CHAPTER XTHE RAVENS
Doc Carson is a Raven and he’s our First Aid Scout. He always has some things with him, because that’s our rule. But you can bet I didn’t wait for him. And I didn’t care if I was killed or not, I didn’t, if Wig Weigand was killed.
So I jumped right through the window and the smoke got into my eyes and made my ears ring, but I didn’t care. I could taste it all thick, too, but I didn’t care. That was the smoke that had to do what Wigley Weigand told it to, and he scribbled all over the sky with it, that’s what he did, and now it had turned around and killed him.
I knew that up to six or seven inches from the floor there is never much smoke and I knew he must have lain down low when he was almost unconscious and worked that damper. And those fellows up there had been laughing and cheering all the while, when he was lying there like that.
I didn’t see Artie anywhere and there wasn’t any sound. I lay down flat and crawled over to Wig and you bet I worked quick. I tied his hands together with my scout scarf—it was the Silver Fox scarf—and I tied the scarf around my neck.
“Wig,” I said, but he didn’t speak and his legs and his neck hung loose, sort of, and it kind of scared me. Then I crawled to the window, because I couldn’t see the door, dragging him after me. Then I did something I never thought I could do, but maybe you’ve noticed you can do most anything when you have to. I just stood up, then fell down again, coughing and choking, and my ears were buzzing all the time. But I didn’t care, I just stood up again with him hanging to me, and I grabbed the window sill and dragged him half way across it and with his head outside, and then I staggered and tried to grab something and my eyes were stinging and, oh, I don’t know, all of a sudden my head knocked and I didn’t know any more.
Mr. Ellsworth says that Doc ought to write the rest of this chapter, but he wouldn’t, and it’s just like him. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the lowest step and Connie Bennett was holding my head. “You’re all right,” he said, “but you got a good bump. You were only there a few seconds.”
“Did you pull me out?” I said. “Where’s Wig?”
“Doc brought him around,” he said, “he got him breathing, then it was easy. We can’t find Artie.”
Maybe it was funny, but just then I didn’t seem to be thinking about Artie. I felt my head and found I had a big bump on it. “I should worry about that,” I said. “Where’s Wig?”
Then I got up and went around the cabin to the forward deck and there were all the fellows and Wig sitting up and Doc Carson holding him and moving him, so as to keep him breathing—scout fashion.
“All righto, kid,” Doc said, kind of pleasant, “you’re a brick.”
I always thought that I was as big as he was, but he called me kid, and I didn’t care. Anyway, I couldn’t see him very good, I admit that. Because—oh, well, maybe you can understand.
“Artie’s missing,” he said. “You didn’t see anything of him in there?”
“I couldn’t see at all, hardly,” I told him.
Then Wig turned his head and looked at me and he was all white and weak looking, especially when he smiled. And he had the remains of my Silver Fox scarf, all torn, around his neck.
“All right?” he said very low.
But I just couldn’t speak to him. I don’t know what made me do it, but I went up to him and he looked at the bump on my forehead and said, “Hurt?”
“You should worry about that,” I told him. Then I kind of fixed the Silver Fox scarf better, so that it was around his neck and I tied it in the Silver Fox knot. “Your fellows won’t mind if you wear it a little while,” I said, and then I unfastened his own scarf, yellow and brown, and tied it around my neck. “There’s no fellow can get this away from me to-night,” I said, “I’m going to wear the Raven scarf—I am.”
Then, all of a sudden, I noticed that Doc had gone away and I was holding his head up alone. So I let it down on the cushion very easy and I saw we were all alone. Maybe you won’t understand and it’s hard to tell you. But I didn’t say anything; I just stayed there and rubbed his forehead.
“We told her,” he said, kind of as if he was weak and tired.
“Yop,” I said, “you told her.”
“Somebody’ll get it—maybe,” he said.
“I ain’t thinking about that,” I said, “I’m only thinking about how you did it. I—I don’t want the signalling badge in my patrol now, honest I don’t, Wig. I want it to stay where it belongs. And I want there to be only just the one in the troop. I got mad first. That’s because I’m always getting mad, I guess. But there will never be any signalling badge in my patrol, Wig. That’s going to be the rule.”
“There’ll be a Gold Cross though,” he said. And then he shut his eyes.
But I stayed right there—just because—oh, I don’t know, just because I wanted to stay right there. You can’t always tell why you want to do a thing.
CHAPTER XILOST
Now when Wig said that about the Gold Cross I thought it was just because he was weak and didn’t know what he was saying. Because, maybe you know as well as I do, that the Gold Cross isn’t so easy to get. Only one fellow in our troop ever got it, and that was Tom Slade. Maybe I took a chance when I went into all that smoke, I’m not saying I didn’t, but if I got anything at all, it would be the Bronze Medal, I guess, but nix on the Gold Cross. You don’t find gold crosses growing around on every bush, you can bet. Anyway, I didn’t want any honor medal because I knew Wig wouldn’t get one (because they’re only for lifesaving) and, gee, if he didn’t deserve one, I’m sure I didn’t.
Anyway this wasn’t any time to be thinking about medals, because Artie Van Arlen was missing and that was the principal thing we had to think about. He wasn’t on the house-boat, that was one sure thing, because we looked everywhere and couldn’t find him. Wig said he remembered somebody speaking to him when he was lying there, and he guessed it must have been Artie. He didn’t know what he said though.
The fellows were all excited about it, especially because the boat was just beginning to float, and we didn’t know whether we’d better anchor there and wait to see if he turned up. Two of the fellows climbed down and swam around and the rest kept calling. It wasn’t very deep yet and they could even feel around the flats, but they couldn’t find him anywhere.
I went around and looked at the window and even then the cabin was filled with smoke, but not so thick. Believe me, I wished that Tom Slade was there then, because he’s great on deducing and finding clues and all like that. That’s why we always called him Sherlock Nobody Holmes. Anyway, I couldn’t make out what happened. Artie might have staggered up against the window to get air, but I didn’t see how he could fall out, and if he was able to climb out then why didn’t he come up where the rest of us were?
I couldn’t make anything out of it; all I knew was he was gone. I knew he must have been drowned and his body been carried up by the tide, which was running up strong now.
Well, you can bet we didn’t have any fun drifting up. Nobody said anything much; we just sat around the edge of the deck with our staffs and pushed her off, whenever she ran against the shore.
Charlie Seabury sat next to me and after a while he said, “Who’s going to tell his people?”
“I am,” I told him, “because I’m to blame for the whole business.”
“Nobody’s to blame,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I said, “they just did it on account of me.”
“That’s because all the fellows like you,” he said, “and they like to do anything for you.”
Anyway, it wasn’t so necessary, I see that now, and it’s just the same as if I killed him. Gee, I wish it was I that got killed, I know that. Cracky, I deserved to after being such a fool.
After that, nobody spoke for a long time, then Hunt Ward, who’s in the Elk Patrol, said, “It’s the first fellow in our troop that died. I guess we won’t go up to camp now.”
“Not in this boat, anyway,” I said.
Then after a while I said, “We’ll send his name in and they’ll print it inBoys Life.”
“I know,” Hunt said, “with a black line around it.”
Yet we kind of kept hoping all the time, even though we knew there wasn’t any sense in it.
“Youthoughtyouwere a goner,” Hunt said, “and you came back all right.”
Now I was a big fool that it didn’t put a certain idea in my head when he said that, but I only said, “Yes, but that was different.”
Then Dorry Benton, who was two or three fellows away from me, said, “One thing is sure, he went through the window and into the water. Maybe he was half conscious and didn’t remember there was only a narrow strip of deck there. And he must have tumbled right off it.”
“I don’t know,” I said, “only if he isn’t in the boat then he must be in the water and if he fell in the water and couldn’t swim or shout either, then he must be drowned.”
Then nobody said anything and we just sat there keeping her off shore and watching her drift up. When we got around Bentley’s turn we could see the lights in Bridgeboro and then was when I began to realize and I hated to get home. I wished the tide wouldn’t take us so fast. Some of the fellows walked around on the roof, but none of them said anything. I wished it was me instead of Artie, I know that. I ought to have been satisfied to escape without getting the Ravens to do that—I mean send that message for me. Anyway, I made up my mind I’d be the one to tell Mr. Ellsworth about it, and Artie’s people too, and I’d take all the blame.
I guess nobody said anything more all the way up, until we came near the Field Club landing. The shore is like low cliffs here and after we got her over against it, a couple of the fellows got out and towed her along with ropes, till we came to the long float.
“Are we going to tie her at the float?” Connie Bennett asked, very sober like. Gee, it sounded funny to hear someone speak. Doc Carson said, “Yes.” He was kind of like head of the three patrols now, because he has the most sense of all of us, I guess, and Tom Slade, who is head of the Elks, is away and I decided, all of a sudden, that I wasn’t much of a patrol leader, and Artie—he was—he wasn’t there.
“Look out for that canoe,” somebody said, just as we were coming alongside the float.
“They shouldn’t have left it there,” Connie said; “that’s no place for a canoe.” I guess we were all kind of nervous and cranky like.
Then I saw that there was a black figure sitting on the lowest step of the boathouse. I was just going to call “Who’s there?” when Doc said, “Pull that canoe out of the way before we smash it in.”
So I jumped off onto the float and grabbed the canoe, and g-o-o-d night! it was my Indian dugout.
CHAPTER XIIARTIE’S ADVENTURE
Then I heard one of the fellows shouting, “Look who’s here!” and I saw the fellow who had been sitting on the steps coming toward the float, and I could tell it was Artie Van Arlen. Then I could hear Pee-wee dancing on the cabin roof and screaming, “The plot grows thicker! The plot grows thicker!”—good night, the kid was almost having a fit.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” I said to Artie, “would you please relate your adventures. I see that you’re not dead.”
“Well, not so you’d notice it,” he said, “but I guess I came pretty near it.”
Then I could see he was all in and must have had a pretty hard time of it, but I couldn’t help kidding him, because I was feeling so good to know he was safe. Believe me, that fellow had some adventure.
“It was lucky for me,” he said, “that you tied this crazy canoe or whatever you call it——”
“That is an Indian dugout, if anyone should ask you,” I said, “and if I wanted to sell it to an antiquary——”
“A what?” Pee-wee shouted down from the cabin roof.
“An antiquary,” I said; “comes from the Latin wordauntand the Chinese wordquery, meaning toask questions—otherwise the same as Pee-wee. As I was saying, if I wanted to sell it to an antiquary I could get a large check for it.”
“How large?” Pee-wee shouted.
“About eight inches by two and a half inches; now, shut up!” I said.
Cracky, you should have heard those fellows laugh.
“Well, whatever it is,” said Artie, “it’s lucky for me that you tied it just under the cabin window, because I fell into it—I fell in good and hard.”
“I think you fell in soft,” I said; “it shows how thoughtful I am. A scout is foresighted——”
“You make me sick!” Pee-wee shouted.
“Tell Doc Carson to give you some medicine,” I answered.
Laugh! Because, you see, we were all feeling so good about Artie being saved that we’d laugh at nothing, like a lot of girls. But girls are all right, I have to admit that.
Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, I was telling you about Artie. You see when I first arrived with that canoe I tied it just under the cabin window and then scrambled up through the window. So there it was all the time. Lucky thing, too. Only the funny thing was we never missed it—we were punk scouts, that’s sure.
Then Artie told us how it was. “After the smoke got so thick that I was dizzy and couldn’t see, I got scared and groped around for Wig. I couldn’t find him anywhere and he didn’t answer. I didn’t know whether all of the signal had been sent or not, but anyway I knew I couldn’t stand it in there any longer. I thought Wig must have climbed out of the window. So I decided I would do the same thing. Oh, but didn’t I have some job finding it! I lay down flat, I knew enough to do that anyway, and then I crawled around with one hand up feeling for the window sill. When I found it I was so dizzy I just hung to it and I thought I was a goner sure.”
“I know how you felt,” I said, “because I was in the same trouble myself.”
Then he said how he dragged himself up to the window sill and tried to shout, but couldn’t. Then he fell across it and kind of wriggled out. He didn’t have his senses, but he knew enough to know that there was a narrow part of the deck, just a passageway sort of, outside, and he thought he’d fall on that. But it was lucky he didn’t. He fell past it right into the water and that brought him to his senses, kind of. So he sputtered and groped around till he happened to clutch the Indian dugout and it rolled over with him and the anchor that we had laid in it with a rope to hold it fast to the houseboat, the anchor rolled out, and the first thing he knew he was drifting up the river, hanging onto the dugout for dear life.
He was feeling so weak and sputtering so on account of his lungs being all filled with smoke, that he couldn’t shout and after a while he drifted up on the bar near Second Bend. Then he got the dugout set right side up on the mud while he bailed it out by splashing in it with his hands and afterwards making them into a cup.
After that it was easy drifting up stream and when he got to about a quarter of a mile below the boathouse, he managed to paddle over to the shore and then he pulled himself along by holding on to the weeds and things.
“You had a pretty narrow escape,” Pee-wee said.
“It was a narrow boat, why shouldn’t he have a narrow escape,” I said; “I had a good wide escape, anyway.”
“Didn’t you have your hat with you to bail with?” somebody asked Artie.
“All I had was my copy ofInitiation Drill,” he said.
“Why didn’t you drill a hole in the boat then,” I said.
“What for?” Pee-wee shouted.
“So the water could get out as fast as it came in.”
“What are you talking about? You’re crazy!” he yelled.
“There should be two holes in every boat,” Connie Bennett said, in that slow way he has; “one for the water to come in and the other so it can get out.”
Gee-williger!You should have seen Pee-wee.
Anyway, I suppose you think by this time that we’re all crazy. I should worry.
CHAPTER XIIITRACKING
Anyway, you can bet I didn’t stay there long, because I wanted to find out if Wig’s signal had been received. Maybe you won’t understand, but down the river it seemed all right and I was sure somebody must have caught it. But after we landed and I started up home, it seemed as if it was just kind of playing, after all, because that’s the way some people think about the scouts, so I hurried as fast as I could so that my mother and father wouldn’t be worrying. I felt awfully funny, kind of, as I went up the lawn because I knew that if no one had come and told them about the signal, they’d think I was dead.
They were sitting on the porch waiting for me and I knew from the way my mother put her arms around me that they had been worrying. She asked we what had kept me so late and my father said that I ought to send them some word when I was going to stay out as late as midnight. I have to admit he was right, too.
But anyway, I knew that they hadn’t received any word about me from anybody, and I was all up in the air about that. I could see that Jake Holden hadn’t been there at all and that nobody had come and told them about the signal, either. I didn’t exactly ask them, but I could tell it all the same. So I told them all about everything that happened, about how I got caught in the marsh and all that, and especially about Wig being such a hero. Then she cried a little, kind of, and I said there was no use crying because I was home all right. But anyway, she cried just the same, and hugged me awful tight just as if everything hadn’t ended all right. That’s a funny thing about mothers.
So then I went to bed and I lay awake thinking about everything that happened. What I thought about most was why Jake Holden hadn’t come and told my mother and father like I heard him say he was going to do. You remember how I heard him say that. So that was a mystery—that’s what Pee-wee would call it. And I was wondering why he hadn’t come to the house to give them that note he had found. Because I knew Jake Holden (he always called me “Scouty”) and he liked me, too, and I knew he would sure have come to the house if something hadn’t happened.
Now that I was all calmed down, as you might say, I wasn’t surprised any more about no one reading the signal, because maybe it didn’t show very plain in Bridgeboro and anyway, most grown people seem to think that signalling and all that kind of thing are lots of fun for scouts, but not much use except when grown people, and especially the navy, do it.
Anyway, I should worry about grown people, because we have plenty of fun.
Oh, boy, didn’t I sleep that night! When I got up I made up my mind that I’d go to Jake Holden’s shanty, just for the fun of it, and find out why he didn’t come and tell my family that I was dead. Because, if I was dead, he sure ought to have come and told them. Of course, I knew Iwasn’tdead, but anyway, how did he know that?
After breakfast I did my good turn—I turned my sister Ruth’s bed around for her so as it faced the bay window. I was going to turn it twice and call it two good turns, but she said that wouldn’t be fair—that that wouldn’t be two good turns. I said it would be just as fair as Pee-wee turning the ice-cream freezer till the cream was all frozen and then saying he did a hundred good turns. Then she threw a tennis ball at me, but it missed me. That’s one thing about girls, they can’t throw a ball. They can’t whistle, either.
Now comes another adventure. After breakfast I went to Marshtown (that’s a few houses down near the river) to Jake Holden’s shanty. It’s a funny kind of a place made out of barrel staves and part of a boat all jumbled up together, and it looks kind of like a chicken coop. He lives all alone and kind of camps out. He’s a nice man, you can bet, only you have to get on the right side of him. If you don’t get on the right side of him the safest place is behind him. He catches fish and crabs and goes around town selling them. He taught me how to cook.
When I got to his shanty I saw it was locked up and he wasn’t anywhere around. I guess he went down the bay crabbing. Anyway, I ran as fast as I could to Marshtown landing to see if he had gone yet, but there wasn’t any sign of his boat there. Maybe you think I wasn’t disappointed. Anyway, I began looking around like a scout is supposed to do, to see if there were any signs to show me whether he’d be back soon, because maybe he only went up to the Club landing for gasoline. But there weren’t any signs and he didn’t show up.
Now, if I hadn’t been a scout I would have gone home and played tennis or followed the shore up to the Club landing and waited for the troop to come and go to work on the houseboat. But instead of that, I kept looking around and pretty soon what do you think I saw? I saw a footprint. Some Robinson Crusoe, hey?
It was a funny kind of a footprint. It wasn’t Jake’s, I knew that, because he always wore fisherman’s boots. It was in the soft earth near the landing and I could see it plain. I guess maybe it was made by a good shoe, because it was pointed, but it was all worn out, that was one sure thing, because there was a place that was made by a stocking or a bare foot, where there wasn’t any sole at all.
Maybe you don’t know much about deduction, but that’s one thing scouts learn about, and I tried to make out what it meant, but it had me guessing. Because the shoe was pointed and had the remains of a rubber heel—I could tell that by the big screw holes. And that meant good shoes. And I thought it was funny anybody who could wear good shoes would let them wear out like that.
Anyway, it was none of my business, only there was one mighty funny thing about that footprint. There was an Indian’s head stamped right in the mud. It wasn’t very plain, but I could see it was an Indian’s head all right. It was something like the Indian’s head on a cent.
Oh, boy, I was all up in the air then, because I didn’t understand how that could be there. Maybe you’ll say that it was stamped there to show what make of shoes they were, but that’s where you’re wrong, because most of the sole was all worn away and the mark would be worn away, too. Somebody must have cut it there lately, that was one sure thing, and I couldn’t understand why anybody would want to cut that on an old worn-out shoe.
So I sat down on the edge of the float to think about it and then I saw two or three more just like it, and even more, too, only not all of them were so plain. Believe me, I didn’t know what to think. Then all of a sudden I happened to remember that the Indian’s head is the design of the scout pathfinder badge.
Jiminety, but didn’t I get down on my knees and study those some more. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the scouts, but maybe it did.
And even if it did I couldn’t make out what it meant, because that shoe was no scout shoe. I know a scout shoe when I see one, you can bet.
Anyway, I made up my mind I was going to follow that track as far as I could. Maybe it would peter out on a street or something and then—good night!
You’ll see what happened in the next chapter. Oh, boy, it’s going to be apeacherino!
CHAPTER XIVTHE SLACKER
One thing, I wished Tom Slade was there, because he was the best tracker we ever had. He could track an airplane—that’s what the fellows used to say. But he was over in France and the only other fellow in our troop who is a cracker-jack at tracking, is Westy Martin. I don’t say that just because he’s a Silver Fox, because I have to admit that Artie Van Arlen and Wig Weigand are heroes, and they’re not Silver Foxes. But, honest, Westy is a winner when it comes to tracking, and you’ve got to remember that, because now I’m going to tell you some other things about him and maybe you won’t know just what to think. But I’m going to tell you straight just what happened.
Well, I decided that I’d rather have another fellow with me, because that’s a good rule in tracking and anyway two fellows are better than one. And anyway, I knew he could hold a track longer than I could. He got the pathfinder’s badge for one of the best tracking stunts that was ever done up at Temple Camp and he’s done enough tracking stunts to win it two or three times over. He’s a fiend on tracking.
By now I knew that the fellows would all be coming down to the boat club landing to work on the houseboat, because we had it fixed that they would all be there by nine o’clock. I wasn’t going to flunk on that, you can bet, but I thought if I told them about the footprint they’d let Westy and me off for a little while, because if a scout is after a merit badge he can usually get leave all right. Anyway, that’s the way it is in our troop. And all the fellows knew I had the tracking bee, all right.
Gee, I hate to tell you about this, but I have to. Now, the way you get from Marshtown landing up to the boat club landing is to follow the shore and its only about a quarter of a mile. After I’d hiked it a little way, I could hear the fellows talking and sawing and hammering, and I knew they were all busy working.
When I got there they were all over the houseboat like flies, painting and varnishing and fixing up the flagpole, and I could hear Pee-wee as usual, shouting away. Jiminy, but it sounded good. Then I could hear somebody say, “Well, well, better late than never,” and I saw it was our scoutmaster, Mr. Ellsworth. He took a day off to help the fellows.
“I’m only six minutes late,” I said; “Silver Foxes always show up.”
“Well, let us hope so,” Mr. Ellsworth said. And I kind of saw that something was wrong. “Westy isn’t here,” somebody shouted.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” I said; “get to work; you should worry about Westy.”
But just the same I felt sort of uncomfortable because one thing Mr. Ellsworth is a stickler about is us being on time. Whenever a scout comes late for campfire up at Temple Camp or at a troop meeting either, he always gets a look from T. E. At camp we have breakfast at 7:42 and lunch at 1:23 and supper at 7:13, just to teach the fellows to go by minutes.
Anyway, I started working with my patrol, who were painting the deck. I stuck right to it, but all the time I was wishing that Westy would show up. Every time I heard a sound I looked up. Because maybe you don’t know that a patrol leader is responsible for his patrol and if one of them falls down, it’s just the same as ifhefell down. First the fellows kidded us about it, especially me, and spoke about the Tardy Foxes, and the Sleepy Foxes, but pretty soon Mr. Ellsworth came to me and said he guessed I’d better go into the club house and telephone to Westy and find out what was the matter.
“Find out if he’s awake yet,” somebody said.
“Maybe we’d better send a taxi for him,” another fellow shouted.
“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?” I said, “Maybe you raving Ravens won’t rave so much when you find out he’s sick in bed.”
So I went in and telephoned, and oh, jiminy, that was the first time in my life that I ever really wished a fellow was sick. But his mother told me he hadn’t been home since about half-past seven and that when he went out he had a catching-mit and a baseball with him.
Jiminies, I don’t often get scared, but I could feel my heart up in my mouth, kind of, and I didn’t know what to tell the fellows and Mr. Ellsworth. It was like a disgrace to my patrol and it disgraced me, too, you can bet. He would go off and play ball and let us fellows do all the work on the boat and then he’d go in it up to Temple Camp. Gee, that’s one thing a scout never is—mean. We had it all fixed up to work and then he flunked and let us do it all.
First I thought maybe I’d kind of not tell Mr. Ellsworth all about that ’phone call and say I couldn’t hear very plain, and all like that. But I saw if I did that, I’d be worse than Westy. It was bad enough having a slacker in my patrol without having a liar.
No, siree!
So I just went up to him and I said, “Mr. Ellsworth, he’s out playing ball somewheres and I guess he didn’t intend to come. I admit it disgraces my patrol and it disgraces the whole troop. I was going to ask you if you thought maybe I could go away for an hour or so to follow a track I found, but I won’t now; I’ll just stay here and work twice as hard so as to make up for him. And the other fellows in my patrol will too. Maybe that will make it seem not quite so bad.”
CHAPTER XVDURING NOON HOUR
One of the things that made me feel especially bad was that Wig Weigand and Artie Van Arlen were there working, even after being nearly killed the night before, and Artie was kind of lame, too, from straining his ankle when he fell. Gee, I had to hand it to those fellows. And even Pee-wee was working away with the rest of the Ravens and running to buy nails and everything. Both of the other patrols were all there except Tom Slade in the Elks, but they kept his place open for memory, sort of.
After a little while Mr. Ellsworth strolled over to where I was working and said to me—gee, he was awful nice the way he said it—he said, “Roy, if you want to follow up that trail you may as well go ahead and come back after lunch. We’re going to hit the eats pretty soon now.” That’s the way he always says it, “hit the eats.”
“I was expecting Westy to go with me,” I told him.
“Well, no matter,” he said; “go alone and don’t worry any more about Westy. It wasn’t because Westy or any other single scout was needed here for we have plenty of scouts on the job, but it was just that he didn’t show up when we all planned to be here, that’s all. I don’t like to think of any of my scouts falling down.”
“It’s the same about my patrol,” I said, “and I’m ashamed, that’s one sure thing.”
He said I shouldn’t feel that way and that he guessed playing baseball was good exercise anyway. But he only said that so I wouldn’t feel bad.
Anyway as long as they were going to eat I thought I might as well go ahead and see if I could do that tracking if it didn’t take me too far. On the way down to the other landing I thought what I’d say to Westy. I knew he’d get a troop reprimand, but I decided he’d get a patrol reprimand too, you bet. And I was feeling pretty bad about it too, because none of the Silver Foxes ever got a troop reprimand. They got patrol reprimands but not troop reprimands. And Westy had gone and spoiled it all and, gee, that’s one word I don’t like—slacker.
When I got to the other landing I started following that trail. If you think Westy had anything to do with it, you’re mighty mistaken, because he didn’t. He always wore scout shoes, I knew that.
Well, believe me, that trail was a cinch and I could follow it as easy as a clothes line. It went right up through River Lane where there isn’t any pavement and every footprint was plain. I was afraid it would go through Daws Place, because that’s the easiest way to get to Main Street, and I’d lose it there on account of the pavement. But it didn’t, and, oh, boy, wasn’t I glad!
Instead of going that way the tracks went right up across the ball field, just as plain as print. That’s another way to get to Main Street, and it brings you out at Harvey’s candy store, but don’t ever go there for ice cream cones, because you get bigger ones down at Jack’s.
Then I lost the trail on account of the pavements. Gee, that’s one thing I don’t like about pavements. So there’s where I did some deducing. Maybe you don’t know whatbridging a trail-gapmeans. You have only yourselves to blame for not being scouts. Bridging a trail-gap means stopping to think when you lose a trail. You have to decide where it most likely starts again. That’s what grown-up scouts call mental tracking.
So I sat down on Ridgeway’s carriage step and thinked a couple of thinks. That’s right on Main Street, you know, and I had to decide if that person went up or down Main Street or across the street. Right across the street is the big bank building. I’ve got forty-two dollars and eighteen cents interest in that bank. Mr. Temple is the head of it, and he’s awful rich—he owns railroads and things. He started Temple Camp. He calls me “Curly” because my hair curls. I should worry.
Right down alongside of the bank runs Barrel Alley. It reminds you of Fifth Avenue, it’s so different. That’s where Tom Slade was born, down there. Most every day somebody dies down there, but anyway there are paving-stones there now, that’s one good thing. Except for tracking. So you see how it was; that person, who ever he was, could have gone up Main Street or down Main Street, or over the stone crossing into Barrel Alley.
I decided that he went across into Barrel Alley for several reasons. One was that he went across the ball field, and that meant that he’d have to get down and crawl under the fence, so I decided it was not a grown-up person, because most of them have stiff backs and they’d rather walk a mile than crawl under a fence. They’re all the time saying they’re not as young as they used to be. And if it was a boy he’d be most likely to go into Barrel Alley because, believe me, they have boys down there by the dozens, especially the kind that wear worn-out shoes that rich people give them. So that accounts for the good shoes all worn out.
Smart boy, hey?
So you see that’s the way I bridged that trail, though I couldn’t be sure I was right, I have to admit that. Anyway I went across the street and I saw by the clock in the bank that it was half past twelve. I knew I couldn’t go much farther because I wanted to get back to the house-boat by one.
I started down Barrel Alley, watching the mud along the edge of the sidewalk, so I could tell if the fellow left the sidewalk to go into one of the houses. Barrel Alley is a blind alley—that means it has an end to it and you can’t go any further. It runs plunk into the end of Shad Row. Norris Row is the right name, but old man Norris is named Shadley Norris, so us fellows call it Shad Row. You can get through the end of Barrel Alley if you climb over old man Norris’ back fence, so it isn’t exactly a blind alley. It’s just a little near-sighted, kind of.
Anyway I started through it and I knew if my quarry (that means the fellow you’re tracking) went down there, he most likely went into one of the tenement houses and I’d see that footprint as soon as he turned off from the sidewalk.
Well, pretty soon I did see it right alongside the sidewalk just where he started to go into one of the houses. And oh, wasn’t I tickled! If it hadn’t been for Westy Martin and the way he’d acted I would have felt as grand as the Grand Central Station. But that was the thing I was thinking most about and when you’re thinking about something like that, you don’t have very much fun—I know I don’t anyway.
But as long as I was there, I might as well find out who it was I had tracked and solve the mystery about the Indian head. That’s the way Pee-wee would have said it, “solve the mystery.” He gets that kind of talk out of books. The next chapter is going to be a dandy and I promised to let him give it a name, so don’t blame me whatever it is.
So long.
CHAPTER XVINOBLE RAGS
“Good night!” I said to Pee-wee, “what kind of rags do you call those?”
“Didn’t you ever hear of noble rags?” he yelled; “that shows how much you know about story writing.”
“Are they any relation to a dish rag?” I asked him.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you,” he said; “do you know what a hero is—a ragged hero?”
“Sure, a hero is a male shero,” I told him; “you learn that in the third grade. Just the same as a cowardice is a female coward.”
“You make me sick!” he yelled.
“I’ve heard of gasoline rags and dish rags and wash rags,” I kept up, “but I never saw any noble ones. Have your own way. I should worry.”
“It’s a good name for a chapter,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know a noble rag if I met one in the street,” I told him.
So that’s how this chapter got its name, and I don’t know what it means any more than you do. I suppose the next one will be called “Trash Paper,” or something like that.
Well, anyway, I stood on that doorstep for a few minutes, because I didn’t know what to do next. I was sure the fellow went in there, but I didn’t know where he went and anyway, I didn’t have any excuse to hunt him out because I was only tracking him for a stunt. Anyway I went in and when I got upstairs one flight I saw just a sign of that print in the hall just in front of a door. The hall was all dirty and greasy like.
So by that I was pretty sure he had gone in there and you see how I tracked him all the way from Marshtown landing. Then I made up my mind that he sure wouldn’t be mad if he knew I did it just for a stunt and I’d tell him I was scouting. For just a minute I was scared, then I gave a rap on the door.
Oh, but it was dark and it smelled bad in that hall. I guess they ought to tear down that row of tenements. Pretty soon I rapped again, and I felt kind of funny, because I didn’t know what I ought to say—especially if a woman opened it. All of a sudden it opened very soft, and, good night! who should be standing there but—who do you think?
Westy Martin.
Jiminety, but wasn’t I flabbergasted! Even as surprised as I was, I looked down at his feet and sure enough he had on scout shoes, almost new. Talk about plots growing thicker! This one was getting so thick you couldn’t drive a nail into it.
“Well—what—are—you—doing—here?” I gasped out just like that.
“Shh,” he said, “keep quiet; come in, but keep quiet.”
So I went in, all flabbergasted and there was a room with the paper all falling off the walls and no carpet on the floor, but anyway the windows were wide open, that was one good thing. And over in the corner was an old cot without any sheets or anything and, oh, gee, it looked bad because I’ve got a dandy bed up in my den—all brass and filigree work—you know.
But, crinkums, I didn’t notice the cot much because there was a fellow on it and as soon as I looked at him I knew who it was, even though he looked worse than he most always did. It was Skinny McCord.
“You waked him up by knocking,” Westy said.
“It isn’t the first knocking I did to-day,” I said, “but I guess I can see how it is now—I guess I can.”
“It’s only a good turn,” he said; “he did you a good turn, and so I had to do one for him, that’s all. It’s for the scouts too, and I don’t care what they say.”
Then I happened to notice a catching mit and a baseball over on a table near Skinny, where there was some medicine too. And then, all of a sudden, everything seemed to glisten like, especially when I blinked my eyes. Gee, I know how easy it is for girls to cry, but a fellow—anyway—when I saw Westy sit down on the edge of that cot and not pay any attention to me, only to Skinny, I couldn’t speak at all. I only just happened to think to do something and I’m glad I thought about it. I just raised my hand and made Westy Martin the full scout salute. Patrol leaders don’t do that mostly to the fellows in their patrols, but I should worry about rules and things like that.
“You’re taking care of him?” I said as soon as I could, and I felt all foolish sort of. “I tracked him, but I never thought”—and I just couldn’t say any more.
But even still Westy didn’t speak to me, only he said to Skinny, “Here’s a real patrol leader come to see you—that’s a big honor, that is, and he just made you the full salute. You remember it in the Scout Handbook?”
“I made that salute toyou,” I said to Westy, all choking, I have to admit it, “and I meant it too.”
“You’re a great tracker,” he said; “wouldn’t you like to be as good a tracker as he is, Skinny?” And I could see that all he cared about was amusing Skinny.
“Don’t talk aboutme,” I said; “I’m a big fool, that’s what I am, but tell me all about it.”
“There isn’t anything to tell,” said Westy, “except that Skinny always wanted to be a scout, but he didn’t have any money and all like that. But anyway, he got the Handbook and studied it all up and it got him.”
“Same as it gets any fellow that looks inside of it,” I said.
“And the part that interested him most of all was tracking and signalling. You see how he carved the tracking emblem on one of his shoes——”
“You needn’t show it to me,” I said, “I saw it.”
“Last night,” Westy said, “he read that smudge signal, because he learned the Morse Code out of the Handbook, and he knew that somebody might be coming up the river with the false report. He didn’t know just what he ought to do and I guess he was scared to go up to your house because he didn’t have any good clothes. So he ran down through the marshes and waited at the landing, because he knew Jake Holden would be coming up stream. Jake’s one good friend to him, and he often took him out and he wasn’t afraid of Jake.
“Pretty soon he heard Jake’s boat coming up the river and saw the light and he just waited there and when Jake come up alongside the float, the first thing Skinny heard him say was, ‘Roy Blakeley is dead’—didn’t you, Skinny?”
But I could see that Skinny’s eyes were shut now and he didn’t hear. “Go on,” I said.
“So Skinny told him it wasn’t true, and told him about the signal. Jake didn’t pay much attention because he thought Skinny was just a little crazy on account of being so poor and hungry and all that and not having a good home. So he was going up to your house anyway and Skinny cried and hung onto him, and begged him not to. I guess he went on kind of crazy, but he said he was sure because he knew the Morse Code. Anyway, just to humor him, I guess, Jake promised him he’d wait till early in the morning, and meanwhile you came home. Do you see?”
Honest, I couldn’t answer him.
“Skinny was the one who did it,” he said. “That accounts for his tracks, don’t you see?”
I shook my head to show him I understood. But I couldn’t say it.
“And that’s how tracking and signalling have brought the three of us together—see?” Westy said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how it brings the three of us together here in this tenement house.”
“How didyoucome here?” I said.
“I was just starting for the house-boat this morning early, when I met Skinny’s mother. She was going to do her day’s washing. And she told me how she had to leave him sick in bed, and she asked me if I’d go and stay with him till she got back. I went back and got the ball and mit because I thought maybe he’d like them. She said he got a bad cold in the marshes and he was all excited and kind of crazy from the way he’d hung onto Jake and begged him not to go up to your house—what did the fellows think when I didn’t show up?”
“You—you should worry,” I just blurted out.
“Anyway I don’t care so much about the troop or Mr. Ellsworth either,” he said, “and even if I cared about Skinny it wouldn’t do much good, because he’s going to die—the doctor says so. But I care a lot about you and he did you a good turn. I was afraid he might die before you had a chance to pay him back. So I just sort of tried to pay him back for you——”
All the while he was talking I could hardly hear what he was saying and there was one word ringing through my head.
It was the wordslacker.