Presently the lighted windows of the guards’ bunk house loomed ahead like a beacon. There was a swift, final spurt along the silent, deserted road, a nervous, backward glance which revealed only the placid darkness unlighted by the sinister glare he feared. Then he gained the steps, stumbled up them, and flung open the door which yielded to his touch.
For a moment Steve leaned panting against the door, blinking in the glare of the long, brightly lighted room. He was conscious of dozen faces turning toward him, and of a man in khaki rising swiftly from a table close at hand. In that first instant he could not seem to find his voice, but his sodden, dripping, mud-caked figure, his white face, streaked across one cheek with red, his wide, dilated eyes, evidently were eloquent, almost, as speech.
“What is it?” snapped the man, moving quickly toward him. “What’s the matter?”
“Fire!” gulped Haddon thickly. “Six men—out there—” he waved one arm. “They’ve got cans of gasoline—or something. I followed them—from Loon Island. They’re spies. I—heard them plotting to—burn the yard.—”
A babel of exclamations drowned his voice. There was a noisy scrape of many chair-legs. As the men leaped up, cards dropped from laxed fingers and fluttered to the floor. A chair fell backwards with a crash.
“A plot to burn the yard!” gasped the man before him. His face paled beneath the tan; then flushed. Across one temple a tiny vein began to throb. “That can’t be so! Why—”
“It’s true, I tell you!” cried the boy desperately. “I heard them planning it. The leader’s a German spy. I saw him with von Bernstorff in Washington a year ago. One of them’s already broken into a building down the road. Unless you hurry it will be too late. Youmustbelieve me!”
The man stared silently at him for an instant, one hand mechanically gripping the butt of a Colt that swung at his hip. Then he whirled around.
“Get busy, fellows,” he ordered with crisp decisiveness. “It may be a false alarm, but the kid seems pretty sure of his facts.” He turned to Steve again. “Which building is it? Third from the dock on the left? Good. The rest of ’em may be anywhere. Charley, take eight men and slip along by the dry docks. Look into every shop, but don’t waste time. The rest of you come with me. Switch on the search lights, Dick. Hold up, though. Wait about three minutes and then throw the switch. That’ll give us time to spread around. Hustle, boys!”
The admonition seemed scarcely necessary. Before he had ceased speaking each man had seized a rifle, buckled on a revolver and stood ready. Except for that first moment of startled surprise, there had been no stir or tumult. They were well disciplined and apparently realized the need for speed and caution, for when the leader issued forth, they followed him silently and swiftly.
Like twin lines of phantoms, the two squads glided into the open and sped away to their positions. It was as if they meant to make up now for the relaxed vigilance which had made this danger possible. Without a word the smaller body disappeared into the darkness toward the water front, and at a whispered command two men hurried off to take their stand at the limits of the yard nearest the village. The remainder, under the leader whose name was Kelly, scattered among the buildings to the left of the road.
Steve went with this party and presently found himself with Kelly and another man speeding toward the building near the end of the row which he had seen the spy enter. From a broken sentence or two he learned that the system of search lights had just been installed, but not formally received from the contractor, and hence had not been turned on. That explained the first darkness of the yard. But there was little time for conversation and there was to be even less. For as they dashed up to the front of the building, the windows which before had been mere patches of blackness were sharply outlined now with the lurid, flickering glow of fire.
A savage snarl came from Kelly’s throat and he leaped for the door, master key in hand. The other man ran past him, pulled up at the corner, and yanked out his gun. Twice it spat fire, the echoes of the shots crashing through the silent yard with sharp distinctness.
“Get him?” snapped Kelly, flinging open the door.
“I did,” was the grim reply.
But it passed unheeded. Steve himself only recalled it afterward; for as the door swung open a cloud of smoke belched forth and behind it they could see a leaping, quivering wall of flame. At almost the same instant there came a blinding flash and the whole yard was bathed suddenly in a flood of clear, white light.
“The extinguisher, Joe—quick!” grated Kelly. “We’ve got to stop it before this wind takes hold.” He whirled on Steve. “Chase back to the bunkhouse, kid, and tell Dick to start the pumps and sound the alarm. Run!”
Steve ran, and long afterwards he had only to close his eyes to bring back every detail of that strange scene—for it was strange beyond description. The search lights had come on, and the wide road flanked with buildings was as brilliant as the busy street of any city, but as silent as the grave and as empty of any signs of life. And yet, to the boy, that surface emptiness and silence fairly pulsed with life—vivid, vital, elemental life, which might flame up, white hot, at any instant like the fire of a volcano bursting its thin crust of ashes. And as he ran Steve waited tingling, almost breathless, for that outbreak.
It came just as he reached the bunkhouse steps—a pistol shot, sharp and snapping. There was another and another still, and out of the tail of his eye he glimpsed indistinctly the swift dash of some figures past the rear of a building across the road. Racing up the steps, Steve panted out his message. In a moment more the piercing wail of a siren screamed shrilly through the night, followed quickly by the dull throbbing of machinery.
Back in the road again, the boy paused for an instant, his heart beating fast with excitement. The sense of empty quiet had vanished utterly. Above him, from the engine-house stack, the high, piercing note of the siren rose and fell shrieking a clamorous warning. From somewhere in the yard a rifle shot came sharply to his ears. Ahead of him several guards were thudding down the road towards the clouds of red-tinged smoke which poured from the burning building with increasing volume.
He ran a few steps in that direction, slowed down for a lagging second or two, spurted again, and ducked around the corner of a big machine shop on the left of the road a little below the guard house. Back of this ran the completed portion of a high board fence topped with barbed wire which would ultimately encircle the entire yard. A moment before he had glimpsed, slipping along that fence, the figure of a man whose furtive movements roused instant suspicion. He might just possibly be one of the guards, but to Steve, remembering the three he had seen running that same way a little while before, it seemed much more likely that he was one of the spies heading for the end of the fence and freedom.
There was little time to think or plan or be afraid. It was pure instinct which sent him flying to cut the creature off—instinct, and a consuming fury against the treachery of these villains. He reached the rear of the building at almost the same instant of his quarry. There was no pause, no word; only a sob of exulting recognition jolted from Steve’s lips as the whole weight of his solid bone and muscle struck the fellow and they went down together.
In falling, he gripped the man about the body. Almost instantly he realized that his hands were more than full. The play of steel muscles beneath his fingers told him that much, even before those furious writhings began, or the fierce blows which fell upon his head and shoulders. Twice his hoarse cry for help rang out before he ducked his head defensively under the other’s arm, and tightened the clutch of interlacing fingers against the hollow of the fellow’s back.
Blows began to fall upon his neck and shoulders, fierce, heavy blows that shook his whole body and jolted the wind in gasps through his clenched teeth. The man heaved up almost to his full height, dragging the boy by sheer strength over yards of roughstones and stubble, but still he failed to loose that grip. Something sharp like the upturned spike in a forgotten piece of planking tore through Steve’s clothes and bit deeply into his thigh; his face, scraped by the rough pressure against the man’s coat, burned like fire. But he hung on doggedly in spite of pain and weariness and failing breath.
Then came a blow upon his neck, a cruel, dazing blow which made his senses reel and brought tears of pain into his eyes. Would they never come? he wondered dully. He could not strike back without loosening his hold. He tried to move his head a little to protect his neck, but again that iron fist beat down on his quivering flesh and wrenched from him a moan of agony.
His senses swam; he felt his muscles laxing. Now searching fingers slid across his shrinking neck and clutched his throat. Before the choking grip had tightened a muffled cry of pain and dull fury burst from him—a cry which, even to his dazed brain, seemed strangely echoed and prolonged. Then came an instant winking out of everything. When consciousness returned he could breathe again, but persistent hands were busy prying loose the grip of his cramped fingers.
“You can’t do it!” he panted stubbornly. “I won’t—”
“Easy, boy, easy!” said a roughly soothing voice. “Let go, son; it’s all right now. We’ve got him.”
Steve’s muscles relaxed instinctively, and as the spy’s body was drawn from his grasp, his bruised shoulders dropped back wearily against a supporting knee. Blinking, he stared upward at a vaguely familiar face bending over him. It was a moment or two before he recognized it as the face of the guard called Dick. Two others stood nearby and between them sagged the body of the prisoner, whose limpness proclaimed no gentle handling.
“Don’t let him—get away,” murmured Steve. “He’s—he’s the leader of the bunch.”
“No fear, son,” Dick assured him grimly. Then his face changed. “Are you hurt bad?” he asked anxiously.
A crooked smile twisted the boy’s lips, and he shook his head. “Not—much,” he said slowly. “I—I’ll get up—in a second. Did—did the fire get away from them?”
“Not yet,” answered the big guard. “They’re fighting it hard. At the worst it’ll take only the two buildings to windward.”
He slid an arm around Haddon and lifted him to his feet, supporting him carefully as they moved slowly back to the road. “Pure grit,” he remarked over one shoulder. “The beast had him near murdered.”
A faint flush crept up into Steve’s face, but he was not thinking of the praise, though this meant much to him. His mind had leaped a gap of many thousand miles; and in imagination he saw a battered band of men in khaki returning from a foray. Again that twisted smile curved his dry lips. He was not one of them—might never be. But he had done his best for them, and in his heart there glowed a sudden sense of humble comradeship which was its own reward.
Back on the main thoroughfare of the shipyard, Steve stared about him with widening eyes. How could he ever have thought the place quiet or empty he wondered? The siren still wailed shrilly from the engine stack. But added to it now was the dull, hoarse clamor of many voices rising and falling, the roar and clatter of arriving motor cars, the thud of hurrying feet.
Along the road as far as he could see ranged a long line of empty automobiles, and fresh ones were constantly arriving. Workmen and mechanics belonging to the yard, fishermen from Shelbourne, farmers from the surrounding country who had heard and answered the alarm, poured from the cars and were marshalled into line and sent to the danger points by a file of soldiers.
“Where on earth did they come from?” the boy asked, staring at the latter.
“It’s Major Whitcomb’s bunch,” explained Dick. “He got here about five minutes ago and took charge. Come ahead in; he’ll want to see you.”
Steve was about to protest, but remembering that he would probably have to tell his story sometime, he gave way with a shrug. Dick pushed through the throng, followed by the two guards with their prisoner. A moment later the group halted before a big table in the bunk house behind which sat the officer who had charge of constructing the shipyard. He answered Dick’s salute smartly; then Steve caught the gimlet stare from a pair of cool gray eyes.
“Two more?” the officer questioned curtly.
“No, sir; only one,” returned Dick. “This is the lad who brought us warning of the plot He’s just caught the fellow, here, who he says is leader of the whole gang.”
Major Whitcomb’s face changed abruptly. The gray eyes softened a bit, and under the crisp mustache his lips laxed something of their sternness.
“You’re just the one I want to see, then,” he said in a friendly voice. “You look done up, too. Bring a chair and sit down here. Sergeant, take this man in charge and don’t let him out of your sight. Now,” he added when Steve had brought over a chair, and dropped down in it, “tell me all about it. Who are you? and how did you get mixed up in this business?”
Steve obeyed, telling his story as briefly and as clearly as he could. The officer listened intently, making an occasional note and asking many questions. When Haddon had finished, the man bent forward and clapped him on the shoulder.
“That was splendidly done, and I congratulate you,” he said warmly. “You’ve rendered a great service to the country. I needn’t tell you what an enormous amount of damage and delay would have resulted if the fire had gotten a start; you seem to have realized that perfectly. You’re quite certain of your identification of the man you saw in Washington?”
“Quite, sir. I’d be willing to swear to it.”
“You may have to later when the secret service men take hold,” said Major Whitcomb. “It’s a fine bag,” he added grimly, his glance sweeping the further end of the room where several sullen-faced men stood guarded by half a dozen soldiers and two lay helpless on mattresses with doctors bending over them. “We’ve got all six, thanks to you. Well, you’ll be wanting to get back to your friends; they’ll be anxious about you. I’ll send you over in my car at once.”
He called the sergeant and gave a crisp order. Then, with a cordial word or two of farewell, he dismissed the boy and Steve left the building. Five minutes later he was leaning back in the officer’s car speeding toward Shelbourne.
Now that there was nothing more for him to do, the inevitable reaction had come, and he could scarcely hold his head up. Every muscle ached; the cut in his thigh and that other lesser one across his face, burned and stung. With head back and eyes half closed, he listened vaguely to the remarks of the soldier at the wheel, but the mere answering of the man’s occasional question seemed like the most tremendous effort.
They had reached the outskirts of the village, and the car was just turning into the lighted main street, when a sudden shout halted the chauffeur, who slowed down and stopped. A moment later the car was surrounded by a mob of excited boys and before Steve realized what was happening, he was dragged from his seat by a dozen hands, while a score of voices poured question after question into his dazed ears.
It was Mr. Wendell who came to his rescue and to whom he conveyed the information that the fire was under control and everything practically all right. Seeing the boy’s state of exhaustion, the scoutmaster did not press him further, and the whole crowd turned back to the docks, with Haddon in the center. It was not human nature to refrain from asking questions, and little by little during their trip back to camp the essential incidents of Steve’s adventures were extracted in scraps and disjointed sentences.
The details followed next morning. A night’s rest put new life into the boy and though he hated talking about himself, he very soon found that he would have no peace until he had answered every question. It was Cavanaugh, in fact, who suggested to Mr. Wendell soon after breakfast that Haddon might as well tell his story to the assembled crowd and get it over with.
“I guess you’re right, Jim,” agreed the scoutmaster. “We really ought to save the yarn for the council fire to-night, but I don’t suppose the fellows can wait that long. As a matter of fact I feel a sort of hankering myself to know just how it all came about.”
And so, in the shade of the mess tent, with the scouts gathered about him in a close circle, Steve told his tale. He was stammering and embarrassed at first, but gradually he warmed to the narration, losing his self consciousness in the interest of recalling the strenuous hours on Loon Island and in the pursuit along the beach through the storm. To be sure, he quite failed to do himself justice and only persistent questioning brought out the details he slurred over. But Cavvy, who sat beside him, saw to it that those questions were asked and answered, and when it was over the two strolled off together.
“And to think that we laughed that night you told us about the man in the dory,” remarked the blond fellow whimsically after a brief silence.
“I suppose it sounded awfully silly the way I put it,” said Steve quickly.
“Wewere the silly ones—regular nuts, in fact.” Cavvy sighed. “I wish to thunder I’d been with you, old kid.”
Steve laughed a little. “I wish you had. I never wanted anything more in my life when I was stumbling along that beach through the dark. I was scared then, all right. Now, if you’d only been along—”
“We’d have been scared together, I guess,” chuckled Cavvy. “Well, I wasn’t, and that’s an end to it. How does it feel to be a celebrity? You’ll have your name in the paper, and be thanked by the Government, and—”
“Slush!” Steve pounded his friend on the back and when the brief tussle subsided, he hastened to change the subject.
This was not difficult, for there were plenty of other topics to occupy them. With two weeks of camp gone, the third and last one seemed crowded with various contests and scout activities for which there had not been time before. That very afternoon an aquatic meet was scheduled, and to-morrow would be taken up by the track events which would go far toward deciding who was going to win the coveted camp emblem for the year. An all day picnic to Loon Island was also being considered, and after that the day of departure loomed disagreeably near.
It came all too soon for everyone—the end of those three golden weeks which, at the beginning, had seemed almost as if they were going to last all summer. Scarcely a boy in the crowd but longed to stretch them into six, and it was no small tribute to their new-found sense of responsibility and willingness to serve, that not one of them even made the suggestion.
They had their work to do at home—on farms, in gardens, in the woods and along the country roads searching out black walnut trees for the Government. There were War Saving stamps to sell, and all those other duties which the war had brought home to them. It had been understood in the beginning that three weeks was the utmost which could be taken from those tasks, and even around the council fire on that last evening there were no complaints.
“But just think of the years when we had a whole three months’ vacation,” sighed Cavvy whimsically, after the last song had been sung and they were moving slowly tentwards. “Those were the good old days, all right. You never appreciate what you’ve got—till you haven’t got it.” He sighed. “I s’pose you couldn’t change your mind, old man, and stay a couple of weeks with me before you go home?” he added, to Steve Haddon.
“I’m afraid not,” the big chap said regretfully. “Dad hasn’t been away from Washington even over a Sunday. He says he’s nearly driven to death and is counting on me to help him out with clerical work. I wish I could, though.”
“You don’t wish it any more than I do. But if you can’t, you can’t. Lord knows we’re doing little enough to help. Gee! but I wish I was old enough to enlist.”
“I’m going into the Navy if this war lasts two years more,” volunteered Haddon.
“You are? Same here. That’s funny, isn’t it? I hope— Well, no I don’t, either. Nobody wants it to last any longer than it has to, but I would like to get into it some way besides grubbing with a hoe and selling Liberty Bonds. See here; if you can’t come now, will you promise to visit me during Christmas vacation?”
“Sure—if you’ll spend part of it with me.”
“That’s a bargain.” In front of the tent their hands met in a firm clasp. Then Cavvy groaned. “Reveille at four—and two hours’ hard work striking tents!” he murmured. “Guess we’d better hit the hay.”
A week later the camp on Long Point was only a memory—something to discuss pleasantly, perhaps, at odd moments, but of little real importance compared with the ordinary work and play of the crowd who had been there.
Work decidedly predominated with most of them. Back at Wharton, where the majority lived, they took up their self imposed duties with conscientious vigor, if not with complete enthusiasm. For it must be confessed that the average youngster hates work. There are those who believe, or imagine they do, that there is nothing a boy loves more than to be out in the dewy freshness of a summer morning, turning the “fragrant earth,” or leading an enthusiastic attack on the enemy weed.
Let such persons inform themselves from life. Early rising is only popular amongst the young when an adventure is on foot. Nine-tenths of our youthful population detest weeding, and to them the hoe is an implement of torture strangely and inexplicably neglected by the Inquisition.
It was to their credit, therefore, that the scouts of Wharton devoted themselves so conscientiously to the tasks at hand, which happened to be mainly rural. The town itself lived principally by, and for, the great mines. But in the surrounding country were many and excellent farms, and the fact that the great bulk of unenlisted men were working in shaft and smelter made the services of boys on the land more than usually welcome. Even Harry Ritter did his part, though with a good deal of surface grumbling and complaint. And Cavvy, out on his grandfather’s farm, resolutely took his share of work as it came, finding some additional comfort in the realization that the hardening muscles and increasing girth of chest would be of no small benefit to him on the football field that fall.
Of course it wasn’t all unadulterated slavery. On the contrary there were a good many relaxations. They had the weekly scout meetings to look forward to, and Mr. Wendell worked hard to make these especially attractive. Now and again they took a day off to hike through the woods in search of walnut trees. And through it all there was undoubtedly a strong feeling of satisfaction that, with the whole world working earnestly toward a single great end, they were doing something concrete to help in its attainment.
In this wise came September and the opening of school. Most of the troop attended the Wharton High School, or were in the eighth grade, and saw each other every day. Cavanaugh greatly missed Steve Haddon, who had long ago returned to his home in Washington, but he found compensation in the companionship of Bill McBride, who was a near neighbor, and had many similar tastes. Besides, between lessons, football and duties connected with the troop, he had little time to waste in lamenting the absence of even so good a friend as Haddon had come to be.
Cavvy, as senior patrol leader, was very keenly interested in the welfare and development of the troop. His ambition was to make it the best and biggest in the county, and to this end he worked hard and constantly, and was of no little aid to Mr. Wendell. There were times, however, when their ideas were very much at variance.
Had anyone asked Cavvy what he considered the qualifications of a good scout, he would probably have enumerated “pep,” keenness to get on, interest in the troop and the work generally, and the like. But back in his mind, unvoiced perhaps even to himself, he held something of the standard by which men are picked for college fraternities. He preferred the members of the troop to be more or less of good family, to be prominent in school or athletics, to be good fellows, quick, amusing, capable, and of his own class. Perhaps the scoutmaster sensed something of this. He had a quiet way of sizing up one’s mental processes which was sometimes rather disconcerting. At all events at a meeting of the troop leaders, he brought the discussion around to that very point and ended with a little lecture on the subject.
The meeting was held as usual in the scout master’s study, a room of comfortable chairs, book-lined walls, and interesting souvenirs and relics of many sorts. There were swords and daggers from the East, old flint-locks, Indian pottery, old bronzes and a multitude of other curious things which the boys were never tired of looking over. In cold weather a fire always glimmered on the broad hearth, and to-day, though this was empty, they had from force of habit gathered around it.
“One of the things I’ve noticed about a good many troops,” said Mr. Wendell, leaning back in his chair, “is a tendency to be just a little clannish. It’s perfectly natural, of course. A fellow wants his own particular friends in the troop and in proposing a member he naturally picks a boy he knows, who’s in his class, or on his team or lives next door. That’s human nature, but the result is narrowing and to my mind it defeats one of the great fundamental objects of Scouting—democracy. Take our own troop, for instance. We’ve got a corking bunch of fellows who work well and play well together. But there’s a whole great class in Wharton that we haven’t even touched.”
He paused and the boys glanced doubtfully at one another. Cavanaugh’s forehead was crinkled with a little frown.
“You mean— You think we ought to take in fellows from the—mine families?” he asked.
Mr. Wendell smiled.
“Why not?”
“But they’re mostly Da—er—Italians and Poles and all that,” protested Cavvy.
The scoutmaster’s smile deepened.
“Well, what of it?”
Cavanaugh flushed faintly.
“But they’re mostly an awful lot of roughnecks. Besides, they don’t know anything about scouting, and I don’t believe they’d want to belong if they were asked.”
Mr. Wendell crossed his legs and linked his strong, brown fingers around one knee.
“I think you’re mistaken—just a little,” he said quietly. “And even if you’re right—even if they don’t know or care anything about it, I think we ought to make an effort to take scouting to them. The majority are boys from poor families. Some of them work in the mines all day. They haven’t many pleasures or relaxations except what they find on the street corners at night. The scouting program would be a revelation, and I feel sure would save many of them from getting into idle, useless, even vicious ways.”
His eyes twinkled and a smile curved the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t want you to think I’m preaching. I know perfectly well that none of you look on the troop as a missionary work, or a means of reformation—and it isn’t. The normal fellow joins because he thinks he’s going to have a good time, or because he’s interested in some particular feature of the program. That’s as it should be; I’ve no kick coming there. As you get into it, you grow more and more interested, and end by doing willingly what before you’d probably have thought a beastly bore. We’ve got through a lot of hard work together this summer, and yet I think we’ve had some pretty good times.
“Don’t misunderstand, either, what I’ve just said. The troop is yours, and you have the right of taking in or turning down any one you choose. I’d just like to have the doors a little wider open. Personally I don’t believe you’d find a single drawback in taking in some of these fellows. Human nature is the same everywhere, and a boy from the shaft or the smelter has in him the makings of just as good a scout as one from—High School.”
He glanced at the clock and then stood up. “I guess there’s nothing else to-day. Just think over what I’ve said and discuss it amongst yourselves. Next meeting you’ll have a chance of voting on that young Tallerico chap who applied two weeks ago. I suppose it was he who put this into my head. But remember this: whatever you do, do it because you feel you want to and it’s right, and not because you think I’d like you to.”
The little group of scouts filed out of the room and left the house quietly enough, but once in the street their tongues were loosened.
“I think he’s wrong,” declared Cavvy, in his impulsive, rather positive manner. “You know what kind of a bunch that mine gang is. I’ll bet a soda you couldn’t haul one into the troop with a rope.”
“Still, it’s just as Mr. Wendell says,” remarked Clay Marshall. He was tall and rather quiet, and took his new position as leader of the Owl Patrol very seriously. “They’ve never had a chance.”
“They’ve never asked for one,” returned Cavanaugh. “This—er—Tallerico is the first one I ever heard of who showed the slightest desire to belong.”
Bill McBride laughed.
“Well, I don’t know as you can blame them for that. You know how much the fellows run in sets in this town. I don’t suppose even those chaps would try and push themselves in where they think they’re not wanted.”
Cavvy frowned impatiently.
“That’s not the point,” he retorted. “They haven’t tried; anyway they’re not the sort we want. Can you imagine Red Garrity a scout?” he added triumphantly.
There was a momentary silence and into the minds of those present there flashed a picture of the ragged, red-haired, pugnacious young tough in question. A leader of his kind, he smoked and swore and lost no chance to jeer openly at the scouts whenever they crossed his path.
“Humph!” grunted Ted Hinckley. “At present he don’t seem very promising. But I’ll tell you this, old man; if he ever got the scout bug, he’d make a crackerjack.”
“You make me sick,” sniffed Cavvy. “He’d never get the scout bug, as you call it—never in a thousand years.”
By this time they had reached the center of the town and paused in front of the Post Office.
“Well, that don’t apply to Tallerico,” remarked Harry Ritter. “He has applied and he wants to get in.”
“I can’t say I want him either,” declared Cavanaugh stubbornly. “What does a wop like that care about scouting, I’d like to know.”
Ritter pursed up his lips. He rarely lost a chance of arguing.
“None of us knew much about it when we first joined,” he returned. “We picked it up afterwards. He doesn’t seem half bad to me, even if he is a foreigner.”
“That’s just it!” Cavvy caught him up hotly. “Heisa foreigner. What do you s’pose he knows or cares about the flag, or patriotism or anything like that? Those fellows don’t give a hang about this country. Dad says they all come over here just because they can make more money than at home. As soon as they’ve saved up enough they hustle back to spend it over there. They’re not Americans and never will be, even if a few of them do get naturalized. We don’t want that kind in the troop.”
A brief silence fell upon the boys, some of whom looked convinced, others doubtful. Jim Cavanaugh’s statements, even when slightly illogical as at present, frequently carried the crowd, for he was the type which dominates by sheer force of temperament. Besides, his father was superintendent of the iron mines, and one whose opinion carried weight. Nevertheless, Ritter refused to relinquish his stand so readily.
“Maybe that’s true of some of them, but why shouldn’t this fellow be an exception,” he persisted. “I was talking to him last night and he doesn’t seem like a foreigner. He speaks English all right, and he’s got some good ideas about scouting. Besides, you know what Mr. Wendell said.”
Cavvy frowned impatiently. He had an uncomfortable feeling of being somehow in the wrong, but opposition always roused all that was stubborn and contentious in his disposition.
“Of course I do,” he snapped. “I was there, wasn’t I? You’ll remember, perhaps, that he also said the troop was our own and that we have the right to take in or keep out whoever we choose. Of course you fellows can do as you please, but I know what I’m talking about and how I’m going to vote. Come ahead, Micky; the whistle blew five minutes ago.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned away and with Bill McBride, walked briskly down the street. His temper was distinctly ruffled, the more so, perhaps, from the realization that his arguments had been far from strong. He was also annoyed and disgruntled at Mr. Wendell for having brought up the subject at all, and particularly for the attitude he had taken. For a time he walked on silently. Then he glanced at his companion.
“Fat’s such an ass,” he remarked.
McBride smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“He does love to hear himself talk,” he chuckled. “He likes it almost as well as eating. Still, of course there is a little something in what he said. I suppose we might broaden out some without hurting ourselves. A roughneck like Garrity would be the limit, but this—”
He broke off with an exclamation of interest. “There he is now!”
“Huh? What—who?”
“That Tallerico kid over there in front of the old Jessup house.”
Cavvy frowned and glanced quickly across the street. Their short cut home took them through the older portion of town—a region of ancient, tumble-down houses, once the abode of wealth and fashion, but long since given over to laborers and workmen in the mines.
Amongst these dingy, decrepit tenements the Jessup house stood forth with a faded, forlorn distinction. In its simple, dignified proportions, in the graceful fanlight above the door, and in certain delicate bits of molding and carving, there remained traces of the colonial mansion where General Washington had slept more than once in the early winters of the Revolution.
On the threshold, one hand resting on the latch, stood a boy of fourteen or so, short, square-built, with dark, wavy hair and olive skin warmly tinged with red. His lips were half parted and his dark eyes rested eagerly on the faces of the two across the street, whom he had apparently just noticed. But as their glances quickly shifted, a shadow swept across his face and jerking open the door, he disappeared within.
Cavanaugh felt a sudden twinge of conscience, and to elude it he burst into abrupt denunciation.
“It’s a darn shame about that house!” he exclaimed hotly. “Think of a place where Washington slept let go to rack and ruin that way and turned into a tenement for dagos! Any other town would buy it and keep it up decently. They’d be proud of it. Look at those windows—every blooming one broken and patched up with paper and stuff. It’s disgusting!”
“There’s two whole ones,” remarked McBride—“up-stairs to the left.”
“What do they amount to?” sniffed Cavvy. “It’s an accident they’re not busted like the rest, that’s all. I’ve half a mind to get after dad and see if he can’t wake up the mayor or somebody to do something about it. Why, when I was down at Mount Vernon last year—”
But Micky wasn’t particularly interested in Mount Vernon. He had heard all about that trip once and was more intent now on getting home to lunch than working up indignation on any subject. He listened carelessly, occasionally punctuating Cavvy’s tirade with a joke, but when they paused at his gate his mind had veered to another subject altogether.
“Come on down after lunch and bring your football,” he called, from half-way up the walk. “We’ll round up the bunch and have a little practice.”
“All right,” returned Cavanaugh absently.
Intent upon his new-born project, he presently burst into the Cavanaugh dining room, smoothing his rebellious crop with one hand and wiping the back of the other—which had escaped the towel—against his coat.
“Where’s dad?” he exclaimed, stopping short. “He hasn’t gone yet, has he?”
“He couldn’t get home to lunch to-day,” explained his mother quietly. “He telephoned that he’d have to stay at the mine.”
“That’s funny.” The boy dropped into his chair and unfolded his napkin. Almost never, except at the time of the big cave-in three years before, had his father failed to run home in the car for their mid-day meal. “There hasn’t been an accident, has there?”
“No; it’s something about the men. There’s been some trouble amongst them for several days, and—”
“Ginger!” Cavvy straightened up. “Maybe it’s those anarchists. Why don’t they run them out of town? All they do is to try and upset everything and make trouble for the Government. I bet they’re paid by the Germans!”
Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled. She was used to her son’s outbursts.
“Running them out of town isn’t as easy as it sounds,” she said. “Unfortunately, some of them belong here and have their rights like any other citizens.”
“Well, the mayor might do something,” contended Cavvy, applying himself to his lunch. “Does dad think there’s going to be trouble?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m afraid he’s a little worried. They’re to have some kind of a mass meeting this afternoon, and you know how easily those foreigners are sometimes swayed. We’ll hope for the best, though. They’ve always been well treated and seemed contented, and with all this extra work ahead I don’t see how they can possibly complain.”
Her anxiety, and the desire to keep it suppressed, caused her to forget for the moment her intention of forbidding Jim to go near the mine that afternoon. When the omission occurred to her, ten minutes after lunch was over, the boy was nowhere to be found. He had been expecting something of the sort, and had lost no time in departing quietly by the side door. A convenient lane brought him quickly to the rear of the McBride house, where a yodel summoned Micky.
“Hustle,” said Cavvy briefly. “There’s something doing down at the mine and we want to be in on it.”
McBride nodded.
“I heard ’em talking it at lunch. Do you s’pose they’re going to have a strike, or something?”
“Don’t know; they’ll be fools if they do. Anyhow, there’s going to be a mass meeting this afternoon, and maybe they’ll decide then.”
Departing in haste, with ears purposely dulled against possible parental voices, the boys headed for the mine by the shortest possible route. The streets were singularly bare for a Saturday afternoon. Here and there a woman talked anxiously to another over a fence-rail, or there was a glimpse of children playing in a back yard. But there were scarcely any men to be seen.
“Gee! I hope we’re not too late,” commented Cavanaugh, as they turned the last corner and started up a steep, narrow street leading to the open space in front of the mine property. Suddenly he stopped. “Listen!” he said abruptly.
For a long moment they stood motionless. Down the narrow thoroughfare swept the dull, low, pulsating murmur of many voices rising and falling. The windows of the houses at the end of the street were filled with people all staring in the same direction.
They were vaguely stirred and a trifle uneasy. What little they had heard of the disturbances of the past week had passed mostly over their heads. Cavvy merely knew that certain outside agitators had been haranguing the men for the last few days. As they panted up the slope and reached the level they paused, startled at what lay before them.
The wide, open space was packed with men. Hundreds and hundreds in their greasy, ore-grimed working clothes, a week’s stubble, darkening their already swarthy faces, stood shoulder to shoulder in close-packed masses. That ominous rumble of voices had ceased. Only here and there sounded sibilant whispers or hoarse, low-voiced comment. For the most part they were listening intently to a speaker who stood on a box over by the big flag pole in the center of the space.
Cavvy could not see the man clearly, nor could he get the thread of what the fellow was saying. But there was a quality of harsh, sneering dominance in the stranger’s voice to which he took an instant dislike. He glanced at Micky, who had drawn closer to him.
“Come on over to those steps where we can see something,” he whispered, and, turning quickly, he began to skirt the crowd.
McBride nodded silently. The steps in question were already pretty well filled with late comers, but by dint of a little squeezing the two boys managed to gain a foothold where they could overlook the crowd.