“Quick, now, hand me the light and look out you don’t trip on the wires. If they once get past Westy’s house—g-o-o-d-night!Just inside the garage door there you’ll see a switch-turn it on. Here, take the lantern. If Westy don’t get this right, we’ll kill him.”
Tom, with but the haziest idea of what was to be done, followed directions. It evidently had something to do with the mysterious “dot flares” and with his own mean act. These excited nocturnal activities had a certain charm, and if it wasn’t mischief Roy was up to it had at least all the attractive qualities of mischief.
“You’ll see a book just inside the tent—paper covered—hand me that too, and come up yourself. Look out for the wires,” cautioned Roy.
He opened the Scout Handbook to about the middle and laid it flat on the tower rail.
“That’s the Morse Code,” said he, “easy as eating ice cream when you once get the hang of it. I know it by heart but I’m going to let you read them to me so as to be sure. Better be sure than be sorry—hey? I hope they don’t speed that auto till we get through with them.”
“Can he answer?” ventured Tom.
“No, they haven’t got a car at Westy’s and no searchlight. He brings me the message all writ, wrot, wrote out, in the morning. They’ve got a dandy team there, though. Cracky, I’d rather have a pair of horses than an auto any day, wouldn’t you. Now be patient, Conny dear, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”
“It’s a long, long way to Tip—Hillside. Do you s’pose Westy’s home yet? Oh yes, sure, he must be. Well, here we go—take the lantern and read off the ones I ask for and get them right or I’ll-make you eat another plate of plum-duff! Feeding with intent to kill, hey?”
Tom couldn’t help laughing; Roy’s phrases had a way of popping out like a Jack-in-the-Box.
He had a small makeshift wooden bracket which stood on a grocery box on the tower platform, and in this the auto searchlight swung.
“Wait a second now till I give him ‘Attention’ and then we’re off. Guess you must have seen this light from downtown, hey?”
“Ye-re, I wondered what’twas.”
“Well, here’s where you find out.”
There was a little click as he turned the switch, and then a long straight column of misty light shot up into the darkness, bisecting the heavens. Far over to the west it swung, then far to the east, while Tom watched it, fascinated. Then he heard the click of the switch again and darkness reigned, save for the myriad stars.
It wac the first time in his life that Tom had ever been charged with a real responsibility, and he waited nervously.
“That meant, ‘Get ready,’” said Roy. “We’ll give him time to sharpen his pencil. Do you pull much of a stroke with Machelsa, the Indian spirit? She smiles a smile at me once in a while, and if you want her to see you through any kind of a stunt you just rub your cheek with one hand while you pat your forehead with the other; try it.”
“Can’t do it, eh?” he laughed. “That’s one of Mr. Ellsworth’s stunts; he got us all started on that. You’d think the whole troop was crazy.”
“I know him,” said Tom.
“He’s the worst of the lot,” said Roy. “Well, off we go, let’s have S-call them dots and lines; some say ‘dashes’ but lines is quicker if you’re working fast.”
“Tree dots,” said Tom.
Three sudden flashes shot up into the sky, quickly, one after another.
“Now T.”
“Line,” said Tom.
The switch clicked, and the long misty column rose again, remaining for several seconds.
“Now O.”
“T’ree lines,” said Tom, getting excited.
“Now P—and be careful—it’s a big one.”
“I’m on de job,” said Tom, becoming more enthusiastic as he became more sure of himself. “Dot—line—line—dot.”
The letter was printed on the open page of the heavens and down in Barrel Alley two of the O’Connor boys sitting on the rickety railing watched the lights and wondered what they meant.
So, across the intervening valley to Westy’s home, the message was sent. The khaki-clad boy, with rolled-up sleeves, whose brown hand held the little porcelain switch, was master of the night and of the distance, and the other watched him admiringly.
Down at the Western Union office in Bridgeboro, the operator sauntered out in his shirtsleeves and smilingly watched the distant writing, which he understood.
Stop all autos send car with young folks back to Bennett’s sure not practice serious.
“Good-night,” said Roy, and two fanlike swings of the misty column told that it was over. “If they haven’t passed Westy’s yet, we win. Shake, Tom,” he added, gayly, “You did fine—you’re a fiend at it! Wouldn’t you rather be here than at Conny’s party—honest?”
“Would I?”
“Now we’ll rustle down the hill and see the bunch co’me back—if they do. Oh, cracky, don’t you hope they do?”
“Do I?” said Tom.
“Like the Duke of Yorkshire, hey? Ever hear of him? Up the hill and down again. We’ll bring the sign up for a souvenir, what do you say?”
“Mebbe it oughter go back where it come from,” said Tom, slowly.
“Guess you’re right.”
“Ever go scout’s pace?” said Roy.
“What’s that?”
“Fifty running-fifty walking. Try it and you’ll use no other. Come on!The kind of pace you’ve always wanted,” said Roy, jogging along.“Beware of substitutes.”
It was just about the time when Roy was showing Tom his camp that a big touring car rolled silently up to the outer gate of the Bennett place. (The house stood well back from the road.) The car was crowded with young people of both sexes, and it was evident from their expressions of surprise and disappointment that they saw the yellow sign on the gate.
There were a few moments of debate; some one suggested tooting the horn, but another thought that might disturb the patient; one proposed going to the house door and inquiring, while still another thought it would be wiser not to. Some one said something about ’phoning in the morning; a girl remarked that the last time she saw Connover he had a headache and looked pale, and indeed Connover’s general weakness, together with the epidemic which prevailed in Bridgeboro, made the appearance of the sign perfectly plausible.
The upshot was that the auto rolled away and turned into the Hillside Turnpike. Scarcely had it gone out of sight when a patch of light flickered across the lawn, the shade was drawn from a window and the figure of Mrs. Bennett appeared peering out anxiously.
Ten minutes out of Bridgeboro, as the big car silently rolled upon the Hillside Turnpike, one of its disappointed occupants (a girl) called,
“Oh, see the searchlight!”
“Oh, look,” said another.
The long, misty column was swinging across the heavens.
“Now you see it, now you don’t,” laughed one of the fellows, as Tom’s utterance of “Dot,” sent a sudden shaft of light into the sky and out again as quickly.
“Where is it, do you suppose?” asked one of the girls.
“Does it mean anything?” asked another.
It meant nothing to them, for there was not a scout in the car. And yet a mile or two farther along the dark road there hung a lantern on an upright stick, directly in their path, and scrawled upon a board below it was the word, “Stop.”
Out of the darkness stepped a figure in a white sweater (for the night was growing cold) and a large-brimmed brown felt hat. One of his arms was braced akimbo on his hip, the other hand he laid on the wind shield of the throbbing auto.
“Excuse me, did you come from Bennett’s in Bridgeboro?”
“Yes, we did,” said a musical voice.
“Then you’d better turn and go back; there’s a message here which says so.”
“Back to Bennett’s? Really?”
“I’ll read it to you,” said the boy in the white sweater.
He held a slip of yellow paper down in front of one of the acetylene headlights, and read,
“Stop all autos, send car with young folks back to Bennett’s, sure.” (He did not read the last three words on the paper.)
“Did youeverinallyourlifeknow anything so perfectly extraordinary?” said a girl.
“You can turn better right up there,” said Westy. He was a quiet, uncommunicative lad.
The sign was gone from the Bennetts’ gate when the car returned, and the two boys standing in the shadow across the way, saw the party go up the drive and disappear into the house; there was still plenty of time for the festive program.
They never knew what was said on the subject of the sign and the mysterious telegram.
They kept it up at Bennetts’ till long after midnight. They played “Think of a Number,” and “Button, button, who’s got the button?” and wore tissue-paper caps which came out of tinselled snappers, and had ice cream and lady-fingers and macaroons and chicken salad.
When Connover went to bed, exhausted but happy, Mrs. Bennett tripped softly in to say good-night to him and to see that he had plenty of fresh air by “opening the window a little at the top.”
“Isn’t it much better, dearie,” she said, seating herself for a moment on the edge of the bed, “to find your pleasure right here than to be tramping over the country and building bonfires, and getting your clothing all filled with smoke from smudge signals, or whatever they call them, and catching your death of cold playing with searchlights, like that Blakeley boy up on the hill? It’s just a foolish, senseless piece of business, taking a boy’s thoughts away from home, and no good can ever come of it.”
What did Tom Slade do after the best night’s sleep he ever had? He went to Mrs. O’Connor’s, where he knew he was welcome, and washed his face and hands. More than that, he attended to his lessons in school that day, to the teacher’s astonishment. And why? Because he knew it was right? Not much! But because he was anxious not to be kept in that afternoon for he wanted to go down and peek through the fence of Temple’s lot, to see if there were any more wonders performed; to try to get a squint at Mr. Ellsworth and Westy.
In short, Tom Slade had the Scout bug; he could not escape it now. He had thrown it off once before, but that was a milder dose. As luck would have it, that very afternoon he had an amusing sidelight on the scouting business which gave him his first knowledge of the “good turn” idea, and a fresh glimpse of the character of Roy Blakeley.
Inside Temple’s lot the full troop was holding forth in archery practice and Tom peered through a knothole and later ventured to a better view-point on top of the fence.
When any sort of game or contest is going on it is absolutely necessary to the boy beholder that he pick some favorite whom he hopes to see win, and Tom lost no time in singling Roy out as the object of his preference.
It was not a bad choice. As Roy stood sideways to the target, his feet firmly planted, one bared brown arm extended horizontally and holding the gracefully curving bow, and the other, bent but still horizontal, holding the arrow in the straining cord, he made an attractive picture.
“Here’s where I take the pupil out of the Bull’s-eye,” he said, and the arrow flew entirely free of the target.
“No sooner said than stung!” shouted Pee-wee Harris.
“Oh, look who’s going to try,—mother, mother, pin a rose on me!” shouted another boy.
“Mother, mother, turn the hose on me,” called another.
“Stand from behind in case the arrow goes backwards!”
“I bet he hits that fellow on the fence!”
Tom could not help laughing as Mr. Ellsworth, with unruffled confidence, stepped in place.
“Oi—oi—oi—here’s where Hiawatha turns over in his grave!”
It surprised Tom quite a little that they did not seem to stand at all in awe of the scoutmaster. One boy began ostentatiously passing his hat around.
“For the benefit of Sitting Bull Ellsworth,” said he, “highest salaried artist in Temple’s lot—positively last appearance this side of the Rockies!”
But “Sitting Bull” Ellsworth had the laugh on them all. Straight inside the first ring went his arrow, and he stepped aside and gave an exceedingly funny wink at Tom on the fence.
Tom changed his favorite.
Presently Roy sauntered over to the fence and spoke to him. “Regular shark at it, isn’t he?”
“Which one is Westy?” Tom asked.
“Westy? That fellow right over there with the freckles. If you get up close you can see the Big Dipper on his left cheek. He’s got Orion under his ear too.”
“O’Brien?”
“No, Orion—it’s a bunch of stars. Oh, he’s a regular walking firmament.”
Tom stared at Westy. It seemed odd that the invisible being who had caught that message out of the darkness and turned the car back, should be right here, hobnobbing with other mortals.
“Come over here, Westy,” shouted Roy, “I want Tom Slade to see your freck—well, I’ll be—if this one hasn’t shifted way over to the other side. Westy’s our chart of the heavens. This is the fellow that helped send you the message last night, Westy. He ate two plates of plum-duff and he lives to tell the tale.”
“I understand Roy kidnapped you,” said Westy.
“It was fun all right,” said Tom.
“Too bad his parents put him out, wasn’t it?” said Westy.
“Did you ever taste any of his biscuits?” asked another fellow, who sauntered over. They formed a little group just below Tom.
“We’ve got two of them in the Troop Room we use for bullets,” he continued.
“What do you think of Camp Solitaire?” Westy asked.
Tom knew well enough that they were making fun of each other, but he did not exactly know how to participate in this sort of “guying.”
“’Sall right,” said he, rather weakly.
“What do you think of the Eifel Tower?”
“’Sall right.”
“Did he show you the Indian moccasins Julia made for him?”
This precipitated a wrestling match and Tom Slade witnessed the slow but sure triumph of science, as one after another the last speaker’s arms, legs, back, neck and finally his head, yielded to the invincible process of Roy’s patient efforts until the victim lay prone upon the grass.
“Is Camp Solitaire all right?” Roy demanded, laughing.
“Sure,” said the victim and sprang up, liberated.
Tom’s interest in these pleasantries was interrupted by the voice of Mr. Ellsworth.
“Come over here and try your hand, my boy.”
“Sure, go ahead,” encouraged Westy, as the group separated for him to jump down.
“Icouldn’ hit it,” hesitated Tom, abashed.
“Neither could he,” retorted Roy, promptly.
“If you let him get away with the championship,” said another boy, indicating the scoutmaster, “he’ll have such a swelled head he won’t speak to us for a month. Come ahead down and make a stab at it, just for a stunt. You couldn’t do worse than Blakeley.”
Everything was a “stunt” with the scouts.
Reluctantly, and smiling, half pleased and half ashamed, Tom let himself down into the field and went over to where the scoutmaster waited, bow and arrow in hand.
“A little more sideways, my boy,” said Mr. Ellsworth; “turn this foot out a little; bend your fingers like this, see? Ah, that’s it. Now pull it right back to your shoulder—one—two—three—” The arrow shot past the target, a full three yards shy of it, past the Ravens’ patrol flag planted near by, and just grazed the portly form of Mr. John Temple, who came cat-a-cornered across the field from the gate.
A dead silence prevailed.
“I presume you have permission to use this property,” demanded Mr. Temple in thundering tones.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Temple,” said the scoutmaster.
“Good afternoon, sir. Will you be good enough to let me see your authority for the use of these grounds?” he demanded frigidly. “If I gave any such permission I cannot seem to recall it.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Temple,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “that we can show no written word on—”
“Ah, yes,” said the bank president, conclusively, “and is it a part of your program to teach young boys to take and use what does not belong to them?”
The scoutmaster flushed slightly. “No, that is quite foreign to our program, Mr. Temple. Some weeks ago, happening to meet your secretary I asked him whether we might use this field for practice since it is in a central and convenient part of town, and he told me he believed there would be no objection. Perhaps I should have—”
“And you are under the impression that this field belongs to my secretary?” asked Mr. Temple, hotly. “If you have nothing better to do with yourself than to play leader to a crew of—”
Here Mr. Ellsworth interrupted him.
“We will leave the field at once, sir.”
“WhenIwas a young man,” said Mr. Temple, with frosty condescension, “I had something more important to do with myself than to play Wild West with a pack of boys.”
“There were more open fields in those days,” said the scoutmaster, pleasantly.
“And perhaps that is why my wealth grows now.”
“Very likely; and the movement which these boys represent,” Mr. Ellsworth added with a suggestion of pride in his voice, “is growing quite as fast as any man’s wealth.”
“Indeed, sir! Do you know that this boy’s father owes me money?” said Mr. Temple, coldly indicating Tom.
“Very likely.”
“And that the boy is a hoodlum?”
Mr. Ellsworth bit his lip, hesitatingly. “Yes, I know that, Mr. Temple,” he said.
“And a thief and a liar?”
“Don’t run, Tom,” whispered Roy.
“No, Idon’tknow that. Suppose we talk apart, Mr. Temple.”
“We will talk right here, and there’ll be very little talking indeed. If you think I am a public target, sir, you are quite mistaken! You clear out of this lot and keep out of it, or you’ll go to jail—the whole pack of you! A man is known by the company he keeps. If you choose to cast your lot with children—and hoodlums and rowdies—I could send that boy to jail if I wanted to,” he broke off. “You knowhe’s a vicious character and yet you—”
illus3.jpg (129K)“Neither you nor any other man can break up this movement.”
illus3.jpg (129K)“Neither you nor any other man can break up this movement.”
“Neither you nor any other man can break up this movement.”
The Scoutmaster looked straight into the eyes of the enraged Temple, and there was a little prophetic ring in his voice as he answered.
“I’m afraid it would be hard to say at present just what he is, Mr. Temple. I was thinking just a few minutes ago, as I saw him dangling his legs up there, that he was on the fence in more ways than one. I suppose we can push him down on either side we choose.”
“There’s a right and wrong side to every fence, young man.”
“There is indeed.”
“As every good citizen should know; a public side and a private side.”
“He has always been on the wrong side of the fence hitherto, Mr. Temple.” Mr. Ellsworth held out his hand and instinctively Tom shuffled toward him and allowed the scoutmaster’s arm to encircle his shoulder. Roy Blakeley elbowed his way among the others as if it were appropriate that he should be at Tom’s side.
“I have no wish to interfere with this ‘movement’ or whatever you call it,” said John Temple, sarcastically, “provided you keep off my property. If you don’t do that I’ll put the thumb-screws on and see what the law can do, and break up your ‘movement’ into the bargain!”
“The law is helpless, Mr. Temple,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Oh, it has failed utterly. I wish I could make you see that. As for breaking up the movement,” he continued in quite a different tone, “that is all sheer bluster, if you’ll allow me to say so.”
“What!” roared John Temple.
“Neither you nor any other man can break up this movement.”
“As long as there are jails—”
“As long as there are woods and fields. But I see there is no room for discussion. We will not trespass again, sir; Mr. Blakeley’s hill is ours for the asking. But you might as well try to bully the sun as to talk about breaking up this movement, Mr. John Temple. It is like a dog barking at a train of cars.”
“Do you know,” said the capitalist, in a towering rage, “that this boy hurled a stone at me only a week ago?”
“I do not doubt it; and what are we going to do about it?”
“Do about it?” roared John Temple.
“Yes, do about it. The difference between you and me, Mr. Temple, is that you are thinking of what this boy did a week ago, and I am thinking of whathe is going to do to-morrow.”
The boys had the last word in this affair and it was blazoned forth with a commanding emphasis which shamed “old John’s” most wrathful utterance. It was Roy Blakeley’s idea, and it was exactly like him.
He invited the whole troop (Tom included) up to Camp Solitaire and there, before the sun was too low, they printed in blazing red upon a good-sized board the words
TRESPASSING PROHIBITEDUNDER PENALTY OF THE LAW
When darkness had fallen this was erected upon two uprights projecting above the top of Temple’s board fence.
“He’ll be sure to see it,” commented Roy, “and it’s what he always needed.”
When a carpenter arrived on the scene the next morning to put up such a sign, as per instructions, he went back and told John Temple that there was a very good one there already, and asked what was the use of another.
It was the kind of thing that Roy Blakeley was in the habit of doing—a good turn with a dash of pepper in it.
During the next few days a dreadful document appeared which had to do with Tom, though he never saw it and only heard of it indirectly. Whence it emanated and what became of it he never knew, but he knew it was originated by the “rich guys” and that Mrs. Bennett and John Temple and the Probation Officer and the Judge had something to do with it.
It said that “Whereas one Thomas Slade, aged fourteen, son of William Slade, whereabouts unknown, and Annie Slade, deceased, was an unprotected minor,etc.,etc., that said Thomas Slade should therefore be brought into court by somebody or other at a certain particular time, for commitment as a city charge,” and so forth and so on. There was a good deal more to it than this, but this was the part of it which Tom heard of, and he rose in rebellion.
He had been sleeping, sometimes at Mrs. O’Connor’s and sometimes up at Camp Solitaire with Roy, as the fancy took him. When the news of what was under way fell like a thunderbolt upon him, in a frenzy of apprehension he went to Mr. Ellsworth.
Mr. Ellsworth himself went to court on the fatal day. The judge asked what facilities the “Scout movement” had for handling a boy like Tom Slade and whether they had an “institution.” He thought Tom might be placed under the supervision of competent people in the Home for Wayward Boys. The Probation Officer said that was just the place for Tom for he had a “vicious proclivity.” Tom thought presently he would be accused of having stolen that, whatever it was. Happily, though, in the end, he was committed to Mr. Ellsworth’s care and he and Tom went forth together.
“Now Tom,” said the Scoutmaster, “you and I are going to have a little pow-wow—you know what a pow-wow is? Well, then I’ll tell you. When the Indians get together to chin about important matters, they call it a pow-wow. They usually hold it sitting around a camp fire, and we’ll do that too when we get to Salmon River, for the Indians haven’t got anything on us. But we’ll have our first pow-wow right now walking along the street. What do you say?”
“Yer—yessir.”
“You heard the judge say you haven’t any relations and, in a way, he was right, but he was mistaken, too, for a scout is a brother to every other scout and you’ve got lots of brothers, thousands of them; or will have when you get to be a scout. And after you get to be a scout, why you’ll have a pretty big pack to carry. The question is, can you carry it?”
“Yessir.”
“You’ll have to carry the pack for all these brothers of yours. Ifyoumake a slip—tell a lie or throw a stone or interfere with Ching Wo—everybody’ll say it’s the Boy Scouts. Just the same as if Roy Blakeley should send a flash message wrong. The telegraph operator would give us the laugh and say the Scouts didn’t know what they were doing. You and I’d get the blame as well as Roy. So you see, Roy’s got a pretty big pack to carry, but he manages to stagger along with it.
“You may have noticed that the Scouts are great fellows for laughing. If there’s any laughing to be done, we’re going to be the ones to do it. We don’t let anybody else have the laugh. That’s our middle name—laughter.
“There’s one other little thing, and then I’ll tell you the main thing I want to say—flash it, as you fellows would say. We have to be careful about talking. Stick your tongue out a little way between your teeth and say them.”
“Them,” said Tom.
“The first thing for you to do is to make a list of all the words you use that begin with th and say them that way. You know we have troop calls and patrol calls and all sorts of calls, and we’ve got to be able to make them just right—see?”
“Sure-yessir.”
“Now you take that word you use so much—’ye-re.’ ‘Yes’ is better because it’s only got three letters and you can flash it quicker. So one of the first things to do is to make the school books work overtime (there’s only two or three weeks more) and get all those words just right;them, those, three—because if you said ‘tree’ and meant ‘three’ it might throw everything endways. We have a lot to do with trees in the summertime, and you want to be able to say’three’ just right, for another reason.
illus4.jpg (84K)Outside Schmitt’s grocery they found a “Boy Wanted” sign.
illus4.jpg (84K)Outside Schmitt’s grocery they found a “Boy Wanted” sign.
“There are three parts to the Scout Oath and we don’t want to get those three parts mixed with trees. So whenever you’re thinking of the oath, saythreeand whenever you’re thinking of going to Salmon River Grove, say tree.”
The boy was much impressed.
“But, Tom, the immediate thing to do is to go down to Schmitt’s Grocery and take down that sign he’s got outside.”
“I told Roy Blakeley I wouldn’t take down no more signs.”
“You can tell Roy you took this one down with me—just for a stunt.”
Outside Schmitt’s Grocery they found a “Boy Wanted” sign, and then Tom understood. He hesitated a little when Mr. Ellsworth went in, for his relations with Mr. Schmitt had not been altogether cordial.
“How’d do, Mr. Schmitt,” said the scoutmaster breezily. “How’s the Russian advance?”
“Dem Roosians vill gett all vot’s coming to dem,” said Mr. Schmitt.
“Yes? Well, how about this boy?”
“Veil, vot about him?”
“He wants to take down that sign out there.”
“Och! I know dot poy!”
“No, you don’t; this is a different fellow—a Boy Scout.”
“Veil, if dis iss der kind of a poy scouts—”
“Now, look here, Mr. Schmitt, don’t you say anything about the Boy Scouts. Who stopped your runaway horse for you last week?”
“I didn’t say noddings about dem—”
“Well, a scout is a brother to every other scout, and if you say anything against one you say it against all.”
He winked significantly at Mr. Schmitt. “Come back here, I want to speak to you,” said he.
They retired to the rear of the store, where Mr. Schmitt leaned his arm affectionately over the big wheel of the coffee-grinder and listened, all attention.
Tom overheard the words, “fresh air,” “Boys’ Home,” “something to do,” “appeal to honor,” “sense of responsibility,” and more or less about woods and country and about a “boy to-day being a man to-morrow,” and about “working with him,” and other odds and ends which he did not understand.
“Veil, it’s a goot ting, I’ll say dot mooch,” said Mr. Schmitt, as they returned to the front of the store. “Dere is too mooch cities—dey don’t got no chance.”
“Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “I’ve been telling Mr. Schmitt about that signal work. (He was wondering what the light was.) And I’ve told him about your wanting to earn a little money before camping time. He’s going to start you in on three dollars and a half a week, school-days after three and all day Saturdays and Saturday nights. He asked me if you could deliver goods and I told him there wasn’t a boy in town who could “deliver the goods” like you. Remember the pack you’ve got to carry for the whole troop. If you fall down, you’ll queer the troop-Roy Blakeley and all of us.
“Mr. Schmitt’s a busy man and he has no time to think of what you were doing a few days ago, so don’t you think about that either. You can’t follow a trail looking backward—you have to keep your squinters ahead. Isn’t that so, Mr. Schmitt?”
“You can’d look forwards vile you are going packwards,” said Mr. Schmitt. “You come aroundt at dree o’clock, to-morrow.”
“Now, Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, as they left the store, “my idea is for you to stay at Mrs. O’Connor’s, and give her your money every week. Roy says he’d like to have you go up several nights a week and stay at Camp Solitaire, so I think maybe three dollars a week to Mrs. O’Connor will be all right. Then she’ll save the other fifty cents for you and by the time we start for Salmon River you’ll have enough, or pretty near enough, for a uniform.
“For instance, you might go up to Camp Solitaire every other night and eat plum-duff and eggs with Roy. He says they’ve got chickens enough up there to keep the camp going. He uses so many eggs, one way or another, I should think he’d ashamed to look a hen in the face. And remember about the colors coming down at sunset. Uncle Sam’s a regular old maid about such things, you know. And don’t forget page—what was it?”
“Tree—three hundred and seventy-five,” said Tom.
“That’ll tell you all about the flag. Then I want you to turn to page 28 in the Handbook and study our law. We have our own home-made laws same as everything else, plum-duff and fishing rods—all home-made.”
Tom laughed.
“I’ll want to know what you think of those laws. I think they’re pretty good; Roy thinks they’re great, but then Roy’s half crazy——”
“No, he isn’t.”
“He doesn’t know as much as he thinkgs he does,” the scoutmaster came back.
“He knows all dem—them signs backwards.”
“You’ll beat him out at it,” said the scoutmaster. “Anyway, he’s going to post you about the sign and the salute, and that leaves only the knots. You take a squint at those knots in the Handbook. I can improve on two of them, but I won’t tell you how. You’ve got to get the hang of four of them, and I want you to see if you can’t do all this by Sunday afternoon. But remember, Mr. Schmitt comes first.”
Mr. Ellsworth blew into Mrs. O’Connor’s with the same breezy pleasantry that he had shown Mr. Schmitt, to the great edification and delight of Sadie McCarren. He created quite a sensation in Barrell Alley and Mrs. O’Connor, good woman that she was, fell in with his plan enthusiastically.
The next morning Tom was up at six, wrestling with the O’Connor clothes-line, and by half past seven he had mastered the reef-knot and the weaver’s knot, which latter he used to fasten two loose ends of the broken line for permanent use, and he wondered whether this by-product of his early morning practice might pass as a “good turn.”
Before he went to school, Mrs. Beaman, a neighbor, came in and said that after long consultation with her husband she had decided to offer three dollars for the Slade possessions, and in the absence of Bill Slade, the estate was settled up in Tom’s interest on that basis. So he went forth feeling he and John Temple were alike in at least one thing-they were both capitalists.
Mr. Ellsworth was somewhat of a stickler for form and organization, and it was a pleasant scene which took place the following Sunday afternoon under the big elm up at Camp Solitaire. The ceremony of investing a Tenderfoot was always held on a Sunday because he believed it made it more impressive, and whenever possible it was held out of doors.
The First Bridgeboro Troop was highly organized and all its ceremonies emphasized the patrol. The two patrols, the Ravens and the Silver Foxes (and later the Elks) participated in the investing ceremony, but it was the affair particularly of the patrol into which the Tenderfoot was to enter, and this idea was worked out in the ceremony.
Each patrol stood grouped about its flag, and a little apart, near the national colors, stood Mr. Ellsworth and Worry Sage, Troop Scribe, armed with a book and fountain pen. Down near the signal pedestal was Roy’s sister, Esther, in company with her mother and one or two servants from the house. Carl, the gardener, was there, too, to watch the ceremony.
Roy Blakeley, as sponsor for the new member, stepped forward with Tom.
“Whom have you here?” Mr. Ellsworth said, in accordance with their regular form.
“An applicant for membership in our Troop and a voice in our councils,” answered Roy.
“Is he worthy to be a member of our Troop?”
“I come as his friend and his brother,” said Roy, “and to certify that he is as desirable to us as we to him.”
“Has he made satisfactory proof of the tests?”
“He has.”
“And is he prepared to take the oath?”
“He is prepared.”
“Raise your right hand in the Scout Salute,” Mr. Ellsworth said to Tom.
Then Worry Sage stepped forward and repeated the oath, Tom following him, line by line:
On my honor I will do my best—To do my duty to God and my country, and to obey the scout law;To help other people at all times;To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morallystraight.
“How say you? Is this applicant familiar with the law?” asked the scoutmaster.
“He is familiar with the law and finds it good.”
“Let the law be read.”
Worry Sage read the first law, which was the one Tom broke when he stole Mary Temple’s ball.
“You find this law good?” asked the scout-master.
“Yes sir, I do.”
Then Worry read the next one, “A Scout is loyal. He is loyal to all to whom loyalty is due; his scout leader, his home and parents and country.”
“You find this law good?”
There was a slight pause.
“Do I have to obey that one?” said he. “Do I have ter be loyal ter him?”
Mr. Ellsworth stepped forward amid a tense silence and laid his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I think you have been loyal to your mother already, Tom,” he said in a low tone, “as for your father,” he hesitated; “yes, I think you must be loyal to him too. There weren’t any Boy Scouts when he was a boy, Tom. We must remember that.”
“All right,” said Tom.
“You find this law good?” asked the scoutmaster, resuming the ceremonial form.
“Yes—I do. I’ll be—loyal.”
The reading of the law completed, he stepped back with Roy to the Silver Fox emblem.
The Silver Fox patrol leader asked, “Do you promise to stand faithful to this emblem, and to these your brother scouts of the Silver Fox Patrol?”
And then, “Are you familiar with the patrol call which is the voice of the silver fox, and with the patrol sign, which is the head of the silver fox, and do you promise to use this call and this sign and no other so that your name may be honorable in all the Troop, and among all troops?”
And Tom answered, “I promise.”
Mr. Ellsworth pinned the Tenderfoot Badge on his breast.
Tom Slade of Barrel Alley had become a Scout. He could not see where the trail led, but that he had hit the right one he felt sure.
“Got the linen thread?”
“Right here in the tin cup.”
“All right, put the tin cup in the pint measure and the pint measure in the coffee-pot; now put the coffee-put in the kettle and the kettle in the duffel-bag. Then put the duffel-bag in the corner.”
“Where’ll I put the corner?” laughed Tom.
“There we are,” said Roy, “all ready before the Ravens have started to pack. They ought to be called the ‘Snails.’”
They were up at Camp Solitaire, the whole patrol, and the standing of the duffel-bag in the corner of the tent was the last act of a busy day.
“I’ll be sorry to see Camp Solitaire break up,” said Tom. “We’ve had some good sport up here.”
“There hasn’t been much ‘solitaire’ to it lately,” said Eddie Ingram.
“Well, down it comes in the morning,” said Roy. “What are we going to catch, the three-thirty?”
“I bet the Ravens won’t be ready,” said one of the boys.
“It would be just like them,” observed an-other.
“And we’ll have to wait for the five-fifteen.”
Just then Esther Blakeley came running out from the house.
“I saw Walter Harris,” said she, panting from running and excitement, “and he told me to tell you that if the Ravens aren’t at the station not to wait for them but go right along on the three-thirty and they’ll see you later at Salmon River Grove.”
“What did I tell you!” laughed Roy. “Can you beat the Snail Patrol?”
“Hurrah for the Turtles!” shouted Westy.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t show up till the next day.”
“Or next week,” said Tom.
The Ravens were not on hand for the three-thirty next day and theSilver Foxes went without them, bag and baggage.
“They’re some rear guard, all right,” said Roy.
“Bet they’re still buying fishing-tackle,” said Westy.
“The Also Ran Patrol,” commented Dorry Benton.
“The Last Gasp Patrol,” said another boy.
“The Tardy Turtles,” ventured Tom.
“We’ll have our tent up before they leave Bridgeboro—you see,” said Roy. “Somebody ought to set a fire-cracker off underneath that patrol—they’re hopeless.”
Salmon River Grove was about an hour out on the train. Some of the wealthier of the Bridge-boro people had cottages there. The Bennetts had a pretty bungalow in the village and here, in a hammock on the wide veranda, Connover was wont to loll away the idle summer hours in cushioned ease, reading books about boys who dwelt in the heavens above and in the earth beneath and in the waters under the earth. They went down in submarines, these boys, and up in airships, and to the North Pole and the South Pole and the Desert of Sahara. They were all Boy Scouts and it was from these books that Mrs. Bennett gleaned her notions of scouting.
It was a dangerous season for Connover, for in the spring his fancy softly turned to thoughts of scouting, but Mrs. Bennett stood guard against these perils with a tennis racquet and a bottle of cod liver oil and a backgammon board and an automatic piano. And so by hook or crook Connover was tided over the dangerous season, and allowed to read theDan Dreadnought Seriesas a sort of compromise.
But the show place at Salmon River Grove was Five Oaks, the magnificent new estate of John Temple with its palatial rubble-stone residence, its garage and hot-houses and “No Trespassing” signs, of which latter he had the finest collection of any man in the state. The latest edition of these did not say “No Trespassing” at all, but simply, “Keep out.” These signs stood about the newly graded lawns seeming to shake their fists at the curious who peered at the great tur-retted structure.
Mr. Blakeley, Roy’s father, also owned an extensive tract of woods a little way from the village and here the First Bridgeboro Troop was monarch of all it surveyed from the day school closed until almost the day it opened; and here Mr. Ellsworth spent the happy days of a well-earned vacation, going into town occasionally as business demanded.
From Salmon River Grove Station the Silver Fox Patrol had to hike it out for about three miles, and when they hit Camp Ellsworth (as the boys insisted upon calling it) there was the Ravens’ tent pitched under the trees, and the Ravens’ flag flying, and the Ravens’ fire crackling away, and the Ravens themselves gathered about it. On a tree was displayed a glaring sign done in charcoal, which read,
The Follow-Afters are cordially invited to dine with the Rapid Ravens. Supper is ready and
WAITING.
When Mr. Ellsworth came out from Bridgeboro at seven o’clpck, he declined to be interviewed as to what he might know of this affair. But whatever he knew, it was evident that the whole plan was known in another quarter, for the very next day the “mail-hiker” (who was Dorry Benton) brought up from Salmon River Village a post card addressed to Roy, which read,
“MR. SMARTY:
“Perhaps you know by this time the cause of my ‘scout smile.’ Do you still think Walter Harris is a turtle?
ESTHER.”
Scout-Pace Pee-wee got possession of this card, made an elaborate birch, bark frame for it, and hung it up in the Ravens’ tent, where it remained ostentatiously displayed until the bitter day of reckoning, which came not long after.
To Tom Slade the wretched, slum-stained boy whose whole poor program had been to call names and throw stones, the camp routine, the patrol rivalries and reprisals, the hikes, the stunts, the camp-fire yarns, the stalking and tracking, were like the designs in a kaleidoscope.
Observant persons noticed how he began to say “I saw” instead of “I seen”; “those” instead of “them,” and how his speech improved in many other ways. This was largely in the interest of the signalling, about which he had come to be a perfect fiend. It sent him to the dictionary to find out how to spell words which were to be flashed or wigwagged; and from spelling them properly he came to pronounce them properly.
When he found that it was possible to tell a piece of oak from a piece of ash by smelling it, if the sense of smell were good, why, that was a knock-out blow for cigarettes. He wasn’t going to let the Ravens get away with that species of scouting proficiency.
Next to signalling work the thing that engrossed Tom’s thoughts was tracking, which he was forever practicing and which he now looked to as the one remaining accomplishment which would advance him to the Second Class.
More than a month of scout life had passed for him and he was eligible in that particular; he was ready, though a trifle shaky, on the “first aid” business; as for signalling, he had but one rival and that was Roy; and he could jog along at scout pace with anyone except Pee-wee. He was prepared to chop his way into the Second Class with knife or hatchet, as per requirements; he could kindle a fire in the open and cook you a passable meal, though he would never be the equal of Roy as a chef.
He knew the points of the compass also, and there were but two things about which he was still in doubt. These were the tracking and the financial business. He felt that if he could do a good tracking stunt it might compensate for his lack in cooking proficiency and for his omission in another particular.
It was now the ambition of his life to be a Second Class Scout; he thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, and he wrestled with a dogged persistence with those things in which he was not skillful because they were not in his line.
It was in the interest of this ambition that he joined Mr. Ellsworth one morning as the latter was starting out from camp on one of his “auto confabs,” as the boys called his strolls, for on these he was wont to formulate new policies and schemes and, as a rule, he went alone.
“Come along, Tommy boy,” said he cheerily. “Got something you want to say?”
“Yes, sir. I think I can do that tracking stunt in Paragraph Four an’ if I do an’ make it a good one, I was wondering if—I s’pose—would you—would you think those potatoes I cooked yesterday were all right?”
“Very fair, Tommy.”
“Would it pass for Test Eight?”
“Oh, I think maybe so; we all have our specialties, Tom.”
“I’m a little shaky on first aid.”
“I guess you can get away with that all right.”
“Well then,” said Tom, “there’s only one thing to prevent—that is, if I do the tracking stunt.”
“Yes? What’s that?”
“It’s about the money.”
“So?”
“Yes, sir; I’ve got that five dollars Mr. Schmitt gave me for the extra work when he opened the branch store.”
“Where’ve you got that, Tom?”
“I’ve got it ’round my neck on a strong cord. I made a bow line knot. It’s in my membership book to keep it clean.”
It was a new bill and he had always kept it clean.
“The rule says it must be in the bank—one dollar anyway. But I don’t want to break it. One day I was going to ask Roy to give me five ones for it and then I decided not to. I like one bill better, don’t you?”
“Yes, I don’t know but what I do, Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling.
“Did I tell you it was a new one?”
“No.”
“Well, ’tis.”
“All right, Tommy. Don’t you worry about that. Just keep the bow line knot good and tight and think of potatoes and bandages and if you can make that tracking stunt something special so as to just knock the Commissioner off his feet, I guess it’ll land you in the Second Class. One thing has to make up for another, you know. I’ve got to stand guard because if I didn’t you fellows would be all waltzing scout-pace into the Second Class. But don’t worry about financial matters—that’s what’s turning Mr. Temple’s hair gray. When I go into town I’ll put that five-spot in the bank for you, hey?”
“Then if I took it out of the bank would it be the same bill?”
“No, it would be a different one.”
“But would it be a new one?”
“If you wanted a new one they’d give you a new one. Now you hike it back to camp and tell Worry there are to be no leaves of absence to-night on account of camp-fire yarns, and to post a notice. Tell him to make duplicate prints of the chipmunk Eddie stalked and paste one in the Troop Book. I’ve got a call to make up toward the village.”
Tom made him the full salute and started back. That night he dreamed that the “Be Prepared” scroll was pinned upon him and that he was a Silver Fox Scout of the Second Class, having passed with much distinction.
Mr. Ellsworth had designs on the Bennett bungalow and he blew into the porch like a refreshing breeze that sultry morning.
“Hello, Connie, old boy,” he called to the youth in the hammock. “How’s the state of your constitution?”
“I’ve got a little touch of rheumatism,” said Connover.
“Yes?” said the scoutmaster. “What right haveyougot to have rheumatism? I thought John Temple had a controlling interest in all the rheumatism around here.”
“It gets me in the arm,” said Connover.
“So? That’s too bad. May I lift these books off the chair, Connie?”
“Surely—sit down. Just push them on the floor.”
“Regular Carnegie Library, eh? What are they all about, Con?”
Connover quite welcomed the interruption for Mr. Ellsworth’s offhand cordiality was nothing less than contagious. He fell immediately and completely into the spirit of whatever was on the boards.
“’Bout the Boy Scouts.”
“No—really?” said Mr. Ellsworth, running through one of the volumes amusedly. “Who’s this fellow, Dan Dreadnought?”
“He’s lieutenant of the Eureka Patrol.”
“So? I thought maybe he was a battleship from his name. And what does Dan do to pass the time?”
“This one I’m reading now,” said Connover, “is theEureka Patrol in the Fiji Islands; Dan stabs two natives.”
“Get out! Does he really?”
“And the captain of the squad—”
“What squad?”
“Of Boy Scouts-the captain is taken prisoner by the cannibals—”
“You don’t say! How many of these books are there, Connie?”
“Twenty-seven—all one series.”
“Well, Dan’s some boy, isn’t he? How would you like to be a scout, Connie?”
“My mother wouldn’t let me have a musket.”
“They all have muskets, do they?”
At this point Mrs. Bennett appeared and greeted the scoutmaster cordially. She could never find it in her heart to dislike Mr. Ellsworth.
“How’d do, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ellsworth,” she said, and added smilingly, “I hope you are not trying to contaminate Connover again.”
“Me? Oh, dear, no! A fellow who can witness the murder of two innocent South Sea natives isn’t in much danger from me!”
But Mrs. Bennett failed to see the point.
“I tell Connover,” said Mrs. Bennett, “that if it must be’scouts’ and ‘wild west’ it is better in the books than in real life.”
“Well, that’s a matter of taste, Mrs. Bennett. You can have Dan What’s-his-name up here, if you want to, but I wouldn’t allow him near my camp. No siree!”
“Yet he’s a scout boy,” said Mrs. Bennett triumphantly.
“From all I can see he’s a silly blackguard. Why, Mrs. Bennett,” added the scoutmaster pleasantly, “you’ve hit the wrong trail—”
“I’ve what?”
“Hit the wrong trail. We don’t have ‘Eureka’ Patrols or captains or lieutenants or squads or muskets. This book has got no more to do with real scouting than it has with a Sunday School picnic. I tell you what, Mrs. Bennett, I just came up out of the woods, and I tell you it’s a shame that good trees should be cut down to get wood-pulp to make paper on which to print such stuff as this! It’s a waste of good trees!”
“I have always done everything for Connover—” began Mrs. Bennett.
“Well, do one thing more for him and let him come and join the scouts-the real scouts. That’s what I wanted to see you about. I’m going to work up a new patrol, the Elks. Like that name, Connie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want Connie in the Elks.”
“It’s quite out of the question, Mr. Ellsworth. I am willing that he should read about them, but there it must end. We have always done everything for Connover. I have never stinted him in the matter of wholesome pleasure of any kind.”
“You don’t call murder wholesome pleasure, do you?”
“Here he is under my eye. There is no use arguing the matter. I have no thought but of Connie’s welfare and happiness, but I am not willing that he should dress up like Mrs. Blakeley’s boy—a perfectsight—his clothesredolentof smoke-and play with fire and sleep in a draught.”