Pee-wee yelled“WE’RE GOING TO MAKE A FORTUNE,” PEE-WEE YELLED DEFIANTLY.
“WE’RE GOING TO MAKE A FORTUNE,” PEE-WEE YELLED DEFIANTLY.
It consoled him somewhat, and eased his conscience, to know that at least Pee-wee was having the time of his life as a leader, even though he had only two followers. He could not do otherwise than laugh at Pee-wee, but all the while he had a queer feeling about the whole matter. He hoped that everything was all right and that Pee-wee knew his own mind.
As if there was anything that Pee-wee didn’t know....
Pee-wee had sticking in his belt an envelope which he had sealed and addressed to the Hoptoad Patrol. Being the only one in authority in that patrol he now opened it and read aloud the letter within it which he had likewise written himself. Its contents must have surprised him greatly for he scowled as he read the portentous words:
The cruiser Hop-toad will go to the other side of the lake and we will get it into Goldenrod Cove so as it’s wedged in, kind of. Then we’ll eat.After that we’ll write a message with an onion and cast it in the sea—that’s the same as the lake. That message will tell them they can hike around the lake in sixty minutes and we’ll charge them five cents each to cross our property and I’ll be the treasurer and we’ll divide up even. If anybody wants to back out he can say so now or he can stay till the death.
The cruiser Hop-toad will go to the other side of the lake and we will get it into Goldenrod Cove so as it’s wedged in, kind of. Then we’ll eat.
After that we’ll write a message with an onion and cast it in the sea—that’s the same as the lake. That message will tell them they can hike around the lake in sixty minutes and we’ll charge them five cents each to cross our property and I’ll be the treasurer and we’ll divide up even. If anybody wants to back out he can say so now or he can stay till the death.
“Are we going to get killed,” Willie Rivers asked anxiously.
“Staying till the death means till it’s all over,” Pee-wee explained. “Now I’ll tell you about those sealed orders, only usually nobody but the captains know about those. Last year Chocolate Drop, he’s cook and I stand in with him, last year he said every scout that could go scout pace around the lake in an hour could have three helpings of dessert for the rest of the season. But anyway nobody did it because on account of Goldenrod Cove; that’s an outlet of the lake.
“So now we’re going to sail into that cove and you’ll see how it is when we get there. It’s kind of like a cove only different. So now we have to do what it says in the sealed orders. And you’ll see how I’m going to win the pioneering badge too.”
“What are we going to write in the note that’s invisible?” little Howard Delekson ventured to ask.
“We’re going to tell them the way is clear for them to hike around in less than an hour if they want to.”
“Why don’t we send it right away so they’ll be sure to find it soon?” Willie asked.
“Because the bottle’s full of stuffed olives and we have to empty it first but anyway that reminds me that I’m hungry.”
“Can we help you empty it?” Howard asked tactfully.
“Sure you can,” said Pee-wee, fishing the bottle of olives up out of the keg; “I never knew I wanted some olives till you reminded me.”
The bottle was soon emptied, and now Pee-wee, kneeling at an old grocery box, stood his precious onion on it like an inkstand. Having next produced his scout note book and laid it solemnly upon the grocery box, he brought forth a deadly skewer which he had extracted from a ham in Cooking Shack, and with it stabbed the onion to the heart. Perhaps it was because their gallant bark was nearing the middle of the lake and the beloved camp receding in the distance, or perhaps it was from sheer joy at the great good turn he expected so soon to perform, but it is a fact that at the very moment he punctured the onion with his makeshift pen, his eyes filled with tears.
With the pensive tear-drops standing on his round cheeks and with eyes glistening from the sadness of parting, or from some other equally logical cause, he penned the following missive, stabbing the onion afresh for every tender word he wrote, and weeping so copiously that he could not have deciphered the writing even if it had been visible. These were the words, all unseen, which he penned with the magic onion juice:
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.Harris—hop-toad,Ex-raven
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.
Harris—hop-toad,Ex-raven
Harris—hop-toad,Ex-raven
Harris—hop-toad,
Ex-raven
He strained his eyes to read those memorable words which were to mean so much to him, and to all the scouts at camp. To say nothing of the camp commissary. But the spirit of the onion spoke not to those who did not know its secret. Not a sign of writing was there upon that virgin page.
Pee-wee rolled the missive, injected it into the bottle, and corked the bottle tight. He then produced a small limp article connected with a short stick. On blowing through the stick the limp attachment swelled to astounding dimensions as Pee-wee’s cheeks puffed more and more till they seemed like to burst. Now upon the inflated balloon appeared the wordsCatskill Garagein conspicuous white letters.
The limit of Pee-wee’s blowing capacity having been reached, he jabbed the blow-stick into the onion to check the egress of air, when suddenly that humble vegetable, so modest that its very blood shunned the gaze of prying eyes, threw out a veritable spray in every direction like an electric sparkler, as the balloon grew smaller till it staggered, then collapsed, leaving the Hop-toad Patrol weeping and sneezing and groping frantically for their handkerchiefs, no doubt as flags of truce.
“I—eh—eh—chhh—ew—chh—I—llchew—try it—again.”
The gallant bottle with its aerial companion attached was not yet set free upon the angry waves of Black Lake. For the epoch-making announcement must not be premature and the good barkHop-toadhad still some yards to travel before bunking against the farther shore.
Indeed, it did not bunk against the farther shore at all. Like the ships of another famous adventurer (Christopher Columbus) it reached a destination, but not the destination intended. It flopped against the shore at the northern extremity of the lake, where the natives (consisting of three turtles) fled precipitately upon the approach of the explorers.
“We’ll have to pull it around,” said the leader of the Hop-toads; “we’ll have to coast along shore. Our port is due west of the camp. Maybe it’s kind of south by due west. Come on, let’s pull.”
“Is it deep enough all the way around by the shore?” Howard asked.
“You mean the coast, not the shore,” said Pee-wee; “we have to go coastwise; we have to hug the coast; that doesn’t mean putting our arms around it.”
By reason of the surrounding hills the shore of Black Lake was precipitous all the way round, except where the camp was. The water was therefore comparatively deep, even close under the shore. Wriggling in and out of the tiny passes near the lake wound a trail which would have completely encircled it, notwithstanding many smaller obstacles, save for Goldenrod Cove which was the beginning of the lake’s main outlet.
By dint of pulling on the bushes and pushing with a couple of scout staffs and dancing on the unsusceptible platform, they succeeded in getting it along the shore till the camp was almost opposite them across the water.
The progress of the gallant bark was something like the progress of a stubborn mule, and it certainly hugged the shore with an altogether affectionate embrace. It would flop along but nothing would tempt it to tear itself away from the sheltering bushes. These hung so low that in places they playfully removed our hero’s hat and ruffled his curly hair and deposited volleys of clinging burs upon his martial regalia.
Scout Willie and Scout Howard wrestled valiantly with these leafy tormentors, closing their eyes and sweeping the assaulting clusters aside as the noble float flopped resolutely along. But they were covered with burs from head to foot; there were prickling burs on their stockings, down their necks, and worst of all, in their shoes. Burs lurked in their hair and would not be routed. One bur, more valiant than the rest, dared to penetrate within the khaki shirt of our hero, taking up a strategic position in the small of his back where it kept up a running assault with a hundred million tiny prongs. It was in vain that he approached this invader from the rear; in vain that he wriggled and twisted and almost tied his heroic body in a knot. The tormentor was not to be harried or dislodged.
“I got burs all over me,” said Scout Willie; “wait a minute, I have to take off my shoe.”
“Feel down my neck,” said Scout Howard; “it tickles.”
“Do you think that an explorer—do you think that—Peary—was scared of burs?” Pee-wee demanded contemptuously, the while madly scratching his back.
“Maybe they don’t have burs at the North Pole,” Scout Howard ventured.
“Don’t you suppose there were burs in France?” Pee-wee said.
“Maybe French ones aren’t so bad,” Howard suggested, removing his shoe and extracting a whole regiment of burs, while Willie made a sudden raid up one sleeve with his hand.
“Burs are—they’re just like natives,” Pee-wee said. “You’re not scared of natives, are you? Scouts are supposed to love everything in the woods.”
“They ain’t in the woods when they’re on stockings, are they?” Willie asked, rather boldly.
Our hero was now reduced to the use of one arm in poling the float, his other hand being continually engaged in scratching his writhing back. With that one stalwart arm he tried to keep the float far enough off shore to be clear of the assaulting legions. Willie Rivers, having battled nobly, sat helpless on the stubborn float, holding a shoe in one hand and clearing the gory field of his stockings with the other. The naked, undefended area between the ends of his loose khaki trousers and the tops of his stockings was swarming with the enemy.
The tent, knocked askew by the assaulting branches, was covered with clinging burs. It seemed to reel and stagger under the attacks of the aroused and enraged brush. All the famous sea fights of history were nothing to this. Scout Howard, warding off the relentless onslaughts with one sturdy arm, was trying vainly to reach the small of his back over his left shoulder with the other.
Suddenly the voice of our hero rose above the roar of battle, “Look out for the poison ivy! Give her a push out! Quick!”
Withdrawing his hand from the forlorn enterprise down his back, Scout Howard grasped a scout staff and gave a mighty shove against the shore sending the harassed cruiser clear of this ghastly peril just as a low hanging branch, lurking unnoticed like a sharpshooter, toppled over the keg of provisions and it went rolling into the water.
This dastardly attempt to starve out a gallant adversary was met by quick action from the leader of the Hop-toads. Giving one frantic look at a package of Uneeda biscuits floating near the bobbing keg, he plunged into the angry waters and returned triumphant with several varieties of commissary stores, while Scout Rivers, forgetting all else at the thought of his commander’s wrath, reached out with his scout staff and brought the rolling keg safely aboard.
But alas, just in the moment of this heroic rescue, the float, unguided for the moment, bobbed plunk against the shore and into a veritable jungle of tangled vines.
“Wild roses! Wild roses! Look out for the thorns!” cried Commander Harris.
But it was too late. Already they were surrounded, enveloped, embraced, in a very labyrinth of Nature’s barbed wire entanglements. The wounds and scars of battle were already upon them. The uncovered portions of Scout Harris were tattooed with a system of scratches which ran here and there like bloody trails. A scratch was on his nose and his hair was pulled up in the combing process of the thorned tentacles. The martial regalia of the three warriors was in tatters.
But they did not give up. Lying flat upon the raft they pushed with all their might and main till their staffs sunk into the spongy shore. And at last, by dint of superhuman effort, the cruiserHop-toademerged from this fearful trap and was happily caught in the flowing water which bespoke the neighborhood of Goldenrod Cove.
This famous cruise to the remote farther shore of Black Lake is famous in camp history. And the awful conflict there is often spoken of as The Battle of the Burs. The losses on the side of the invaded coast were about fifty million burs, several entire branches of the Wild Rose Battalion and a ton or two of grassy earth.
The losses of the exploring party were one khaki jacket, three scout hats, six stockings, one box of egg powder, four cans of condensed milk, one scout staff, a package of spaghetti, one shoe, four buttons and three tin spoons. The wounded were one nose, three ears, two knees, two heads of hair, three arms and about one square mile of scratches. There is at present a movement in Temple Camp to safeguard the neighborhood from the recurrence of such a frightful world catastrophe.
One thing remained unscarred after this sanguinary adventure. The bottle with its companion balloon had been safe within the tent. TheHoptoadwas now carried merrily into the cove upon the hurrying water and proceeded as far into the outlet as its dimensions would permit it to do. Here it stopped, just as its far-seeing navigator knew it would do, wedged immovably between the two shores. Pee-wee had always claimed to be lucky, and his luck was faithful to his purpose here. For the two ends of the trail ended at the opposite sides of the lumbering float. A line across the float and the trail would have been unbroken.
Goldenrod Cove could not quite be seen from Temple Camp across the lake, but in the early fall its profusion of yellow was visible like a dab of gold across the water. And when that dab of gold appeared, the scouts still at camp knew that presently school would open and the camp close for the season. Some fanciful youngster had said that that golden area was the shape and color of a bell, and it came to be called The School-bell by the scouts of camp. But the momentous affair of Goldenrod Cove was in the earlier summertime and there was no school-bell there.
Let us observe the geography of this dim, quiet spot, made memorable by the immortal exploit of Pee-wee. The cove at its widest point (that is, where it joined the lake) was about twenty feet wide. It narrowed gradually till it was just wide enough to let a little brook from the lake pass through. This trickling outlet found its way to the lordly Hudson.
Hiking around the lake by the trail, the scout came upon the shore of this cove where it was perhaps fifteen feet wide. You will say that he could swim across, and so he could. But that is just where the joker came in, for the standing offer of Chocolate Drop stipulated for an unbroken hike. The unbroken hike around Black Lake was like the fountain of perpetual youth that old What’s-his-name searched for in Florida. There wasn’t any.
The tempting offer of three desserts for the balance of the season as a reward for an unbroken hike was just a practical joke. A very, very cruel practical joke to those who love and reverence desserts. Every new scout tried it with high hopes till he reached the challenging shore of the cove. If he followed this shore to a point where he might wade across he would consume more time than he could afford.
That smile of Chocolate Drop’s which showed all his white teeth was not a vain and meaningless smile. “This thing could not be did,” as Roy Blakeley had said. It had come to be the hoary-headed tottering old practical joke of the camp. And so it remained until Pee-wee Harris touched it with the wand of his genius.
“Sling the bottle in the water,” he said; “throw it as far as you can.”
This romantic form of announcement, borrowed from shipwrecked mariners of old, was of course not essential to Pee-wee’s mammoth enterprise. But in the field of romance and adventure he was nothing if not thorough.
The bottle splashed into the lake beyond the area of outflowing water and the balloon advertising the Catskill Garage was caught in the breeze and wafted off upon its mission. It hovered a yard or more above the bobbing bottle, leading and dragging it eastward like a child with an unwilling pup. On, on, and ever on, toward the populated eastern shore, it flew, ducking, jerking, and skimming the water like a playful seagull. And ever after it bobbed the corked olive bottle with its inspiring message to the hungry scout camp.
The shadows of evening gathered, the waters darkened in the pervading twilight, the wooded hills about the lake looked solemn as the night drew on apace. And merry voices rose about the messboards at Temple Camp, while smoke as black as Chocolate Drop himself floated above the sacred temple of the laughing chef.
Laugh on, Chocolate Drop! He laughs best who laughs last. You know not what awaits you....
“Hand me my belt axe,” said Pee-wee, after they had restored their tent to a respectable posture and eaten a toothsome supper within it.
“What are you going to do?” Hop-toad Howard asked.
“I’m going to make a ticket office out of this grocery box. You take this pack of cigar coupons and writeO. K. W. Harris, per H.on the back of each one. And you,” he said, turning to Hop-toad Willie, “take the cardboard out of that other box and take this trail sign marker and printPositively no Trespassingin good big letters on it. Make them good and black.”
“Shall I say underpenalty of the law?” Willie asked.
“No, but be sure to sayPositively; you’d better sayAbsolutely positively by my orders. Underneath that you better putDefinitely.”
“Shall I put ‘violators will be reported’?”
“No, because I don’t know how to spell violators. Anyway putUnconditionallyand make a hand pointing to it.”
The following accurate reproduction of this sign is from a photograph taken with Dorry Benton’s stalking kodak:
no tresspassing sign
This authoritive warning was supplemented by others which readThis is our private float. We’ve got the use of this float. Private property. Remember Rule 7. On the grocery box in which a sort of pigeon-hole had been hacked out was printedBuy tickets here to cross this float, 5¢, no war tax.
Before the settlers turned in for the night the trees on both sides of the cove were decorated with warnings and announcements. The float itself looked like a miniature amusement enterprise with its grocery box ticket office, festooned with a couple of scout scarfs. It stood upon the provision keg ready for business. Behind it stood the ramshackle camp stool for the accommodation of the ticket agent. Across the float a black line had been drawn with the marker connecting the two loose ends of trail, an idea borrowed from the unfathomable wilderness of the New York subway. Close to it were the wordsFollow black line.
But this was not all. Upon the boards were sketched crude representations of slices of pie, of saucers with arctic mountains of ice cream (wisely labelled), and other loaded saucers labelledfruit pudding,rice puddingand the like, intended to influence hesitating and penurious scouts. Across the tent was printedHundreds of helpings for a nickel! Tickets accepted at messboards! Here’s your chance! Start a run on the First National Cooking Shack! Place your nickel where it will bring results!
At about nine o’clock the Hop-toad Patrol, weary with travel and warfare and art, lifted the door of its decorated tent and retired to refreshing slumber.
It was just about when Pee-wee was falling asleep that a canoe moved noiselessly through the water near the camp side of the lake. One of its two occupants sat in the stern, paddling idly, aimlessly; the way one paddles on a moonlit night. The other sat in the bow. He was a queer looking fellow to be in a canoe, being exceptionally long and lanky and wearing horn spectacles. He sprawled in an attitude of utter and heedless comfort with one long leg resting over the knee of the other, his foot pointing up in the air. There was a suggestion of whimsical philosophy in his drawling voice and funny manner, which seemed to amuse his companion.
“You want to go in? Tired?” the latter asked.
“Not as long as you’re doing the paddling,” the other drawled. “Funny, I can watch another fellow paddle all day without getting even stiff.”
“Gaylong, you said your name was?”
“Yep, Brent Gaylong; my bunch comes from down Newburgh way. We usually flop up the river every summer and squint around.”
“First class scout?”
“Yes, I’ve got a room on the top floor.”
There followed a silence, broken only by the dripping of the paddle.
“You think he really means business then?” the paddler asked.
“Who, the Bridgeboro giant? Oh yes, he always means business.”
“I mean about starting a patrol?”
“Ye-es, starting patrols is his specialty. He usually starts about two a minute. This is a kind of an off season with him; he’s only started one.”
“Then you don’t think it will amount to anything?”
“Oh, everything about him amounts to a great deal. If he didn’t start a patrol, he’d be starting something else. He’s guaranteed to start something. How do you think you like it, now that you’re in the game?”
“Being a scout, you mean?”
“Mmm; great life if you don’t weaken, huh?”
“You bet your sweet life I’m not going to weaken. I’m going to finish up my second class tests this week. Then I’m on the home stretch for class one. Hang it all, I wish I didn’t have to wait sixty days for that.”
“Ye-es, they put that sixty days in just to try your patience. There was a misprint or whatever you call it in my book and I got in in six days. I see you’ve got the fever all right. I must try to hunt that handbook of mine up and let you use it; it has several good misprints. It said a fellow must have a dollar in the bank to get in, or something like that. The last two letters ofdollardidn’t print so I took a doll belonging to my sister and put it inside of a tin savings bank. I only had fifty-seven cents. You’ll make out all right. You ought to learn things fast in a place like this? Ever meet Slade, the assistant? He’ll put you wise to a lot of stuff. What you say your name is; Simpson?”
“Yes I stepped into that kid’s place.”
“Stepped in where angels fear to tread, eh? Well, that’s a great patrol, the Ravens. You’ll have to step lively to keep up with that outfit. Van Arlen, Bronson, Weigand, they’re pretty good scouts. The kid’s the biggest scout of the lot. He’s the smallest boy and the biggest scout. If you’re taking his place you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Well, I’m doing my best anyway,” said Simpson. “Second class in less than a week; that isn’t so bad, is it? I've got a list of the merit badges I’m after just in the order that I’m going to try for them. Safety First heads the list—”
“Safety First first, eh?”
“Yes, and next comes Life Saving; I thought maybe my rowing and paddling would help me there. What do you think? Next I’m going to hit the trail for Archery and after that Stalking. I’ve had some practice shooting arrows, it’s a kind of a fad with me—”
“Your spear of action, huh.”
“Spear of action is good; I hope to be a ten badge scout by fall; that’s the star you know. Some program, hey?” he laughed, breathless from his own enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m in for it for all it’s worth. Geewilliger,didn’t I jump out of my skin when I got that letter from Artie Van Arlen telling me to come up! Funny thing, it came just on my birthday. Some birthday present, hey? Oh, you needn’t be afraid I’ll weaken. I’m not that kind. I don’t suppose you’ll believe it because you’re one of those—what do you call them—Philistines? But I wouldn’t give up this chance for a—a—anairplane—I wouldn’t!” An airplane was the most delightful thing this enthusiastic novice could think of at the moment, and so he said airplane. “You never get excited do you?” he added. “Just sit there smiling while I rattle on. I got that habit of rattling from driving a Ford; that’s another one of my accomplishments. I’m going to try for the Automobiling badge too, but not this summer.”
Brent Gaylong slowly readjusted his lanky legs and looked at the moon over the top of his spectacles. “And good turns?” he drawled in his funny way. “You haven’t forgotten about those? Carried a gentleman’s suitcase off the train, I suppose? Passed somebody the butter?”
“Yes I did—I mean about the suitcase,” Billy Simpson said sheepishly, for he caught the note of ridicule in his companion’s voice. “You’re a mind reader.”
“No, I’m a scout reader,” said Gaylong.
“Wasn’t it all right?” Simpson asked.
“Sure it was.”
“Well, what are you smiling about then? Gee, I can’t understand you at all. I like you,” he added with characteristic frankness, “but I can’t understand you. Somehow you make me feel, I don’t know, sort of not sure of myself. Good turns are part of the game, aren’t they?”
“I’ll say so,” drawled Gaylong. “Did you hold the door open for a resident trustee yet? Don’t forget about that.”
“Yes I did,” said Simpson rather testily, “and what of it?”
“And you’re paddling me around the lake;there’sreal sacrifice for you.”
“That’s your good turn, not mine,” said Simpson generously.
“It isn’t a good turn at all, that’s the point,” said Gaylong. “Politeness is all right, if you don’t overdo it, and kindness and going to the grocery store for your mother are all right. Only don’t jot them down. If you’re going to be a scout at all, be a big one. Be one like Slade. Know what I mean? Look at that moon,” he drawled, squinting at it in his funny way; “it’s going to be hot to-morrow. That means ice cream. Did you turn the freezer for Chocolate Drop yet? That’s one of the regulation good turns up here.”
“I know what you mean,” Billy Simpson said in his customary, generous, eager way. “But gee, it’s pretty hard to tell when you’re serious. I don’t know how to take you, honest I don’t. What would you call a good turn?”
“Look at that moonlight on the water; pretty huh?”
“What would you call a good turn?”
“Oh, now you’ll have to find out for yourself,” Gaylong drawled; “scouts are supposed to be resourceful, you know. There are big scouts and little scouts. Harris is a big one—tremendous. I could name you a fellow pretty near six feet high who’s a little one. If you drop a cent he’ll pick it up for you and jot it down in his scout memo. book. You can’t expectmeto tell you what’s a good turn. I’m just a kind of an observer here—war correspondent. Only if you’re filling little Harris’s place be sure you do fill it. Then we’ll all live happily forever after. Poke her nose in toward shore, what do you say? They’re all around the camp-fire. Looks pretty, doesn’t it, reflected in the water. Well, it’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”
“I’m not going to weaken,” said Billy Simpson.
Billy Simpson did not immediately follow Brent Gaylong to the camp-fire but stayed to haul the canoe up and put the paddle and lazy-back in the locker. He was very particular to disabuse his mind of the remotest thought that this was a good turn. Brent Gaylong had started him thinking, as Brent Gaylong had a way of doing. Brent had not even offered to attend to this trifling duty. Billy paused a moment, paddle in hand, pondering. He could see the ambling figure of his friend, visible as in a spotlight, as he approached the campfire. He heard a chorus of merry voices greet him.
“Here’s old Brent!”
“Look who’s here; old Grouch Gaylong!”
“Tell us a yarn, Brent.”
“Go on, tell us a funny one.”
“Good old Brent! Sit down here with us; take this milk stool.”
“Tell us a story, go on, Brent.”
“Hurrah for old Doctor Gaylong.”
“Give the professor of philosophy a seat!”
“Give him a couple of seats.”
“Go on, criticise us, Brent!”
Billy Simpson listened wistfully. He envied the popularity of his whimsical, humorous friend. He was going to win many badges, oh many,many. But would he ever win the frank love of the whole camp? He was a scout, yes. But Brent Gaylong was a personality. Brent Gaylong, Pee-wee Harris, they were more than just scouts; they werecharacters. They had reached the hearts of the camp. One had ambled in, the other had rushed in. But both of them dwelt in the hearts of the camp.
Would he, Bill Simpson, ever do that? He could talk with Brent or with any other scout there. He was a good chum. But he could not handle them all. He was just a little too shy for that. He was even shy with the Ravens, his own patrol. Scout Harris had the camp eating out of his hand. He admitted it. And surely he must have known. On a question of eating, who was a greater authority than he?
Billy Simpson might have hurried after Brent, but he did not, and now it was too late, and he just could not approach the camp-fire alone. There were so many of them there! He was not afraid of any one of them. He was not exactlyafraidof all of them. But he was shy. He would draw attention if he joined them now. He was not good in a crowd like Brent—and Pee-wee....
He perched on the railing of the float and looked off on the moon-glinted water of the lake, and on the dark surrounding hills. He was not afraid of all the wonderful scout stunts that he was going to do, and so he thought of those. Those, at all events, did not abash him. Astronomy, the First Class badge, Angling, Athletics, Cooking, Forestry, Marksmanship, First Aid, star scout,eagle scout!
Eagle scout!The man in the moon looked down on Billy Simpson sitting on the railing, and winked his eye, as if to say, “Go to it, Billy.” And in his joy, his elation, with all these honors of scouthood swarming in his mind he looked up at the man in the moon and said, with the very joy of Christmas time beating in his heart, “Yes, and I’ll study you too, old top. And you stars, too, I’ll make you show me the way home yet, I will. A scout,” he mused, “a scout can speak to a scout—with signals—a scout can speak to a scout miles and miles off—”
He paused in his joyful reverie, and gazed out upon the glinting water. Yes, a scout was speaking to him already—from far off! For bobbing toward him in the moonlight was the gallant balloon of the Catskill Garage, dripping from its adventurous voyage, and dragging after it the dancing olive bottle with its invisible message to the world.
Billy Simpson might keep away from the festive throng, but he could not get away from Scout Harris.
Billy Simpson intended to be a regular out-and-out scout. So before starting for Temple Camp he had spent the trifling amount of money which he had for several things he had seen advertised as being indispensable to scouts. One of these was a pocket flashlight. The advertisement had conveyed the belief to him that he could hardly expect to be a scout without one of these flashlights.“Say fellows! Just the thing!”the ad had begun. So poor Billy had bought one of those flashlights. A tried and true scout would have had better sense.
He now turned this flashlight on the paper which he fished out of the bottle, but not so much as a syllable was there written upon it. The reticent onion was true to its reputation. Billy laughed as he thought of Pee-wee.
Here was he, Billy Simpson, with the most modern kind of a device, a nickel-plated flashlight that would “throw a glare continuously for two hours or your money refunded,” and its value was set at naught by a homely onion in the hands of a true scout. The onion had cost nothing. Yet the most dazzling flashlight in the world could not render visible one word upon that scrap of paper. Onlyheatcould do that. You don’t have to know anything to buy a flashlight. But you have to know something, that is you have to be a scout, to know the tender uses of the onion....
Yes, Gaylong was a real scout. And Harris was a real scout. And Billy was greatly dissatisfied with himself. Like most boys who do not mix readily and do not quickly become popular with the multitude, he was given to a morbid disgust with himself. He conceived his shyness as a sort of deficiency. He thought he was not likable.
He was now sorely at odds with himself. He had started out by helping somebody off the train and had jotted this down as a good turn. Then Gaylong, in his quiet, drawling way, had knocked this good turn into a cocked hat and made it seem trivial. He had bought a fine nickel flashlight— “just what every scout needs”—and Pee-wee Harris had made this “scout” trinket ridiculous. They were real scouts here at Temple Camp, not little tin scouts. They coulddothings. True, Pee-wee was a walking rummage sale, but what he carried on his diminutive person was nothing to what he carried in his head.
Billy Simpson was beginning to get the hang of this thing now. He pulled out of his pocket a handful of beans which he had intended to drop along the way in his pathless explorations so that he could find his way back. He scattered them into the lake. “If I can’t find my way without those things I deserve to get lost,” he said. Contemptuous of his own weakness he threw away a whistle he had bought, a boy scout whistle—“just the thing, fellows” of course. “I ought to be able to make as much noise with my mouth as Harris can,” he said, disgustedly. That was saying a good deal....
Then he sauntered up toward the camp-fire and instead of treating himself to the small glory which the discovery of the bottle might have brought him, he slipped in among the assemblage unnoticed and gave the paper to his patrol leader, Artie Van Arlen. And all the while Billy Simpson was the best oarsman at Temple Camp. In his hands a canoe paddle became a thing of magic. But he could not “join in”; he just didn’t know how.
His brief connection with this paper was soon forgotten in the paper itself. He sat down out of the immediate range of the flame and was lost in the crowd and the surrounding darkness.
Meanwhile a clamorous chorus greeted the discovery.
“Hold it over the light.”
“Don’t burn it.”
“The voice of Scout Harris.”
“The plot grows thicker.”
“Invincible writing again.”
“E-pluribus onion.”
“Don’t hold it so near the flame, you’ll have boiled onions.”
“Let’s see what it says.”
“Wait a minute, it takes time.”
“He has a strong handwriting.”
“Sure, it’s a strong onion.”
“Oh it’s getting visible.”
“It’s more likely to get risible.”
“Read it, go ahead.”
Artie Van Arlen read aloud as the writing slowly came into view under the influence of the heat. It was interesting to see how the words appeared, slowly, slowly, like a person emerging out of a fog.
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.Harris—Hop-toad.Ex-raven.
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.
Harris—Hop-toad.Ex-raven.
Harris—Hop-toad.Ex-raven.
Harris—Hop-toad.
Ex-raven.
“What?” demanded a dozen voices.
“Let’s see it!”
“You’re kidding us.”
“What the dickens is he up to now?”
“What do you mean—bridged?”
“Let’s see it.”
“Don’t crowd.”
“Look out, you’ll tear it.”
“Well—I’ll—be—” Roy Blakely began, elbowing his way into the excited throng.
“What do you suppose he’s been doing?”
“Let’s hike around.”
“Not to-night,” said a scoutmaster.
“It isn’t true,” a scout shouted. “Remember the false armistice.”
“It’s too good to be true.”
“Itmustbe true, it’s written with food.”
“Let me dream again,” called another scout reeling.
“The world is made safe for dessert,” shouted another.
“This will kill Chocolate Drop,” laughed still another.
“The kid’s crazy,” another yelled.
“He’s seeing things again.”
“Let’s go over there in the morning and kid the life out of him.”
“I’m game.”
“Right after breakfast, hey?”
“And his two aids—or lemonades, we’ll have some sport with them; what do you say?”
“Answered in the positive.”
“Yes, but home sweet home by noontime; to-morrow’s ice cream day.”
At this Roy Blakeley jumped upon an old barrel that was about to be offered to the flames and shouted:
“I scream, I screamWhen we have ice creamAnd I do not roamBut stay at home⸺
“I scream, I screamWhen we have ice creamAnd I do not roamBut stay at home⸺
“I scream, I screamWhen we have ice creamAnd I do not roamBut stay at home⸺
“I scream, I scream
When we have ice cream
And I do not roam
But stay at home⸺
“All in favor of making a raid on P. Harris to-morrow will say Me, I mean Aye, and be ready for a hike around the lake at ten P. Q. and we’ll jolly the life out of him, and everybody that isn’t back by one I can have his helping of cream as a tribute—I mean a herald—I mean a tribute; I don’t know what I mean, shut up, I will, thanks be seated!”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Me.”
“Us.”
“We.”
“Also.”
“Likewise.”
“Who saidlikewise? Slap him on the wrist, he’s a highbrow!” shouted Roy. “We’re getting up an exhibition, I mean an expedition to chastise Pee-wee Harris for making us hungry and other forms of frightfulness and perpetrating a ruse—”
“A what?”
“A ruse, it’s the same as a bluff only different; for trying to play a cruel joke on us—”
“Maybe it’s true; there’s many a true word spoken in a jest,” a hopeful voice called.
“There’s many a bunk bunked by a pest, you mean,” shouted Roy. “I was happy till he put the idea of three desserts in my head. He shall suffer for this—and his official lemonades too! That’s what comes from being a free lance. He got out of the Ravens and now he’s wished onto the whole camp. There can be no peace while he lives. He’s crazy with his three desserts; I would have been satisfied with four before he went west and sent us a message by Western Onion. The whole thing is a Ford, I mean a fraud. Don’t be fooled, scouts! He’s always talking about mysteries and foiling people with tin-foil; he’s a tin-foil scout. Let’s start an exhibitionary force to-morrow and make him vaccinate the place, or evacuate it or whatever you call it. We were just going to turn in for the night when he starts us thinking about desserts. Can you beat it? If that isn’t like a raving Raven. Once a Raven, always a Raven if not more so!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted a score of voices, while several trustees and half a dozen scoutmasters stood about smiling.
“Where? Where?”
“Hear, hear!”
Several of the Ravens pushed the barrel out from under the irrepressible Silver Fox and down he went, sprawling on the ground.
“There! There!” called a dozen laughing voices.
“I may be down but I’m never out,” said Roy; “come on, let’s turn in. To-morrow’s the big day—the puny exhibition.”
“You mean punitive expedition,” said Artie Van Arlen.
“I should worry about what I mean,” said Roy.
The next morning Billy Simpson was out early for a row on the lake before breakfast. The lake seemed to attract him like a magnet. But he always went either early in the morning or after dark, and usually alone, from a morbid shyness about showing his skill.
He dreamed about honors, and he had been betrayed into talking freely with Brent Gaylong about his hopes and plans. But he could not, he simplycould not, show off. Of course, to let them see him row or paddle would not be showing off. But that was what he called it.
So the skill that he had cultivated on the river near his family’s country home was not known to the camp or even his own patrol. He was afraid that if he did anything publicly it might have a look of crudeness, an amateurish touch, in the eyes of these denizens of the woods and water. He had made a mistake about good turns and he was ashamed of himself for being what Brent called a “little” scout. He was ashamed at having brought a pocketful of beans to show him the way when he was lost. And a whistle! He was not going to put his foot into it in the matter of his skill with oar and paddle. Gaylong might come along and drawl out some criticism of an obvious defect. And Roy Blakeley! How he dreaded the uproarious banter of that embodiment of merriment. He had seen what Roy could do in the way of banter. No, not for him....
He paused on his way down to the lake to look at the bulletin-board. He always found much of interest there. And on this occasion he found something of preeminent interest. He had heard some talk of it in Patrol Cabin, but here was the official fact in black and white before him:
The canoeing event for the Mary Temple cup will be held on the lake July 27th. The cup, now held by the First Bridgeboro, N. J., Troop, will be defended by Conover Bennett, Patrol Leader, Elk Patrol, of that troop. Troops intending to enter the contest should register in Administration Shack not later than July 15 th.
So his own troop held this cup. Billy Simpson wondered where the cup was. He supposed it must be held by the Elk Patrol, since an Elk scout was to defend it. It was characteristic of him that he felt a bit chagrined that a contest involving his favorite form of outdoor exercise should be in preparation without regard to him. Of course his own morbid shyness was to blame for this, but the announcement hit him in a tender spot just the same.
One thing that this announcement showed him was that such contests were usually troop affairs. It was troop against troop and not patrol against patrol. Conover Bennett represented the troop.
Billy sauntered down to the lake, quite at odds with himself because of this little jar to his pride, which no one was to blame for but himself. On the float stood a solitary early riser, one of his own troop.
“H’lo Simpson,” said the latter, cheerily; “some day, huh? Out hunting for the early worm?”
“I was just going to take a little spin—flop I suppose you’d call it. I like to—to drift around.”
“I don’t blame you for turning out early, the way that Bronson snores up in your cabin. Come ahead out and watch me practice, don’t you want to? I’m the goat, you know.”
“Oh you mean about the cup? You’re Bennett?” Billy asked, rather taken aback.
“Sure, they’re all going around the lake to make a raid on Scout Harris—your prepossessor as Blakeley calls him.”
“My predecessor seems to have them all guessing.”
“So this morning’s my chance to practice, and I’m going to keep at it,” Bennett continued. “I’m off the desserts anyway for the present, and I guess there’s nothing to that kid’s big announcement. He’s a scream, that kid is. He’s a regular institution; I don’t know what we’d do without him; die of ong-wee, I guess. I’d like to know what he’s up to over there. What do you say we paddle over after the parade starts?”
Billy Simpson did not know whether to go out with Bennett or not. A foolish, childish pride deterred him. He was sensible enough to conquer this. Moreover, he did want to see Bennett paddle. Fearful of himself as he was, he was still just a little jealous.
“I’ve got the hang of this twirl pretty good now,” said Bennett as he gave a long pull, sending the canoe gliding out into the lake. “Ever paddle?”
“Only in the dark,” said Billy.
“I’m going to hit it straight for that tree,” said Bennett, “without any straightening up. Can I do it?”
“Guess so.”
“You lose a lot of headway in rudder work. Keep her straight—straighten her with each stroke, that’s the secret.”
“How many of you will be in the race?” Simpson asked.
“Only two of us. You see, we’ve got the cup in our troop. The other troops fight it out among themselves and I have to face the best one of the bunch. Sort of like the world series, only different. But I can see what’s coming all right. That red-headed fellow in the Ohio troop, he’s got me scared. He’s putting them all to sleep one after another. He’s gotmefeeling a little drowsy.”
“He has a jerky stroke?” Billy said, respectfully putting his observation in the form of a question.
“Yes, but he gets there. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, as Pee-wee Harris says.”
“Do you think he’ll succeed with his new patrol?”
“Who, the kid? Oh, I don’t know; he’s a joke. He’s wished onto us. He’s here because he’s here, no matter what he does. Didn’t you know him in Bridgeboro?”
“No, I live across in East Bridgeboro.”
“Oh, I see. Well, here goes for a glide and then breakfast. Now watch.”
Billy Simpson did watch and thought that Bennett paddled skilfully. But he could not help noticing that his companion breathed rapidly. He seemed to spend all his effort in the first part of his stroke, and each pull left him somewhat winded. His stroke seemed remarkably strong and effective, but it was spasmodic. With each stroke he caught the canoe and sent it forward again instead of keeping it going at a smooth, even rate of speed.
The one way would correspond to the action of a one cylinder motor, the other to a two or four cylinder motor. That is to say, the effect of one stroke was not merged into the effect of the next. Whatever this kind of work meant in point of speed, it certainly did not conserve the strength of the paddler.
“They talk to me about the long stroke,” said Bennett, breathing heavily and shaking his falling hair up off his forehead; “but I’m as I am, that’s what I tell them. The best way to do a thing is the way you do it. Isn’t that right? Some fellows bat best left-handed, huh? Results are the things that count.”
“I’ll say so,” said Billy.
“If you ever go in for paddling look out your paddle doesn’t get underneath when you twirl; it just holds you back. Let it get way in back of you—then drag. See, like this.”
Why didn’t Billy Simpson tell how he could actually paddle, using but one hand, all the while keeping the canoe in a bee-line course? Why did he not speak of the back sweep? Of the little trick in the steering twirl? Well, he did not know them by those names, for one thing. He had never had any athletic connections and he had no technical talk. But why on earth didn’t he ask for the paddle for just one little minute and show what he could do with that wonderful wrist of his? Why didn’t he loosen up as he had done with Brent Gaylong? Well, fellows did loosen up with Brent; there was something about him.... Old Doctor Gaylong didn’t have any particular kind of talent to be afraid of. He did not have a name to strike terror to the shy amateur. He was just good old Doctor Gaylong.
And Billy Simpson, he was just Billy Simpson. And that is why he did not tell that he could paddle right or left, it made no difference. He just did not know how in the presence of this self-possessed, easy-going young champion. That was Billy Simpson, all over.
But one thing he did say, and an observant scout might have noticed that he seemed to ponder before saying it.
“You—in the race—you paddle alone?”
“Oh, I’ll have a fellow to steady the canoe. A fellow hasn’t got any control unless he has some weight forward, you know.”
“N—no, I suppose not.”
“A bag of sand is good enough, only there’s no life to a bag of sand. I like to have a pair of eyes looking at me. A girl’s the best thing really, only they don’t fit into a race. I can pick out any fellow I want. Some like more weight than others; it’s just a matter of choice, there’s no rule. I thought of having Pee-wee for my mascot; he yells and creates a breeze and that’s good, you know.”
“Did you promise him.”
“Oh no, it’s early yet.”
A pause followed. Billy seemed to wrestle with himself. Then he spoke.
“Would you be willing to let me do that?”
“Sure—guess so. Only maybe the kid would be disappointed.”
“If you will, I’d like to.”
“It’s only the kid—” Bennett mused doubtfully.
“I asked you first, didn’t I?”
“All right, it’s a go,” said Bennett.
“Thanks,” said Billy Simpson.
When Bennett got to thinking it over afterward he thought it rather strange that this new scout, who had taken Pee-wee’s place in the Raven Patrol, had not seemed disposed to yield this other little post of honor (if indeed it was that) to the redoubtable mascot. That would have been more scoutlike. It put Billy in a rather unpleasant light, that ignoring of Pee-wee, and thinking only of himself. It seemed just a little cold and selfish.
It was the fate of Billy Simpson, not only to have his light hidden under a bushel, but to be misunderstood as well. But how could anyone understand him when he hardly understood himself?...
The expeditionary forces were early in starting. The advance guard, consisting of a few stragglers, set off on the trail around the lake, bent on mischief. They intended to amuse themselves with jollying Pee-wee and making fun of whatever childish claptrap he had contrived.
His famous observation tower near Storehouse Cabin had blown down before he had the chance to take any observations from it. His patented springboard had sprung into the lake and floated away. So the scouts did not think seriously about his bridge. That, too, would collapse if indeed there was one in existence.
But they reckoned without rue, these scouts. When they reached the neighborhood of the cove they became aware that operations in that sequestered spot had been going on on a stupendous scale. At the farthest outpost from headquarters they came face to face with a sign which read: