CHAPTER XIIITHE UNKNOWN TRAIL
Gilbert Tyson and Roy sat in the car. Tyson had removed one curtain and Tom, standing close by, examined the papers in the glare of the flashlight which Tyson held. Bert Winton and Mr. Berry peered curiously over Tom's shoulder.
The map was of the usual folding sort, and on a rather large scale, showing the country for about forty or fifty miles roundabout.
"There's my little old home town," said Tyson, putting his finger on Hillsburgh, "home, sweet home."
"And here's little old Black Lake—before the flood," said Roy. "There's the camp, right there," he added, indicating the spot to Tyson; "there's where we eat, right there."
"And here's a trail up the mountain," said Tom. "See that lead pencil mark? You go up the back way. See?"
So there then was indeed a way up that frowning mountain opposite the camp. It was up the less precipitous slope, the slope which did not face the lake. The pencil marking had been made to emphasize the fainter printed line.
"Humph," said Tom, interested. "There's alwayssomeway up a mountain.... Maybe the light we saw up there ...let's have a squint at that letter, will you?"
"Have we got a right to read it?" Winton asked.
"We may be able to save a life by it," said Tom. "Sure."
But the letter did not reveal anything of interest. It was, in fact, only the last page of a letter which had been preserved on account of some trifling memorandums on the back of the sheet. What there was of the letter read as follows:
hope you will come back to England some time or other. I suppose America seems strange after all these years. You'll have to be content with shooting Indians and buffaloes now. But we'll save a fox or two for you. And don't forget how to ride horseback and we'll try not to forget about the rattle wagons.Reggy.
hope you will come back to England some time or other. I suppose America seems strange after all these years. You'll have to be content with shooting Indians and buffaloes now. But we'll save a fox or two for you. And don't forget how to ride horseback and we'll try not to forget about the rattle wagons.
Reggy.
"That's very kind of Reggy," said Roy. "Indians and buffaloes! Poor Indians. If he ever comes here, we'll teach him to shoot the shutes. If he's a good shot maybe we'll let him shoot the rapids."
"They all think America is full of Indians," said Winton.
"Indian pudding," said Roy; "mmm, mmm!"
"Well, let's see the newspaper," said Tom. "I don't suppose there's anything particular in that. Somebody that lived in England has been trying to go up the mountain—maybe. That's about all we know. We don't know that, even. But anyway, he hasn't come back."
"Maybe he's up there shooting Indians and buffaloes," said Roy. "We should worry."
"When was it he came here?" Tom asked.
"'Bout several days ago, I reckon," said Mr. Berry.
"That light's been up there all summer," Winton said.
"Until to-night," Tom added.
For a few moments no one spoke.
"Well, let's see the paper," said Tom, as he took it and began looking it over. He had not glanced at many of the headings when one attracted his attention. Following it was an article which he read carefully.
AUTOIST KILLS CHILDNegligence and Reckless Driving Responsible for AccidentDriver EscapesAn accident which will probably prove fatal occurred on the road above Hillsburgh yesterday when a car described as a gray roadster ran down and probably mortally injured Willy Corbett, the eight-year-old son of Thomas Corbett of that place.Two laborers in a nearby field, who saw the accident, say that the machine was running on the left side of the road where the child was playing and that but for this reckless violation of the traffic law, the little fellow would not have been run down. The driver was apparently holding to the left of the road, because the running was better there.Exactly what happened no one seems to know. The autoist stopped, and started again, and when the two laborers had reached the spot where the childlay, the machine was going at the rate of at least forty miles an hour.All efforts of town and county authorities to locate the gray roadster have failed.
AUTOIST KILLS CHILDNegligence and Reckless Driving Responsible for AccidentDriver Escapes
An accident which will probably prove fatal occurred on the road above Hillsburgh yesterday when a car described as a gray roadster ran down and probably mortally injured Willy Corbett, the eight-year-old son of Thomas Corbett of that place.
Two laborers in a nearby field, who saw the accident, say that the machine was running on the left side of the road where the child was playing and that but for this reckless violation of the traffic law, the little fellow would not have been run down. The driver was apparently holding to the left of the road, because the running was better there.
Exactly what happened no one seems to know. The autoist stopped, and started again, and when the two laborers had reached the spot where the childlay, the machine was going at the rate of at least forty miles an hour.
All efforts of town and county authorities to locate the gray roadster have failed.
"That's only about ten miles from where I live," said Gilbert Tyson.
Tom seemed to be thinking. "Let's look at that letter again," said he. "Humph," he added and handed it back to Roy.
"What?" Roy asked.
"Nothing," said Tom. "I guess this is the car all right."
"I don't see it," said Winton. "Just because it's a gray roadster——"
"Well, there may be other little things about it, too," said Tom.
"About the car or the letter or what?" Winton asked.
"Answered in the affirmative," said Roy.
"Well, anyway," Tom said, "it looked as if the owner of the car might have gone up the mountain. And he hasn't come down. At least he hasn't come after his car. I'd like to get a look at him. I'm going to follow that trail up a ways——"
"To-night?"
"When did you suppose? Next week? I'd like to find out where the trail goes. I'm not saying any more. The bright spot we saw from camp went out to-night. And here's a trail on the other side of the mountain that I never knew of. Here's a man that had a map of it and he went away and hasn't come back. I'm not asking anybody to go with me."
"And I'm not asking you to let me," said Roy. "I'll go just for spite. You don't think you're afraid of me, am I, quoth he. Now that we're here, we might as well be all separated together. What do you say, Gilly? Yes, kind sir, said he. We'llallgo, what do you say? Indeed we will, they answered joyously——"
"Well, come ahead then," said Tom, "and stop your nonsense."
"Says you," Roy answered.
CHAPTER XIVON THE SUMMIT
The two facts uppermost in Tom's mind were these: Some one had marked the trail up that mountain, and the patch of brightness on the top of the mountain which had lately been familiar to the boys in camp had that very night disappeared.
The owner of the gray roadster had not come back for it. He might be the fugitive of the newspaper article, and he might not. If Tom had anyparticularreason for thinking that he was, he did not say so. There are a good many gray roadsters. One thing which puzzled Tom was this: the car had been in storage at Berry's for a few days at the very most, but the bright patch on the mountain had been visible for a month or more. So if the owner of this machine had gone up the mountain, at least he was not the originator of the bright patch there. But perhaps, after all, the bright patch was just some reflection.
SUDDENLY ROY CALLED, "LOOK HERE! HERE'S A BOARD!"SUDDENLY ROY CALLED, "LOOK HERE! HERE'S A BOARD!"Tom Slade's Double Dare.Page83
"Let's have another look at that letter," said Tom.
He read it again with an interest and satisfaction which certainly were not justified by the simple wording of the missive.
"Come ahead," he said; "we can't get much wetter than we are already. We might as well finish the night's work. I guess Mr. Berry'll take care of the searchlight."
Mr. Berry had no intention of leaving the scene of his ruined possessions to the mercy of vandals. Moreover, it seemed likely that with the abatement of the storm the neighboring village would turn out to view the devastation.
Once the end of the trail was located, the ascent of the mountain was not difficult, and the four explorers made their way up the comparatively easy slope, hindered only by trees which had fallen across the path. The old mountain which frowned so forbiddingly down upon the camp across the lake was very docile when taken from behind. It was just a big bully.
As Tom and the three scouts approached thesummit, the devastation caused by the storm became more and more appalling. Great trees had been torn up as if they had been no more than house plants. These had fallen, some to the ground and some against other trees, their spreading roots dislodging big rocks which had gone crashing down against other trees. Some of these rocks remained poised where the least agitation would release them.
Nature cannot be disturbed like this without suffering convulsions afterwards, and the continual low noises of dripping roots and of trees and branches sinking and settling and falling from temporary supports, gave a kind of voice of suffering and anguish to the wilderness.
These strange sounds were on every hand and they made the wrecked and drenched woods to seem haunted. Now and again a sound almost human would startle the cautious wayfarers as they picked their way amid the sodden chaos. In places it seemed as if the merest footfall would dislodge some threatening bowlder which would blot their lives out in a second. And the ragged, gaping chasms left by roots made the soggy ground uncertain support for yards about.
Toward the summit the path was quite obliterated under the jumble of the wreckage, and the party clambered over and threaded their way amid this débris until the tiny but cheering lights of Temple Camp were visible far down across the lake. There the two arriving troops were about finishing their hot stew! Far down and nearer than the camp was a moving speck of light; some one was on the lake. The boys did not venture too near that precipitous descent.
Suddenly Roy, who had been walking along a fallen tree trunk, called, "Look here! Here's a board!"
He had hauled it out from under the trunk, and the others, approaching, looked at it with interest. In all that wild desolation there was something very human about a fragment of board. Somehow it connected that unknown wilderness with the world of men.
"That didn't come up here by itself," said Tom.
"You're right, it didn't," said Tyson.
"Here's a rusty nail in it," Roy added.
The board, unpainted and weather beaten as it was, seemed singularly out of place in that remote forest.
Suddenly Roy grasped Tom's arm; his hand trembled; his whole form was agitated.
"Look!" he whispered hoarsely. "Look—down there—rightthere. See? Do you see it? Right under.... Oh, boy, it'sawful...."
CHAPTER XVA SCOUT IS THOROUGH
Scout though he was, Roy's hand trembled as he passed his flashlight to Tom. He could not, for his life, point that flashlight himself at the grewsome object which he had seen in the darkness.
Lying crossways underneath the trunk was the body of a man, his face looking straight up into the sky with a fixed stare, and a soulless grin upon his ashen face. Somewhere nearby, mud was dripping from an exposed root, and the earth laden drops as they fell one by one into the ragged cavity gave a sound which simulated a kind of unfeeling laughter. It seemed as if that stark, staring thing might be chuckling through its rigid, grinning mouth. Roy's weight and movement on the trunk communicated a slight stir to the ghastly figure and its head moved ever so little....
"No," said Tom, anticipating Winton's question; "he's dead. Get off the log, Roy."
"Well, I wish that dripping would stop, anyway," said Winton.
Tom approached the figure, the others following and standing about in silence as he examined it. They all avoided the log, the slightest movement of which had an effect which made them shudder.
Raising one cold, muddy hand, Tom felt the wrist, laying it gently down again. There was not even a faint, departing vestige of life in the trapped, crushed body.
"Is it him?" Gilbert Tyson asked in a subdued tone.
"Guess so," said Tom, kneeling.
The others stood back in a kind of fearful respect, watching, waiting.... Now and then a leaf or twig fell. And once, some broken tree limb crackled as it adjusted itself in its fallen estate. And all the while the mud kept dripping, dripping, dripping....
Lying on the dead man's open coat, as if they had fallen from his pocket, were two cards and a letter. These Tom picked up and glanced at,using Roy's flashlight. One of the cards was an automobile registration card. The other was a driver's license card. They were both of the State of New Jersey and issued to Aaron Harlowe. The letter had been stamped but not mailed. It was addressed to Thomas Corbett, North Hillsburgh, New York. This name tallied with the name of the child's father in the newspaper.
Here was pretty good proof that the man who had met death here upon this wild, lonely mountain was none other than the owner of the gray roadster, the coward who had fled from the consequences of his negligence, and turned it into a black crime!
"Are you going to open it?" Bert Winton asked.
"I guess no one has a right to do that but the coroner," Tom said. "We have no right to move the body even."
"Well," said Bert Winton, his awe at the sight of death somewhat subsiding at thought of the victim's cowardice, "there's an end of Aaron Harlowe who ran over Willie Corbett with a gray roadster and——"
"And was going to send a letter to the kid's father," concluded Tom. "And here's his footprint, too. I'd like to take his shoe off and fit it into this footprint," Tom said.
"What for?" Roy asked.
"Just to make sure."
But Tom soon dismissed that thought and the others did not relish it. Moreover, Tom knew that the law prohibited him from doing such a thing.
With the mystery, as it seemed, cleared up, there remained nothing to do but explore the immediate vicinity for the sake of scout thoroughness. Their search revealed other loose boards, a few cooking utensils and finally the utter wreck of what must have been a very primitive and tiny shack. This was perhaps a couple of hundred feet from the body and below the highest point of the mountain. It was conceivable that a fire here might have shown in a faint glare down at camp. The blaze could not have been seen. Amid the ruin of the shack were a few rough cooking utensils. The soaking land and the darkness effectually concealed the charred remnants of any fire.
"Well, he'll never shoot any buffaloes and wild Indians," said Roy.
Tom replaced the cards and letter, or rather put them in the dead man's pocket for fear the wind might blow them away, though being under the lee of the trunk they had been somewhat protected. Then the party retraced their path down the mountain and, circling its lower reaches, found themselves at last upon the lake shore.
Thus ended the work of that fretful night, a night ever memorable at Temple Camp, a night of death and devastation. The mighty wind which smote the forest and drove the ruinous waters before it, died in the moment of its triumph. The sodden, sullen heaven which had cast its gloom and poured its unceasing rain, rain, rain, upon the camp for two full weeks, cleared and the edges of the departing clouds were bathed in the silver moonlight. And the next morning the bright, merry sun arose and smiled down upon Temple Camp and particularly on Goliath who sat swinging his legs from the springboard.
CHAPTER XVITHE WANDERING MINSTREL
He was defying, single handed, half a dozen or more scouts who were flopping about in rowboats under and about the springboard. They had just rowed across after an inspection of the washed-out cove, and were resting on their oars, jollying the little fellow whose legs dangled above them.
"Where did that big feller go?" he asked.
"To the village."
"He found a dead man last night, didn't he?"
"That's what he did."
"I know his name, it's Slade."
"Right the first time. You're a smart fellow."
"I like that big feller. He says Gilbert Tyson is all right; I asked him. I bet Gilbert Tyson can beat any of you fellers. He's in my troop, he is. I bet you were never in a hospital."
"I bet you were never in prison," a scout ventured.
"I bet you never got hanged," Goliath piped up.
"I bet I did," another scout said.
"When?"
"To-morrow afternoon."
"To-morrow afternoon isn't here yet," Goliath said, triumphantly.
"Sure it is,thisis to-morrow afternoon. Somebody told me yesterday. If it was to-morrow afternoon yesterday it must be to-day."
"Posolutely," said Roy Blakeley. "What was true yesterday is true to-day, because the truth is always the same—only different."
"Sure," concurred another scout, "to-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. It's as clear as mud."
Goliath thought for a few moments and then made a flank attack.
"Gilbert Tyson is a hero," he said; "he saved the lives of everybody in that bus—he did."
"That's where he was wrong," said Roy Blakeley; "a scout is supposed to be generous. He mustn't be all the time saving."
"Isn't it good to save lives?" Goliath demanded.
"Sure, but not too many. A scout that's all the time saving gets to be stingy."
Goliath pondered a moment.
"Gilly is all right but he's not a first-class scout," said Roy.
"A first-class scout," said Westy Martin, "is not supposed to turn back. Gilbert turned back. Then he shouted 'stop.' Law three says that a scout is courteous. He should have said 'pleasestop.' Law ten says that a scout must face danger, but he turned his back to it. He wasn't thinking about the danger, all he was thinking about was the bus. All he was thinking about was being thrifty—saving lives. I've known fellows like that before. It's just like striking an average; a scout that strikes an average is a coward."
"You mean if the average is small?" said Roy.
"Oh, sure."
"Because it all depends," Roy continued; "a scout isn't supposed to fight, is he? But he can strike an attitude. The same as he can hit a trail. Suppose he hits a poor, little thin trail——"
"Then he's a coward," said Connie Bennett.
"Not necessarily," said Westy, "because——"
"A scout has to be obedient! You can't denythat!" Goliath nearly fell off the springboard in his excitement. "That other feller is going to get sent away because I heard a man say so!"
This was not exactly an answer to the well-reasoned arguments of Roy and his friends, but it had the effect of making them serious. Moreover, just at that juncture, Mr. Carroll, scoutmaster of the Hillsburgh troop, appeared and very gently ordered Goliath from his throne upon the springboard. The little fellow's mind had been somewhat unsettled by the skillful reasoning of his new friends. He trotted off in obedience to Mr. Carroll's injunction that he go in and take off his wet shoes.
"Boys," said the new scoutmaster, in a pleasant, confidential tone which won all, "I want to say a word to you about the little brownie we have with us. You'll find him an odd little duck. I'm hoping to make a scout of him some time or other. Meanwhile, we have to be careful not to get him excited. It's a rule of our troop to take with us camping each summer, some little needy inmate of an orphan home or hospital or some place of the sort, and give him the benefit of the country air. This little fellow is our chargethis year. You won't talk to him about his past, because we want him to forget that. We want to take him home well and strong and I look to you for help. Make friends with him and get him interested in things about camp. His heart isn't strong; be careful."
Good scouts that they were, they needed no more than these few words. Temple Camp usually took new boys as it found them, anyway, concerning itself with their actions and not with the history of their lives. Half the scouts in the big summer community didn't know where the other half came from, and cared less. From every corner of the land they came and all they knew or cared about each other was limited to their intercourse at camp.
"You don't suppose that's true, do you?" one of them asked when Mr. Carroll had gone.
"What? About Willetts?"
"Sure."
"Dare say. He's about due for the G. B., I guess. But if you want to cook a fish you've got to catch him first."
"Where is he, anyway?" one asked. "I thought his foot was so bad."
"I saw him limping off this morning, that's allIknow," another said.
"It would take more than a lame ankle to keephimat camp," said Dorry Benton of Roy's patrol. "Did you see that crazy stick he was using for a cane?"
"The wandering minstrel," another scout commented.
"He stands pat with Slady, all right."
"Gee, you can't help liking the fellow."
"I have to laugh at him," Westy said.
"You can't pal with him, that's one thing," another observed.
"That's because you can't keep up with him; even Mr. Denny has a sneaky liking for him."
"Do you know what one of his troop told me? He told me he always wears that crazy hat to school when he's home. Some nut!"
"Reckless, happy-go-lucky, that's what he is."
"Come on over and let's look on the bulletin board."
They all strolled, half idly, to the bulletin board which stood outside the main pavilion. It was a rule of camp that every scout should read the announcements there each afternoon. Thenthere would be no excuse for ignorance of important matters pertaining to camp plans. Upon the board were tacked several announcements, a hike for the morrow, letters uncalled for, etc. Conspicuous among these was the following:
Hervey Willetts will reportimmediatelyto his scoutmaster at troop's cabin, upon his arrival at camp.Wm. C. Denny.
Hervey Willetts will reportimmediatelyto his scoutmaster at troop's cabin, upon his arrival at camp.
Wm. C. Denny.
CHAPTER XVIITOM'S INTEREST AROUSED
On that same day a solemn little procession picked its way carefully down the trail from the storm-wrecked summit of the mountain. Four of the county officials bore a stretcher over which was tied a white sheet. With the party was Tom Slade who had guided the authorities to the grewsome discovery of the previous night. In this work, and in the subsequent assistance which he rendered, he was absent from camp throughout the day. This unpleasant business had not been advertised in camp.
Of the tragic end of Aaron Harlowe nothing more was known. Several days previously he had come to the neighborhood in his gray roadster, a fugitive, with the stigma of cowardice upon his conscience. He had tried to compromise with hisconscience, as it appeared, by enclosing a sum of money in an envelope and addressing it to the father of the child he had run down. But his death had prevented the mailing of this. The telltale finger of accusation was pointed at him from the newspaper which was in his car.
His identity was established to the satisfaction of the authorities by the name upon the license and registration cards found with his body. Why he had ascended the mountain and remained there several days only to be crushed to death in the storm, no one could guess. The conclusion of the authorities was that he was crazed by fear and remorse. This seemed not improbable, for his weak attempt to make amends with money showed him to be not altogether bad.
With the taking of the body by the authorities, Tom's participation in the tragic business ended. Yet there were one or two things which stuck in his mind and puzzled him. There had been a light on the mountain before ever this Harlowe had gone up there. There had been a crude shack near the summit. The light had disappeared amid the storm. The boys, watching the storm from the pavilion, had seen the light disappear.Did Harlowe, therefore, climb the mountain toescapeman or toseekman? Harlowe's life went out in that same tempestuous hour when the light went out. But how came the light there? And where was the originator of it?
One rather odd question Tom asked the authorities and got very little satisfaction from them. "Do you notice any connection between that article in the newspaper and the letter the dead man got from England?" he asked.
"No manner uv connection; leastways none as I kin see," said the sheriff. "The paper showed what he done; the map showed whar he went; the license cards showed who he was. And thar ye are, sonny, whole thing sure's gospel."
"It's funny about the light," said Tom, respectfully.
"I ain't botherin' my head 'baout no lights, son. I found Aaron Harlowe 'n that's enough, hain't it?"
It was in Tom's thoughts to say, "You didn't find him, I found him." But out of respect for the formidable badge which the sheriff wore on one strand of his suspenders, he refrained.
The next morning the newspapers told withconspicuous headlines, the tragic sequel of Aaron Harlowe's escape. "Found on lonely mountain," they said. "Fugitive motorist killed in storm," one of the write-ups was headed: "Storm wreaks vengeance on autoist," which was one of the best headings of the lot. "Sheriff's posse makes grewsome find" was another. And all told how Aaron Harlowe, fleeing guiltily from his crime, had met his fate in the storm-tossed wilds of that frowning mountain. They dwelt on the justice of Providence; they made the storm a kind of avenging hero. It was pretty good stuff.
And that, as I said in the beginning, was where the public interest in Aaron Harlowe ended. The rest of the strange business was connected with Temple Camp and the scouts, and never got into the papers....
It was exactly like Tom Slade that something should interest him in this tragic episode which did not interest the authorities. He left them, quite unsatisfied in his own mind, and with some kind of a bee in his bonnet....
CHAPTER XVIIITRIUMPH AND——
Atabout the time that Tom was starting back to camp, rather thoughtful and preoccupied, Hervey Willetts was arriving at camp, not at all thoughtful or preoccupied.
His ankle was strained and bruised, and he limped. But his rimless hat of many holes and button-badges was perched sideways toward the back of his head and had a new and piquant charm by reason of being faded and water soaked. Putting not his trust in garters, which had so often, betrayed him, he had fastened a string to his left stocking by means of an old liberty loan pin. The upper end of this string was tied to a stick which he carried over his shoulder, so he had only to exert a little pressure on the stick in front to adjust his stocking.
He had evidently been to see one of his farmer friends, for he was eating a luscious red tomato, and fate decreed that the last of this should be ready for consumption just as he was passing within a few yards of the bulletin board. For a moment a terrible conflict raged within him. Should he despatch the remainder of the tomato into his mouth, or at the bulletin board? The small remnant was red and mushy and dripping—and the bulletin board won.
Brandishing the squashy missile, he uttered his favorite passwords to good luck,
One for courageOne for spunkOne to take aimAnd then——
Suddenly he bethought him of an improvement. Sticking the remnant of tomato on the end of his stick, he swung it carefully.
One for courageOne for spunkOne to take aimAnd then—KERPLUNK!
Those magic words were intended, especially,for use in despatching tomatoes and they never failed to make good. There, upon the bulletin board was a vivid area which looked like the midday sun. From it trickled an oozy mass, down over the list of uncalled for letters, straight through the prize awards of yesterday, obliterating theCouncil Call, and bathing the list of new arrivals in soft and pulpy red. The "hike for to-morrow," as shown, was through a crimson sea.
Hervey approached for a closer glimpse of his triumph. No other incentive would have taken him so close to that prosy bulletin board. He had vaulted over it but never read it. But now in the moment of supreme victory he limped forward, like an elated artist, to inspect his work.
There, in front of him, with a little red river flowing down across the middle of it, was the ominous sentence.
Hervey Willetts will reportimmediatelyto his scoutmaster at troop's cabin, upon his arrival at camp.Wm. C. Denny.
Hervey Willetts will reportimmediatelyto his scoutmaster at troop's cabin, upon his arrival at camp.
Wm. C. Denny.
CHAPTER XIXHERVEY SHOWS HIS COLORS
"IfI hadn't fired the tomato I wouldn't have known about that," said Hervey. Which fact, to him, fully justified the juicy bombardment. "That shows how you never can tell what's going to happen next." And this was certainly true of Hervey.
But to do him justice, what was going to happen next never worried him. He took things as they came. He was not the one to sidestep an issue. The ominous notice signed by his scoutmaster had the effect of directing his ambling course to that officer's presence, on which detour, he might encounter new adventures. To reach his troop's cabin he would have to pass the cooking shack where a doughnut might be speared with a stick. All was for the best. He would as lief go to troop cabin as anywhere else....
In this blithe and carefree spirit, he approached the rustic domicile which he seldom honored by his presence, singing one of those snatches of a song which were the delight of camp, and which rounded out his rôle of wandering minstrel:
Oh, there is no place like the old camp-fire,As all the boy scouts know;And the best little place is home, sweet home—When there isn't any other place to go, go, go.When there isn't any other place to go.
Mr. Denny, standing in the doorway of the cabin, contemplated him with a repressed smile. "Hervey," he could not help saying, "since you think so well of the camp-fire, I wonder you don't choose to see more of it."
"I can see it from all the way across the lake," said Hervey. "I can see it no matter where I go."
"I see. It must arouse fond thoughts. I'm afraid, Hervey, to quote your own song, there isn't any other place for you to go but home, sweet home. You seem to have exhausted all the places. Sit down, Hervey, you and I have got to have a little talk."
Hervey leaned against the cabin, Mr. Denny sat upon the door sill. None of the troop was about; it was very quiet. For half a minute or so Mr. Denny did not speak, only whittled a stick.
"I sometimes wonder why you joined the scouts, Hervey," he said. "Your disposition——"
"A fellow that sat next to me in school dared me to," said Hervey.
"Oh, it was a sort of a wager?"
"I wouldn't take a dare from anybody."
"And so you joined as a stunt?"
"I heard that scouts jumped off cliffs and all like that."
"I see. Well, now, Hervey, I've written to your father that I'm sending you home."
Hervey began making rings in the soil with his stick but said nothing. Mr. Denny's last words were perhaps a little more than he expected, but he gave no other hint of his feelings.
And so for another minute or so there was silence, except for the distant voices of some scouts out upon the lake.
"It is not exactly as a punishment, Hervey; itis just that I can't take the responsibility, that's all. You see?"
"Y—— yes, sir."
"I thought you would. Your father thought the influence of camp would be good, but you see you are seldom at camp. We can't help you because we can't find you."
"You can't cook a fish till you catch it," said Hervey.
"That's just it, Hervey."
"If you don't want to leave any tracks the best thing is to swing into trees every now and then," Hervey informed him.
"Ah, I see. Now, Hervey, my boy, I'm anxious that you and I should understand each other. You have done nothing disgraceful and I don't think you ever will——"
"I landed plunk on my head once."
"Well, that was more of a misfortune than a disgrace."
"It hurt like the dickens."
"I suppose it did."
Mr. Denny paused; he was up against the hardest job he had ever tackled. It was harder than he had thought it would be.
"You see, Hervey, how it is. Last week you stayed away over night at some farm. I had told you you must not leave camp without my knowledge. For that I had you stay here all day, making a birchbark basket. I thought that was a good punishment."
"I'll tell the world it was," said Hervey.
Mr. Denny paused before proceeding.
"Did it do any good? Not a bit."
"The basket was a punk one," said Hervey.
"Again you rode down as far as Barretstown, hitching onto a freight train."
"I'd have got all the way down to Jonesville, if it hadn't been for the conductor. He was some old grouch, believeme."
"Then we had a little talk—you remember. You promised to be here at meal times. Look at Mr. Ellsworth's troop, Harris, Blakeley and those boys. Always on hand for meals——"
"I'll say so; they're some hungry bunch," Hervey commented.
"And you gave me your word that you wouldn't leave camp without my permission.You think as little about breaking your word as you do aboutbreaking your leg, Hervey," Mr. Denny added with sober emphasis.
Hervey began poking the ground again with his stick.
"That's just the truth, Hervey. And it can't go on any longer."
"Am I out of the troop?" Hervey asked, wistfully.
"N—no, you're not. But I want you to learn to be as good a scout in one way as you are in another. You have won merit badges with an ease which is surprising to me——"
"They're a cinch," Hervey interrupted.
"I want you to go home and stop doing stunts and read the handbook. I want you to read the oath and the scout laws, so that when the rest of us come home you can give me your hand and say, 'I'm an all round scout, not just a doer of stunts.'"
"H—how soon are—the rest of you coming back?" Hervey asked with just the faintest suggestion of a break in his voice.
"Why, you know we're here for six weeks, Hervey. Don't you know anything about your troop'saffairs? You know how much money we have in our treasury, don't you?"
Hervey did not miss the reproach. He said nothing, only kept tracing the circle with his stick. Finally it occurred to him to mark two eyes, a nose and a mouth in the circle. Mr. Denny sat studying him. I think Mr. Denny was on the point of weakening. Hervey seemed sober and preoccupied. But the face on the ground seemed to wink at Mr. Denny as if to intercede in its young creator's behalf.
Mr. Denny gathered his strength as one does on the point of taking an unpalatable medicine.
"Yesterday, Hervey, I expressly reminded you of your promise not to leave camp. I did that because I thought the storm might tempt you forth."
"They call me——"
"Yes, I know; they call you the stormy petrel. You went across the lake with others. They returned but you did not return with them. Where you went I don't know. And I'm not going to ask you, Hervey, for it makes no difference. I understand young Mr. Slade was there, butthatmakes no difference. Blakeley and one of histroop, Westy Martin, reached camp and reported conditions in the cove——"
"He's all right, Blakeley is——"
"Hours passed, no one knew where you were. I was too proud, or too ashamed, to go and ask Slade if he knew. I am jealous of our troop's reputation, Hervey—even if you are not——"
Hervey leaned against the cabin, looking abstractedly at his handiwork on the ground.
"There was great confusion and excitement here," Mr. Denny continued. "The whole camp turned out to save the lake, to stem the flood. But you were not here. Your companions in our troop worked till they were dog tired. But where were you? Helping?No, you were off on some vagabond journey—disobedient, insubordinate."
Mr. Denny spoke with resolute firmness now and his voice rang as he uttered his scathing accusations.
"You were a traitor not only to your troop, but to the camp—the camp which held out the hand of good fellowship to you when you came here. Aslacker——"
Hervey broke his stick in half and threw it on the ground. His breast heaved. He lookeddown. He said nothing. Mr. Denny studied him curiously for a few seconds.
"That is the truth, Hervey. One wrong always produces another. You were disobedient and insubordinate, and that led to—what?"
Hervey gulped, but whether in shame or remorse or what, Mr. Denny could not make out, He was to know presently.
"It led to shirking, whether intentional or not. And to-night, because there is no train, you are going to sleep in the camp which you deserted. You will, perhaps, row on the lake which others have saved for you. You see it now in its true light, don't you? You had better go and thank Blakeley and his comrade for what they did, if you have any real feeling for the camp."
"I——"
"Don't speak. Nothing you could say would make a difference, Hervey. I know from Mr. Carroll and his boys where you showed up. I know they found you clinging to one of the stage horses. I was there later and saw you. You might have been plunged into that chasm with all the rest of them and been crushed to pieces, if one of those scouts hadn't gone ahead, as hewastoldto do, and if he hadn't kept his mind on what he had beentoldto do, instead of disregarding his scoutmaster and——"
He paused, for Hervey was shaking perceptibly. He watched the boy curiously. Should he go on with this thing and see it through? He summoned his resolution.
"No, Hervey, as I said, I have written to your father. I have said nothing against you, only that you are too much for me here, where my responsibility is great. I want you to get your things together and take the train in the morning. We'll expect to see you when we come home. There is no hard feeling, Hervey. When we come home you're going to start all over again, my boy, and learn the thing right. You——"
With a kind of spasmodic effort Hervey raised his head and, with a pride there was no mistaking, looked his scoutmaster straight in the face. He was trembling visibly. If there was any contrition in his countenance, Mr. Denny did not see it. He was quite taken aback with the fine show of spirit which his young delinquent showed. There was even a dignity in the old cap with its holes and badges, as it sat perched on the side of hishead. There was a touch of pathos, even of dignity too, in his fallen stocking.
"I—I—wouldn't stay here—now—I wouldn't—I—not even if youaskedme—I wouldn't. I wouldn't even if you—if you got down on your knees and begged me——"
"Hervey, my boy——"
"No, I won't listen. I—I wouldn't stay evento-night—I wouldn't. Do you think I need a train? I—I can hike to Jonesville, can't I? You say I'm—I'm no scout—Tom Slade he said——"
"Hervey——"
"I don't—anyhow—I don't care anything about the rest of them. I wouldn't stay even for supper. Even if you—if you apologized—I wouldn't——"
"Apologize? Why, Hervey——"
"For what you said—called me—I wouldn't. I don't give a—a—damn—I don't—for all the people here—only except one—and I wouldn't stay if you got down on your knees and begged me—I wouldn't——"
Mr. Denny contemplated him with consternation in every feature. There was no stopping him. The accused had become the accuser.There was something stirring, something righteous, in this fine abandon. In the setting of the outburst of hurt pride even the profane word seemed to justify itself. The tables were completely turned and Hervey Willetts was master of the situation.