and again a lazy frog, startled by the passing pageant, dived into his muddy sanctum, and here and there along the way the birds complained to one another of this invasion of their domain. The scene was peaceful, quiet, and one might fancy the adventurous Champlain exploring these same woods in his own rough, Indian-paddled craft, many years before. Only, where the colors of France or the banner of the French Jesuits once grazed the overhanging branches, now the flag of the Elephant Patrol waved gayly and defiantly in the breeze. And never had the bold Champlain such a startling enterprise to carry through as the young leader of the Elephants.

Harry managed his canoe as an experienced driver manages his horse. He never appeared to exert himself. He never had to undo the effect of one stroke with that of another. “Giant George,” his sole passenger, sat in the bow and watched him with unbounded admiration. The canoe containing the four Hyenas had been skirting the shore and its passengers had been reaching out and plucking leaves or twigs or berries. Now one of them called out:

“Here, Giant George, have a pear?”

Giant George’s small hands went up to receive the luscious missile which bounded through the air.

“Ouch!” he said, as he caught and dropped it.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“Burs!” Giant George answered.

“Sit in the middle, Giant George, and don’t bear down too hard,” came from Atwell, in the dory.

“Hey, Giant George, sit in the middle!” shouted Brownell, excitedly. “What are you trying to do, tip the canoe?” Others took up the cry, yelling at him to sit in the middle, till they had stirred up quite a panic. It was difficult to sit anywhere except in the middle, for Giant George was wedged into the bow where there wasn’t anything but middle, but he sat straight upright and was very much frightened. Then he began to shake the hand which stung him from catching the burs.

“Don’t do that!” came from a neighboring canoe. “My, but you’re reckless! Shake the other one too if you must shake!” Poor Giant George was very much frightened, until presently an assuring word came from Frankie.

“Splash some water on them,” he called. But Giant George would not budge.

“Don’t you mind them,” said Harry. “Suppose I lose you overboard and we’ll make one of those Laughing Hyenas go in after you.”

“I can’t swim,” said Giant George, promptly.

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” said Harry, looking the little fellow over with an amused grin. “But you don’t need to sit so straight, and you can shake your hand all you want to—they’re only joking you.”

“We’re going to get square on them,” said Giant George, encouraged by Harry’s show of friendship. “My patrol leader’s got a scheme to make them laugh on the other side of their faces; he’s awful smart—Frankie is.”

“What’s the scheme?”

“Well, I can’t tell you yet, but you’ll see. Will you stand by us?”

“Surest thing you know. I’m with the Elephants to the last ditch.”

“Hey, Oakwood,” some one called to Harry; “don’t let him jolly you. Here you go, Giant, catch this!” But Giant George was out of the business of catching things.

Presently Gordon’s canoe came alongside Harry’s, and naturally enough a race was in order. Gordon was much troubled. He did not want to be in the losing canoe, but he did not want to see Harry beaten. There was not much danger of this, however, for Brownell had plenty to learn in wielding the paddle. The two canoes shot forward, Brownell taking the lead and splashing water over his rival. Harry soon passed him, however, making neither sound nor spray, and a loud cheer went up, to the delight of Giant George, who was very proud of his companion.

Harry’s swift glide brought his canoe into a marshy basin filled with reeds, beyond which was Lake Champlain.

“Don’t push through there,” called Brownell; “run her up and we’ll cut across that little cape.”

The craft were all drawn up on the shore, and Gordon and Harry saw that a walk of some two minutes across a little grassy point of land would bring them out upon the lake. A beaten path ran here, and it was evident to the two Oakwood boys that this was the customary way to reach Lake Champlain.

“Now, Frankie,” said Atwell, “here’s your happy hunting ground; get busy and dig us some bait while we’re over having a soak.” The Hyenas, one and all, undressed, throwing their clothing into the boats and putting on their trunks. Gordon and Harry followed suit, wearing trunks which had been lent them by the Ravens.

“Come, Giant George, hurry up!” called Atwell, as George stepped gingerly from his canoe. “Who’s got the can, anyway?” The can was not to be found. “Well, that’s a nice fix to get us in, Frankie; here, let’s have that bottle—you’ll have to put the bait in that.”

“How’ll we get ’em out?” asked Brownell.

“Just whistle and they’ll come out.”

“Let’s have the bottle a minute,” said Gordon.

“Let him have it,” laughed Harry; “he’s got a way.”

And sure enough, he had. He placed the bottle between his knees, wound a piece of fishing line once around it just below the neck, pulled it rapidly back and forth for several seconds, then plunged the bottle into the water. The neck remained in the stream and Gordon handed to Brownell a perfect drinking cup, smooth and even where it had broken off.

“Good for you!” exclaimed Atwell.

“Isn’t he the greatest!” said Frankie.

“That’s nothing,” said Gordon.

“Here, Frankie,” said Brownell, “you and the youngsters get busy now. We’ll be back in half an hour and fish upstream a ways. Good-by, Giant George.” The group passed out of sight, and the Elephants gathered faithfully about their leader.

“That big Oakwood fellow’s with us,” spoke up Giant George; “he said he’d stand by us to the last ditch.” This was encouraging, for with the exception of Frankie, they were a little fearful and had a cowardly tendency to backslide. But the patronage of such a scout as Harry Arnold reassured them, and Frankie’s enthusiasm and resolve lent them courage.

“Quick, now,” said he, “one of them may be back any minute. Put your hand up inside my jacket, George. Feel that cardboard?” Giant George presently loosened from under his leader’s garment a large square of cardboard on which was printed:

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