CHAPTER VLOST

Now I’m going to write until my sister begins playing the piano. Music and literature don’t mix, believe me. There are two cruises in this book, a big one and a little one. You can take your pick. The little one is full of mud and the big one is full of pep. Anyway you get your money’s worth, that’s one sure thing.

This chapter is about the little cruise. But first I have to tell you about the house-boat, because it turned out to be our home sweet home for a couple of weeks. It didn’t only turn out, but it turned in and it turned sideways and every which way. But I’m not going to knock it. It got knocks enough going through the creek and up Bridgeboro River. It knocked into two bridges and goodness knows what all. But what cared we, yo ho? We cared nit—I mean naught.

First Mr. Donnelle showed us through it and it was dandy, only in very poor shape. Its shape was square. But I wouldn’t laugh at it because we had a lot of fun on it. Inside it had two rooms and a little kitchen and the roof had a railing around it and there was lots of room there. There was lots of room on the deck too. And there was a kind of little guard-house, too, to put Pee-wee in if he didn’t behave. Some of the windows were broken, but I knew we could fix them easily. All we needed to do was eat some green apples and then we’d have plenty of panes. There were some lockers too, only one of them was locked and we couldn’t get into it.

I guess the tramp didn’t take anything, because there was nothing missing. I guess all he took was a look around. There were some cushions piled on one of the lockers and they looked as if someone had been sleeping on them. Pee-wee said he could see the oil stove had been used by the smell—he’s got such sharp eyes that he can see a smell. I told him he had a classy eye because there was a pupil in it, and you ought to have seen Mr. Donnelle laugh. I guess he thought we were crazy.

“Well we should worry about the tramp,” I said, “especially now that we have a boat like this. The next thing to do is to bring the whole troop and get her fixed up.”

One thing was easy anyway. Just below Bridgeboro, where we live, there is a kind of a branch flowing into the Bridgeboro River. We always called it the creek. Now we found out from Mr. Donnelle that it started along up above Little Valley. Over there they call it Dutch Creek. He said that at high tide we could float the houseboat right down into Bridgeboro River and then wait for the up tide or else tow it up to Bridgeboro. Cracky, I could see it would be a cinch and I was glad because we fellows didn’t have money enough to have the boat carted by land. But,good night, this way was easy.

The next morning I sent a birch bark call to all the fellows in our troop. I sent them each a little piece of birch bark by courier. Connie Bennett, he’s our courier. And that meant come to Special Meeting—W. S. W. S. means without scoutmaster. So pretty soon they began coming up to Camp Solitaire. That’s the name I gave the tent I have on our lawn. When they were all there, I told them about Mr. Donnelle and the houseboat, and we decided that we’d hike over to Little Valley and pile right in and get it ready instead of bringing it to Bridgeboro first. We decided that if we worked on it for about three days, it would be ready.

So we all started to hike it along the road to Little Valley. We had an adventure before we got there, and I guess I’d better tell you about it. I made a map too, so you can see the way everything was. It’s about five miles to Little Valley by the road.

Well, we were all hiking it along, sometimes going scout-pace and most of the time jollying Pee-wee, when all of a sudden I noticed a mark on a rock that I was sure was a scout mark. It was an arrow and it was marked with a piece of slate. Underneath the arrow was another mark like a pail, so I knew the sign meant that there was water in that direction.

I didn’t know any scouts around our way that could be camping there, but whenever a scout sees a scout sign he usually likes to follow it up. So I told the fellows I was going to follow if there was any time. They said it was an old last year’s mark, but go ahead if I wanted to, and I told them I’d meet them at Little Valley later.

So now comes the adventure. As soon as I left the fellows, I hit the trail into the woods just like you’ll see on the map I made. It wasn’t much of a trail and I guess a fellow couldn’t follow it if he wasn’t a scout. It was all thick woods like a jungle kind of, and I could see where branches had been broken by somebody that passed there. Pretty soon it began to get swampy and there wasn’t any more trail at all.

As long as there’s any sign of a trail you can’t get me rattled, but cracky, I don’t like marshes. You can get lost in a marsh easier than in any other place. Pretty soon I was plodding around deeper than my knees and it gave me a strain every time I dragged my leg out of the swamp. Maybe you’ll wonder why I didn’t go back, but if you do, that’s because you don’t know much about marshes. All of a sudden I was right in the middle of it, as you might say, and there were no landmarks at all.

Pretty soon I was in waist deep and then I was scared, you can bet. If there’s one thing that gets me scared it’s quicksand. As long as I could get my legs out I was all right, but when I began sinking as low as my waist and had to drag myself out by squirming and catching hold of bushes and things, then I lost my nerve—I have to admit it.

I saw I was a fool ever to go into that pesky place, but it was too late and I knew that pretty soon I’d be in too deep to get out. Oh, jiminies, I was scared. Once, after I scrambled out I tried lying flat on the marsh with the reeds laid over sideways underneath me. But they didn’t hold me up and anyway I knew I couldn’t lie that way forever. I wondered how a scout had ever gone through here.

Before I knew how to swim I came mighty near to getting drowned and I got lost in the woods, too, when I was a tenderfoot. But this was worse than anything I ever knew before. Once I sank down almost to my shoulders and I guess I would have been a goner, only my feet struck something hard and flat and I stood on that until I got rested a little.

All the while I looked around to see if I could decide where the land might be a little harder, but I guess I must have been in the worst part of it. I decided that the safest thing I could do was to stand just where I was. I didn’t know what it was I was standing on, but anyway it didn’t seem to sink any, so I was kind of safe there, as you might say. But I knew I could never raise myself out of that place and I’d have to just stand there till I got so tired and hungry, that I’d drop down and be sucked into the marsh.

So anyway, I’d have to die, I was sure of that, only I didn’t want to die any sooner than I had to. Two or three times I shouted as loud as I could, but I knew it wasn’t any use, because I was two or three miles away from any house. Even if anybody knew, I didn’t see how they could get to me and it was only by good luck that I wasn’t dead already on account of the hard thing I was standing on. Every once in a while bubbles would come up and I thought it was because that thing I was standing on was sinking lower. The marsh was just about even with my shoulders and I kept looking sideways at my shoulders all the time, so as to see if I was going down any and sometimes I thought I was. But I guess I wasn’t.

The weeds stood up all around me so I couldn’t see, except up in the air and it was like being in a grave with just my head out. Gee, I thought about the fellows hiking it to Little Valley and beginning work on the house-boat and waiting for me to come, and I could just kind of hear them jollying Pee-wee, and oh, I wished I was there. I was wondering who the Silver Foxes would elect for their patrol leader and then I got to thinking how nobody, not even my mother and father, would ever know what became of me, because you can’t drag a marsh like you can a river. And it seemed kind of funny like, to die without anybody ever knowing what became of you.

Pretty soon my legs began getting very tired like a fellow’s legs always do when he keeps standing in water. Only this was worse than water. I wondered how it would feel when my knees gave out and I sank down.

Then I happened to think about having my hike-book with me. It was all wet and the pencil was wet too, but I held it up high out of the marsh and wrote this on one of the pages. After I wrote it I stuck it up high on one of the marsh weeds.

This is where Roy Blakeley, patrol leader, Silver Fox Patrol, Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A., was sucked down into the marsh, after he couldn’t stand up any more. I was standing on something that was hard and maybe you’ll find my body lying on that. In my desk is something I was going to give my mother for a birthday present. I send her a lot of love too. My father too. And I hope my Patrol gets along all right and that the troop has a lot of fun this summer. I hope somebody will find this.

CHAPTER VITHE TIGHT PLACE

After that I made up my mind I wouldn’t think any more about living and then I was satisfied, kind of. ’Cause as long as you know you’ve got to die, what’s the difference. They could get another fellow to lead the patrol, that’s one sure thing. Mostly I cared about my mother on account of not being able to say good-bye to her.

All of a sudden it seemed as if there was more water around me than before. Up to that time it was mushy, kind of, but not much water. But now it was more like water all around me and I noticed a little bunch of net moss near me. Maybe you don’t know what net moss is. It’s moss that grows in swamps. Well, what do you think I saw lying on that clump of net moss? Cracky, you’d hardly believe it, but it was a spark plug. And it looked funny to see it there.

If you’re not a scout maybe you don’t know anything about camping, but it’s one of our rules not to defile the woods with rubbish and Mr. Ellsworth always told us a tomato can didn’t look right in the woods. Well, jiminety, that spark plug sure did look funny lying on that piece of net moss. It floated right near my shoulder and I lifted it off and, oh, crinkums, but it made me think of Bridgeboro.

It was almost the same as if it was a fellow come to rescue me, as you might say. It was just because it didn’t belong there, I guess. Of course, I knew it couldn’t rescue me, but it reminded me of people and that kind of cheered me up a little.

Then I began to think about it. I remembered what our scoutmaster said about a fellow that’s drowning—that he can think as long as his head is out of water. And this was like drowning, only slower. I was wondering how that spark plug got there. It’s funny how you’ll think about little things like that even when you’re dying.

One thing sure, no automobile ever went through there, and no motorcycle either. Maybe a fellow in an airplane might have dropped it, or maybe—

Then, all of a sudden I began to laugh. And while I was laughing some water flowed into my mouth. But I didn’t care, I was feeling so good. I knew all about the whole thing now, and I felt like kicking myself only my feet were down in all that tangle of marsh. But what cared I, yo ho—and a couple of yee hees.

Oh, I was some wise little boy scout then, and I had a scout smile long enough to tie in a couple of bow knots. That spark plug was thrown out of a motor boat. I could see that the spark points were bad and somebody threw it away because it wouldn’t work and then put in a new one. And I knew that already the tide was beginning to come up and that pretty soon there would be a creek here and that I could swim in it.

Cracky, you can’t scare me when it’s a question of swimming, for I wasn’t brought up in a bath tub. Many’s the time I swam across Black Lake. Water’s all right, but swamps—good night!

Maybe if you don’t live near meadow lands you won’t understand how it was. But when the tide rises twice every twenty-four hours (you learn that in the Fourth Grade), it makes creeks through the meadows and marshes. Some of them are deep enough for small motor boats even, only you’ve got to be careful not to stay up one of them too long or you’ll get stuck till the next day. One time that happened to Ed Sanders that owned theRascaland he was there all night, and he almost died from poison of the mosquitoes. Anyway I would have been dead before night when the mosquitoes come out—that’s one good thing. I don’t mean it’s one good thing, but anyway you know what I mean.

Pretty soon I could push the swamp grass out of the way and swim a little. Oh, cracky, I was thankful for that tide! I knew it would keep on coming when it once started ’cause the tide never goes back on you. Of course it goes back, but you know what I mean. Sometimes if you’re on a hike and telling time by the sun it’ll go under a cloud, or sometimes if you’re lost and following the stars, it’ll cloud up and you can’t see them any more. And crinkums, a trail will go back on you sometimes. But the tide is sure. It’sgotto come up, and so I knew it was coming up to rescue me and I knew I was all right as soon as I saw that spark plug.

Pee-wee wanted to name this chapter “Saved By A Spark Plug” or “The Hero Plug” but I said it sounded silly. Any way I’ll never say another word against the tide. Often when I saw motor boats stuck on the flats I could hear the men in them saying things about the tide—oh, gee, you ought to have heard some of the things they said.

But I’ll never say anything, anyway. It seemed kind of, you know, like an army coming to rescue me, slow but sure, and pretty soon I was swimming around, and oh, didn’t I feel good!

All of a sudden like, there was a little river there and it kept getting deeper and wider and I knew it began away out in the ocean and it seemed as if it was picking its way all the way up into these marshes, to give me a chance to do what every scout knows how to do—swim.

Of course I was saved, but I didn’t know how far I’d have to swim, only I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have to die now.

I guess now you’d better look at the map I made, and then you’ll see how the creek came in the marshes and about where I was, when it began to rise.

Of course I didn’t know where it came from or where it went, but I decided to swim against the tide for two reasons. First I was afraid to go the other way because it might just peter out, like most of those meadow creeks do, and then I’d be in the marsh again. Oh, boy, safety first. I’d had enough of marshes. Besides if I swam the other way it would be deeper and wider and I’d be more likely to find a board or a log or something and pretty soon I might come to solid shores.

But before I started I had another adventure. I took off my shoes and stockings and everything except my underclothes. But of course, that wasn’t the adventure. It was a dandy adventure, but you have to wait, and if it rains to-morrow so we can’t go trailing, I’ll write some more. I think it’ll rain to-morrow.

CHAPTER VIIWEETONKA, THE TERRIBLE CHIEF

Of course you can tell when you look at the map where the creek came from. It came from Dutch Creek and Dutch Creek flows into the Bridgeboro River, and Bridgeboro River rises in the northern part of some place or other and takes a—some kind of a course—and flows into New York Bay. Once I got kept in, in school, for not knowing that. But how should I know where this creek went? Itcame—that was enough for me. I should worry where it went.

Before I started to swim I decided I’d go under and try to find out what it was that I’d been standing on. Because I had to thank it. A boy scout is supposed to be grateful. So I ducked and groped around in the marshy bottom and I felt something hard with a point to it. I had to come up for air, then I ducked again and felt around over it and under it. I joggled it with both my hands and it budged—not much but a little. Then I came up for air and went down and gave a good tug at it.

I guess it was just kind of caught in the mud and weeds for after I pulled some of these away a lot of bubbles came up, and then I got hold of one end of the thing and it stuck up slantingways out of the water like an alligator’s mouth. Oh, gee, it was all slimy and had moss growing to it and it was black and hard. I was crazy to find out what it was and I swam around the end of it, bobbing it up and down. Then I sat on it and rocked it and it joggled. When I straddled it, it went down with me and when I jerked it, it seemed to get loose a little. The end that was sticking up wasn’t very big around, only it was terribly slippery. Anyway, I sat on it and tightened my legs around it just like a fellow does with a balky horse, and then I began jouncing up and down like on a seesaw.

Pretty soon the other end came up and, oh, boy, didn’t I get dumped off into the water. It looked like a slimy old log floating. I gave it a turn and then—g-o-o-d night—what do you think it was? It was a regular Indian dug-out.

I guess maybe it was a hundred years old and you can see it now, if you ever come to Bridgeboro, because it’s in the Museum of our Public Library and you’ll know it because it’s got “Presented by 1st Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A.,” on it.

I guess maybe it was about fifteen feet long and as soon as I cut into it with my scout knife, I saw that it was made of cedar and it wasn’t rotten—not so much, anyway. Jiminies, that’s one good thing about cedar; it lasts forever under water.

Oh, boy, wasn’t I excited. I swam around it washing it off with my scout jacket, then I bailed the little dug out part out with my scout hat. It wasn’t so black when I got it all cleaned off. It was kind of chocolate color and I knew it must be very old, because cedar turns that color after a long time. You learn that in Woodcraft.

It was all made out of one piece and the place where you sit was just hollowed out—about big enough for one person.

Then I got inside and it was crankier than a racing shell. You had to sit up straight like a little tin soldier to keep it from tipping—it was one tippicanoe, you can bet. I fell out and had to roll it over and bail it out two or three times. At last I got the hang of it and I pushed it in the marshes a little way so it wouldn’t drift up stream. There was a regular creek there now, good and wide and deep, and the water was coming up like a parade.

Then I pulled a lot of reeds and bound them together with swamp grass. That was a funny kind of a paddle I guess, but it was better than nothing and anyway I decided to wait till the tide was at flood and then paddle back with it. That would be a cinch.

So then I sat in the dug-out and just waited for the tide to come up. The dug-out stayed where it was on account of being pushed in among the reeds and oh, jiminety, it was nice sitting there. I thought maybe the creek would empty out again into Bridgeboro River and I could tie up there and go home. But I had a big surprise waiting for me, you can bet.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning when I started on that crazy trail and it was about five o’clock in the afternoon when the tide began to turn and go back. All the while I was sitting there waiting I thought about the Indian that owned that canoe. Maybe his bones were down underneath there, I thought. Ugh! I’d like to see them. No, I wouldn’t. Maybe he was on his way to a pow-wow, hey?

Well, after a while when the tide turned I started paddling down. A little water came through a couple of deep cracks, but not much and I sopped it up with my hat. But oh, jingoes, I never had to sit up so straight in school (not even when the principal came through the class-room) as I did in that cranky old log with a hole in it. And oh, you would have chucked a couple of chuckles if you’d seen me guiding my Indian bark with a bunch of reeds. Honest, they looked like a street sweeper’s broom.

After a while the creek began to get wider and then I could see far ahead of me the roof of a house. Then, all of a sudden, I heard somebody shout.

“Don’t bother to plug the hole up, leave it the way it is, so if the water comes in, it can get out again.”

Then I heard a voice shout, “You’re crazy!” and I knew it was the fellows jollying Pee-wee Harris and they were talking about a hole in the boat, because that was the roof I saw. So then I knew I was coming out into Dutch Creek right where it passes Little Valley.

Oh, boy! Wasn’t I excited? Pretty soon I could see the boat and some of the fellows on it working away, sawing and hammering and jollying each other, the way the fellows in our troop are always doing. You can see by the map just how I got to where they were. I guess I must have been as near as fifty feet before Connie Bennett threw down his hammer and shouted.

“Look who’s here!”

Westy Martin was sitting on the edge of the deck dangling his feet and eating a sandwich. Well, you ought to have seen them all stare.

“What in the dickens do you call this?” Wig Weigand hollered.

But I didn’t say a word till I got right close to them, then I gave Westy a good swat with my reed paddle.

“I amWeetonka, the famous Indian chief!” I shouted, “and I haven’t had anything to eat since eight o’clock. Give me that sandwich or I’llscalpyou!”

CHAPTER VIIIRESOPEKITWAFTENLY

This chapter and the next one are mostly about Wigley Weigand, but we usually call him Wig-Wag Weigand, because he’s a cracker-jack on wig-wag signalling. He’s good on all the different kinds of signalling. He’s a Raven, but he can’t help that, because there wasn’t any Silver Fox Patrol when the Raving Ravens started.

The Ravens were the—what do you call it—you know what I mean—nucleusof the troop. That’s how it started. There are about half a million scouts in America andallof them can’t be Silver Foxes, even if they’d like to.

Wig has the crossed flags—that’s the signalling badge; and the fellows say he can make the sky talk. Believe me, he can make it shout. He isn’t so bad considering that he’s a Raven and there’s one good thing about him anyway—and that’s that his mother always gives us cookies and things when we go on a hike. I got a dandy mother, too, and maybe you’ll see how much I think about her, kind of, in the next chapter. Anyway I have to thank Wig Weigand, that’s one sure thing.

Now maybe you think I did a good stunt in that marsh, but a scout doesn’t get credit unless he uses his brains and does everything all right. And that’s where I fell down, and it came near making a lot of trouble, believe me.

Many’s the time Tom Slade (he’s in the war now) told me never to leave a scout sign after it wasn’t any more use. “Scratch ’em out,” he said, “because even if it means something now, it might not mean anything six months from now.” Jiminy, that fellow has some brains. He said, “Never forget to take down a sign when it’s no use any more.”

Well, when I found I wasn’t going to die aterrible death(that’s what Pee-wee called it) I didn’t have sense enough to take away that note that I stuck on the reeds. When I stuck it there I reached up as high as I could, so even when the tide was high up there, I guess it didn’t reach it. I was so excited to find I could get away that I never thought anything about it. And when I sailed into Little Valley in my Indian canoe, gee, I had forgotten all about it.

I found that the troop had done a good day’s work caulking the hull up and slapping a couple of coats of copper paint on it, while the tide was out. So then we decided that as long as the tide was going down, we’d float her down with it to the Bridgeboro River and then wait for the up tide to float her upstream to Bridgeboro. We decided that we’d rather fix her up in Bridgeboro. So you see that this chapter is about the tide, too. Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Donnelle both told me that I must have plenty of movement in my story, so I guess the tide’s a good character for a story, because it’s always moving.

Well, you ought to have seen those fellows when I sailed in shouting that I wasWeetonka, the famous Indian chief. Doc Carson dropped his paint brush on Connie Bennett and he was splashed all over with copper paint—good night!

“Where did you get that thing,” Pee-wee shouted, “it looks like a horse’s trough.”

“You have to part your hair in the middle to ride in it, I can tell you that,” I told him.

“Where were you all the time?” he said.

“I was captured by a band of Apaches,” I said.

“What kind of a band?” Pee-wee yelled.

“A brass band,” I told him; “a brass band of Apaches.”

“You make me sick!” he said, kind of disgusted.

“They took me to their village and were going to burn me at the stake, only the butcher didn’t bring it, then they decided they’d chop me to pieces only the butcher didn’t bring the chops——”

Oh, boy! you should have seen that kid. He fired a wet bailing sponge at me and I dodged it and it hit one of his own patrol—kerflop!

I guess you’ll think all us fellows are crazy, especially me. I should worry. I told them I escaped in the canoe and all that kind of stuff, but at last I told them the real story and you can bet they were glad I was saved. They all said I had a narrow escape, and I admit it was only about an inch wide.

Now, I have to tell you about how we floated the house-boat down to Bridgeboro River, and maybe you’d better look at the map, hey? Oh, but first I want to tell you about the name we gave it. Some name! We christened it with a bottle of mosquito dope. Its regular name was all rubbed off, so we decided we’d vote on a new name.

This is the way we fixed it. Each patrol thought of a name and then we mixed the three names up and made one name out of them. Then you just add a little sugar and serve.

The Ravens voted the nameSprite, the Elks voted the nameFlyand the Silver Foxes voted the nameWeetonka, on account of me. Then we wrote all these letters down and mixed them all up and arranged them every which way, till we got this name:

RESOPEKITWAFTENLY

Oh, boy, some laugh we had over that name. We were all sitting around in the two cabin rooms and believe me, it was some giggling match.

“It sounds like a Bolsheviki name,” Westy Martin said.

“You wait till the infernal revenue people get that name,” I said, “it’ll knock ’em out.” Because, of course, I knew we’d have to send the name to the infernal revenue people—I mean internal or eternal or whatever you call it—because you have to do that to get your license number.

“It’s a good name,” I said, “you don’t see it every day.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Doc Carson said, “it’s as long as a spelling lesson or Pee-wee’s tongue.”

“It’ll be a pretty expensive name; it’ll take a lot of paint,” Brick Warner said.

“We should worry,” I said.

So then I made some coffee, because I’m the troop cook, and we thought it was best to eat before we started. That bunch is always hungry. They said it was punk coffee, but that was because they didn’t bring enough to go around.

“Don’t laugh at the coffee,” I told them, “you may be old and weak yourselves some day.” I made some flapjacks, too, and then we started.

We didn’t have to do much work because the ebb was running good and strong, and we just sat around the deck with our feet dangling over, and pushed her off with our scout staffs whenever she ran against the shores. She didn’t keep head on, but that was no matter as long as she went, and pretty soon (I guess it must have been about seven o’clock) we went waltzing into Bridgeboro River.

And then was when we made a crazy mistake. Just for a minute we forgot that the tide would be running down the river instead of up. If we had only remembered that, three or four of us could have gone ashore with a rope and tied her in the channel, which ran along the near shore. Then all we would have had to do would have been to sit around and wait for it to turn, so we could drift up to Bridgeboro with it.

But just when we were floating out of the creek, we forgot all about what the tide would do to us, unless we were on the job and sure enough it caught us and sent us whirling around and away over on to the flats.

“Good night!” I said when I heard her scrape.

“We should have had sense enough to know the tide is stronger here than in the creek,” they all said.

“What’s the difference?” Dorry Benton said, “we’re stuck on the flats, that’s all. Now we don’t have to bother to tie her. When the tide changes, we’ll float off and go on upstream all right. We’re just as well off as if we were tied up in the channel.”

Well, I guess he was right except for what happened pretty soon. So we settled down to wait for the tide to go down and change. After a while we began to see the flats all around us and there wasn’t any water near us at all—only the water in the channel away over near the west shore. We were high and dry and there wasn’t any way for a fellow to get away from where we were, because he couldn’t swim and he’d only sink in the mud, if he tried to walk it.

Well, while we were sitting around trying to figure out how long it would be before the water would go down and then come up enough to carry us off, Doc Carson said, “Listen!” and we heard the chug of a motor boat quite a long way off. It was getting dark good and fast now, and there was a pretty wide stretch of flats between us and the channel. Pretty soon we could hear voices—all thin, sort of, as if they came from a long way off. That’s the way it is on the water.

“She’s coming down Dutch Creek,” one of the fellows said. After a while another fellow said he thought it was Jake Holden. Then another one said it wasn’t.

“Sure it is,” Connie Bennett said, “listen.” Then as plain as day I could hear the words “crab running,” and then in a minute something about “bad news.” Pretty soon, through the steady chugging I could hear a voice say very plain, “I’m glad it doesn’t have to be me to tell her.”

We couldn’t make them out because it was getting too dark, but it was Jake Holden, the fisherman, all right. Pretty soon the engine began chugging double, sort of, and I knew they were going around the corner into Bridgeboro River, because there’s a steep shore there, and it made an echo.

I was a chump not to realize what they were talking about, but they had chugged around into Bridgeboro River and were heading upstream before it popped into my thick head. And even then it was on account of something else they said, as the chugging grew fainter all the time. It seemed as if I heard it while I was dreaming, as you might say. I knew they were pretty far upstream by now, but the voice was awful clear, like voices always sound across the water, especially in the night.

“He was a nice little fellow,” that’s what it said, “but he had a right to keep out of that place.”

Then, all of a sudden, I knew. They were talking about me. They must have been up that creek fishing and found that note of mine. And they were going to tell my people as soon as they got home.

“Holler to them, fellows!” I said; “quick—all together.”

I guess the fellows must have thought I was crazy, but they hollered for all they were worth. But it was no use, for nobody answered. I guess the wind must have been blowing our way or something—anyway, they didn’t pay any attention. Then pretty soon I couldn’t hear the chugging any more at all.

Oh, jiminies, but I felt bad. Maybe you think that as long as I escaped and would get home all right I ought to be satisfied. But that’s because you don’t know anything about my mother. When my brother died I saw how she acted and the doctor said she had to stay in bed two or three days on account of her heart being not just right. Maybe he thought it would stop, I guess. And, gee, I didn’t want her to hear any bad news, even if it wasn’t true. ’Cause I knew just how she’d act—I could just see her, sort of. I guess I was kind of thinking about it and how it would be when Jake Holden went to the house, and how she’d have to wait five or six hours, maybe till morning, before she saw me, when all of a sudden I heard Will Dawson of my patrol say, “What’s the matter, Blakey?”—he always calls me Blakey.

But I didn’t pay any attention to him, because I couldn’t speak—exactly. I didn’t seem to see any of the troop, I only just saw my mother standing, maybe kind of unsteady like, and listening to Jake Holden.

Then all of a sudden I walked straight over to where the Ravens were all sitting on the cabin roof. And I spoke to Wigley Wig-wag Weigand. I said—this is just what I said—I said, “Wig, I always claimed Ralph Warner was the best signaller in the troop and maybe you’ll remember I was mad when you got the badge. But now I ain’t mad, and I ain’t jealous, only I don’t want those men to go and tell my mother I’m dead—I—I don’t. I forgot to take the note away and they’re going to tell her and she—she has—her heart isn’t very strong like. There’s only one fellow in the troop can do it—it’s you. You can do it. You can do anything, signalling. I’ve got to admit it now, when I need you. You’re a Raven, but I want you to signal, quick. They’ll see it in town. You’re the only fellow can do it—you are. I got to admit it.”

He didn’t say much because he isn’t much on talking. He’s always studying the Handbook. But he jumped down and he just said, “I’ll fix it.”

And I knew he would.

CHAPTER IXTHE LAST LETTER

Then Elmer Sawyer (he’s a Raven) came up to me and said, “He’ll do it, Roy; don’t worry. And they’ll get it too, because everybody in town is out these nights looking at the searchlights down the Hudson.”

That was one lucky thing. A lot of cruisers and torpedo boats were down in the harbor and up the Hudson, and we could see their searchlights even in Bridgeboro.

Wig looked all around the cabin as if he was hunting for something and then he said, “No searchlight, I suppose.” If we had only had a searchlight it would have been easy, but there wasn’t any on board.

“Don’t you care,” Pee-wee said to me, “he’ll think of a way.” Oh, jiminy, but he was proud of Wig. I could see that Wig was thinking and for just a few seconds it seemed as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to do.

“Can you smudge it?” Connie Bennett asked.

“Guess so,” he said, “you fellows rip open the ends of these cushions, but don’t tear the covering any, and somebody get the stove cleared out; see if there’s a damper in the pipe, and see if there’s any bilge under the flooring. It’ll take those fellows about twenty minutes to chug up to Bridgeboro.”

Well, in two seconds he had us all flying every which way, Elks, Silver Foxes and all.

We didn’t have to open more than one of the seat cushions and, lucky thing, we found it full of excelsior. That makes a good smudge.

“Only you’ve got to treat it,” Wig said.

“Treat it!” I said; “I’ll treat it to all the ice cream it can eat, if it’ll only help you to send the message.” I was feeling good now.

“Take it down in the bilge and treat it,” he said, very sober like, to one of his patrol.

“Don’t let it spend a cent,” I called after him. But I didn’t go because I could see he would rather have Ravens help him. You can’t blame him for that. In about half a minute they came upstairs and they had a lot of the excelsior all damp, but not exactly wet, and I don’t know how they got it that way, except I know there was bilge water down under the flooring. They’re a lot of cracker-jacks on signalling, I’ll say that much for them.

There was a stove in the main cabin with a stovepipe going straight up through the roof like a smoke stack and there was a damper in it right near the stove.

“Get a handbook or a pocket code,” somebody said, “so he’ll have the signs right near him.”

“He doesn’t need any signs,” Pee-wee shouted, disgusted like.

Well, this is the way Wig did it, and after he got started, most of us went up on the roof to see if we could read it. But that’s mighty hard to do when you’re right underneath it.

By the time the fellows came upstairs with the damp excelsior (that’s what they call the smudge) Wig had a good fire started in the stove.

“Lay that stuff down here,” he said; then he said to me, “What do you want to say?”

“Just say I’m safe, Wig,” I told him. “Say for them not to pay any attention to what they hear.”

I only waited long enough for him to get started, just so as to see how he did it, then I went up on the roof and watched the long black smoke column. Cracky, I was glad it was moonlight, that’s one sure thing.

As soon as he had a good fire started he stuffed some of the damp excelsior in and shut the door, and told Artie Van Arlen (he’s their patrol leader) to hold a rag over the crack in the door, because the black smoke was pouring out that way, especially because the damper in the pipe was shut.

I didn’t stay there long, because the smoke was too thick for me and when I saw Artie bind a wet rag over Wig’s eyes and mouth, I knew then it was going to be mighty bad in that little cabin.

“Have another ready,” I heard him say; “better have three or four of them.”

Then he put his hand on the damper in the pipe and turned it and then the smoke in the cabin wasn’t so bad. He just turned it around quick and kept turning it around and that let little puffs of smoke through, and I heard the fellows up on the roof shouting, “Hurrah!” so I knew it was working all right. He sent up a lot of little puffs like that, just so as to draw attention, and he kept doing it so long I got impatient.

“No use talking till you know somebody’s listening,” he said, kind of pleasant like to me. I guess maybe he never liked me very much, because I didn’t want that badge to get into their patrol, and anyway he’s kind of sober, sort of, and maybe he thought I had too much nonsense. But, oh, boy, I was strong for him now. And I could see how he began to cough and I was worried.

Then he groped around to get hold of the damper, for he was blindfolded and the smoke in there was getting thicker and thicker. Then he gave it a quick turn, then waited a few seconds, then held it lengthwise with the pipe for about twenty seconds.

RI said to myself.

Then he opened the damper three times, each about twenty seconds, and I could hear the fellows up on the roof shouting.

“O! It’s a good O! Bully for Wig Weigand!”

“Give me another towel, quick,” he said to Artie. “Is the window open? You better go up, Kid.”

It was the first time he ever called me kid and he had to cough when he said it. But I just couldn’t move. There was something in my throat and my eyes that wasn’t smoke, and I said, “I can stand it if you can—Wig.”

“Go on up, kid,” he said, “we’ve—got—got—her—talking—now,” and he coughed and choked.

“Go on up, Roy,” Artie Van Arlen said.

Up on the roof all the fellows were sitting around the edge with their legs over, watching the black column in the sky, and shouting when they read the letters. But I was thinking about those fellows down in that cabin filled with smoke and how they were doing that all on account of me.

“Pretty smoky down there,” one of the Elks said to me.

“You said something,” I told him.

“He’s marking up the sky all right, if he can only stick it out,” another fellow said. “Who’s down there with him?”

“Artie,” I said.

“They’ll stick it out, all right,” Westy Martin said; “it’s easier for Artie, he can stay near the window.”

“Bully for you, Wig, old boy!” somebody shouted, just as the E inSAFEshot up. And I knew what it meant—it meant that the wordsRoy is safehad been printed in great big black letters across the sky.

Then it came faster and faster and it seemed as if he must be turning that damper like a telegraph operator moves his key. “Don’t worry,” it said, “reports false,” “Roy Blakeley safe,” “Roy safe,” “Blakeley alive.” He said it all kinds of different ways.

Once Artie came up coughing and choking and watched a few seconds to see if the wind was blowing the smoke away as fast as the signs were made, because that was important.

“It’s lucky we have that wind,” he said, and then went down again in a hurry.

Pretty soon we could see some searchlights far away and I guess they were on the ships. But ours was different and nearer to Bridgeboro, and people would be sure to see it, only maybe they wouldn’t understand it and that’s what made me worry. I’m good on reading smudge signals, even though I never sent many and I never have to have theHandbookwhen I read the code, that’s one thing. And I didn’t pay much attention to all the talking and yelling, only kept my eyes up in the sky, watching that long smoky column. It beat any searchlightyouever saw. “Roy alive”—“Roy alive” it kept saying and sometimes “don’t worry.” I didn’t see how any fellow could manage a smudge and send it so fast and keep his spaces. The last word before it stopped wasSAFE, or that’s what it was meant to be, only the short flash for E didn’t come. The fellows all began shouting when there wasn’t any more, and I heard Pee-wee shout downstairs, “Aren’t you going to put the name of the boat?”

“Do you want him to crack the sky open?” I heard a fellow say, and they all laughed.

But I remembered how that last E didn’t come and I started down the ladder for all I was worth. I scrambled around the narrow part of the deck to the window and called, but nobody answered. The smoke was coming out thick.

“Wig,” I said, “are you there? Are you all right? Artie, where are you?”

I had to turn away my face on account of the smoke. I pulled off my scout scarf and tied it over my mouth, so that it covered my ears too. Then I looked in and down low, because I knew that the smoke wouldn’t be so thick near the floor. And I saw Wig Weigand lying there right under the stove pipe and his hand was reaching up holding the damper, and his hand was all white like and his eyes were wide open and staring. Then I shouted for all I was worth.

“Doc! come down—hurry! Send Doc Carson down, Wig Weigand is dead—he’s suffocated.”

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