MURDERER FOUND IN SCOUT CAMP. SENSATIONAL SEQUEL TO BOY SCOUT ENTERPRISE IN OLD CAMP MERRITT.Claude Darrell, a Canadian fugitive ofmany aliases, was discovered yesterday by County Detective Slicksby Ferrett in old Camp Merritt where he was found working with a troop of local scouts, tearing down some of the old buildings of the wartime concentration camp. Darrell is wanted in Quebec for burglary and murder.His discovery and prompt identification by Detective Ferrett was due to an alarm sent to Bridgeboro of an accident at the old camp.The information being uncertain, local police officials and the county officer accompanied the ambulance to the camp, where it was found that the young man, who is a stranger to the scouts, had sustained injuries to his head and body. The hospital officials say that he will recover.His injuries were caused by the falling of a roof. The fellow was of a rough appearance, his clothing in the last stages of shabbiness.Detective Ferrett’s skill and long experience enabled him to judge at once that the fellow was of the criminal class. He hadbeen palming himself off on the youngsters as an unfortunate, out of work, and they had been helping him.An inspection of his coat label and comparison of his face with a police alarm picture which the detective had, enabled him to make the identification. Owing to the almost emaciated condition of the fugitive and to his injury, it has not been possible to verify the identification by measurements, but there seems no doubt that he is the man wanted by the Canadian authorities.These have been notified and Dominion detectives will visit Bridgeboro as soon as the patient has fully regained consciousness and it is possible to compel him to confront those who know him face to face.Detective Ferrett, whose skill and shrewdness and remarkable memory enabled him to bring this brutal criminal within the reach of justice, warns parents not to let their children play in spots unfrequented by their elders, because of the numerous thugs and desperate characters cast adrift by the war and the present period of unemployment.These, he says, are usually to be found on the outskirts of small towns. Many of them come from New York. They pretend to be fond of camping and so lure and then rob their adventure loving victims....
MURDERER FOUND IN SCOUT CAMP. SENSATIONAL SEQUEL TO BOY SCOUT ENTERPRISE IN OLD CAMP MERRITT.
Claude Darrell, a Canadian fugitive ofmany aliases, was discovered yesterday by County Detective Slicksby Ferrett in old Camp Merritt where he was found working with a troop of local scouts, tearing down some of the old buildings of the wartime concentration camp. Darrell is wanted in Quebec for burglary and murder.
His discovery and prompt identification by Detective Ferrett was due to an alarm sent to Bridgeboro of an accident at the old camp.
The information being uncertain, local police officials and the county officer accompanied the ambulance to the camp, where it was found that the young man, who is a stranger to the scouts, had sustained injuries to his head and body. The hospital officials say that he will recover.
His injuries were caused by the falling of a roof. The fellow was of a rough appearance, his clothing in the last stages of shabbiness.
Detective Ferrett’s skill and long experience enabled him to judge at once that the fellow was of the criminal class. He hadbeen palming himself off on the youngsters as an unfortunate, out of work, and they had been helping him.
An inspection of his coat label and comparison of his face with a police alarm picture which the detective had, enabled him to make the identification. Owing to the almost emaciated condition of the fugitive and to his injury, it has not been possible to verify the identification by measurements, but there seems no doubt that he is the man wanted by the Canadian authorities.
These have been notified and Dominion detectives will visit Bridgeboro as soon as the patient has fully regained consciousness and it is possible to compel him to confront those who know him face to face.
Detective Ferrett, whose skill and shrewdness and remarkable memory enabled him to bring this brutal criminal within the reach of justice, warns parents not to let their children play in spots unfrequented by their elders, because of the numerous thugs and desperate characters cast adrift by the war and the present period of unemployment.These, he says, are usually to be found on the outskirts of small towns. Many of them come from New York. They pretend to be fond of camping and so lure and then rob their adventure loving victims....
There was considerable more of this nonsensical twaddle. It was the silly custom of the Bridgeboro Record to make heroes of the town and county officials, and soberly to print the rubbish which they uttered for the pleasure of seeing their names in print.
“Can you beat that?” Westy asked.
“Outskirts of towns!” said Dorry. “Why we met him in Bennett’s Candy Store!”
“He calls us children,” said Pee-wee.
“Now that you speak of it,” said Warde Hollister, “it seems funny that he should have gone right into stores in Bridgeboro.”
“Parents should be warned against letting their children go into candy stores,” said Roy.
The next day it appeared that the doctors of Bridgeboro were not quite equal to coping with poor Blythe’s case, and the Bridgeboro Record stated that a specialist from New York had beensummoned to determine whether the desperate scoundrel was feigning unconsciousness in order to baffle the authorities. It appeared that not only thugs and bandits, but occasionally a surgeon who knew his business, came from New York.
And then something happened....
The doctor from New York discovered something which the eagle eye of Detective Ferrett had not discovered. And which the Bridgeboro doctors had not discovered. It was nothing new. It was just two or three tiny cracks in the skull of the fugitive criminal, not far from the rapidly healing cut which he received in his deed of heroism. It might have been two or three years old, the doctor said. He seemed keenly interested in it.
As a consequence of this, Detective Ferrett and a young doctor from the hospital called at the homes of several of the older scouts and questioned them about Blythe’s demeanor at camp. The boys had tried to tell the detective of their companion’s peculiarities but he had not condescended to listen. He listened now. And theoutcome of all this business was another article in the Bridgeboro Record:
CRIMINAL TENDENCIES CAUSED BY CRACKED SKULL?A delicate operation was performed yesterday on the skull of Darrell, the Canadian fugitive who is recovering from injuries in the Bridgeboro hospital. The shaving of the hair from his head for the purpose of dressing a slight wound received on the day of his capture was the means of revealing a small damage to the skull, evidently caused by a previous accident. It was found that the crushed area of bone caused a depression deep enough to press upon the brain which might account for his mental state which is said to be abnormal.Darrell has been subject to occasional fits of depression and is said to have become easily excited. The present indications are that the operation was successful. The patient is resting easily and talks more rationally than at any time since his capture.A police guard is being kept at his bedside and it is the intention of the authorities to question him when he is able to submit to such examination.County Detective Ferrett, whose skill is responsible for the capture of Darrell where he was in hiding at Camp Merritt, thinks that the damage to his skull may very likely have been caused by a blow received in an altercation at the time he killed his victim.
CRIMINAL TENDENCIES CAUSED BY CRACKED SKULL?
A delicate operation was performed yesterday on the skull of Darrell, the Canadian fugitive who is recovering from injuries in the Bridgeboro hospital. The shaving of the hair from his head for the purpose of dressing a slight wound received on the day of his capture was the means of revealing a small damage to the skull, evidently caused by a previous accident. It was found that the crushed area of bone caused a depression deep enough to press upon the brain which might account for his mental state which is said to be abnormal.
Darrell has been subject to occasional fits of depression and is said to have become easily excited. The present indications are that the operation was successful. The patient is resting easily and talks more rationally than at any time since his capture.A police guard is being kept at his bedside and it is the intention of the authorities to question him when he is able to submit to such examination.
County Detective Ferrett, whose skill is responsible for the capture of Darrell where he was in hiding at Camp Merritt, thinks that the damage to his skull may very likely have been caused by a blow received in an altercation at the time he killed his victim.
And so a few days elapsed, and the poor helpless victim was surrounded by officials enough, both local and Canadian, to capture the whole hospital. But the victim, pale and swathed and bandaged, had the advantage of them, and they could only wait. Old Mother Nature cannot be hurried by the law. Much of the time Blythe slept. Then, one fine day, he asked for Roy and Pee-wee. They asked him what he wanted of Roy and Pee-wee and he said he wanted to hear them jolly each other....
“I guess we ought to have a rehearsal, hey?” laughed Roy.
“We don’t need any rehearsal,” said Pee-wee; “when we get there you just start jollying me and I’ll answer you back. I don’t care what you say, you can say anything you want. I’ll say a lot of things about the Silver Foxes, hey? And you knock the Ravens; knock them good and hard, I don’t care. Call me a raving Raven because that always made him laugh.”
“Don’t worry,” Roy said, “he only has to look at you to laugh.”
“Shall I wear all my stuff so you can make fun of me?” Pee-wee asked.
“Have a heart,” said Roy, “you don’t want to kill him.”
“Let’s ask Warde to go too,” said Pee-wee, “because he–I kind of think he doesn’t believeBlythe is a criminal. Maybe the others think so, but he doesn’t–that’s what I think. And you don’t because you said so.” Then he added anxiously, “Do you?”
“I–I guess not, Kid,” Roy answered doubtfully. He was almost ashamed to say this, seeing the sturdy little champion at his side.
“We’ll get Warde,” Pee-wee said, “because he likes Warde, and Warde’s pretty good at jollying me, too. And that’ll be good because we’re the three that stick up for Blythe, hey? And if any of those men say anything there’ll be three of us to answer them.”
“They won’t let us stay long, Kid,” Roy said.
“I don’t care, anyway we’ll see him; and I’m going to tell him that the three of us know he’s innocent.”
“No, don’t tell him that, Kid,” said Roy more thoughtfully. “Let’s not speak about that. If he’s innocent–”
“What do you mean,if?” Pee-wee asked.
“I mean it looks bad for him, Kid,” said Roy frankly. “If his brain wasn’t just right, then it wasn’t so bad. See? He’s the one that did it, you saw the pictures, Kid, and the label onhis coat. But if he didn’t know all about what he was doing then it wasn’t so bad. The grown people know best, Kid. But that isn’t saying we can’t be friends with him.”
“You go back on what you said?” Pee-wee demanded grimly.
“Oh, I don’t know, Kid,” Roy answered, nettled and annoyed; “let’s not talk about it. We’re going to see him anyway. Come on, let’s get Warde, that’s a good idea.”
Without another word Pee-wee turned up the next corner toward his home.
“Aren’t you going, Kid?” Roy called.
“Go ahead,” said Pee-wee, never turning, “I’ll be there. I know the way.”
Roy watched the sturdy little figure trudging along the side street. He knew that Pee-wee was both angry and disgusted; he could tell by his walk. But the Raven mascot was not too preoccupied with his mighty wrath to forget to tip his scout hat to a lady whom he passed. He observed all the scout laws and rules. There were no two ways about anything with Pee-wee. Loyalty meant more than just friendship. It meant confidence, faith.
This staunchness somewhat daunted Roy. It made him feel not quite sure of himself; a little ashamed. But after all it was just Pee-wee’s way; his faith was so strong that he shut his eyes to facts.
Roy went down to the river and got Warde and together they started for the hospital. Warde was glad to go. He said little, for that was his habit. He was quiet and thoughtful.
“That kid almost has me thinking that everybody’s mistaken,” said Roy.
“How?”
“Oh, he’s so dead sure about everything. Don’t you suppose I can be grateful to Blythe even if he–even if he’s crazy.”
“What do you mean, crazy?”
“Oh, I mean even if he committed a murder if that’s the way you want to put it. He did, didn’t he?”
“Guess so.”
“Probably he was crazy when he did it.... Wasn’t he?”
“Guess so.”
At the hospital they were shown into the public ward at the door of which sat a policeman.That was to show that Blythe was under arrest. He was likely to escape! He lay upon his cot, his head swathed in bandages, his eyes hollow, his face white. He moved his eyes and smiled at the scouts without moving his head. It was the same old smile, simple and companionable, as if he were of their own age and one of them. All in a rush it took them back to old Camp Merritt.
“Doctor Cawson,” he said, just above a whisper. “Did he come too? He’d like to see me now, eh?”
“No, he didn’t come, boss,” said Warde; “but Pee-wee’s coming. I guess he stopped to do a good turn. Better?”
“Weak yet,” their friend said, reaching a white hand out, which each of the boys shook gently. “Your foot all right?” he asked Roy.
“Sure, only I can’t run yet,” Roy said. “I should worry. I’ve got to thankyou, that’s one sure thing.”
There was an awkward pause; the scouts did not know what to say. They wondered if their friend knew of the dreadful accusation. They felt that whatever they said or did would bewrong in that spotless, silent place, which was subject to rules and customs that they did not understand. Finally, with furtive glances at the nurses, they ventured to sit upon the edge of the cot. Then they felt easier and more at home.
Despite his weakness and pallor and the appalling look which his bandages gave him, there was something pleasant and wholesome in the victim’s look which the scouts had not seen before. Stricken and helpless though he was, he did not seem peculiar.
“I hurt my foot when I was a kid,” he said in a weak voice; “I stepped on a scythe. I couldn’t walk for two months.”
“Your left foot?” Roy asked.
“My left heel, the scar’s there now.”
“I know,” Roy said.
This was the first time that their queer friend had ever spoken of his early life. He smiled again, that pleasant, companionable smile.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“I–tell us about it,” Roy said.
“I stepped on a scythe in the hayfield. I thought I told Doctor Cawson.”
“No, you never told him,” said Warde, gently.
“That’s funny,” their friend said.
There followed a pause. The victim lay quite still. The boys did not know whether they should go or not.
“I know how you found it out,” Blythe said. “It was when I went up on the windmill, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was,” said Roy. “You were in your bare feet.”
There was another pause. Blythe seemed meditating. The boys were uncomfortable. Nurses came and went. One took the victim’s temperature. He watched her as she went away. Finally he spoke.
He spoke as if it were the most commonplace matter that he was telling, “I told them that my brother tried to kill me and they don’t believe it.”
Roy looked at Warde, dumbfounded.
“They don’t believe anything,” Blythe said, weakly.
“We believe you; tell us about it?” Warde said. “Did your brother kill someone?”
“No, but he tried to kill me. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you never told us,” Warde said, gently. “Tell us now.”
“It was at Camp Merritt.”
“What do you mean? When?”
Blythe closed his eyes and lay for a few moments, silent. It seemed as if he slept. Theboys looked at each other, puzzled. The invalid opened his eyes and smiled.
“Did you pick up all the sticks?” he asked.
“Yes, we did,” Warde said. “Tell us about your brother; we’re all friends.”
“Friends and comrades,” Blythe said faintly.
“That’s it, you said it,” Roy assured him.
“He tried to kill me,” Blythe said.
“Why did he try to do that–Blythey?” Roy asked. “We’re your friends; tell us all about it. You remember better than you used to?”
“I thought I told you,” the invalid said simply. “They’re going to take me to Canada next week. I’ve got to be tried for something. They think I only dreamed that my brother tried to kill me. I would rather stay here with you. Can’t you tell them, so I can stay here? I want to stay. We were all like a kind of a family–telling yarns. You know me. They have a conspiracy here. You know all about me, you tell them. If you ask them to give me back the–the–locket, they will. It has her picture?”
“Whose picture–Blythey?”
“My mother’s,youknow. You know how Iwent up and got it. You’re my friends and I’m yours–”
“Yes, you are,” Roy said, his eyes glistening.
The invalid closed his eyes and lay as if asleep. The two scouts waited, but the eyes did not reopen. So they arose quietly and left the ward. They had been told they could not stay long. They were deeply affected and bewildered. Blythe was different, buthowdifferent they could not say. He just seemed different. He had spoken with simple frankness of things he had never mentioned before. He waschanged.
This fact and what he had said, and the stillness of the place, and the queer odor in the ward and corridor, and the noiselessness of their own footfalls on the rubber covered hall, awed the two scouts to such a degree that they longed for the free open air where they could talk.
It was with some trepidation that they encountered at the head of the stairway the police guard talking with Detective Ferrett.
“Well, how do you find him?” the county official asked in gruff good humor. He at least seemed not at all awed by the solemnity of the place.
“Does he have to go to Canada?” Roy asked. “Does he have to go soon?”
“Yes, siree. Been telling you about his brother?”
“Is it true?” Roy asked.
“Na-a-h! He either hasn’t come to his senses yet or he’s bluffing. He’s going back to Quebec to a dope-house or else to the gallows. How’dyoulike to go to the gallows, hey?” he added as a pleasantry.
“You’re–you’resurehe’s the one?” Roy asked, in pitiful despair.
“Well now what doyouthink? You saw the pictures, huh? He’s the chap, says you. Been trying to string you, huh? He rang that brother in on me yesterday.”
“He wants the locket you took from him,” said Roy.
“Oh, does he? Well, wouldn’t that be nice?”
“If it helps him to get better and helps him–maybe–to sleep–”
“Well now, you run home and say you had a call on him, and look out who you make friends with next time.”
They were just about to start down the stairs,heavy-hearted with that last pathetic memory of their friend to carry in their minds, when looking down the broad stairway, they beheld a strange sight. A diminutive figure was ascending the steps.
He wore the full scout regalia, including all sundries and accessories, and the sight of him as he came trudging up carried the others back to that day when they had taken their memorable hike to Woodcliff. For stuck under his belt like some awful document of authority was an envelope of goodly dimensions, and his countenance wore a look calculated to strike terror to the stoutest heart.
Thus ascended the doughty little knight of the Good Turn, and several nurses watched him amusedly from the foot of the broad stair....
“HERE, READ THIS LETTER,” SAID PEE-WEE TO ROY.Roy Blakeley in the Haunted Camp.Page187
“HERE, READ THIS LETTER,” SAID PEE-WEE TO ROY.Roy Blakeley in the Haunted Camp.Page187
“You think you’re so smart,” said Pee-wee, including the men as well as his scout comrades in his scathing rebuke. “It shows how much you know about good turns and scout laws and things. Maybe you thinkIhaven’t got any[3]specific vacations. Here, read this letter and look at the pictures. Then you better go home and read scout law Number Two. Did you start jollying yet?”
As Roy drew a folded sheet from the envelope several pictures fell to the floor. One of these was an unmounted cabinet photo, the others were exceptionally good amateur prints. As County Detective Ferrett gathered these up he scrutinized the photograph with sudden interest.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“Oh, I got it,” said Pee-wee mysteriously.“You’re a detective, you ought to know specific vacations when you see them.”
County detective Ferrett was not one to be either polite or ceremonious where his professional interests were concerned. He therefore snatched the letter from Roy’s hands and proceeded to read it with eager interest.
It was only by crowding around him that the boys could read it. But in his sudden interest in the letter the shrewd official had released the pictures to their rightful owner and the eyes of Warde and Roy were riveted upon these in speechless consternation.
One showed the very sweet face of a woman, and as the boys looked at this they were conscious of having seen that face somewhere before. Two others showed country scenes, including a house. They were the kind of scenes that amateur photographers love to take; scenes with a homely familiarity about them–a woman sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, a dog skilfully caught by the camera in the moment of his resting his paws upon a fence, a back door with a churn standing near. Commonplace things, the last subjects that an artist would choose, butscenes that have a way of reaching the heart and recalling fond memories.
But out of the professionally taken photo there looked straight at the boys eyes, oh, how familiar, how friendly, how companionable. And upon the mouth hovered that little smile that they knew, oh, so well. It seemed, yes it seemed that if Roy were to start jollying Pee-wee then and there, that smile would broaden. It was the picture of Blythey, their friend. It seemed to say, “Let’s start the camp-fire.”
The handwriting of the letter was small and shaky. The missive read:
Dear Unknown Friend:–The letter you sent me came to me. It was brought to me by the postmaster. In the big town not so far from here there are boys in brown suits and they call them scouts. A neighbor of mine says you must be one of those because they are all over the country.It is so kind how you thought to send the letter. I would like to know where you got it. It made me very sad to read it because it was written to me by my son Joe, who was killedin the war. He was killed near Reims. I wish I could know all about it but nobody can find out for me.He went from Camp Merritt in April 1918 and Mr. Hicks who is postmaster here has a big map on the wall in his store and he says that Bridgeboro (which is written near your name on the envelope) is near Camp Merritt, so perhaps you found the letter. I guess so for it is so old and looks as if it had been in the weather, but it is very, very dear to me. So, my dear young friend, who are so kind, you can say to yourself that you made me see my boy once more just the same as if he came back. I think that will make you happy. It made me sad but it made me happy too. It seems as if I have a letter from both of you and I will never see you but you are both with me in my trouble and loneliness.I would like you to come here sometime and see the home where my boy grew up but I have much trouble and fear that soon I must go to the Home in Barnardsville, there to end my days. But these pictures taken by my boy will show you his home that I must now lose and his dog nowtwelve years old; poor dog, I do not know where he will go when I go to the Home.My dear boy saved his life when he was your age as I suppose, and do you know how? By running to him when he was caught in a thrasher and my boy stepped on a scythe as he ran and he was many weeks in bed while I nursed him. It seemed hardest of all that I could not nurse him when he died. He was a brave boy and so gentle and kind to me and to everyone, even the animals, and he was so noble and good to me after his father died.So you see, my dear young friend, I have lost much, even more than I tell you and I say there are sorrows worse than death so you will be a pride and comfort as you grow up, for I have known what an undutiful son is too. But I think of my brave, noble boy that died in France and you brought him back to me for a few minutes when I sat reading his letter. So I shall always love these scout boys on account of you and would like to read about them but my eyes are not very strong.And now I say good-bye to you, my dear youngfriend and often I will think of you after I go to the Home.
Dear Unknown Friend:–
The letter you sent me came to me. It was brought to me by the postmaster. In the big town not so far from here there are boys in brown suits and they call them scouts. A neighbor of mine says you must be one of those because they are all over the country.
It is so kind how you thought to send the letter. I would like to know where you got it. It made me very sad to read it because it was written to me by my son Joe, who was killedin the war. He was killed near Reims. I wish I could know all about it but nobody can find out for me.
He went from Camp Merritt in April 1918 and Mr. Hicks who is postmaster here has a big map on the wall in his store and he says that Bridgeboro (which is written near your name on the envelope) is near Camp Merritt, so perhaps you found the letter. I guess so for it is so old and looks as if it had been in the weather, but it is very, very dear to me. So, my dear young friend, who are so kind, you can say to yourself that you made me see my boy once more just the same as if he came back. I think that will make you happy. It made me sad but it made me happy too. It seems as if I have a letter from both of you and I will never see you but you are both with me in my trouble and loneliness.
I would like you to come here sometime and see the home where my boy grew up but I have much trouble and fear that soon I must go to the Home in Barnardsville, there to end my days. But these pictures taken by my boy will show you his home that I must now lose and his dog nowtwelve years old; poor dog, I do not know where he will go when I go to the Home.
My dear boy saved his life when he was your age as I suppose, and do you know how? By running to him when he was caught in a thrasher and my boy stepped on a scythe as he ran and he was many weeks in bed while I nursed him. It seemed hardest of all that I could not nurse him when he died. He was a brave boy and so gentle and kind to me and to everyone, even the animals, and he was so noble and good to me after his father died.
So you see, my dear young friend, I have lost much, even more than I tell you and I say there are sorrows worse than death so you will be a pride and comfort as you grow up, for I have known what an undutiful son is too. But I think of my brave, noble boy that died in France and you brought him back to me for a few minutes when I sat reading his letter. So I shall always love these scout boys on account of you and would like to read about them but my eyes are not very strong.
And now I say good-bye to you, my dear youngfriend and often I will think of you after I go to the Home.
Mrs. Mary HaskellHicksville, North Carolina.
The quiet of Hicksville, North Carolina, could have been no deeper than the stillness which prevailed when the scouts finished reading this letter. They seemed to feel that if they moved or spoke it would destroy a spell and prove this whole amazing business a dream. Within the ward the voice of some patient could be heard in petulant complaint. Nurses with silent tread, moved in and out of the apartment. An auto horn could be heard tooting somewhere in the distance. But Warde and Roy were in Hicksville, North Carolina.
Warde was the first to speak. Modest, as he always was, he now uttered a thought which had lingered in his mind for many days. “Now I know why he said ’Doctor Cawson,’” he observed quietly. “He belongs in the south. I know why he didn’t sayTrantoandMonreal; it was because he never lived in those places. But of course, that doesn’t prove anything, I guess.”
“It proves something aboutyou,” said Roy proudly. Oh, he could afford to be generous and happy!
“We don’t need any proof,” said Pee-wee; “haven’t we got proof enough? What more do you want? Now what have you all got to say? You’re so smart!”
No one had anything to say, not even Detective Ferrett. All he could do was whistle perplexedly. The overworked, thin, trembling arm of poor Mrs. Haskell had reached out and dealt him a knockout blow, under the exclusive auspices of Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the raving Ravens, scout of the first class, master of good turns, defender and exponent of good scout law Number Two, First Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Troop, Boy Scouts of America!
[3]Specifications he probably meant.
Specifications he probably meant.
It was many days before all the bits of this strange puzzle were put together and the full truth revealed. As the condition of the invalid improved his memory returned to him. This wonderful effect of the operation on his skull was noticeable first in the recollection of trifles and disconnected events in his life. Usually he got these confused at first but each item in the marvelous catalogue of the brain was finally put in its right place.
His piecing together the events of his life was like the gathering up of the broken pieces of a bowl and the successful reconstruction of it by patiently fitting in the fragments here and there. It was a marvel and a delight to the scouts who visited him constantly, to watch him searching for things in the darkness, as one might say, and bringing them home to patch together the broken picture of his past.
But how came that injury, discovered by the merest chance, which had wrapped his early life in a blackness like the blackness of night? Haskell never told of this connectedly, for he could neither speak of it or think of it without becoming greatly agitated. And that tragic occurrence was never made known to his aged mother.
But these were the facts which were gradually brought into the light. Joe Haskell and his brother had been twins. Long before their father died Bob Haskell had done much to bring shame and worry to the veteran who had fought in the confederate cause, and whose end was hastened by his dishonest, worthless son.
Hicksville proved too small for this enterprising scamp who, after rifling the cash drawer in the railroad station, withdrew from these scenes of limited opportunity to spread his wings in the great metropolis of New York.
Joe and his mother never heard of him again. The stunted affections and criminal tendencies of the one son seemed compensated for in the other, who remained the dutiful and loving companion and support of his mother until the great war called him. He received his training at a southerncamp and was later transferred to Camp Merritt, which was an embarkation camp. Had it not been for a certain occurrence he would have sailed with the swarms of boys who went across in the spring and summer of 1918. But he never went to France.
On a pleasant Sunday morning in April of that year, Joe Blythe started for Woodcliff to dine at the home of a family he did not know–the home and family of Miss Bates. As we know, he never reached that hospitable roof. We do know, however, that in an isolated shack in the woods not far from camp were found his wallet containing his leave of absence, an unmailed letter to his mother, and Miss Bates’ card.
How came he to that shack? It was in a bypath sometimes followed by soldiers, he said. He said he paused there to get out of a shower. This statement was at least partly verified by the authorities who secured reports that it did rain on that day.
Joe Blythe said that in that shack he met his brother, shabby, desperate. Did the brother know that Joe was a soldier in the camp? Very likely. Was he lying in wait for him in thatsecluded spot? That also seems probable. That his brother attacked him, hitting him with an old sash-weight, is certain. Who shall say what actually transpired between these brothers in that lonely spot?
But the proven facts of Bob Haskell’s career are these. He escaped from Canada after committing burglary and a brutal murder. He tried at one American recruiting station after another to find safety in military service, and was rejected as unfit wherever he applied.
Neither Joe nor anyone else knows what was in the mind of this defective, desperate, frantic wretch when he sought the neighborhood of Camp Merritt. No one knows whether the horrible plan which he executed had been previously conceived.
But this is certain, that he struck his brother on the head and laid him low and took from him not only his uniform but his memory as well. One thing he did not take, because he did not want it, and that was a little trinket containing their mother’s picture which Joe had always worn.
We may picture Joe Haskell lying in that dank, musty shack, bleeding, unconscious, for hours.How long he lay there no man shall say. We may picture him wandering forth, in an ill-fitting suit of civilian clothes, demented, broken, dazed. Of his wanderings, likewise, who shall tell the full truth? He visited a place called Blytheville and took the name of Blythe. He visited great cities, so he said. He was in the west. He was in jail for vagrancy. He watched some cows for a farmer. He remembered nothing of his past. He was sheltered by the Salvation Army somewhere. He was a wanderer over the country.
And so in time he wandered to New York. There he fell in with men who were interested in demolishing the old camp. Probably they had no faith in him. They did not reckon that he would fall in with a troop of scouts who, in the good cause of pitying friendship, would make the old shacks of the deserted reservation echo to the sound of their saws and hammers, and the music of their merry laughter.
And the brother?
April in the terrible year of 1918 was the month of all months when troops were sent abroad by the thousands, half equipped, untrained, as fast as the speeding transports couldcarry them. It was a time of weakening hope, of misgivings, of confusion and frantic hurry. Men, men, men, whether they were soldiers or not, so only that they were men! Few know of the frenzied haste in the embarkation camp those days. Few will ever realize how near the war came to being lost.
For Bob Haskell there was no returning consciousness and only the silent records of the War Department could speak for him, reporting his supreme sacrifice under a name but a part of which was his own. That he lived in camp as his brother for at least a few hours in that time of unquestioning rush and inevitable disorder seems probable enough. That he fell in the fighting, under the name of Joseph Haskell, we know.
So at least the uniform which he stole was not dishonored. And since he paid for his crime with his own life, and in the way that he preferred, may we not follow his brother’s good example and let his checkered memory rest in peace? Joe never told his mother more than this, that it must have been his brother who was killed in France. She never knew who struck him down.
Another episode is not so easily explained, for it is bound up with Joe Haskell’s mental condition while he was with the scouts. That is the episode of the windmill. About that he seemed to remember but little. No doubt the calling of the voice which he thought was his mother’s was a pure hallucination. It was like a little flash of light in his darkness. Yet it might have been that the peculiar sounds aroused certain memories.
One very strange fact, however, is certain, and that is that he did find the trinket with his mother’s picture on that lonely, wind-swept tower. The voice which had called him had not mocked and deceived him. How came that little trinket there?
The only answer that we have to this question is the theory of Pee-wee Harris, wearer of the stalking badge, and, as his very nickname shows, the friend of birds. He claimed that a wren, or one of the mischievous, pilfering birds of that group had carried the locket to its nest in the old windmill. It is true that certain birds carry such glittering trifles to their nests and it is well known that wrens forage in old buildings and often build in windmills. There were a fewwisps of straw to give color to Pee-wee’s ingenious theory.
But when it comes to building, Pee-wee himself is a master builder of castles in the air.
And there you are.
On a certain fair day in the autumn Joshua Hicks stood in the doorway of the Hicksville post office and contemplated the chickens which were congregated on the store platform waiting for the mail. He looked as if he had been standing there uninterruptedly since we last saw him. His octagon-shaped spectacles were exactly half way down his nose, and his nose was just as long as it was on the day we made his acquaintance–if anything, a little longer. He was waiting for the big daily event in Hicksville, the arrival of the train.
But a bigger event than that was to arouse Hicksville. When the train arrived a solitary figure got out, a young man with a suitcase, who waved his hand familiarly to Joshua and called, “Hello, Josh,” as he strode away up the road.
For a minute Josh could only stare and say, “By gum.” Then he took off his spectacles andwiped them as if they were responsible for the strange thing he had seen. But this, when he replaced them, only made the hurrying figure stand out clearer to his vision.
“Marthy,” said he, re-entering the post office and addressing his daughter, “I jes’ seed a ghost; as sure as I’m standin’ here, Marthy, I seed the ghost of Joey Haskell. It got off the train jes’ as sure as I’m standin’ here, Marthy, and called out ter me and went up the road. I seed it plain.”
“Same as you seed the goblins in Hiram Berry’s cornfield before prohibition,” said Marthy, who was not to be startled out of her rustic calm by any of her father’s visions. And she continued sorting the mail which consisted of a newspaper and two letters.
“If folks is dead and yer see ’em, it’s sperits, ain’t it?” Joshua demanded.
“If folks is dead they don’t come to Hicksville, I reckon,” said the girl.
One might suppose that Hicksville would be just the very place folks would go to, if they were dead. Be that as it may the young man was no ghost. He was just a little pale, and helooked as if he might have known much suffering, but he was no ghost.
Up the little lane he went where goldenrod was blooming and where some of the birds that had beaten him on the journey southward were flitting and chirping in the trees. A little brook that bordered the narrow, fragrant way seemed hurrying along at his side, laughing in its pebbly bed, as if to give him a welcome home. Straight ahead he went till he came to the little white house. In the tiny front window hung a small faded square of cloth which might once have been red, and in the center of this was a crude homemade star of gold, but all the pristine brightness had gone from it.
The young man opened the door, laid down his suitcase, stepped into the little sitting room, and taking down the tattered, faded symbol called out, “What’s this doing here? If that isn’t like Hicksville! The war over two years and–”
Just then the astonished and frightened face of a little, wizened old lady appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Mother!”
Then in another moment he was helping the trembling form to a chair and laughing and stroking the gray hair and putting his arm around that thin, wrinkled neck.
It was almost too much for her. She looked at him with a kind of terror in her poor old eyes, as if she thought he was not real, and she clung to him as if she were drowning.
“It’s all right, Muddy,” he laughed, kissing her and making a fine joke of her bewilderment; “feel of me; here, pinch me. Ouch! See how real I am? I’m hungry too, if anybody should ask you. I think I’ll go up to Ruth Jillett’s house for supper–”
She only clung to him tighter–and cried a little more. “You was always thinking of Ruth first,” she said. “Joey, my eyes is not what they wuz, I’ve seen you so much when I was alone here–in all the trouble–you wouldn’t fool me–Joey?”
For answer she got such a hug as no ghost could ever give. “Of course, if you’d rather believe the Government than your own eyes.... Why here’s Sport! Hello, Sport, I’ll leave it toyou,” he added, reaching down and patting the dog whose tail was going like a pendulum. “Here’s a woman that doesn’t–”
“Joey, you mustn’t say that–you–you–”
“All right, old Muddy, then admit that I am me.”
“I don’t understand–I–Joey–”
Another hug, “Of course, you don’t. You’re just two years out of date. You’ve been living among the dead and you think everybody’s dead and I’m going to–”
“You’re not going to Ruth Jillett’s, Joey–”
“Well, I certainly will if you don’t get me some supper. How about that, Sport? Here I am come home a rich man with three hundred dollars in my pocket, and no supper.”
“Joey, if I had only known I’d have made a meat pie. I won’t believe you’re real till I see you eat, Joey.” That would be a good test.
“We won’t eat here many more times–”
“Oh yes, we will. I’ve got three hundred dollars, and two hundred of it belongs to some boy scouts. They made me take it as a loan. We’re going to stay right here and I’m going to get ajob in Cartersburgh and I’m coming home every night–so as to be near Ruth. Hey, Sport.”
Poor old Mrs. Haskell only clung tighter to him. And Sport looked up, and kept looking, as if he did not understand at all.
And so, as the evening drew on, these two, mother and son, sat in the little kitchen of their old home and talked while Joe ate his supper; a very good supper indeed for a “sperit.” And since it was a matter of eating, may we not fancy that the staunch spirit of Pee-wee Harris of the raving Ravens was with them as they talked late into the night? And when Joey Haskell jollied his poor old mother (as he did most shamefully) may we not picture that diminutive scout saying in high disgust, “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
And yet, you know, you will hear it said that nothing ever happens in Hicksville....
THE END
THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of the TOM SLADE BOOKS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.
Roy Blakeley
In a book given by a kindly old gentleman, Pee-wee Harris discovers what he believes to be a sinister looking memorandum, and he becomes convinced that the old gentleman is a spy. But the laugh is on Pee-wee, as usual, for the donor of the book turns out to be an author, and the suspicious memorandum is only a literary mark. The author, however, is so pleased with the boys’ patriotism that he loans them his houseboat, in which they make the trip to their beloved Temple Camp, which every boy who has read the TOM SLADE BOOKS will be glad to see once more.
Roy Blakeley’s Adventures in Camp
Roy Blakeley and his patrol are found in this book once more happily established in camp. Roy and his friends incur the wrath of a land owner, but the doughty Pee-wee saves the situation and the wealthy landowner as well. The boys wake up one morning to find Black Lake flooded far over its banks, and the solving of this mystery furnishes some exciting reading.
Roy Blakeley, Pathfinder
Roy and his comrades, having come to Temple Camp by water, resolve to make the journey home by foot. On the way they capture a leopard escaped from a circus, which brings about an acquaintance with the strange people who belong to the show. The boys are instrumental in solving a deep mystery, and finding one who has long been missing.
Roy Blakeley’s Camp on Wheels
This is the story of a wild and roaming career of a ramshackle old railroad car which has been given Roy and his companions for a troop meeting place. The boys fall asleep in the car. In the night, and by a singular error of the railroad people, the car is “taken up” by a freight train and is carried westward, so that when the boys awake they find themselves in a country altogether strange and new. The story tells of the many and exciting adventures in this car.
Roy Blakeley’s Silver Fox Patrol
In the car which Roy Blakeley and his friends have for a meeting place is discovered an old faded letter, dating from the Klondike gold days, and it appears to intimate the location of certain bags of gold, buried by a train robber. The quest for this treasure is made in an automobile and the strange adventures on this trip constitute the story.
Roy Blakeley’s Motor Caravan
Roy and his friends go West to bring back some motor cars. They have some very amusing, also a few serious, adventures.
Roy Blakeley, Lost, Strayed or Stolen
The troup headquarters car figures largely in this very interesting volume.
Roy Blakeley’s Bee-Line Hike
The boys resolve to hike in a bee-line to a given point, some miles distant, and have a lively time doing it.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of the ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.
THE TOM SLADE books have the official endorsement and recommendation of THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA. In vivid story form they tell of Boy Scout ways, and how they help a fellow grow into a manhood of which America may be proud.
Tom Slade, Boy Scout
Tom Slade lived in Barrel Alley. The story of his thrilling Scout experiences, how he was gradually changed from the street gangster into a First Class Scout, is told in almost as moving and stirring a way as the same narrative related in motion pictures.
Tom Slade at Temple Camp
The boys are at a summer camp in the Adirondack woods, and Tom enters heart and soul into the work of making possible to other boys the opportunities in woodcraft and adventure of which he himself has already had a taste.
Tom Slade on the River
A carrier pigeon falls into the camp of the Bridgeboro Troop of Boy Scouts. Attached to the bird’s leg is a message which starts Tom and his friend on a search that culminates in a rescue and a surprising discovery. The boys have great sport on the river, cruising in the “Honor Scout.”
Tom Slade With the Colors, A Wartime Boy Scout Story
When Uncle Sam “pitches in” to help the Allies in the Great War, Tom’s Boy Scout training makes it possible for him to show his patriotism in a way which is of real service to his country. Tom has many experiences that any loyal American boy would enjoy going through–or reading about, as the next best thing.
Tom Slade on a Transport
While working as a mess boy on one of Uncle Sam’s big ships, Tom’s cleverness enables him to be of service in locating a disloyal member of the crew. On his homeward voyage the ship is torpedoed and Tom is taken aboard a submarine and thence to Germany. He finally escapes and resolves to reach the American forces in France.
Tom Slade With the Boys Over There
We follow Tom and his friend, Archer, on their flight from Germany, through many thrilling adventures, until they reach and join the American Army in France.
Tom Slade, Motorcycle Dispatch Bearer
Tom is now a dispatch rider behind the lines and has some thrilling experiences in delivering important messages to troop commanders in France.
Tom Slade With the Flying Corps
At last Tom realizes his dream to scout and fight for Uncle Sam in the air, and has such experiences as only the world war could make possible.
Tom Slade at Black Lake
Tom has returned home and visits Temple Camp before the season opens. He builds three cabins and has many adventures.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS!
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of THE TOM SLADE and ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
All readers of the TOM SLADE and the ROY BLAKELEY books are acquainted with Pee-wee Harris and will surely enjoy reading every volume of this series.
Pee-wee Harris
Pee-wee goes to visit his uncle whose farm is located on a by-road. Pee-wee conceives the idea of starting a little shack along the road in which to sell refreshments and automobile accessories.
In accordance with his invariable good luck,–scarcely has he started this little shack than the bridge upon the highway burns down and the obscure country road becomes a thoroughway for automobiles. Pee-wee reaps a large profit from his business during the balance of the summer.
Pee-wee Harris on the Trail
Pee-wee gets into the wrong automobile by mistake and is carried to the country where he has a great time and many adventures.
Pee-wee Harris in Camp
The scene is set in the beloved and familiar Temple Camp. Here Pee-wee resigns from the Raven Patrol, intending to start a patrol of his own. He finds this more difficult than he had expected, but overcame all obstacles–as usual.
Pee-wee Harris in Luck
Pee-wee goes with his mother to spend the summer on a farm, where he meets a girl who is bewailing her fate that there is no society at this obscure retreat. Pee-wee assures her he will fix everything for her–and proceeds to do so–with his usual success.
Pee-wee Harris Adrift
A little spot of land up the river breaks away and floats down stream, with a laden apple tree growing upon it. Pee-wee takes possession of this island and the resulting adventures are decidedly entertaining.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
THE TOM SWIFT SERIES
By VICTOR APPLETON
UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. INDIVIDUAL COLORED WRAPPERS.
These spirited tales, convey in a realistic way, the wonderful advances in land and sea locomotion. Stories like these are impressed upon the memory and their reading is productive only of good.
TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR CYCLETOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR BOATTOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIPTOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOATTOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUTTOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGETOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERSTOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICETOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACERTOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLETOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLDTOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDERTOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITYTOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERATOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHTTOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNONTOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONETOM SWIFT AND HIS AERIAL WARSHIPTOM SWIFT AND HIS BIG TUNNELTOM SWIFT IN THE LAND OF WONDERSTOM SWIFT AND HIS WAR TANKTOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR SCOUTTOM SWIFT AND HIS UNDERSEA SEARCHTOM SWIFT AMONG THE FIRE FIGHTERSTOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC LOCOMOTIVE
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY
BOY SCOUT EDITION SIMILAR TO THIS VOLUME
The Boy Scouts of America in making up this Library, selected only such books as had been proven by a nation-wide canvass to be most universally in demand among the boys themselves. Originally published in more expensive editions only, they are now, under the direction of the Scout’s National Council, re-issued at a lower price so that all boys may have the advantage of reading and owning them. It is the only series of books published under the control of this great organization, whose sole object is the welfare and happiness of the boy himself. For the first time in history aguaranteedlibrary is available, and at a price so low as to be within the reach of all.
Adventures in Beaver Stream Camp, Major A. R. DugmoreAlong the Mohawk Trail, Percy Keese FitzhughAnimal Heroes, Ernest Thompson SetonBaby Elton, Quarter-Back, Leslie W. QuickBilly Topsail with Doctor Luke of the Labrador, Norman DuncanThe Biography of a Grizzly, Ernest Thompson SetonThe Boy Scouts of Black Eagle Patrol, Leslie W. QuickThe Boy Scouts of Bob’s Hill, Charles Pierce BurtonBuccaneers and Pirates of Our Coasts, Frank R. StocktonThe Call of the Wild, Jack LondonCattle Ranch to College, R. DoubledayCollege Years, Ralph D. PaineCruise of the Cachalot, Frank T. BullenThe Cruise of the Dazzler, Jack LondonDon Strong, Patrol Leader, W. HeyligerDon Strong of the Wolf Patrol, William HeyligerFor the Honor of the School, Ralph Henry BarbourThe Gaunt Gray Wolf, Dillon WallaceA Gunner Aboard the Yankee, From the Diary of Number Five of the After Port GunThe Guns of Europe, Joseph A. AltshelerThe Half-Back, Ralph Henry BarbourHandbook for Boys, Revised Edition, Boy Scouts of AmericaThe Horsemen of the Plains, Joseph A. AltshelerJim Davis, John MasefieldKidnapped, Robert Louis StevensonLast of the Chiefs, Joseph A. AltshelerLast of the Plainsmen, Zane GreyThe Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore CooperLone Bull’s Mistake, J. W. SchultzPete, The Cow Puncher, J. B. AmesRanch on the Oxhide, Henry InmanThe Ransom of Red Chief and other O. Henry Stories for Boys, Edited by F. K. MathiewsScouting with Daniel Boone, Everett T. TomlinsonScouting with General Funston, Everett T. TomlinsonScouting with Kit Carson, Everett T. TomlinsonThrough College on Nothing a Year, Christian GaussTreasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Jules VerneUnder Boy Scout Colors, J. P. AmesUngava Bob; A Tale of the Fur Trappers, Dillon WallaceWilliams of West Point, H. S. Johnson
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York