CHAPTER XXTOM ADVISES GOLIATH
It was late afternoon when Tom Slade, tramping home after his day spent with the minions of the law, crossed the main road and hit into the woods trail which afforded a short cut to camp.
It was the laziest hour of the day, the gap between mid afternoon and supper time. It was a tranquil time, a time of lolling under trees and playing the wild game of mumbly-peg, and of jollying tenderfoots, and waiting for supper. Roy Blakeley always said that the next best thing to supper was waiting for it. The lake always looked black in that pre-twilight time when the sun was beyond though not below the summit of the mountain. It was the time of new arrivals. In that mountain-surrounded retreat they have two twilights—a tenderfoot twilight and a firstclass twilight. It was the time when scouts, singly and in groups, came in from tracking, stalking and what not, and sprawled about and got acquainted.
But there was one who did not come in on that peaceful afternoon, and that was the wandering minstrel. If Tom Slade had crossed the main road ten minutes sooner, he might have seen that blithe singer going along the road, but not with a song on his lips. The sun of that carefree nature was under a cloud. But his loyal stocking kept descending, and his suit-case dangled from a stick over his shoulder. His trick hat perched jauntily upon his head, Hervey Willetts was himself again. Not quite, butalmost. At all events he did not ponder on the injustice of the world and the cruelty of fate. He was wondering whether he could make Jonesville in time for the night train or whether he had better try for the boat at Catskill Landing. The boat had this advantage, that he could shinny up the flagpole if the pilot did not see him. The train offered nothing but the railing on the platforms ...
If Tom had been ten minutes earlier!
The young camp assistant left the trail and hitdown through the grove and around the main pavilion. The descending sun shone right in his face as he neared the lake. It made his brown skin seem almost like that of a mulatto. His sleeves were rolled up as they always were, showing brown muscular arms, with a leather wristlet (but no watch) on one. His pongee shirt was open almost down to his waist. His faded khaki trousers were held up by a heavy whip lash drawn tight around his waist.
Not a single appurtenance of the scout was upon him. He was rather tall, and you who have known him as a hulking youngster with bull shoulders will be interested to know that he had grown somewhat slender and exceedingly lithe. He had that long stride and silent footfall which the woods life develops. He was still tow-headed, though he fixed his hair on occasions, which is saying something. You would have been amused at his air of quiet assurance. Perhaps he had not humor in the same sense that Roy Blakeley had, but he had an easy, bantering way which was captivating to the scouts.
Dirty little hoodlum that he once was, he was now the most picturesque, romantic figure in thecamp. In Tom Slade, beloved old Uncle Jeb, camp manager, seemed to have renewed his own youth. Scouts worshipped at the shrine of this young confidant of the woods, trustees consulted him, scoutmasters respected him.
As he emerged around the corner of the storage cabin, several scouts who had taken their station within inhaling distance of the cooking shack fell in with him and trotted along beside him.
"H'lo, Slady, can we go with you?"
"I'm going to wash my hands," said Tom, giving one of them a shove.
"Good night! I don't want to go."
"I thought you wouldn't."
In Tent Avenue the news of his passing got about and presently a menagerie of tenderfoots were dogging his heels.
"Where you been, Slady? Can I go? Take me? Take us on the lake, Slady?"
As he passed the two-patrol cabins Goliath slid down from the woodpile and challenged him. "Hey, big feller, I got a souvenir. Want to see it? I know who you are; you're boss, ain't you?"
"H'lo, old top," said Tom, tousling his hairfor him. "Well, how do you think you like Temple Camp?"
Goliath had hard work to keep up with him, but he managed it.
"I had two pieces of pie," he said.
"Good for you."
"Maybe I'll get to be a regular scout, hey?"
"Not till you can eat six pieces."
"Were you ever in a hospital?"
"Yop, over in France."
"I bet you licked the Germans, didn't you?"
"Oh, I had a couple of fellows helping me."
"A fellow in my troop is a hero; he's going to get a badge, maybe. A lot of fellers said so."
"That's the way to do," said Tom.
"His name is Tyson, that's what his name is. Do you know him?"
"You bet."
"He saved all the fellers in that wagon from getting killed because he shouted for the wagon to stop. So he's a hero, ain't he?"
"Well, I don't know about that," said Tom cheerily; "medals aren't so easy to get."
"There was a crazy feller near that wagon. I bet you were never crazy, were you?"
"Not so very."
"Will you help him to get the medal—Tyson?"
"Well, now, you let me tell you something," said Tom; "don't you pay so much attention to these fellows around camp. The main thing for you to do is to eat pie and stew and things. A lot of these fellows think it's easy to get medals. And they think it's fun to jolly little fellows like you. Don't you think about medals; you think about dinner."
"But after I get through thinking about dinner——"
"Then think about supper. You can't eat medals."
Goliath seemed to ponder on this undesirable truth. He soon fell behind and presently deserted Tom to edify a group of scouts near the boat landing.
Of course, Tom did not take seriously what Goliath had said about awards. He knew Tyson and he knew that Tyson would be the last one in the world to pose as a hero. But he also knew something of the disappointments which innocent banter and jollying had caused in camp. He knew that the wholesome spirit of fun in RoyBlakeley and others had sometimes overreached itself, causing chagrin. There was probably nothing to this business at all but, for precaution's sake, he would nip it in the bud.
One incidental result of his little chat with Goliath was that he was reminded of Hervey's exploit, a matter which he had entirely forgotten in his more pressing preoccupations. Tom was no hero maker and he knew that Hervey would only trip on the hero's mantle if he wore it. As time had gone on in camp, Tom had found himself less and less interested in the pomp and ceremony and theatrical clap-trap of awards. Bravery was in the natural course of things. Why make a fuss about it?
For that very reason, he was not going to have any heads turned with rapturous dreams of gold and silver awards. He was not going to have any new scouts' visit blighted by vain hopes. He did not care greatly about awards, but he cared a good deal about the scouts ...
CHAPTER XXIWORDS
After he had prepared for supper he went up the hill to the cabin occupied by Mr. Carroll's troop. It was pleasantly located on a knoll and somewhat removed from the main body of camp. Mr. Carroll was himself about to start down for supper.
"H'lo, Mr. Carroll," said Tom; "alone in your glory?"
"The boys have gone down," said Mr. Carroll. "They'll be sorry to have missed a visit from Tom Slade."
"Comfortable?" Tom asked.
"Couldn't be more so, thank you. We can almost see home from up here, though the boys prefer not to look in that direction."
Tom glanced about. "Sometimes new troops are kind of backward to ask for things," he said."We're not mind readers, you know. So sing out if there's anything you want."
"Thank you."
"Kid comfortable?"
"Yes, he's giving his attention to pie and awards."
"Hm," said Tom, seating himself on a stump. "Pie's all right, but you want to have these fellows go easy on awards. The boys here in camp are a bunch of jolliers. Of course, you know the handbook——"
"Oh, yes."
"And you know Tyson doesn't stand to win any medal for anything he did last night. Strictly speaking, he saved your lives, I suppose, but it isn't exactly a case for an award."
"Oh, mercy, no."
"I'm glad you see it that way, Mr. Carroll. Because sometimes scouts get to enjoying themselves so much here, that they forget what's in the handbook. These things go by rules, you know. I like Gilbert and I wouldn't want him to get any crazy notions from what these old timers say. There's some talk among the boys——"
"I think the little fellow's responsible for that,"Mr. Carroll laughed. "Gilbert is level-headed and sensible."
"You bet," said Tom. "Well, then, it's all right, and there won't be any broken hearts. I've seen more broken hearts here at camp than broken heads ... You're a new troop, aren't you?" he queried.
"Oh, yes, we haven't got our eyes open yet."
"Goliath seems to have his mouth open for business."
"Yes," Mr. Carroll laughed. "Shall we stroll down to supper?"
"I've got one more call to make if you'll excuse me," said Tom.
"Come up again, won't you?"
"Oh, yes, I make inspection every day. You'll be sick of the sight of me."
He was off again, striding down the little hill. He passed among the tents, around Visitors' Bungalow, and toward the cabins in Good Turn Grove. Somewhat removed from these (a couple of good turns from them, as Roy Blakeley said) was the cabin of Mr. Denny's troop.
The boys were getting ready to go down and they greeted Tom cheerily.
"Where's Hervey?" he asked.
He had not seen Hervey since late the previous night, just after returning from the mountain. Hervey was then so exhausted as hardly to know him. The young assistant fancied a sort of constraint among the boys and he thought that maybe Hervey's condition had taken an alarming turn.
"Ask Mr. D.," said one of the scouts.
"H'lo, Mr. Denny," said Tom, stepping into one of the cabins. No one was there but the scoutmaster. "Where's our wandering boy to-night?"
"He has been dismissed from camp, I'm sorry to say," said Mr. Denny. "Sit down, won't you?"
Tom could hardly speak for astonishment.
"You mean the camp—down at the office——"
"Oh, no, I sent him home. It was just between him and myself."
"Oh, I see," said Tom, a trifle relieved, apparently. "It wasn't on account of his hurt?"
"Oh, no, he's all right. He just disobeyed me, that's all. That sort of thing couldn't go on, you know. It was getting worse."
Mr. Denny had now had a chance to reviewhis conduct and he found it in all ways justified. He was glad that he had not weakened. Moreover, there was fresh evidence.
"Only just now," he said, "one of the scoutmasters came to me with a notice from the bulletin board utterly ruined by a tomato which Hervey threw. He was greatly annoyed."
"Sure," said Tom.
"I don't exactly blame you, Slade——"
"Me?"
"But you took Hervey with you across the lake. He had promised me not to leave camp. Where he went, I don't know——"
"Youdon't?"
"No, and I don't care. He was picked up by the people in the bus, and if it hadn't been for that I suppose I'd be answerable to his parents for his death. He was very insolent to me."
"He didn't say——"
"Oh, no, he didn't say anything. He assumed an air of boyish independence; I don't know that I hold that against him."
"But he didn't tell you where he had been—or anything?"
"Why, no. I had no desire to hear that. Hisfault was instarting. It made no difference where he went."
"Oh."
For a few seconds Tom said nothing, only drummed with his fingers on the edge of the cot on which he sat.
"This is a big surprise to me," he finally said.
"It is a very regrettable circumstance to me," said Mr. Denny.
There ensued a few seconds more of silence. The boys outside could be heard starting for supper.
Tom was the first to speak. "Of course you won't think I'm trying to butt in, Mr. Denny, but there's a rule that the camp can call on all its people in an emergency. The first year the camp opened we had a bad fire here and every kid in the place was set to work. After that they made a rule. Sometimes things have to be done in a hurry. I took Hervey and a couple of others across the lake, because I knew something serious had happened over there. I think I had a right to do that. But there's something else. Hervey didn't tell you everything. You said you didn't want him to."
"He has never told me everything. I had always been in the dark concerning him. This tomato throwing makes me rather ashamed, too."
"Yes," said Tom, "that's bad. But will you listen to me if I tell you the whole of that story—the whole business? I've been away from camp all day. I only got here fifteen minutes ago. I know Hervey's a queer kid—hard to understand. I don't know why he didn't speak out——"
"Why, it was because I told him it wouldn't make any difference," said Mr. Denny, a bit nettled. "The important point was known to me and that was that he disobeyed me. I don't think we can gain anything by talking this over, Slade."
"Then you won't listen to me, Mr. Denny?"
"I don't think it would be any use."
Tom paused a moment. He was just a bit nettled, too. Then he stood. And then, just in that brief interval, his lips tightened and his mouth looked just as it used to look in the old hoodlum days—rugged, strong. The one saving, hopeful feature which Mr. Ellsworth, his old scoutmaster, had banked upon then in that sooty, unkempt countenance. They were the lips of a bulldog:
"All right, Mr. Denny," he said respectfully.
CHAPTER XXIIACTION
Tom strode down to the messboards which, in pleasant weather, were out under the trees. He seemed not at all angry; there was a kind of breezy assurance in his stride and manner. As he reached the messboards where some of the scouts were already seated on the long benches, several noticed this buoyancy in his demeanor.
"H'lo, kiddo," he said to Pee-wee Harris as he passed and ruffled that young gourmand's hair.
Reaching Mr. Carroll, he asked in a cheery undertone, "May I use one of your scouts for a little while?"
"I'll have the whole troop wrapped up and delivered to you," said Mr. Carroll.
"Thanks."
Reaching Gilbert Tyson, he laid his hand on Gilbert'sshoulder and whispered to him in a pleasant, offhand way, "Get through and come in the office, I want to speak to you."
In the office, Tom seated himself at one of the resident trustees' desks, spilled the contents of a pigeon hole in hauling out a sheet of the camp stationery, shook his fountain pen with a blithe air of crisp decision and wrote:
To Hervey Willetts, Scout:—You are herebyrequiredto present yourself before the resident Court of Honor at Temple Camp, which sits in the main pavilion on Saturday, August the second, at ten A. M., and which will at that time hear testimony and decide on your fitness for the Scout Gold Cross award for supreme heroism.By order of theResident Council.
To Hervey Willetts, Scout:—
You are herebyrequiredto present yourself before the resident Court of Honor at Temple Camp, which sits in the main pavilion on Saturday, August the second, at ten A. M., and which will at that time hear testimony and decide on your fitness for the Scout Gold Cross award for supreme heroism.
By order of theResident Council.
Pushing back his chair, he strode over to Council Shack, adjoining.
"Put your sig on that, Mr. Collins," said he.
He reëntered the office just as Gilbert Tyson, wearing a look of astonishment and inquiry, and finishing a slice of bread and butter, entered by the other door.
"Tyson," said Tom, as he put the missive in an envelope, "I understand you're a hero, woke upand found yourself famous and all that kind of stuff. Can you sprint? Good. I'm going to give you the chance of your life, and no war tax. Hervey Willetts started for home about three quarters of an hour ago. Never mind why. Deliver this letter to him."
"Where is he?" Gilbert asked.
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"Started for the train, you mean?"
"Now, Tyson, I don't know any more about it than just that—he started for home. To-day's Thursday. He must be here Saturday. Now don't waste time. Here's the letter. Nowget out!"
"Just one second," said Gilbert. "How do youknowhe started for home?"
"How do I know it?" Tom shot back, impatiently.
"Do you think a fellow like Willetts would go home? I'll deliver the letter wherever he is. But he isn't on his way home. I know him."
"Tyson," said Tom, "you're a crackerjack scout. Now get out of here before I throw you out."
CHAPTER XXIIITHE MONSTER
It is better to know your man than to know his tracks. Gilbert Tyson had somehow come to understand Hervey in that one day since his arrival at camp, and he had no intention of exhausting his breath in a futile chase along the road. There, indeed, was a scout for you. He was on the job before he had started.
The road ran behind the camp, the camp lying between the road and the lake. To go to Catskill Landing one must go by this road. Also to make a short cut to Jonesville (where the night express stopped) one must go for the first mile or so along this road. The road was a state road and of macadam, and did not show footprints.
Tyson did not know a great deal about tracking, but he knew something of human nature, he hadheard something of Hervey, and he eliminated the road. He believed that he would not overtake Hervey there.
Across the road, at intervals, several trails led up into the thicker woods. One led to the Morton farm, another to Witches' Pond.
Tyson, being new at camp, did not know the direction of these trails, but he knew that all trails go somewhere. He had heard, during the day, that Hervey was on cordial terms with every farmer, squatter, tollgate keeper, bridge tender, hobo, and traveling show for miles around.
So he examined these trails carefully at their beginnings beside the road. Only one of them interested him. Upon this, about ten feet in from the road, was a rectangular area impressed in the earth which, in the woods, was still damp after the storm. With his flashlight Gilbert examined this. He thought a box might have stood there. Then he noticed two ruffled places in the earth, each on one of the long sides of the rectangle. He knew then what it meant; a suit-case had stood there.
If he had known more about the circumstance of Hervey's leaving, he might have been touchedby the picture of the wandering minstrel pausing to rest upon his burden, there at the edge of the woods.
So this was the trail. Elated, Gilbert hurried on, pausing occasionally to verify his conviction by a footprint in the caked earth. The consistency of the earth was ideal for footprints. Yes, some one had passed here not more than an hour before. Here and there was an occasional hole in the earth where a stick might have been pressed in, showing that the stormy petrel had sometimes used his stick as a cane.
For half an hour Gilbert followed this trail with a feeling of elation, of triumph. Soon he must overtake the wanderer. After a little, the trail became indistinct where it passed through a low, marshy area. The drenching of the woods by the late storm was apparent still in the low places.
Gilbert trudged through this spongy support, all but losing his balance occasionally. Soon he saw something black ahead of him. This was Witches' Pond, though he did not know it by that name.
As he approached, the ground became more and more spongy and uncertain. It was apparentthat the pond had usurped much of the surrounding marsh in the recent rainy spell.
Gilbert had to proceed with caution. Once his leg sank to the knee in the oozy undergrowth. He was just considering whether he had not better abandon a trail which was indeed no longer a trail at all, and pick his way around the pond, when he noticed something a little distance ahead of him which caused him to pause and strain his eyes to see it better in the gathering dusk. As he looked a cold shudder went through him. What he saw was, perhaps, fifty feet off. A log was there, one end of which was in the ground, the other end projecting at an angle. Its position suggested the pictures of torpedoed liners going down, and there passed through Gilbert's agitated mind, all in a flash, a vision of the greatLusitaniasinking—slowly sinking.
For this great log was going down. Slowly, very slowly; but it was going down. Or else Gilbert's eyes and the deepening shadows were playing a strange trick....
He dragged his own foot out of the treacherous ground and looked about for safer support.There was a suction as he dragged his foot up which sent his heart to his mouth. "Quicksand," he muttered, shudderingly.
Was it too late? He backed cautiously out of the jaws of this horrible monster of treachery and awful death, feeling his way with each tentative, cautious step. He stood ankle deep, breathing more easily. He was back at the edge of that oozy, clinging, all devouring trap. He breathed easier.
He looked at the log. It was going down. It stood almost upright now, and offering no resistance with its bulk, was sinking rapidly. In a minute it looked like a stump. It shortened. Gilbert stood motionless and watched it, fascinated. Instinctively he retreated a few feet, to still more solid support. He was standing in ordinary mud now.
Down, down....
A long legged bird came swooping through the dusk across the pond, lit upon the sinking trunk, and then was off again.
"Lucky it has wings," Gilbert said. There was no other way to safety.
Down, down, down—it was just a hubble. The oozy mass sucked it in, closed over it. It was gone.
There was nothing but the dusk and the pond, and the discordant croaking of frogs.
Then, close to where the log had been, Gilbert saw something else. It was a little dab of yellow. It grew smaller; disappeared. There was nothing to be seen now but a little spot of gray; probably some swamp growth ...
No....
Just then Gilbert saw upon it a tiny speck which sparkled. There were other specks. He strained his eyes to pierce the growing darkness. He was doubtful, then certain, then doubtful. He advanced, ever so cautiously, a step or two, to see it better.
Yes. It was.
Utterly sick at heart he turned his head away. There before him, still defying by its lightness of weight, the hungry jaws of the heartless, terrible, devouring monster that eats its prey alive, stood the little rimless, perforated and decorated cap of Hervey Willetts. Joyous and buoyant it seemed, defying its inevitable fate with the blithespirit of its late owner. It floated still, after the log and the suit-case had gone down.
And that was all that was left of the wandering minstrel.
CHAPTER XXIVGILBERT'S DISCOVERY
Gilbert Tyson was a scout and he could face the worst. He soon got control of himself and began considering what he had better do.
He could not advance one more step without danger. Yet he could not think of going back to camp, with nothing but the report of something he had seen from a distance. He had done nothing. Yet what could he do?
He was at a loss to know how Hervey could have advanced so far into that treacherous mire.
He must have picked his way here and there, knee deep, waist deep, like the reckless youngster he was, until he plunged all unaware into the fatal spot. The very thought of it made Gilbert shudder. Had he called for help? Gilbert wondered. How dreadful it must have been to call for help in those minutes of sinking, and tohear nothing but some mocking echo. What had the victim thought of, while going down—down?
Good scout that he was, Gilbert would not go back to camp without rescuing that one remaining proof of Hervey's tragic end. At least he would take back all that there was to take back.
He pulled out of his pocket a fishline wound on a stick. At the end of the line where a hook was, he fastened several more hooks an inch or two apart. The sinker was not heavy enough for his purpose so he fastened a stone to the end of the line.
As he made these preparations, the rather grewsome thought occurred to him of what he should do and how he would feel if Hervey's head were visible when he pulled the cap away. It caused him to hesitate, just for a few seconds, to make an effort to recover it. Suppose that hat were still on the smothered victim's head....
With his first throw, the stone landed short of the mark and he dragged back a mass of dripping marsh growth, caught by the fish-hooks. His second attempt landed the stone a yard or so beyond the hat and the treacherous character of the ground there was shown by the almost instantsubmergence of the missile. It was with difficulty that Gilbert dragged it out, and with every pull he feared the cord would snap. But as he pulled, the hat came also. The line was directly across it and the hooks caught it nicely. There was no vestige of any solid object where the cap had been. Gilbert wondered how deep the log had sunk, and the suit-case and—the other....
He shook the clinging mud and marsh growth from the hat and looked at it. He had seen Hervey only twice; once lying unconscious in the bus, and once that very day, when the young wanderer had started off to visit his friend, the farmer. But this cap very vividly and very pathetically suggested its owner. The holes in it were of every shape and size. The buttons besought the beholder to vote for suffrage, to buy liberty bonds, to join the Red Cross, to eat at Jim's Lunch Room, to use only Tylers' fresh cocoanut bars, to give a thought to Ireland. There was a Camp-fire Girls' badge, a Harding pin, a Cox pin, a Debs pin ... Hervey had been non-partisan with a vengeance.
With this cap, the one touching memento of the winner of the Gold Cross, Gilbert startedsorrowfully back to camp. The dreadful manner of Hervey's death agitated him and weakened his nerve as the discovery of a body would not have done. There was no provision in the handbook for this kind of a discovery; no face to cover gently with his scout scarf, no arms to lay in seemly posture. One whohad been, wasnot. His death and burial were one. Gilbert could not fit this horrible thought to his mind. It was out of all human experience. He could not rid himself of the ghastly thought of how far down those—thosethings—had gone.
Slowly he retraced his steps along the trail—thinking. He had read of hats being found floating in lakes, indubitable evidence of drowning, and he had known the owners of these hats to show up at the ends of the stories. Butthis....
He thought of the alighting of that bird upon the sinking end of the log. How free and independent that bird! How easy its escape. How impossible the escape of any mortal. To carelessly pause upon a log that was going down in quicksand and then to fly away. There was blitheness in the face of danger for you!
Gilbert took his way along the trail, sick at heart. How could he tell Tom Slade of this frightful thing? It was his first day at camp and it would cast a shadow on his whole vacation. Soon he espied a light shining in the distance. That was a camp, no doubt. By leaving the trail and following the light, he could shorten his journey. He was not so sure that he wanted to shorten his journey, but he was ashamed of this hesitancy to face things, so he abandoned the trail and took the light for his guide.
Soon there appeared another light near the first one, and then he knew that he was saving distance and heading straight for camp. He had supposed that the trail went pretty straight from the vicinity of camp to that dismal pond in the woods. But you can never see the whole of a trail at once and it must have formed a somewhat rambling course.
Anyway there were the lights of camp off to the west of the path, and Gilbert Tyson hurried thither.
CHAPTER XXVA VOICE IN THE DARK
Gilbert soon discovered his mistake. When a trail has brought you to a spot it is best to trust that trail to take you back again. Beacons, artificial beacons, are fickle things. Gilbert had much to learn.
He had lost the trail and he soon found that he was following a phantom. One of the lights was no light at all, but a reflection in a puddle in the woods. The woods were still full of puddles; though the ground was firm it still bore these traces of its recent soaking. And the damage caused by the high wind was apparent on every hand, in fallen trees and broken limbs. There was a pungent odor to the drenched woods.
Gilbert picked his way around these impediments of wetness and débris. The night wasclear. There were a few stars but no moon. Doubtless, he thought, the reflection in the puddle was the reflection of a star. Presently he saw something black before him. In his maneuvers to keep to dry ground he had in fact already gone beyond it, and looked back at it, so to say.
Now he could see that the reflection in the puddle was derived from a light on the further side of the black mass. Other little intervening puddles were touched with a faint, shimmering brightness.
Gilbert approached the dark object and saw that it was a fallen tree. The wound in the earth caused by its torn-up roots formed a sort of cavern where the slenderer tentacles hung limp like tropical foliage. If there was a means of entrance to this dank little shelter it must be from the farther side. Even where Gilbert stood the atmosphere was redolent of the damp earth of this crazy little retreat. For retreat it certainly was, because there was a light in it. Gilbert could only see the reflection of the light but he knew whence that reflection was derived.
He approached a little closer and was sure he heard voices. He paused, then advanced a littlecloser still. Doubtless this freakish little shelter left by the storm was occupied by a couple of hoboes, perhaps thieves.
But Gilbert had played his card and lost. He had forsaken the trail for a light, and the light had not guided him to camp. He doubted if he could find his way to camp from here. You are to remember that Gilbert was a good scout, but a new one.
He approached a little closer, and now he could distinctly hear a voice. Not the voice of a hobo, surely, for it was carolling a blithe song to the listening heavens. Gilbert bent his ear to listen:
Oh, the life of a scout is free,is free;He's happy as happy can be,can be.He dresses so neat,With no shoes on his feet;The life of a scout is free!The life of a scout is bold,so bold;His adventures have never been told,been told.His legs they are bare,And he won't take a dare,The life of a scout is bold!The savage gorilla is mild,is mild;Compared to the boy scout so wild,so wild.He don't go to bed,And he stands on his head,The life of a scout is wild!
Gilbert stood petrified with astonishment. In all his excursions through the scout handbook he had never encountered any such formula for scouting as this. No scout hero inBoys' Lifehad ever consecrated himself to such a program.
There was a pause within, during which Gilbert crept a little closer. He hardly knew any of the boys in camp yet, and the strange voice meant nothing to him. He knew that no member ofhistroop was there.
"Want to hear another?" the singer asked.
"Shoot," was the laconic reply.
"This one was writ, wrot, wrote for the Camp-fire Girls around the blazing oil stove.
"If I had nine lives like an old tom cat,I'd chuck eight of them away.For the more the weight, the less the speed,And scouts don't carry any more than they need;And I'd keep just one for a rainy day.
"Good? Want to hear more? Second verse by special request. They're off:
"If I could turn like an old windmill,I'd do good turns all day;With noble deeds the day I'd fill.But you see I'mnotan old windmill.And I ain't just built that way,I ain't."
Gilbert decided that however unusual were these ballads of scouting, they did not emanate from thief or hobo; and he climbed resolutely over the log. Even the comparative mildness of the savage gorilla to this new kind of scout did not deter him.
The scout anthem continued.
"If I was a roaring old camp-fire,You bet that I'd go out;Oh, I'd go out and far and near,For a camp-fire has the right idea;And knows what it's about!"
Gilbert crept along the farther side of the log till he came to an opening among the tangled roots. It was a very small but cozy little cave that he found himself looking into. In a general way, it suggested a wicker basket or a cage, exceptthat it was black and damp. Within was a little fire of twigs. Tending it was a young fellow of perhaps twenty years of age, wearing a plaid cap. He was stooping over the little fire. Nearby, in a sort of swing made by binding two hanging tentacles of root, sat the wandering minstrel, swinging his legs to keep his makeshift hammock in motion.
Gilbert Tyson contemplated him in speechless consternation. There he was, the ideal ragged vagabond, and he did not cease swinging even when he discovered the visitor.
"H'lo," he said; "gimme my hat, that's just what I wanted; glad to see you."
Dumbfounded, Gilbert tossed the hat over to him.
"I wouldn't sell that hat," said Hervey, putting it on, "not for a couple of cups of cup custard. Sit down. Here's the chorus.
"Then hurrah for the cat with its nine little lives,And the good turn windmill, too.And hurrah for the fire that likes to go out,When the hour is late like a regular scout;For that's what I like to do,I do.You bet your life I do!"
CHAPTER XXVILOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG
"Where did you find the hat?" Hervey inquired. "I bet you can't sit on this without holding on. Were you in the swamp? This is my friend, Mr. Hood—Robin Hood—sometimes I call himLidinstead ofHood. Call himcapif you want to, he doesn't care," he added, still swinging.
Mr. Robin Hood did not seem as much at ease as his young companion. He seemed rather troubled and glanced sideways at Gilbert.
"We should worry about his name if he doesn't want to give it, hey?" Hervey said, winking at Gilbert. "What's in a name?"
Gilbert was shrewd enough not to mention Tom but to give his visit the dignity of highest authority.
"Well, this is a big surprise to me," he said, "and I'm mighty glad it's this way," he added with a deep note of sincerity and relief in his voice. "I was sent from the office to find you and give you this note. I tracked you to the pond and I thought—golly, I'm glad it isn't so—but I thought you went down in the quicksand. I near got into it myself."
"Me?"
"Yes, how did you——"
"Easiest thing in the world. I knew if I could get to the log—did you see the log?"
"It isn't there now."
"I knew if I could get to that I could jump from it to the pond."
"And did you?"
"Surest thing. I kept chucking the suit-case ahead and stepping on it. I had an old board, too. I guess they're both gone down by now."
"Yes."
"When I got to the log I was all hunk—for half a minute. 'One to get ready,' that's what I said. Oh, boy, going down. Toys and stationery in the basement."
Just in that moment Gilbert thought of the bird.
"Yes?" he urged, "and then?"
"One to get ready,One to jump high,One to light in the pond or die."
"And you did it? I heard you were reckless. Here, read the note," Gilbert said with unconcealed admiration. The wandering minstrel had made another capture.
He was, however, a little sobered as he opened the envelope. He had never been the subject of an official missive before. He had never been honored by a courier. He had won badges and had an unique reputation for stunts. But when the momentary sting had passed it cannot be said that he left camp with any fond regrets. On the other hand, he bore the camp and his scoutmaster no malice now. He who forgets orders may also forget grievances. In Hervey's blithe nature there was no room for abiding malice.
"What are they trying to hand me now?" he asked, reading the notice.
"I don't know anything about it," said Gilbert; "I think you have to come back, don't you?"
"Sure, I've got the Gold Cross wished on me."
"The cross?" said Gilbert in admiring surprise. "What for?"
"Search me. They're going to test some money or something—testimony, that's it. Something big is going to happen in my young life."
"You'll go back?" Gilbert asked anxiously.
"Sure, if Robin Hood can go with me. Love me, love my dog."
"I don't want to go there," said the young fellow; "you kids better go."
"Then that's the end of the red cross," said Hervey, still swinging. "I mean the Gold Cross or the double cross or whatever you call it. What'd'you say, Hoody? They have good eats there. Will you come and see me cop the cross?"
"He just happened to blow in here," said the stranger, by way of explaining Hervey's presence to Gilbert. "I was knocking around in the woods and bunking in here."
Gilbert was a little puzzled, but he did not ask any questions. He was thoughtful and tactful. He had a pretty good line on Hervey's nature, too.
"Of course, Hervey has to go back," he said, as much for Hervey's benefit as for the stranger's."I say all three of us go. You'll like to see the camp——"
"They've got a washed-out cove and an oven for making marshmallows, and a scoutmasters' meeting-place with a drain-pipe you can climb up to the roof on, 'n everything," said Hervey in a spirit of fairness toward the camp and its attractions. "They've got messboards you can do hand-springs on when the cook isn't around. I bet you can't do the double flop, Hoody."
"Well, then, we'll all go?" Gilbert asked rather anxiously.
Hervey spread out his arms by way of saying that anything that suited Gilbert and the stranger would suit him.
So the three started off to camp, the stranger rather hesitating, Gilbert highly elated with his success, and Hervey perfectly agreeable to anything which meant action.
It was characteristic of Hervey that he really had not the faintest idea of why he was to be honored with the highest scout award. He had apparently forgotten all about his almost superhuman exploit. He would never have mentioned it nor thought of it. He did recall it in thatmoment of humiliation when Mr. Denny had talked with him. But he would not speak of it even then. He would suffer disgrace first. And how much less was he likely to think of it now! Surely the Gold Cross had nothing to do with that fiasco which had ended in unconsciousness. That was not supreme heroism. There was something wrong, somewhere.Thatwas just a stunt....
Well, he would take things as they came—quicksand, a frantic run in storm and darkness, new friends, the Gold Cross, anything....
Was there one soul in all that great camp that really understood him?
As they picked their way through the woods, following his lead (for he alone knew the way) he edified them with another song, for these ballads which had made him the wandering minstrel he remembered even if he remembered nothing else.
"You wouldn't think to look at meThat I'm as good as good can be—a little saint.You wouldn't care to make a bet,That I'm the teacher's little pet—I ain't."