Mr. Ellsworth did not respond to the call for supper that evening and Artie, who was cookee for the week, did not go to his tent a second time. The two patrols ate at the long board under a big elm tree; Tom’s vacant place was conspicuous, but very little was said about the affair. It was noticeable that the Ravens made no mention of it out of respect to the other patrol.
After supper Roy went alone to Mr. Ellsworth’s tent. There was a certain freedom of intimacy between these two, partly, no doubt, because Roy’s father was on the Local Council. The scoutmaster had no favorites and the close relation between himself and Roy was not generally apparent in the troop. It was simply that Roy indulged in a certain privilege of intercourse which Mr. Ellsworth’s cordial relations at the Blakeley home seemed to encourage, and I dare say Roy’s own buoyant and charmingly aggressive nature had a good deal to do with it. He also (though in quite another way than Tom) seemed a law unto himself.
Arranging himself with drawn up knees upon the scoutmaster’s cot, he began without any introduction.
“Did you notice, Chief” (he often called the scoutmaster chief) “how he kept saying, ’I am a scout’?”
“Yes, I did,” said Mr. Ellsworth, wearily. “It’s the one ray of hope.”
“Did you notice how he said he was obeying the law?”
“Yes, he did; I had forgotten that.”
“His wanting the Handbook, too,” said Mr. Ellsworth, quietly, “had a certain ring to it.”
“Did you ever take a squint at that Handbook of his, Chief?”
“No,” said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling wanly; “I’m not as observant as you, Roy.”
“He has simply worn it out—it’s a sight.”
“His mind is not complex,” said Mr. Ellsworth, half-heartedly, “yet he’s a mystery.”
“Everything is literal to Tom, Chief; he sees only two colors, black and white.”
There was another pause.
“Why don’t you eat a little something, Chief?”
“No, not to-night, Roy. I can’t. If that thing is true—if there’s no explanation, why, then my whole structure falls down; and John Temple is right.” His voice almost broke. “Tom is either no scout at all or else——”
“Or else he’s about the best scout that lives,” interrupted Roy. “Will you ever forget how he looked as he stood there? Hanged if I can! I’ve seen pictures enough of scouts—waving flags and doing good turns and holding staves and looking like trim little soldiers——”
“Like you, Roy,” smiled Mr. Ellsworth.
“But I never saw anything like that! Did you notice his mouth? His——”
“I know,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “he looked like a martyr.”
“Whenever you see a picture of a scout,” said Roy, “it always shows what a scout can do with his hands and feet; he’s tracking or signalling or something like that.Therewas a picture that shows the other side of it. You never see those pictures in the books. Cracky, but I’d like to have gotten a snap-shot of him just as he stood there with his mouth set like the jaws of a trap, his eyes ten miles away and his hand clutching that battered old Handbook.”
“I’m glad you dropped in, Roy, it cheers me up.”
“Oh, I’m a good scout,” laughed Roy. “I’m not thinking about you; I’m selfish. I’m the one that hauled Tom across, you know, and I’ve gotmyreputation to look after. That’s allIcare about.”
Mr. Ellsworth smiled.
“I’m going to dig out the truth about this between now and to-morrow morning. I may have to trespass even, butIshould worry. What areyougoing to do?”
“Nothing to-night. In the morning I’ll see Mr. Temple and also Tom, and see if I can’t get him to talk. What elsecanI do? What are you going to do?”
“I decline to be interviewed,” Roy laughed.
“Well, don’t you get into any trouble, Roy.”
After the boy had gone, Mr. Ellsworth picked up his own copy of theHandbook for Boys, and looked with a wistful smile at the picturesque, natty youngster on the cover, holding the red flags. It always reminded him of Roy.
Roy was satisfied that the only hope of learning anything was to visit the scene of Tom’s suspicious, or at least unexplained, departure from the Temple house. About this he knew no more than what the constable had said, but he firmly believed that whatever Tom had done and wherever he had gone, it had been for a purpose. He did not believe that Tom had taken the pin, but he felt certain that if hehadbeen tempted to, he (Roy) would have seen him do so. For a scout is not only loyal, he is watchful. His confidence in Tom, no less than his confidence in himself, made him morally certain that his friend was innocent; and Tom’s own demeanor at the time of his arrest made him doubly certain.
A little before dark, Roy put on his Indian moccasins, took his pocket flashlight and a good stock of matches, and started for Five Oaks. Reaching there, he made sure the veranda was deserted (for which fact he had to thank the chill air) and found it easy to trace Tom’s footprints around to the back of the house through the almost bare earth of the new lawn.
In the little recess by the pantry window he felt more secure. The play of his flashlight quickly discovered the painty smear on the windowsill and he examined it closely, as Tom had recently done, but Roy’s mental alertness saved him time and trouble. Instead of trying to pick out footprints across the back lawn, he hurried across it, ran along to the end of the fence, and then back again, closely watching the upper rail by the aid of his light. Sure enough, there was a faint smootch of paint and by this easy discovery he had saved himself several hundred feet of difficult tracking. Better still, his own suspicions and the servants’ original story were confirmed.
Tom might have gone around the house, butsomeone else had climbed through the pantry window.
For a while Roy and his trusty ally, the pocket flashlight, had a pretty rough tussle of it with the secretive floor of pine-needles in the woods beyond the fence; but Tom’s own uncertain pauses and turnings and kneelings helped him, and he was thankful that his predecessor had left these signs of his own movements to guide him. For he now felt certain that Tom had passed here in the wake of someone else.
It was a long time before he found himself in the beaten path, having covered a distance of perhaps an eighth of a mile where his tracking had been, as he later said himself, like hunting for a pin on a carpet in the dark. He had been on his hands and knees most of the time, shooting his light this way and that, moving the pine-needles carefully away from some fancied indentation, with almost a watchmaker’s delicacy of touch. It was not so much tracking as it was the working out of a puzzle, but it brought him at last into the path and then he found something which rendered further tracking unnecessary. This was the flask which had lain beside Tom’s father.
And now Roy, with no human presence to distract him as Tom had had, noticed something lying near the flask which Tom had not seen. This was a little scrap of pasteboard which had evidently been the corner of a ticket, and holding his flashlight to it he examined it carefully. There was the termination of a sentence, “...ers’ Union,” and the last letters of a name, “...ade,” which had been written with ink on a printed line.
It meant nothing to him except as the slightest thing means something to a scout, but he began searching diligently for more of the torn fragments of this card. The breeze had been there before him and he had crept on hands and knees many feet in every direction before his search was rewarded by enough of these scattered scraps to enlighten him. But the light which they shed was like a searchlight!
Using his membership card for a background and some pine gum to stick the fragments to it, he succeeded in restoring enough of the card to learn that it was a membership card of the Bricklayers’ Union belonging to one William Slade.
Then, all of a sudden, he caught the whole truth and understood what had happened.
It was late when Roy reached camp and he spoke to no one. Early in the morning he repaired to Five Oaks to “beard the lion in his den” and have a personal interview with Mr. John Temple.
There was nothing about Mr. Temple or his house which awed Roy in the least. He had been reared in a home of wealth and that atmosphere which poor Tom could not overcome his fear of did not trouble Roy at all. He was as much at ease in the presence of his elders as it is possible for a boy to be without disrespect, but he was now to be put to the test.
He found Mr. Temple enjoying an after-breakfast smoke on the wide veranda at Five Oaks, a bag of golf sticks beside him.
“Good morning, Mr. Temple,” said Roy.
If one had to encounter Mr. John Temple at all, this was undoubtedly the best time and place to do it.
“Good morning, sir,” said he, brusquely but not unpleasantly.
“I guess maybe you know me, Mr. Temple; I’m Mr. Blakeley’s boy.”
Mr. Temple nodded. Roy leaned against the rubble-stone coping of the veranda.
“Mr. Temple,” said he, “I came to see you about something. At first I was going to ask Mr. Ellsworth to do it, then I decided I would do it myself.”
Mr. Temple worked his cigar over to the corner of his mouth, looking at Roy curiously and not without a touch of amusement. What he saw was a trim, sun-browned boy wrestling with a charming little touch of diffidence, trying to decide how to proceed in this matter which was so important to him and so trifling to John Temple, but exhibiting withal the inherent self-possession which bespeaks good breeding. He was half sitting on the coping and half leaning against it, his browned, muscular arms pressing it on either side.
Perhaps it was the incongruity of the encounter, or perhaps his recent breakfast and his good cigar, but he said not unpleasantly, “Lift yourself up there and sit down if you want to. What can I do for you?”
Roy lifted himself up on the coping and swung his legs from it and felt at home.
“It’s about Tom Slade, Mr. Temple. I know you don’t like him and haven’t much use for any of us scouts, and I was afraid if Mr. Ellsworth came to see you there might be an argument or something like that, but there couldn’t be one with me because I’m only a kid and I don’t know how to argue. But there’s another reason too; I stood for Tom—brought him into the troop—and he’s my friend and whatever is done for himIwant to do it. I’ll tell you what he did—you know, he’s changed an awful lot since you knew him. I don’t say a fellow would always change so much buthe’schanged an awful lot. You’d hardly believe what I’m going to tell you if you didn’t know about his changing. It was his own father, Mr. Temple, that took Mary’s pin—it wasn’t Tom. I’m dead sure of it, and I’ll tell you how I know.
illus6.jpg (94K)“Sometimes a fellow is afraid of a girl.”
illus6.jpg (94K)“Sometimes a fellow is afraid of a girl.”
“I think he went out of the room where the rest of us were that day because he was afraid he might see you—ashamed, you know—kind of. I’d have felt the same way if I had thrown stones at you. Well, he went around the house—I don’t know just why he did that—but anyway, he found tracks there and he found a paint smudge on the window-ledge where the burglar climbed out. There’s another smudge on the fence where the burglar got over. Tom tracked him and found it was his own father and he got the pin from him, but I suppose maybe he was afraid to come and give it to Mary. You know, sometimes a fellow is afraid of a girl—”
John Temple smiled slightly.
“And he was afraid of you, too, I suppose, and that’s where he fell down, keeping the pin in his pocket. I know it was his father because-here. I’ll show you, Mr. Temple. Here’s his membership card in a union with his name on it, and this is what I think. He stopped in the woods and tore this up so there wouldn’t be anything on him to show his name and that was just when Tom found him. Tom wouldn’t tell about it because it’s one of our laws that a scout must be loyal. So I want to give this pin to Mary and then I want Tom to go back with me because it’s our troop birthday pretty soon—we’ve been going two years and—”
“Come around and show me your smudge and your tracks,” said Mr. Temple. “If what you say is true you can go down in the car with me and I’ll withdraw the complaint and do what I can to have the matter expedited. You might let me have the pin.”
“Couldn’t I give it to Mary?”
“Yes, if she’s about.”
It was there in the spacious veranda that Roy handed Mary the pin and told her exactly what Tom had asked him to say.
The chauffeur who saw Mr. Temple step into the touring car followed by Roy, carrying the golf sticks, was a little puzzled. He was still more puzzled to hear his master making inquiries about tracking. After they had gone a few hundred yards he was ordered to stop and then he saw Roy run back to the house and return with two more golf sticks which his master had forgotten.
If John Temple had had the least recollection of that scene in his own vacant lot in Bridgeboro, he might have recalled the prophetic words of Mr. Ellsworth, “by our fruits shall you know us, Mr. Temple.”
Doubtless, he had forgotten that incident. The tracking business, however, interested him; he was by no means convinced, but he was sufficiently persuaded to say the word which would free Tom. Roy’s assumption of full responsibility in regard to the golf sticks amused him, and Roy’s general behaviour pleased him more than he allowed Roy to know.
He had no particular interest in the scouts, but away down in the heart of John Temple was a wish for something which he could not procure with his check-book, and that was a son. A son like Roy would not be half bad. He rather liked the way the boy had sat on the coping and swung his legs.
It fell out that on one of those fair August days there came out from Bridgeboro a picnic party of people who were forced to take their nature by the day, and following in the wake of these, as the peanutman follows the circus, there came that trusty rear-guard of all such festive migrations,—Slats Corbett, the “Two aces” (Jim and Jakie Mattenburg), two of the three O’Connor boys (the other one had mumps), and, yea, even Sweet Caporal himself.
The petrified mud of Bridgeboro was upon their clothes, the dust of it was in the corners of their unwashed eyes. They wore no badges but if they had these should have shown a leaden goat superimposed upon a tomato can, with a tobacco-label ribbon, so suggestive were they of street corners and vacant lots and ash heaps.
It was a singular freak of fate that the destiny of the carefullynurtured Connover Bennett should have been involved with this gallant crew.
The picnic was conducted according to the time-honored formula of such festivities. There were lemonade and cold coffee in milk bottles; there were sandwiches in shoe boxes; there were hard-boiled eggs with accompanying salt in little twists of brown paper; there were olives and hat-pins to extract them with, and there were camel’s hair shawls to “spread on the damp ground.”
The rear-guard did not participate in the sumptuous feast. “A life on the ocean wave” was what they sought, and their investigations of the wooded neighborhood had not gone very far when they made discovery of an object which of all things is dear to the heart of a city boy, and that was a boat.
It was pulled up along the river bank near the picnic grounds, and as a matter of fact, belonged to the scouts. It was used by them in crossing the river to make a short-cut to and from Salmon River Village, instead of following the shore to a point opposite the town where there was a bridge.
“Findings is keepings” is the first law of the hoodlum code, and though the O’Connor boys hung back (partly because they had no right to the boat and more because they were afraid of the water), Sweet Caporal, who balked at nothing save a policeman, led the rest of his intrepid band to the boat and presently they were flopping clumsily about in midstream, much to the amusement of the O’Connor boys and several of the picnickers who clustered at the shore.
There are few sights more ridiculous than the ignorant handling of a boat. Sweet Caporal wielded an oar, Slats Corbett wrestled with another one, Jakie Mattenburg gallantly manned the helm, invariably pulling the tiller-lines the wrong way, while Jim Mattenburg, with a broken and detached thwart, did his best to counteract every effort of his companions. Amid these conflicting activities the boat made no progress and the ineffectual splashing and the contradictory orders which were shouted by the several members of the gallant crew were greeted with derisive hoots from the shore.
Several times an oar slipped its lock and went splashing into the water; once Sweet Caporal himself was capsized by the catching of the unwieldy oar in its lock and tumbled ingloriously backward into the bottom of the boat.
“Pull on the left one!” shouted Jim.
“Nah, pull on de odder one!” cried Slats.
“Both pull together,” sagely suggested someone on the shore, but that was quite impossible.
“Hold de rudder in de middle’, yer gump!” shouted Sweet Caporal.
“If yer want de boat to go to de right, pull on de left rope,” shouted Jim.
“No, de right one,” corrected Sweet Caporal.
So Jakie Mattenburg took a chance with the right rope and whatever good effect that might have had was immediately counteracted by his brother who paddled frantically on the left side with his broken thwart until he lost it in the water.
This loss might have helped matters some if Jakie had not unshipped the rudder altogether, and hauled it aboard like a rebellious fish, by the long tiller-lines.
“Both sit on de same seat,” commanded Sweet Caporal, and Slats and Slats Corbett took his place alongside him, while the boat rocked perilously.
“Now, both pull together!” called one of the laughing watchers.
So they pulled together with such a frantic stroke that one of the oarlocks was lifted from its socket and dropped into the water. The sudden dislodgment of the oar precipitated Slats against one of the Mattenburg boys who thereupon announced that he would man the oar instead. While he was taking his place Sweet Caporal continued to pull frantically, the oar sliding back in its lock and the boat going around in a circle.
“Put dat rudder on,” commanded Sweet Caporal.
“Can’t find no place it fits inter,” said Jakie, reaching under the water at the stern.
“Well, paddle wid it, den,” said Slats.
So Jakie, grasping the rudder by its neck, proceeded to paddle with it off one side until the cross-bar broke and the lines got into a hopeless tangle with his arms.
“What did I tell yer?” shouted Slats.
“Now-one-two-three,” encouraged someone on shore.
Sweet Caporal, holding his oar about two feet from its end so as to lose all its leverage, pulled furiously, the blade only catching the water occasionally, Jim Mattenburg, with no oar-lock at all, improvised one hand into a lock and hauled frantically with the other one, while Jakie Mattenburg bailed the boat, which was now pretty loggy with its weight of water.
“Talk about your Yale Crew!” called one of the watchers.
“The new marine merry-go-round!” shouted another.
“Now-one-two—”
The sharp crack of a rifle was heard from the woods on the opposite shore from the picnickers; one of the Mattenburg boys was conscious of a quick, short whizzing sound, and then Charlie, the youngest of the O’Connor boys, who was standing close to the shore, slapped his right hand quickly to his left arm, looked about bewildered, then turned suddenly pale and staggered into the arms of one of the picnic party.
“Look—look,” he said, releasing his hand and affrightedly pointing to a little trickle of blood on his arm. “I’m—I’m shot—look—”
Advancing stealthily, our young hero raised his rifle and leveled it at the chief of the howling Zulus, who clustered threateningly on the farther shore. The young girl whom they had kidnapped lay bound hand and foot, and Dan Dreadnought clenched his teeth with anger as he heard her cries for help. The poisoned spears of the infuriated Zulus were flying all about him, but they did not cower the brave lad. He was resolved at any cost to rescue that girl.
“I am a Boy Scout,” he called, “and I can handle a hundred savages if need be.” Then, uttering the cry of the Eureka Patrol, he dashed into the dugout which lay drawn up on the shore, and using the butt end of his rifle for a paddle, he guided his unsteady boat across the raging torrent amid a fusillade of spears and arrows with which the frantic Zulus vainly sought to stay his approach.
“I am Lieutenant of the Eureka Patrol!” called Dan. “Untie those fetters, or every one of you shall die!”
His trusty companion, Ralph Redgore, tried to hold him back, but all in vain.
Connover Bennett laid down the copy ofThe Eureka Patrol in South Africa, by Captain Dauntless, U. S. A., and dragging himself from the hammock, entered the house. He was breathing hard as if he had been running.
The bungalow was deserted save for the maid in the kitchen, and Connover was monarch of all he surveyed.
Quietly, he crept upstairs and into the “den.” In the corner among his father’s fishing-rods and golf sticks stood a rifle. It was forbidden to Connover, but unfortunatelyThe Eureka Patrol in South Africadealt not with scout honor and made no mention of the Seventh Law, which stipulates that a “scout shall be obedient.” Nor had Captain Dauntless thought it worth while to mention Law One, which says that a “scout’s honor is to be trusted.”
Connover glanced up and down the road from the bay-window to see if by any chance his mother might have forgotten something and was coming back. Reassured in this particular, he took up the rifle and, standing before the large pier-glass, he adopted a heroic attitude of aiming. Then he looked from the window down into the woods through which he could see little glints of the river.
It was not glints of Salmon River that he saw, but the “Deadly Morass River” of South Africa; the woods were not quiet, fragrant pine woods where the First Bridgeboro Troop of real scouts was encamped, but the deadly morass itself; and he was not Connover Bennett, butDan Dreadnought, and this was the trusty rifle with which he would—
He looked again from the bay-window to make sure that his mother was not in sight. Then the creaking of a door startled him and he laid the rifle down. It was queer how every little sound startled him. He unfastened his negligee shirt at the neck and, standing before the pier-glass, arranged it as much like the frontispiece pictures ofDan Dreadnoughtas possible. There was a curious fluttering feeling in his chest all the while which annoyed him. It did not seem to jibe at all with the heroic program.
Yes, this was the rifle with which he would...
He tiptoed to the stairs and listened, “Molly, is that you?” he called.
“Yes, Master Connover.”
“All right, I just wanted to know.”
He went back into the room and opening the drawer of the desk, took out a box of cartridges, extracted several and put them in his pocket. When he replaced the box he forgot which end of the drawer he had taken it from and was in a quandary where to place it. He took up the rifle again, then laid it down and the thud of its butt on the floor startled him. What a lot of noise it seemed to make!
It was oily and his hands were oily from it and left an oily stain on the felt covering of the desk. He placed the inkstand over it, and all the while he felt very strange and nervous; trembling almost as he planned his exploit.
Then he took the rifle and got behind the revolving-chair, and rested the weapon on it. It was not a very realistic jungle, but...
He saw the Zulus just as plain as day; and he saw himself, or rather,Dan Dreadnought, in that big pier-glass.
He knew the gun was not loaded and he pulled the trigger, which clicked.
The click seemed louder than he thought it would and he listened in suspense. No sound.
Yes, this was the rifle with which he would... Casting one more cautious look from the window, he shouldered the weapon and hurried quietly down the stairs.
“What time did my mother say she’d be back?” he called.
“Not till dinnertime, Master Connover.” He crossed the road, and headed through the woods toward the river. Once in the woods, the spirit of freedom took possession of him and he indulged in the luxury of shooting the gun at nothing at all.
“‘I am a scout,’” he said, “‘and can handle a hundred savages!’”
Whereas, in plain fact, he couldn’t have been much farther from being a scout.
Arrested by a flutter in one of the trees, he leveled his gun again and by the luck of a random shot, brought down a robin. The sight of its quivering body and loose-hanging neck as it lay at his feet almost frightened him for he had never killed a red-blooded creature before, and he felt now a sense of heavy guilt. He was afraid to pick the robin up and when he finally did so and saw how wilted and drooping the thing was and how aimlessly the head swung he was seized with a little panic of fear and dropped it suddenly.
But it was absolutely necessary that he should carry out his program of encountering the Zulu’s. As long as he was not really going to kill anyone it was all right. He was at least going to have the thrill of that experience. Now that he had killed the robin, he found that in actual practice he preferred a sort of modified Dan Dreadnought to the real one; and he could piece out with his imagination the more harrowing features of Captain Dauntless’s book.
So he pictured a dugout drawn up on the shore of the river which he was approaching; and he pictured a group of howling Zulus on the farther shore. He heard ikes and the splashing of water, and it fitted well with his heroic scheme to imagine these sounds were made by the howling Zulus, though in reality he knew, or thought he knew, that they came from farther up the river near the scouts’ camp.
He was within a few yards of the river now and pushing through the thick growth which bordered it.
His imagination was working like machinery, and had all the features and details of his daring act, pat.
“‘I am a boy scout,’” he repeated, “‘and can handle——’”
He raised his rifle and, aiming with dramatic gesture at nothing in particular, pulled the trigger, then dashed forward in a perfect frenzy of adventurous delight to the shore.
On the other side of the river the O’Connor boy was leaning back in the arms of one of a group of people, the boys in the boat were mending their efforts to get to shore; someone said, “There he is!” and then all eyes were upon him and Connover Bennett dropped the gun, reeled against a tree and stood staring as he realized that he was nearer to being the realDan Dreadnoughtthan he had dreamed.
A cold sweat broke out upon his brow, his first impulse was to run with all his might and main; but he could not stir.
It happened that same afternoon that Tom and Roy went up to Salmon River Village to purchase some provisions for camp. The two boys were on their way back from the village and were discussing an interesting discovery which they had made while there. This was a wireless apparatus which the storekeeper had shown them with great pride for he was one of that numerous class of wireless amateurs whose aërials may be seen stretching from tree-tops to house-tops these days, and since it was his pleasure to sit into the wee hours of the morning with his head receivers on, eavesdropping on the whole world, the two scouts had agreed to exchange messages with him.
“Every man you meet seems to take some interest in the scouts,” said Tom, in allusion to the cordial storekeeper.
“Sure, even Mr. Temple’s got a light case of it.”
“Not much!” said Tom.
“Oh, yes he has; he’s got what Doc Carson calls a passive case. Doesn’t it beat all how Doc gets onto this medical talk? Did you hear that one he sprang the other night about a ‘superficial abrasion’? Cracky, it nearly knocked me over!”
“And ‘septic,’ too,” said Tom.
“Yes, ‘septic’s’ his star word now. Mr. Temple’s case is likely to become acute any time,” Roy added as he jogged along, jumping from one subject to another according to his fashion. “You know you can have a thing and not know it. Then something happens, you get a bad cold, for instance, and that brings the whole thing out. That’s the way it is with Mr. Temple—he’s just beginning to get the bug; he doesn’t know it yet. You ought to have heard him buzz me about tracking.
“Then he wanted to know how I knew one golf stick was hickory and another one maple. ‘Scout,’ said I. Oh, I’ve gothimstarted-wait till he picks up a little momentum and you’ll see things fly.”
“You’ll never landhim,” said Tom.
“I landed you, didn’t I?”
“Sure.”
“I bet I land him before the Chief lands Mrs. Bennett.”
They walked along a little while in silence. “What-what-did Mary say?” Tom asked. He had asked the question half a dozen times before, but it pleased him to imagine that he had forgotten the answer. Roy understood.
“She wanted to know why you didn’t bring the pin yourself.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“Oh, I told her you were too busy to bother.”
“No—honest—”
“I told her you had no time for girls. She said it was just lovely. I don’t know whether she meant you or the pin. She said the tracking was miraculous.”
“She don’t know who—”
“No, her father’s not going to tell her. I’ve got him cinched. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was cashier in his bank in another six months-but don’t mention it at camp fire, will you?”
Tom laughed. “What did she say?” he repeated.
“I told you’s teen-eleven times.”
“Well, I forget.”
“You ought to have gone yourself, anyway,” said Roy, “then you’d have heard what she said.”
He pretended not to have any sympathy with Tom in this matter.
“What was that other thing she said?”
“What’s that shouting?” said Roy.
“What was that other thing she said?”
“What other thing?”
“You know.”
“I guess that picnic bunch is flopping around on the river from the sound.”
Silence for a few minutes.
“What was that other thing she said?”
“Oh, yes,” said Roy, “let’s see—I forget.”
“Go on—stop your fooling! What was it?”
“Do youhaveto know?”
“What was it?”
“She said she was going to recip—Oh, listen!”
“Re-what?”
“Reciprocate.”
“What’s that?”
“Pay you back.”
“I wouldn’t take a cent. I wouldn’t take anything from her,” said Tom. “I’m a sco—”
“Now don’t spring that! You better wait and see what she offers you first.”
“Would you take anything for a service?”
“Depends on what it was,” said Roy cautiously.
“Iwouldn’t take anything for a service.”
“No?”
“I wouldn’t take anything from her.”
But he did just the same.
They had left the road and were jogging scout-pace along the beaten path through the woods which led down to the river. As they neared it, a confusion of sounds and voices greeted their ears and when they presently emerged upon the shore they found a scene of pandemonium.
In mid-stream was their own boat, two-thirds full of water, and clinging to it were Tom’s erstwhile Bridgeboro friends and a frantic, shrieking creature whose streaming hair was plastered over his face and who was in a perfect panic of fright as every moment the gunwale of the loggy boat gave with his weight and lowered his head into the water.
On the farther shore one little group called futilely to the hapless crew, bidding them cling to the gunwale and hold still; sensible enough advice, except that no advice is of any use to a person in peril of drowning. The bedraggled creature in particular would have prevented any such orderly and rational conduct by his terror-stricken clutchings and cries of “Save me!” as if he were the only one in trouble. Another little group on the opposite shore was gathered about a figure which Tom and Roy could not see.
“Have you got a rope over there?” called Roy, kicking off his sneakers.
“No, we haven’t—”
“Got a shawl or a blanket?”
“Yes—what good—”
“Get it quick!”
“They always have camels’-hair shawls,” he said hastily to Tom. Then raising his voice, “Someone drowned over there?”
“No, shot.”
“Killed?”
“No.”
“Shin up that tree and see if you can get camp with your whistle,” he ordered to Tom, throwing off his shirt the while. “Whistle ‘Help’ by Morse—if they don’t answer, try semaphore with your shirt; if that don’t get them you’ll have to hoof it. Get Doc, whatever you do. Shut up, will you?"’ he shouted to the frantic boy who was making all the noise. “Keep your mouth shut and you’ll be all right!”
All this took but a few seconds and presently the shrieking boy in the water grasped frantically at Roy.
That was all he knew. Something struck him, and when he recovered from his daze he was lying on shore with several persons about him.
The newDan Dreadnoughtwas a pitiable figure. The boy whom he had shot sat near him, ashen white, his arm bleeding despite all efforts to stay the flow of blood, and he himself, his voice husky from his futile shrieking, the red mark of Roy’s prompt but necessary blow standing out in bold relief on his white face, lay, half dead with fright and shock, and watched those about him as though in a trance. It was a sad and inglorious end to his adventurous career!
It took Roy but a few minutes to tear a couple of shawls and a blanket into strips and tying these together he took an end in his mouth and swam out for the boat. Tying it to the painter-ring, he called to the people on shore to pull easily and, himself guiding and holding up the loggy, half-submerged boat, as best he could, it was finally hauled out of deep water and its hapless crew helped ashore.
Just as Roy helped that redoubtable leader, Sweet Caporal, to scramble up the abrupt shore, a welcome shout came from a tree top across the river.
“They’re coming!”
Roy did not know whether it had been done by Morse whistling or by semaphore. Tom had done it, that was enough, and while he scrambled down from the tree and swam across the river Roy rearranged the clumsily made tourniquet which the picnickers had placed about the arm of the wounded boy, and tightened it with the leverage of a stick which successfully stayed the flow of blood.
“Some wrinkle, hey?” he said, smiling down into the white face of the boy. “You could lift the earth by leverage if you only had some floor for your lever; ever hear that?”
No, the O’Connor boy had never heard that, but he looked up into the cheery, brown eyes of Roy, whom he knew slightly, and smiled himself.
The real scout and the burlesque scout who lay near by presented a striking contrast. All the mock heroics of theEureka Patrolof Captain Dauntless seemed cheap enough now, even to the frightened Connover as he languidly watched this quiet exhibition of efficiency. Never had he admiredDan Dreadnoughtas he now admired Roy Blakeley, this cheerful, clean-cut fellow who knew what to do and just how to do it; and the gang, with all their bravado gone, watched him too, feeling strange after the first bath they had had in many a day.
“Do you know what I’m going to do with you?” said Roy, as he leaned over the O’Connor boy and bathed his face. “I’m going to give you to Mr. Ellsworth for a birthday present; our troop’s two years old next week.”
It was not many minutes before the welcome sound of voices was heard in the wood and presently a half-dozen scouts appeared with a canvas stretcher. Mr. Ellsworth was with them and by his side was Doc Carson, or “Highbrow Doc,” with his neat little first-aid case. Doc was one of the ancient and honorable Ravens who were not unconscious of their dignity, and he had had the first-aid bee from the start.
It took him but a moment to determine that no fatalities were going to result from the affair, and that all Connover needed was a little reassuring that he would not be sent to jail.
While he was putting an antiseptic dressing on the O’Connor boy’s arm (the bullet had gone in and out again through the fleshy part), Roy and Tom heard for the first time the circumstances of the whole affair, as they were related to Mr. Ellsworth.
It seemed that upon the appearance of Connover with his gun he had been forbidden to go away and had obeyed, probably because he was too frightened and helpless to have any will of his own. His pitiable lack of command throughout the whole affair was not the least significant thing in his day’s work, and showed how far he was from the real scout trail.
The occupants of the boat, spurred by the emergency, had managed to get the frightened Connover aboard and it was in their clumsy progress across the river that one of the gunwales of the already loggy boat had gone under, shipping more water than the craft could carry besides its living occupants.
The O’Connor boy needed only prompt and efficient treatment and the only peril he was in was that of blood-poisoning. Doc dressed his wound antiseptically and though he was not unable to walk, they bore him to camp on the stretcher, for his loss of blood had weakened him and the shock had unnerved him.
Just as they started Connover broke down completely, clinging pitifully to Mr. Ellsworth and refusing to go home. His fear of arrest on the one hand and his fear of his parents on the other, made him go to pieces entirely now that the first excitement was over. His behaviour formed a ludicrous anti-climax for all theDan Dreadnoughtbombast and bravado, and if it was not borne in upon him then how harmful the books were, he at least began to see how ridiculous they were. Indeed, the redoubtableDanhad begun to lose prestige with Connover the moment he had shot that robin.
At the sight of this childish display, Mr. Ellsworth shook his head ruefully and said to Roy, “We got away with it in Tom’s case, but I’m afraid Connie’s a pretty big contract. What do you think?”
“He’ll come across,” said Roy. “He didn’t hurt Charlie O’Connor so very much, but I’ll bet he’s killedDan Dreadnoughtall right.”
“Well, Connie,” said the scoutmaster, in a half-indulgent tone that was not altogether complimentary, “you’d better come along with us to camp.”
“Will you—will you—see my mother?”
“Ye-es—guess so.”
“He—he won’t die—will he?”
“After forty or fifty years he might,” said the scoutmaster. “Here, walk along with me, and tell me how you came to shoot that rifle.”