CHAPTER VISHADOWS OF THE NIGHT
One thing Hervey did bear in mind, and that was what Tom had told him about how to distinguish a dark object in the dark. He would not remember this twenty-four hours hence, but he remembered it then, and that is saying much for him. He tried to improve upon the formula by experimenting with his eyes cross-eyed, but it didn't work. Skirting the lower western reach of the mountain and beyond, in the comparatively flat country, he kept squinting away at old Crows Nest and its shadowy, black mass guided him. "Slady's got the right dope on mountains," he said to himself.
The race was about as Tom had said; four miles for the horses, against a mile and a half for Hervey. Both routes were bad, Hervey's theworse of the two. All things considered, hills, muddy roads, trackless woodland, swampy areas, it should take the heavily loaded team a little over an hour to reach the bridge. By Tom's calculation it must take Hervey at least an hour and a half.
So there you are.
Going straight north, Hervey would have that dim black mass, hovering on the verge of invisibility, to guide him. Traveling a little west of north he might have reached the road at a nearer point. But here the traveling was bad and the danger of getting lost greater. Tom had weighed one thing against another and told Hervey to go straight north.
Hervey found the first half hour of his journey very difficult, picking his way around the base of the mountain. Beyond the country was flat and comparatively open, being mostly sparse woodland. The wind was very keen here, since there was no mountain to break its force and the rain blew in his face, almost blinding him.
Again and again he wiped his dripping face with his sleeve and plodded on, picking out his beacon now and again in the darkness. It wassurprising how easy it was for him to do this by the little trick of which Tom had told him. His eyes would just catch the mountain for a second, then it would evaporate in the surrounding blackness, like breath on a pane of glass.
Suddenly, something happened which quite unnerved him. He was hurrying through a patch of woodland when, not more than ten feet ahead of him, he was certain that he saw something dark glide from one tree to another.
He stopped short, his heart in his mouth. The minutes, he knew, were precious, but he could not move. The wind in the trees moaned like some lost soul, and in his stark fear the beating of the drops on the leafy carpet startled him. He heard these because he was standing still, and the ceasing of his own footfalls emphasized the steady patter. Somewhere, in all that stormy solitude and desolation, an uncanny owl hooted its dismal song.
Hervey did not move.
It was not till he bethought him of those horses lumbering along the road ever nearer and nearer to that trap of death that he got control of himself and started off.
It was just the gloom of those dark woods, the play of some freakish and deceptive shadow conjuring itself into a human presence, that he had seen.... Who would be out in that lonely wood on such a night?
With a sudden, desperate impulse to challenge his fear and have done with it, he stepped briskly toward the tree to glance about it and dispel his illusion. If it was just some branch broken by the wind and hanging loose....
He approached the trunk and edged around it. As he did so a form moved around the trunk also. Hervey paused. The pounding of his heart seemed louder than the noises of the storm. In his throat was a queer burning sensation. He could not speak. He could not stir. The dark form moved again, ever so little....
CHAPTER VIITHE LIGHT THAT FAILED
The suspense was worse than any outcome could be, and Hervey, in another impulse of desperation, took a step to the right, then quickly another to the left. This ruse brought the two face to face. And in a flash Hervey realized that he had little to fear from one who had tried so desperately to escape his notice.
The figure was that of a young man, his raiment torn and disordered and utterly drenched. He wore a plaid cap, which being pulled down over his ears by reason of the wind, gave him an appearance of toughness which his first words belied.
"You needn't be afraid," he said.
"I'm not afraid," said Hervey. "Who are you?"
"Did you hear some one scream?" the stranger asked.
"Scream? No. It was the wind, I guess. Are you lost, or what?"
"I want to get out of here, that's all," the young man said. "This place is full of children screaming. Did you ever kill anybody?"
"No," said Hervey, somewhat agitated.
The stranger placed a trembling hand on Hervey's shoulder. "Do you know a person can scream after he's dead?" he said.
"I don't know," said Hervey, somewhat alarmed and not knowing what to say. "Anyway, I have to hurry; it's up to me to save some people's lives. There's a bridge washed away along the road."
He did not wait longer to talk with this singular stranger, but thoughts of the encounter lingered in his mind, particularly the young fellow's speech about dead people and children screaming. As he hurried on, Hervey concluded that the stranger was demented and had probably wandered away from some village in the neighborhood. He had reason later to recall this encounter, but he soon forgot it in the more urgent matter of reaching the road.
He had now about half a mile of level countryto traverse, consisting of fields separated by stone walls. The land was soggy, and here and there in the lower places were areas of water. These he would not take the time to go around, but plunged through them, often going knee deep into the marshy bottom. It was sometimes with difficulty that he was able to extricate his leg from these soggy entanglements.
But he no longer needed the uncertain outline of that black mass amid the surrounding blackness to guide him, for now the cheerful lights of an isolated house upon the road shone in the distance. There was the road, sure enough, though he could not see it.
"That's what Slady calls deduction," he panted, as he trudged on, running when he could, and dragging his heavy, mud-bedraggled feet out of the mire every dozen steps or so. Over a stone wall he went and scrambled to his feet and hastened on.
The lights in the house cheered and guided him and he made straight for this indubitable beacon. "Mountains are all—all right," he panted, "but kerosene lamps—for—for—mine. I hope that—bunch—doesn't go to—bed." His heart waspounding and he had a cruel stitch in his side from running, which pained him excruciatingly when he ran fast. He tried scout pace but it didn't work; he was not much of a hand for that kind of thing. "It's—it's—all—right when—you're running through—the—handbook," he said, "but—but...."
Over another stone wall he went, tearing a great gash in his trousers, exposing the limb to rain and wind. The ground was better for a space and he ran desperately. Every breath he drew pained him, now and again he staggered slightly, but he kept his feet and plunged frantically on.
Then one of the lights in the house went out. Then another. There was only one now. "That's—that's—what—it means for—for—people to—to go to—to bed early," he panted with difficulty. "I—I always—said——" He had not the breath to finish, but it is undoubtedly true that he had always been a staunch advocate of remaining up all night.
He fixed his eyes upon the one remaining light and ran with utter desperation. His breathing was spasmodic, he reeled, pulled himself togetherby sheer will, and stumbled on. On the next stone wall he made a momentary concession to his exhaustion and paused just a moment, holding his aching side.
Then he was off again, running like mad. The single little light seemed twinkling and hazy and he brushed his streaming face with his sleeve so that he might see it the more clearly. But it looked dull, more like a little patch of brightness than a shining light. Either it was failing, or he was.
He had to hold his stinging side and gulp for every breath he drew, but he ran with all his might and main. He was too spent and dizzy to keep his direction without that distant light, and he knew it. He was not Tom Slade to be sure of himself in complete darkness. He was giddy—on the verge of collapse. The bee-line of his course loosened and became erratic. But if his legs were weakening his will was strong, and he staggered, reeled, ran.
On, on, on, he sped, falling forward now, rather than running, but keeping his feet by the sheer power of his will. His heart seemed up in his mouth and choking him. With one hand hegrasped the flying shred of his torn trousers and tried to wipe the blood from the cut in his leg. Thus for just a second his progress was impeded.
That was the last straw. The trifling movement lost him his balance, his exhausted and convulsed body went round like a top and he lay breathing in little jerks on the swampy ground.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. In another five seconds he would rise. He raised himself on one trembling arm and looked about. He brushed his soaking hair back from his eyes and looked again.
"Where—what—where—is—it—anyway?" he panted. He did not know which direction was north or south or east or west. He only knew that a dagger was sticking in his side and that he could not rise....
Yes, he could. He pulled himself together, rested a moment on his knees, staggered to his feet and looked around.
"Where—where—th—the dickens—is north?"
He turned and looked around. He looked around the other way. Nothing but desolation and darkness. He thought of what Tom had told him and, closing his eyes, opened them suddenly.The mountain must have been too near to show in outline now; it had probably melted into the general landscape. There was just an even, solid blackness all about him. The wind moaned, and somewhere, high and far off, he heard the screech of an eagle. But at least the rain did not assail him as it had done. This, however, was small comfort. He had lost,failed, and he knew it.
In pitiable despair, in the anguish of defeat, he looked about him again in every direction, as if to beseech the angry night to give him back his one little beacon, and let him only save those people if he died for it.
But there was no light anywhere. It had gone out.
CHAPTER VIIIALMOST
Well, he would not go back. They should find him right there, his body marking the very last foot he had been able to go. He would die as those brother scouts of his would have to die. He would not go back.
That good rule of the scouts to stop and think was not in Hervey's line. But he would do the next best thing—a thing very characteristic of Hervey Willetts. He would take a chance and start running. Yes, that would be better. There would be just one chance in four of his going in the right direction. But he had taken bigger chances than that before. Anyway, the rain was ceasing. And he soon overcame the sentimental notion of just lying there.
The momentary rest had restored some measureof his strength. The aching in his side was not so acute. The land was not so muddy where he was and he took off his jacket and washed some of the heavy mud from his shoes.
Then he started off pell-mell. Who shall say what good angel prompted him to look behind? Perhaps it was the little god Billikins of whom you are to know more in these pages. But look behind Hervey Willetts did. And there in the distance, very tiny but very clear, was a spark bobbing in the darkness.
He paused and watched it over his shoulder. It moved along slowly, very slowly. It disappeared. Then appeared again. And now it moved a little faster. A little faster still. Now it moved along at an even, steady rate. The long, hard pull up Cheery Hill was over, and the horses were jogging along the road. Oh, how well Hervey knew that lantern which hung under the rear step of the clumsy, lumbering old bus.
Then it had not passed.
Hervey Willetts was himself now. Tearing a loose shred from his tattered trousers, he soaked it in a little puddle, then stuffed it in his mouth. He clasped his jack-knife in one fistand a twig in the other. He drew up his belt. He took that precious hat off and stuffed it in his pocket, campaign buttons and all. Ah, no, he did not throw it away. He ripped off another rag and tied it fast around his neck and he bound his scarf around his forehead. He knew all these little tricks of the runner. It was not thought, butactionnow.
But, oh, Hervey, Hervey! What sort of a scout are you? Did you not know that the shriek of the eagle must have been from the mountain in the north? Did you not know that eagles live on mountain crags? Why did you not face into the wind and you would have headed north? When the rain did not blow in your face or against either cheek, that was because you were facingsouth. It had not stopped raining. It was raining and blowing foryoursake and you did not know it. You were hunting for a kerosene lamp!
But there are scouts and scouts.
Bareheaded, half naked, he sped through the darkness like a ghostly specter of the night. He headed for a point some fifty yards ahead of the bus. He knew that coming from behind he could not catch it in time. He was running tointerceptit, not toovertakeit. He was running at right angles to it and for a point ahead of it. Therein lay his only chance, and not a very good chance. By all the rules there wasnochance. By the divine law which gives power to desperation, there was—a little.
He ran in utter abandonment, in frenzy. Some power outside of himself bore him on. What else? Like a fiend, with arms swinging and head swathed in a crazy rag, he moved through wind and storm, invincible, indomitable! His head throbbed, his mouth was thick, his side ached, but he seemed beyond the power of these things now. Over the fences he went, leaving shreds of clothing blowing in the gale, and tearing his flesh on stone walls. In the madness of despair, and in the insane resolve that despair begets, he sped on, on, on....
The bus was now almost even with his course. He changed his course to keep ahead of it. The lumbering old rattle-trap gave out a human note now, which cheered the runner. He could hear the voices within it. Very faint, but still he could hear them. He knew he could not make himself heard because the wind was the other way. Besideswhich, he had not the voice to call. His whole frame was trembling; he could not have spoken even.
On, on, on. The trees passed him like trees seen from a train window. He turned the wet rag in his mouth to draw a little more moisture from it. He clutched his sweating hands tighter around the knife and twig. He shook the blowing, dripping hair from his eyes. Forward,forward!If he slackened his speed now he would fall—collapse. Like a top, his speed kept him up.
Running straight ahead he would about run into the bus, which meant that it was gaining on him. Again he bent his course to a point ahead of it. Each maneuver of this kind narrowed the angle between himself and the bus until soon he would bepursuingit. The angle would be no more. He would be runningafterthe bus and losing ground.
By a supreme, final spurt, he had now a fair chance to make the road and intercept the bus before it reached the broad, level stretch to the bridge. Should it reach that point his last chance would have vanished.
In this desperate pass he tried to shout, but found, as the spent runner usually does, that he was almost voiceless. A feeble call was all he could manage, and on the contrary wind and noise of the storm, this was quite inadequate. He could only stumble on, borne up by his indomitable will. He was weakening and he knew it.
Yet the light of the bus so near him gave him fresh hope, and with it fresh strength. It seemed a kind of perversity of fate that he should have reached a point ordinarily within earshot, and yet could not make his approach known.
Just as the bus was passing his course, and when it was perhaps three or four hundred feet distant, Hervey, putting all his strength into a final spurt, sped forward in a blind frenzy like one possessed. He saw the bus go by; heard the voices within it. Throwing his jack-knife from him in a kind of frantic, maniacal desperation, he tried to scream, and finding that he could not, that his voice was dead while yet his limbs lived, and that his panting throat was clogged up and his nerves jangled and uncontrollable, he bounded forward in a kind of delirium of concentrated effort.
Then, suddenly, his foot sank into a hole. Perhaps with a little calmness and patience he could have released it. But in his wild hurry he tried to wrench it out. A sudden, sharp pain rewarded this insane effort. He lost his balance and went sprawling to the ground, another quick, excruciating twinge accompanying his fall, and lay there on the soggy ground like a woodchuck in a trap.
The old bus went lumbering by.
CHAPTER IXTHE HERO
The best account of this business was given by Darby Curren, the bus driver, or Curry, as the boys called him.
"We was jes' comin' onter the good road, we was, and I was jes' about goin' ter give Lefty a taste o' the whip ter let 'er know ter wake up. Them kids inside was a hollerin', 'Hit 'er up!" 'Step on 'er!' 'Give 'er the gas!' and all sech nonsense. Well, by gorry, I never seed sech a night since Noah sailed away in the ark, I didn't. So ye'll understand I was'n' fer bein' surprised at nuthin' I see. Ghosts nor nuthin'.
"Well, all of a sudden Lefty begins to jump and rear step sideways and was like to drag us all in the ditch when what do I see but that there thing, like a ghost or somethin' it was, hangin' onterher bridle. It was makin' some kind of a noise, I dunno what. First off I thought plum certain it was a ghost. Then I thought it was Hasbrooks' boy, that's what I thought, on account o' him havin' them fits and maybe bein' buried alive. It was me that druv the hearse fer 'im only a week back. And I says then to Corby that was sittin' with me, I says, no son o' mine that ever had them fits would be buried in three days, not if I knowed it. Safety first, I said, dead or livin'.
"Well, I hollered to him what he wanted there and I didn't get no answer so I got down. And all the rest o' that howlin' pack got out, and the two men. I guess they thought we was held up, Jesse James like. Only the little codger stayed inside.
"Well, there he was, all tore and bloody and not enough duds left to stop up a rat-hole. And we hed ter force his hand open, he was hangin' onter the bridle that hard."
Well, that was about all there was to it; the rest was told by many mouths. They forced open his grip on the horse's bridle and he collapsed and lay unconscious on the ground. Theylifted him and carried him gently into the bus, and laid him on one of the long seats. His left foot was shoeless and lacerated.
There were a couple of first aid scouts in the party, and they did what they could for him, bathing his face and trying to restore some measure of repose to his jangled nerves. They washed his torn foot with antiseptic while one kept a cautious hold upon his fluttering pulse. They administered a heart stimulant out of their kit, and waited. He did not speak nor open his eyes, save momentarily at intervals, when he stared vacantly. But the stout heart which had served him in his superhuman effort, would not desert him now, and in a little while the brother scout who held his wrist laid it gently down and, in a kind of freakish impulse, made the full scout salute to the unconscious figure. That seemed odd, too, because at camp he was not thought to be a really A-1 scout....
The two scoutmasters of the arriving troops remained in the bus with the first aid scouts and a queer little codger who seemed to be lame; the others walked. Hervey Willetts had ridden on top of that bus (contrary to orders), but he hadnever before lain quietly on the seat of it and been watched by two scoutmasters. He was always being watched by scoutmasters, but never in just this way....
So the old bus lumbered on. Soon he opened his eyes and mumbled something.
"Yes, my boy," said one of the scoutmasters; "what is it?"
"S—sma—smashed—br—," he said incoherently.
"Yes, we'll have a doctor as soon as we reach camp," the scoutmaster said soothingly. "Try to bear it. Don't move it and perhaps it won't pain so."
Hervey shook his head petulantly as if it were not his foot he spoke of. "Br—oken—the—br—look out——" And again he seemed to faint away.
The scoutmaster was puzzled.
In a few moments he spoke again, his eyes closed. But the word he spoke was clear.
"Ahead," he whispered.
The scoutmaster was still puzzled but he opened the bus door and called, "Gilbert, supposeyou and a couple of the boys go on ahead and watch your step." Then to the other scoutmaster he said, "I think he's a bit delirious."
So it happened that it was Gilbert Tyson of the troop from Hillsburgh, forty or fifty miles down the line, who shouted to Darby Curren to stop, that the bridge had been washed away.
A funny part of the whole business was that the little duffer in the bus, who was attached to that troop, thought that Tyson was the hero of the occasion. He was strong on troop loyalty if on nothing else. So far as he was concerned (and he was very much concerned) Tyson had saved the lives of every scout in those two troops. Subsequent circumstances favored this delusion of his. For one thing, Hervey Willetts cared nothing at all about glory. You could not fit the mantle of heroism on him to save your life. He never talked about the affair, he was seldom at camp, except to sleep, and he did not know how he had managed the last few yards of his triumphal errand. For another thing, the Hillsburgh troop kept to themselves more or less, occupying one of the isolated "hill cabins." As for Tom Slade, heseldom talked much. He had seen too many stunts to lose his head over a new one, and he was a poor sort of publicity agent for Hervey.
Thus Goliath, as the little codger came to be known, had the field all to himself, and he turned out to be a mighty "hero maker."
CHAPTER XPROVEN A SCOUT
The bus came to a stop a hundred feet or so from the ruined bridge and its passengers, going forward cautiously, looked down shudderingly into the yawning chasm. For a few seconds the very thought of what might have happened filled them with silent awe.
Goliath was the first to speak. "It's good Tyson saved our lives, isn't it?" he piped up. "We'd all be dead, 'wouldn't we?"
"Very dead," said one of the scouts; "so dead we probably wouldn't know it."
"Wouldn'tknowit?" asked Goliath, puzzled.
For answer the scout gave him a bantering push and tousled his hair for him. The little fellow took refuge with one of the scoutmasters.
"Will we get to that camp soon?" he asked.
"Pretty soon, I hope. Perhaps some one will come down and show us the way."
"Are we lost?"
"No, we're saved."
"I'm glad we're in Tyson's troop, aren't you?"
The scoutmaster laughed. "You bet," he said.
"Are there wild animals in that camp?"
"Scouts are all wild animals," the scoutmaster laughed again.
"Am I a wild animal?"
"Surest thing you know."
"Are you?"
"That's what."
"Is that fellow that's inside lying on the seat—is he dead?"
"No—not dead. But you mustn't go in and bother him."
The scene about the bridge was one of utter ruin. No vestige of the rustic structure was left; it had probably been carried away in the first overwhelming rush of water. The flood had subsided by now, and only a trickle of water passed through the gully. In this, and upon the sloping banks and the wreckage which had been Ebon Berry's garage, the scouts climbed about and explored the scene of devastation.
After a while a scoutmaster and several boysarrived from camp by way of the road. They had fought their way through mud and storm, bringing stretchers and a first aid kit, in expectation of finding disaster.
"This is not a very cheerful welcome to camp," one of the scoutmasters said. "The lake broke through up yonder. The boys have checked the flood with a kind of makeshift dam. We were afraid you had met with disaster. All safe and sound, are you?"
"Oh, yes, several of our boys went ahead and one of them shouted for us to stop——"
"That's the one right there," piped up the little fellow. "Maybe he'll get a reward, hey? Maybe he'll get a prize."
"I guess we're all safe and sound," said the other arriving scoutmaster; "but wet and hungry——"
"Especially hungry," one of the scouts said.
"That's a common failing here," said the man from camp.
"There's a funny fellow inside; want to see him?" piped up Goliath. "He hasn't got any clothes hardly, and he don't know what he's talking about; he hasn't got any conscience——"
"He means he's unconscious," said the scoutmaster. "We ran into him on the road. He really hasn't spoken yet, so we don't know anything about him. He seems a kind of victim of the storm—crazed. I think it just possible he intended—Come inside, won't you? I think we'll have to take him with us on a stretcher. I suppose he belongs in the countryside hereabouts."
Thus it was that Hervey's own scoutmaster looked down upon the unconscious form of his most troublesome and unruly scout. It was no wonder that the others had not thought him a scout. He looked more like a juvenile hobo. But sticking out of his soaking pocket was that one indubitable sign of identification, his rimless hat cut full of holes and decorated with its variety of badge buttons. Ruefully, Mr. Denny lifted this dripping masterpiece of original handiwork, and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
"This is one of our choicest youngsters," he said. "He is in my own troop. The last time I saw him, I explicitly told him not to leave camp without my permission. I suppose he has been on some escapade or other. I think he's about due for dismissal——"
"I don't think he's seriously injured, sir."
"Oh, no, he has a charmed life. Nine lives like a cat, in fact. Well, we'll cart him back."
"He doesn't look like a scout fellow," Goliath said.
"Well, he isn't what you would call a very good scout fellow, my boy," Mr. Denny said. "Good scout fellows usually know the law and obey it, if anybody should ask you."
"If they ask me, that's what I'll tell 'em," said Goliath, "hey?"
"You can't go far wrong if you tell them that," Mr. Denny said.
"And they have to save lives too, don't they?" the little codger piped up.
"Why, yes, you seem to have it all down pat," Mr. Denny said.
"We've got one of them in our troop," the little fellow said; "he's a hero."
"Well, I hope he reads the handbook and obeys the scout laws," said Mr. Denny significantly.
"I'm always going to have good luck," the little fellow said, rather irrelevantly. "I got a charm, too. Want to see it?"
"I think we'd better see if we can get tocamp and find some hot stew," said Mr. Denny.
"That's the kind of a charm for me," said one of the scouts.
So it fell out that on this occasion, as on most others, Goliath was not permitted to dig down into the remote recess of his pocket to show that wonderful charm.
CHAPTER XITHE NEW SCOUT
"Well," laughed Mr. Baxton, scoutmaster of the troop to which that little brownie of a boy belonged; "since we have a hero, we may as well use him. Suppose you stay here, Gilbert, and stop any vehicles that happen along."
"I think one of our boys from camp ought to do that," said one of the other scoutmasters. "How about you, Roy?"
The boy addressed was of a compact, natty build, with brown curly hair, and with the kind of smile which was positively guaranteed not to wash out in a storm. On his nose, which was of the aggressive and impudent type, were five freckles, set like the stars which form the big dipper, and his even teeth, which were constantly in evidence, were as white as snow. Across the bridgeof his nose was a mark such as is seen upon the noses of persons who wear spectacles. But he wore no spectacles, though the imprint between his laughing, dancing eyes was said to have been caused by glasses—soda water glasses which were continually tipped up against his nose in obedience to the dictum that a scout shall be thorough.
"We'll both stay," he said; "if a Ford comes along we'll carry it across."
"Well, don't leave the spot, that's all," said Mr. Denny.
"Far be it from such," said Roy. "If we go away we'll take it with us. We should worry our young lives about a spot. Only save some stew for us. This night has been full of snap so far, it reminds me of a ginger-snap. We'll sit in one of those old cars, hey?"
Gilbert Tyson stared at Roy. He thought it wouldn't be half bad to stay here with this sprightly scout. The rest of the party, guided by Mr. Denny, started picking their way along the road to camp, carrying Hervey on a stretcher. Darby Curren, the stage-driver, doubtless tempted by the mention of hot stew, unharnessed his team and leaving the horses to graze in the adjacentfield, accompanied the party. Roy and Gilbert Tyson watched the departing cavalcade till it was swallowed in darkness.
The rain had ceased now, and the wind was dying. In the sky was a little silvery break, and by its light flaky clouds were seen hurrying away, all in one direction like a flock of birds. It seemed as if they might be fleeing quietly from the wreck which they had caused.
"If one of the lights on those cars is working, we might use it for a signal," Roy said.
The cars of which he spoke were in the wreckage of Berry's garage. It had not been much of a garage, hardly more than a shack, in fact, and the two cars which now stood more or less damaged and exposed to the weather, had been its only contents, save for a work-bench and a few tools. Mr. Berry's flivver was quite beyond repair, having been overturned and carried some yards and apparently dashed against the bridge. There is no wreck in the world like the wreck of a Ford.
The heavier car had evidently withstood the first onrush of water and had made a stand against the flood, its wheels deep in the mud. This carwas a roadster. Its side curtains were up, completely enclosing the single seat. It had evidently been used since the rainy weather started. It was not altogether free from damage, one of the fenders was bent, the bumper in front almost touched the ground on one side, an ornamental figurehead had been broken off the radiator cap, and the face of the radiator was dented. This car was equipped with a searchlight fastened on one end of the windshield, and as Gilbert Tyson handled this it lighted, sending a penetrating shaft of brightness into the night.
"It's funny the battery works after the soaking it got," said Roy. "Let's keep playing that light on the road. Anybody could see it half a mile off."
"Spell danger with it," Gilbert said.
"Sure, but I don't think anybody from camp will be along."
"You never can tell who knows the Morse Code and who doesn't," Gilbert said. "Keep playing it on the road, anyway."
The position of the car was such that this searchlight could be shown upon the road for perhaps the space of a quarter of a mile. It wouldhave been quite sufficient to give pause to any approaching wagon or machine. Roy and Gilbert climbed into the car and sat upon the seat in the cosy enclosure formed by the curtains. It was quite pleasant in there. Since it was more agreeable to be fooling with the light than to let it shine steadily, Roy amused himself by spelling the word DANGER again and again.
Pretty soon one of the curtains opened and a voice said, "What's all the danger about?"
CHAPTER XIITHE GRAY ROADSTER
It was Tom Slade. With him was one of the best all-around scouts in camp, patrol leader of the Royal Bengal Tigers, Eagle Scout and winner of the Gold Cross, Bert Winton.
"What's this? The annual electrical show?" he asked. "What's the matter with you kids? Lost, strayed or stolen? Who's this fellow?"
"Look at the bridge, it's gone!" said Roy. "Don't bother to look at it. It isn't there anyway. We're a couple of pickets—I mean sentinels."
"Well, you guided us through the woods, anyway," said Tom.
"The pleasure is ours," said Roy. "We can sit in a car and guide people through the woods; we're real heroes. What's the news?"
"Do you know anything about the stage?" Tom asked.
"We knowallabout it. It's right over there. This fellow comes from Hillsburgh. He got out and walked ahead and stopped it. Didn't you? Hervey Willetts blew in from somewhere or other and they're carrying him to camp. Nothing serious. Got any candy?"
"The crowd from the bus is all right then?"
"Positively guaranteed."
"And Hervey?"
"He's used up another one of his lives, he's only got three left now. He must have hit the trail after Westy and I left the cove. He's going to get called down to-morrow. He should worry, he's used to that."
"Where did they run into him?" Tom asked.
"They found him hanging onto one of the horses. Curry thought he was a ghost, that's allIknow. This fellow went ahead and shouted back that the bridge had sneaked off. Didn't you, Gilly?" It was characteristic of Roy that he had already found a nickname for Gilbert Tyson.
"Hervey say anything?"
"Mumbled something, I don't know what."
Tom pondered a few moments. "Humph," said he, "that's all right."
He was satisfied about Hervey. The other phases of the episode did not interest him. What scoutmasters said and thought did not greatly concern him. He did not give two thoughts to the fact that Hervey was to be "called down." He had known scouts to be called down before. He had known credit and glory to miscarry. Hervey had done this thing and that was all that the young camp assistant cared about. It would not hurt Hervey to be called down.
The picturesque young assistant, the very spirit and embodiment of adventure and romance, made a good deal of allowance for visiting scoutmasters and handbook scouts. He was broad and kind as the trees are broad and kind; exacting about big things, careless about little things. They knew all about scouting. He was the true scout. They had their manuals and handbooks. The great spirit of the woods was his. Hervey had made good. Why bother more about that?
So he just said, "Not hurt much, huh? Well, if you kids want to go up to camp, we'll take care of this job."
"Whose car is this, anyway?" asked Bert Winton. "I never saw it before. It's got bunged up a little, hey?"
Tom looked at the roadster rather interestedly, whistling to himself.
"It's gray," said Bert; "I never saw it before."
"It wasn't damaged in the flood," said Tom.
"Why wasn't it?" Roy demanded.
"Because it's facing down stream. Anything that hit it would have hit it in the back. I don't know whose it is, but it came here damaged, if you want to know."
"Sherlock Nobody Holmes, the boy detective," vociferated Roy. "We're not going to let it worry our innocent young lives, anyway, are we, Gilly? Oh, here comes somebody along the road! The plot grows thicker!"
Tom and Winton had cut through the woods, direct from the cove where they had been assisting in throwing together the makeshift dam. Fortunately the searchlight had made their journey easy. The figure which now approached along the road turned out to be Ebon Berry, owner of the wrecked garage, who had ventured forth from his home as soon as the storm had abated.
"Well, 'tain't no use cryin' over spilled milk, as the feller says," he observed as he contemplated the ruin all about him.
"You're about cleaned out, Mr. Berry," said Winton. "Whose car is this? I never saw it before."
"That? Well, now, that belongs to a feller that left it here, oh, I dunno, mebbe close onto a week ago. I ain't seed him since. Said he'd be back for it nex' day. I ain't seed nothin' of 'im. I guess that's what you'd call a racer, now, hain't it?"
"What are you going to do about it?" Tom asked. "It was damaged when it came here, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it were. Well, now, I don't jes' knowwhatI'd auter do. Jes' nothin', I guess."
"'Tisn't going to do it any good buried here in the mud," Tom said.
"Well, 'tain't my loss, ony six dollars storage."
"Let's give it the once over," Tom said, in a way of half interest. The efforts of the night had been so strenuous that his casual interest in the car was something in the form of relaxation. It interested him as whittling a stick might have interestedhim. "Take a squint into that pocket there, Roy."
There was nothing but a piece of cotton waste in the flap pocket of the door nearest Roy, but Gilbert Tyson's ransacking of the other one revealed some miscellaneous paraphernalia; there was a pair of motorist's gloves, a road map, a newspaper, and two letters.
"Here, I'll give you the light," said Roy, as Tyson handed these things to Tom.
"You keep the light on the road," said Tom. "Let's have your flashlight."
"Now we're going to find out where the buried treasure lays hid—I mean hidden," said Roy. "We're going to unravel the mystery, as Pee-wee would say. 'Twas on a dark and stormy night——"
"Let's have your flashlight," said Tom, dryly.