GORDON PENLEYMEN’S OUTFITTERBUFFALON. Y.
GORDON PENLEY
MEN’S OUTFITTER
BUFFALO
N. Y.
“So he came from Buffalo,” said Tom. “That’s a blamed funny thing, that is!”
He sat on the rear seat of the Ford, resting and enjoying for a few moments the dim cosiness of the little ramshackle enclosure. It wasn’t half bad in there—a pretty nifty little bunk, he thought. He contemplated the hat where it lay on his knee. “A blamed funny thing.”
He did not mean that there was anything funny about the owner of the hat coming from Buffalo. What astonished him was that this young man, evidently a camper and one of the great scout fraternity, should flee from the auto upon the approach of someone. This fellow was too old to be a scout. A boy (Scout though he be) might prowl and investigate where he has no business to, and run if discovered. Boys do those things. But a scout official? A camp manager? Or a scoutmaster? Hardly.
This fellow was evidently of the scoutmaster age; that is, he was a young man. He would knew the scout laws (Tom knew them) and the scout standard of honor. Yet he had escaped and fled when discovered. Why? He did not seem to have done anything wrong. Tom had (and I shall be glad if he reads this) an easygoing though fine sense as to the point of honor. He certainly would not have thought it wrong for a stranger to take shelter under the protecting drapery of his old Ford. He’s a pretty good sort of sport, Tom is.
So that is why he gazed at the hat and mused. “That’s a mighty funny thing when you come to think of it.”
And here you have Tom Slade all over. He was not in the least bit angry. But he was curious. Instead of hurrying straight back to the Gulch, he hit into the Hawkeye Spoke trail of the scouts. Just north of him it met the encircling or White Bar Trail. Already he knew this interesting trail system like a book. There is something uncanny about the way Tom gets the lay of strange country.
Well, he slipped the coil of rope over his head, laid one side of it on his shoulder and started up along the Hawkeye Spoke to Kanawauke Lakes. He said he met two Boy Scouts on this spoke trail who, seeing that he was not in khaki regalia, asked him playfully if he didn’t think he’d get lost. I have always been amused at this, and if those youngsters chance upon this narrative they will be interested to learn that the young fellow whom they so blithely “kidded” was Tom Slade of Temple Camp, who came out of Barrel Alley in my own home town and is the hero and idol of every scout in the big camping community in the Catskills.Tom Slade lost!It is to laugh.
At Scout Headquarters, which was seething with business now, this scout of another region inquired for a Scout or Scout official who might possibly have lost his hat. No one knew of such a one. Then he asked if there was record of any such official or scout who lived in Buffalo. No such entry could be found.
“Well,” said Tom, “I’m camping over in the wilds and I found this hat. If anybody claims it, give it to him and tell him he’s welcome in my flivver any time and no questions asked. So long.”
He did not tell who he was, and I think no one up there knew anything about him or Brent until the climax came. They are so busy with their own affairs up there. And Tom is so modest and unassuming.
First and last, Tom probably lost an hour by his attempt at trail-making and by his visit to Scout Headquarters. He told me that he had wanted to see the place in full swing and that the scout hat gave him the incentive to go. He greatly enjoyed the woodland exhibit there, so he told me. I wish they could have known who he was. He has every award for heroism known to scouting, and a pile of badges and things as well. When he was a Scout it was an act of his which prompted Mr. John Temple to found Temple Camp of which Tom is now assistant manager. I dare say they would have given him a rousing welcome at Bear Mountain Scout Headquarters if they had known. But that is Tom all over; he blew in and he blew out and no one was the wiser.
To be sure, he knew that Brent intended to make a pretty thorough search of Conner’s well. And he knew that hurrying was not one of Brent’s weaknesses; he was always leisurely. Still, he had intended to return before dark, and he might still have done so if a most unfortunate attack had not intervened.
His journey back took him south along the Hawkeye Spoke and then (for variety’s sake, I suppose, or perhaps in the hope of shortening the journey an inch or two) he followed the White Bar Trail (rim trail) south till he hit into old Buck’s trail from Sandyfield. He had not been on this trail since the time he was there with me, which was early spring, and now he found it very much overgrown; or, to be exact, he did not find it at all.
Still, Tom does not need a trail; how he finds his way in strange woods at night is beyond my comprehension. He said he could hike through the woods from the country club above Bridgeboro and get home quicker than I could drive home by the road. And he did it. But of course, I do not drive as he does.
Well, he left the White Bar Trail about where he thought old Buck had been accustomed to crossing it, and plunged into the thicket. By now it was dark, but he said he had the stars to guide him. Still, I think he could not have been too sure of his way, for he went to the trouble of climbing a tree to see if he could catch a glimpse of a light in the Gulch. If Brent had grown tired of waiting and managed to get out of that earthy dungeon, the light would prove as much.
Anyway, Tom climbed a tree and was not able to distinguish the faintest spark anywhere. He moved out on a limb so that his view might not be embarrassed by the heavy foliage, but not a glimmer could he see in all that wild, desolate country. Then, suddenly, he heard a menacing sound beyond him on the limb and was aware of two savage eyes fixed upon him, alert to his every move. Advancing farther out on the limb was out of the question. Even retreating to the trunk seemed likely to give action to the wrath which was blazing in those two shining eyes. A move in either direction seemed fraught with peril.
Brent Gaylong could see nothing, but he felt the flat rock on which his foot had pinioned the snake sinking beneath the pressure. As it yielded and settled in the oozy bottom it was necessary for him to press still harder with his foot, or at least to maintain the pressure. There was a tendency to relax this pressure somewhat as the rock sank, for Brent knew not how far it might go down in that unseen muck. Obviously, he could not hold the snake imprisoned except upon a firm foundation. Obviously, also, the harder he pressed the more the rock would go down.
This new and ominous turn of affairs below him was somehow communicated to the winding, clinging, undulating mass that held his leg like a spiral cable. There were pressure and relaxation of pressure in that sinuous body, as if the reptile were preparing for a new stage in the deadly tussle.
Then Brent heard a sound above him. I can well imagine his joy and his relief. It was a sound as of parting brush—Tom had returned! At this thought he took heart and his sense of relief expressed itself in renewed and vigorous pressure on the rock. It sank, sank, sank....
There he was, in utter darkness, with not even a glint of light from the world above, where human beings lived. Not the faintest glimmer insinuating itself through the rank overgrowth that crowded the mouth of the well. His foot held the neck of a deadly reptile which was coiled about his leg, while the tiny stage of this terrible encounter was sinking below him....
But there was the sound of parting brush above, and it was like music in Brent’s ears. In a kind of nervous relief he rubbed his dripping forehead with his left hand and encountered one of those loathsome little creeping slugs that love the damp and darkness. He knew by the feeling of it and brushed it away with a shudder.
In all the time he had been there he had not spoken aloud; he had an odd feeling that his voice might in some way enrage his horrible captive and give it fresh strength. But now he called, “Is that you, Tom?”
There was no answer, only another sound as of parting brush. With a shudder it occurred to him that perhaps the sound was caused by the freshening night breeze.
“Tom! That you?” he called. “Hurry up!”
There was no response. Far, far away, up in the world, he heard an owl. Its call did not seem ghostly; it seemed even cheerful, coming from the solemn woods. There was no other sound; only a bubbling, oozy sound below him as the stone settled in the oozy mud and network of rotten roots and twigs.
“Tom!” he shouted.
There was no answer. The human body and the human spirit can bear only so much. When despair is added to fatigue and alarm, then hope dies and one accepts the verdict of fate. Death is welcome; anything is welcome.
In a blind impulse of despair, Brent straightened his embarrassed leg, felt the coils tighten with the movement, and pushed with all his might and main. The rock moved, he lost his balance and went sprawling down into the foul débris. He felt his senses slipping from him. But in his ebbing consciousness he knew that the reptile was now free and that presently its deadly fangs would be buried in his flesh. Even as his senses left him he could feel that sinuous body relax and unwind around his leg. Well, whatever happened, he would not know it....
Tom knew that he was facing a wildcat. He knew that he was not in danger so long as the animal was not at bay. It is no longer the fashion for wildcats to chase young heroes as they used to do in theDan DreadnaughtandSlickshot SamSeries. But, just the same, an encounter with a wildcat at bay is no pink tea. Personally, I prefer golf. If that wildcat had been able to listen to reason all might have been well, but he seemed to have an hallucination that Tom was advancing against him. And there was not much room behind the beast for a masterly retreat.
So he drew back, mouth open, eyes blazing, and cruel paw uplifted. His demeanor was exactly like that of a cat, lifted out of the domestic sphere and made magnificent. Tom had no intention of advancing, though he thought it quite likely that, if crowded, the creature would spring to the ground or to another branch. However, he took no chances. Discretion is the better part of valor, and he was in a hurry. He backed away along the limb and, as he did so, the creature, encouraged, advanced a trifle with menacing paw. He might spring, thought Tom.
In the circumstances a precipitous exit from the scene seemed wisest and he decided to give unmistakable appearance of withdrawal by a dexterous move to the limb below him. Getting a foothold on this, he caught hold of a small branch which broke, and he went tumbling to the ground.
He fell upon some thick brush and for a few moments saw all the stars known to astronomy. Then he picked himself up, staggered out of the natural cushion which had saved his precious young life, and found that he could hardly walk.
“No harm done,” was the laconic way in which he described the incident to me. But for all that he had to limp to the Gulch, occasionally pausing on a rock or fallen tree to ease the pain of walking.
Tom backed awayHE BACKED AWAY AS THE CREATURE ADVANCED.
HE BACKED AWAY AS THE CREATURE ADVANCED.
It was, of course, long after dark when he reached the Gulch. Going straight to the cabin, he found it dark and empty. Then he went to Conner’s well and called down. I should have thought that his very proximity to that black hole in the darkness would have made him cautious and fearful. But he approached to the very edge, pulled aside some of the obstructing growth and called down.
There was no answer. He called again, and receiving no response began investigating the spot, trying to determine if Brent had succeeded in getting out. He might have gone somewhere for a little while. He examined the brush as well as he could in the dark. It was broken and lately disordered, he could see; but that he thought had been caused by himself and by Brent in descending.
Now he began to be puzzled, and his puzzlement grew to alarm. There was nothing to do but descend himself, and it would be useless, or at least unwise, to do that without a light. He had no flashlight, so he did the thing which he could do quickest. I dare say it was a good idea. In the cabin was an old cage trap, relic of Buck Sanderson’s hunting days. This Tom filled with straw out of the old mattress that was in the cabin. Some dry twigs also, and a couple of chunks of solid wood he took with him. All this he tied to an end of the rope which he had brought and lowered into the well, having first securely fastened the other end of rope to the big elm which, you will remember, grew not far from the well; the elm whose wandering roots penetrated the hole and hung loose within it.
Then, by a dexterous trick of throwing the rope into a loop with his foot and thus getting a foothold from point to point as he went down, he lowered himself hand over hand down the black shaft. Tentacles of root brushed in his face as he did so. Here and there he got a foothold in the rough masonry and so, by hook or crook, reached the bottom. It must have been difficult and painful, for his ankle was very sore.
He alighted on something soft—an inert form. Lighting a match, and from this a rolled strip of paper, he beheld a dreadful sight. There lay his comrade, Brent Gaylong, his face white and mud bespattered. Around his right leg lay loosely the deadly snake, its sinuous body relaxed. Near to Brent’s right foot the mottled head dangled loosely above a tiny, muddy hollow. The creature was quite dead. Tom examined its chafed and torn neck but saw that this injury would not account for its death.
When Brent Gaylong, in a last physical expression of his despair, had impetuously pushed his foot down upon the sinking rock with all the strength of desperation, he had pushed the deadly head of the pinioned reptile under the oozy water and, all unknowing, held it there between rock and iron sole plate until it had drowned.
There was not a scar on the victor in this terrible encounter. And he lay there prone in the muddy water which had proved his salvation, never knowing what he had done.
He opened his eyes slowly and saw Tom kneeling over him. On a rock stood the cage of straw burning cheerily. On the cage lay the twigs and on these, two solid bits of hard wood, not yet ignited. The place looked horrible in the light, a light which it had never known before.
“You’re all right, old man,” Tom said feelingly; “I ought to have got here sooner, but you’re all right. What happened?”
Brent stared about him blankly. “My leg—I⸺”
“I know, I’ll get you free of him, he’s dead, don’t worry.”
“The—a—snake⸺”
“Yep, it’s one, but he’s dead. What happened?”
“It’s light,” said Brent, blinking his eyes and moving his head right and left.
“Yep, that’s all right. Can you sit up? Fine! What killed him, do you know?”
“I don’t know—unless it was worry,” said Brent.
“You’re all right,” Tom laughed, relieved. “You’re the same old Brent.”
“He wanted his own way and I had to put my foot down firmly,” Brent said coming to himself. “His death must have been quite unexpected. He was on the job the last time I saw him. Maybe he had a stroke.”
“Doesn’t make any difference—long as you’re all right,” Tom said, with a ring of real feeling in his voice.
“Oh, I’m all right; asleep at the switch, that’s all,” said Brent rather weakly. “Gee williger, he’s a long guy, isn’t he? Do you know there was something crooked about that snake? He’s a rattler, isn’t he?”
“He was,” said Tom, dangling the frightful thing, “but he ain’t.”
And do you know, it was I and no other, who suggested the solution of the snake’s death. And that was a month afterwards. It did not occur to Brent what he had done. As for Tom, scout, woodsman, detective, general wiseacre, and what not, he did not deduce the fact; perhaps because the stone was not visible. Anyway, the little scene of the encounter was changed by his own descent and by Brent’s sprawling fall.
But unquestionably in those last moments of that ghastly deadlock the creature’s head was held under water long enough to kill it. What other explanation is there? If you can think of any you are welcome to it. At least Tom is satisfied that I am right (for once in my life), and as for Brent the only alternative he has to offer is that the snake had acute indigestion.
“Any news of the sock?” Tom asked.
“Look in that hollow place where I lifted a stone out.”
“Nothing there,” said Tom.
“Foiled again,” said Brent. “There was a stone in there that had a cross on it.”
“Yes?”
“Anyway, let’s get out of here,” said Brent. “I feel the need of a change; you get tired of one place. We can talk it over in the cabin. As I see it now that cabin is my idea of heaven. And this—how are we going to⸺ By the way, were you walking around up there?”
“Not till I got here,” laughed Tom.
“Before I did my fainting stuff I heard some one up there and called, but no one answered. I guess it must have been a telephone girl.”
“What?” Tom asked, all interest.
“Let’s see if we can’t get up in the world,” said Brent. “I feel as if I’d like to be a rising young adventurer. Did you get my other shoes out of the car?”
“Wait till you hear about the car.”
“It didn’t start, did it? I’ve had surprises enough for to-day.”
“I had a run-in with a bobcat.”
“Tut, tut, you’re not in my class,” said Brent.
“All right, then,” said Tom, busy with the rope, “all I want you to do is sit in this loop and don’t do anything till you reach the top—leave it to me.”
“Going up,” said Brent; “third floor, ladies’ millinery, groceries, books, and sporting goods⸺”
“Shut up and get your long legs through that loop,” said Tom.
“Suppose it goes around my neck,” said Brent. “All the glory of my adventure with the snake will be as naught. Everything will hang on your word—and I’ll hang on the rope. What do you think I am? A baby, or a murderer or something? I’m willing to hang around here, but I’m not willing to hanginhere. I’m going to climb up in a gentlemanly, dignified manner, as I came in. Is that rope fastened good and tight up there?”
“All right,” said Tom indulgently and with deep feeling still in his voice, “only you go first. And if you don’t make it, I’ll be here to tell you what to do next.”
“Somehow I hate to leave the place now,” said Brent. “I have too much sentiment, that’s the trouble with me.”
With which poetic reflection, he grabbed hold of the dangling rope, braced one of his legs against the masonry, and clambering, with the support of the rope and both his lanky legs, contrived by a series of unlovely maneuvers to reach the top, where he scrambled out over the bushes.
“Top floor, stationery, men’s apparel, and leather goods,” he called down. “See if you can do it as gracefully as that. And don’t forget my flashlight.”
Tom and Brent had a late supper in the cabin that night. After the adventures of the day the little primitive abode, nestling in the surrounding wildness, seemed like heaven indeed. The supper, consisting of baked beans and bacon and fried potatoes and crumbling but flavory rusks, was prepared by Tom’s own skilful hand.
Brent peeled the potatoes for frying, and he looked funny enough sitting facing the little stove with his long legs held up by another old rickety chair, his feet so close to the increasing blaze that one might have supposed they were going to have fried leather for supper. “I like the odor of burning shoes,” he said; “it’s the very sole of camping.”
“Peel them closer,” said Tom; “you’re throwing away half the potato with the peel. And cut out the eyes, too; like this. Here, I’ll show you.”
A rusty old pan was on Brent’s lap, and as he worked on soberly, his spectacles halfway down his nose, he gave the impression that peeling potatoes was a very sober and intellectual task.
“You’d better get water,” said Brent, “I’ll be ready to dump these in in about a couple of minutes.”
Tom brought water from the neighboring spring and put it on the little round stove to boil, pausing to warm his hands over the red-hot lid. “Do you know it’s blowing up mighty chilly outside for this time of year?” he said.
“A very funny thing has occurred,” said Brent pausing soberly.
“Did you hear a sound too? Sounded to me like someone running; I was over by the spring.”
“Probably the man coming to read the gas meter,” said Brent; “or else the wind. You hear all kinds of things up here.”
“You sure do,” said Tom.
“But what I was going to say,” said Brent, “is that I think this flourishing metropolis is haunted or bewitched or something. I just cut the peel off a potato only to find that there was no potato inside it. That’s a very funny thing when you come to think of it. Where’s the potato? It was inside when I started to⸺”
“You peeled it all away,” said Tom disgustedly.
“Do you believe I could have done that?”
“That’s what I was telling you,” said Tom, “about peeling close.Youdon’tpeel, youslice.”
“Them’s harsh words, Tom.”
“Well,” Tom laughed.
“You can’t imagine myamazement,” said Brent, “when I looked in my hands and found there wasno potato there. Do you know, Tommy, I’m beginning to think I never really saw any rattlesnake at all, that it was just⸺”
“Shh, listen!” said Tom.
“’Tis nothing but the wind,” said Brent; “the i is pronounced as in high. Do you want me to slice some bacon now? I learned how to do that over the radio; also how to make salads. Station E-A-T-S.”
It was cosy eating supper in the cabin. Tried and true camper though he was, Tom had never been in such a place before. The little abode seemed to harmonize with that wild, remote gulch and to have become an inseparable part of it. There were two bunks in the drawing room (as Brent called it) one above the other, like berths on a ship. They were not furniture but a part of the place. In the little enclosed shed, which was the only other room, was an old-fashioned bed, of faded yellow wood with flowers painted on it.
All the coverings had been taken from the cabin (our adventurers had their own), but on this old single bed in the lean-to was a bearskin robe, memento of the old hunting days. It carried Tom’s thoughts back through the years (how many?) to the time when Mink and Buck trod those silent depths, and when the roar of beasts was borne upon just such winds as that which was now springing up.
Odds and ends of paraphernalia in this primitive lean-to, pathetic little trinkets, showed it to have been the room which little June Sanderson had occupied. Tom wondered where this child of the forest was now, and if she was happy in the big, glaring, noisy world. And if she ever wished for her warm bearskin comforter.
In the larger apartment (though it was small enough) were rusty old traps hanging against the logs, a couple of vicious-looking knives stuck in a crevice (Tom thought these had been used for skinning animals), and several dilapidated pairs of snowshoes.
One thing affected Tom strangely: this was a bleached skull of some small animal, on which stood, in its own grease, a half-burned candle. The other half of that candle had lighted the last minutes, perhaps, that old Buck Sanderson had spent in his lonely cabin. And the skull. How old was it? And when did the shot ring out in those solemn depths of wilderness which had laid that creature low? For how many years had it been a candlestick?
He pictured a candle burning there upon that ghastly little pedestal while Mink and Buck skinned a bear, or perhaps divided their gains acquired from Pollock, the questionable Pollock, who took care of furs so long ago. There were rows of chalk marks on a log, too; the primitive bookkeeping of old days.
“Come on, let’s eat,” said Tom.
“Here’s some salt, if you want any,” said Brent.
“We have plenty,” Tom answered. “Where did you get that, anyway?”
“It was under that old chest.”
“Let’s see it.”
There was no table to dine at, and they ate sitting in two old chairs close to the stove, so that they might refill their tin dishes without getting up. The warmth of the fire was grateful too, for the wind was blowing up outside and the one little window rattled and admitted volleys of air from time to time as the fitful gusts assailed that side of the cabin. They kept enough fire now to diffuse a comforting warmth and to keep the supper hot.
“Do you know,” said Tom, examining the box of salt, “that’s a bait-box. I bet that’s just the kind of a box John Mink used to hide away the money. See, there’s a place for fish-hooks.”
“I hope we didn’t eat any by mistake,” said Brent; “I never cared for those.”
“It helps to prove a connection,” said Tom. “I mean, that old fellow out there spoke of a bait-box and now we find a bait-box here.”
“Did he speak of a bait-box?” Brent asked.
“You know blamed well he did. Listen,” said Tom, resorting to his wallet.
“You’re not going to read the whole thing?”
“No, but listen to this:
“The man’s history and antecedents were not known to the authorities and he came to be known as Treasure Jack because he was forever making vague references to a bait-box full of money which he had once put in the ground. He was harmless and amiable and able to work with his hands at making baskets in the institution.”
“The man’s history and antecedents were not known to the authorities and he came to be known as Treasure Jack because he was forever making vague references to a bait-box full of money which he had once put in the ground. He was harmless and amiable and able to work with his hands at making baskets in the institution.”
“Well, it proves one thing, anyway,” said Brent, glancing at the metal box sideways over his spectacles and not troubling himself to take it from Tom. “I don’t believe a box of that size could be hidden behind the masonry in that well—them’s my sentiments. If old Mink put it there he must have been in a hurry⸺”
“Maybe not.”
“Well, anyway, you’d have to take out a couple of stones to fit a box of that size in, and then you couldn’t get the stones back. I’m so innocent I didn’t know how big a bait-box was. I thought maybe you wear them around your neck like a locket.”
“Yes, you didn’t!”
“Well,” said Brent, “at least one thing is proved. The box is not in that well. If that’s a bait-box, and if other bait-boxes are like it, why, then, the money is not in that well. I think I can say I know that well as well as anybody; I lived in it several centuries.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” said Tom, somewhat impressed, “then, where is it?”
“Are you asking me?”
“There’s nothing for us to do,” said Tom, “but wait around and see if that John Mink doesn’t come back here.”
“I’m enjoying my vacation,” said Brent.
Tom seemed nettled. “Yes, but it must besomewhere,” he said. “I’m going to clear out the gully all the way to Conner’s and search it thoroughly.”
“Look out for snakes; remember they have the right of way. Have another sliver of bacon?”
“The trouble with you,” said Tom, “is you’re a Philistine.”
“No, I’m not a Philippine,” said Brent. “If you want to know honestly what I think, I don’t think we stand much chance of finding that money—hold on now, I’m not a Philippine⸺”
“Philistine, I said,” Tom shot at him.
“I believe the money is somewhere around here.”
“Thanks,” said Tom.
“Not at all,” said Brent. “And I think it’s likely that old geezer out west is the one who left it here.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“And you’re listening—that’s fine,” said Brent. “Have another sliver of bacon—no?”
“Go on,” said Tom.
“All right, my father was a doctor and I’ve heard him say that people who go daffy from a fall and get magnesia⸺”
“Amnesia,” Tom shouted.
“Pardon me, my error. I’ve heard him say that such people are sometimes cured by an operation after years. All right, then, I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t come back here and get his money, if he remembers now where he put it. If he comes it will be mighty interesting to see him and help him. If he doesn’t come, we’re having a mighty good vacation, anyway. I’m here as a scientific observer. I don’t care anything about hunting for treasure; I had my little fling to-day and I’mthrough. If Captain Kidd’s ghost came and told me where his pirate gold was, I’d say, ‘Nothing doing, go dig in the sand yourself.’
“But I’d just kind of like to see if that old codger does come back here, like an old dog that can’t forget a place. If that old fellowisMink Havers, I’d like to see him and give him a hand—and, as you say, see that the kid gets her share. But if it’s just a case of digging, I’d rather take my little pail and shovel and go down to Coney Island. So much for that. If you want to vacuum clean the Gulch go ahead and do it.
“What’s interesting me just at present are two things to wit, wiz. I’d like to know who was wandering around up at the top of the well to-night, before you came. And I’d like to know—Potato? No?—I’d like to know who it was that ran away from the Ford. If he really intended to steal your Ford, that would prove conclusively that he was John Mink, alias Treasure Jack. Because anybody who would want to steal your Ford must be plumb crazy; I don’t know if you’d call it magnesia or amnesia or what.”
“It was a young man,” said Tom; “he ran like an athlete.”
“He had gray hair?”
“Yes, but lots of young men have that; fellows that think a lot⸺”
“I think a great deal,” said Brent. “I’m always buried in thought when I’m not buried in a well. And my hair is wavy brown.”
“That fellow wasn’t Mink,” laughed Tom.
“And the other—the sound up above the well?”
“I think you imagined that,” said Tom; “the wind was blowing the bushes, though maybe at that⸺Listen!”
They both paused, speechless. There was the sound of footsteps approaching the door.
Tom and Brent stared at each other. The footfalls approached nearer and nearer, sounding clear upon the brittle underbrush which obscured the beaten track to the door; clear as footsteps on a pavement, as the driving wind which rattled the door and window, bore the sound to the cabin.
Just as the sound ceased, Brent drawled in his usual half-interested manner, “Come in, the place is yours.”
Tom, however, jumped to his feet, fully prepared, watching the door keenly, intently. His attitude said that he was ready and not to be taken unawares.
The door opened and a small boy in a heavy collared gray sweater entered. He was a redheaded boy with the usual accompaniment of freckles and he had a black smear at one end of his mouth. He might have been fourteen, certainly not older than that. He wore khaki trousers and indeed the whole part of him that projected below the all-embracing sweater showed him to be a Scout of the Scouts. He had, what seems often to be found in company with red hair and freckles, a little round nose which somehow bespoke an impudent self-possession.
“Well—I’ll—be—hanged!” Tom exploded.
“How do you do, sweater?” said Brent, eyeing him whimsically.
“I got lost,” said the boy.
“Been roasting potatoes?” Tom asked, sniffing.
“Yop. I got a smutch?” said the boy, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve.
“The smutch is now on your sweater,” Brent said. “If you’ll take the sweater off, we’ll be able to see who we’re talking to.”
“How’d you know I was roasting potatoes?” the boy demanded.
“I tell by the smutch and by the smell,” said Tom, helping him off with the sweater. “That’s right, it’s warm in here.”
“I ain’t scared of cold,” said the boy.
“You smell like a bonfire,” said Tom. “Have you been roasting potatoes around here anywhere?”
“Back there in the woods—I seen a light here.”
“And did you stamp the fire out?”
“I jumped all over it.”
“Good, let’s see your feet—your shoes. That’s fine. You sure you stamped it all out? Regular—like a Scout.”
“I got no use for those guys,” said the boy aggressively.
“So? But you’re sure you put the fire out? You’re for the woods even if you’re not for the scouts, hey?” Tom said pleasantly.
“Give him something to eat,” said Brent. “The potatoes all fell off the stick, didn’t they?”
“I only had two.”
“And about all you got was a smutch,” said Tom. “A kid, a bonfire, a stick, and a potato—and no nourishment, hey? They go good in stories though, don’t they?”
“I got no use for stories,” said the boy unabashed. “They ain’t true. I got no use for Scouts either.”
“Sit down and eat some beans and some bacon and explain all that,” said Tom.
“First tell me, in goodness’ name, where did you get that scarf-pin?” Brent asked.
His interested scrutiny of the boy had paused at a conspicuous ornament upon the necktie which the youngster wore. He had on an ordinary boy’s jacket with white collar, and a tie which showed a heroic but ghastly effort to achieve the glory of a four-in-hand. Into this tie was inserted a scarf-pin presenting four magnificent glass gems set in a diagonal row.
“That’s very nifty,” said Brent. “It takes me back to the days when I lived in the civilized world. You got it⸺”
“I got it in a package of lemon-drops,” said the boy, with aggressive frankness.
“Which you bought on a train?”
“In a show,” said the boy, “between the acts.”
“Exactly,” said Brent, winking at Tom. “Now sit down and⸺ You like bacon?”
“Sure, I like anything,” said the boy, eating.
“Except Scouts,” said Tom.
“You don’t like ’em, do you?” said the boy, out of a full and busy mouth.
Tom eyed him amusedly. His look seemed to say that he knew the type.
“Was you ever one?” the boy asked.
“I used to think I was,” Tom said.
“It’s good you got out of ’em.”
“What’s your name?”
“Arnold Henshaw, but you can call me Spiff, if you want to—it don’t worry me.”
“That’s short for spiffy?” said Brent.
“Yop—it don’t bother me, it don’t. They’re a fresh bunch up there, I’ll tell the world.”
“You camping up there, Spiff?” Tom asked.
“I was, but I’m through—never again—I’ll say.”
“Had a falling out with them?”
“Nix, they had a falling out with me.”
Tom winked at Brent. “You like chocolate?” Brent asked.
“Sure, I can eat anything.”
“It’s great for making smutches,” said Brent. “Now, tell us all about your life and death and Christian sufferings.”
“Gee, I didn’t die yet; not so you’d notice it.”
“So they’re a fresh bunch up there at the lakes?” Tom encouraged.
“Sure,” said Arnold Henshaw, alias Spiff.
“They says I got to take lessons from those guys. To get merit badges I don’t have to take lessons. Anyway, they get merit badges and they can’t do as many things as I can. I swam across the lake one night and they wouldn’t give me a merit badge. They can chuck it in the lake for all I care.”
“So?” Tom was sitting with hands clasped around his upraised knee, listening intently. He seemed inwardly amused.
“They got the knife in me, that crowd,” said Spiff.
“You’re not understood,” Brent commented in an undertone.
“May be true at that,” said Tom. “You see, I suppose it’s against the rule to swim at night. Of course, you can’t get merit badges breaking rules.”
“They got me washing dishes for discipline,” said the boy. “Would you do that?”
“Oh, I’ve washed lots of dishes,” said Tom.
“Well, they ain’t going to putmedoing that. That’s why I sneaked away this afternoon.”
“Oh, I see,” said Tom.
“I’m going to go home, I am. I’m going to find my way out of here; you can go to Sloatsburg this way, can’t you?”
“I believe so. Where do you live?”
“And why?” said Brent.
“Jersey City,” said the boy.
“Why should anybody want to go there?” said Brent.
“The Erie Railroad goes there,” said Spiff.
“Well, you don’t want to be like the Erie Railroad, do you?” said Brent. “Do they have many like you in Jersey City?”
“Sure, I licked two of ’em,” said Spiff.
“Well, now,” said Tom, “let’s forget Jersey City and talk of something pleasant. You’re on the outs with the Scouts up yonder, hey? So you’re running away. They put you to washing dishes and you quit. Then you want me to believe that you licked two fellows in Jersey City. Why, you couldn’t even lick a fellow in Hoboken, you couldn’t. You’re a quitter.—Here, have some more beans.”
“Who you calling a quitter?”
“You. You’ve got a grouch about the⸺”
“Oh su-u-u-re,” the boy sneered. “You’re like the scoutmaster, you are.”
“Those are harsh words,” said Brent.
“You got to be a teacher’s pet up there,” said Spiff.
“Did they ever call you fresh?” Tom queried sociably.
“Sure, all of them, lots of times. They wouldn’t let me get into the second class and they wouldn’t give me the astronomy badge, even if I can follow the stars⸺”
“You can do that?”
“You tell ’em I can.”
“We’ll show ’em, that’s better,” said Tom.
“I’m through!Didn’t I hike out to White Bar not following the trail?I made a trail of my own, I did!”
“Now you’re shouting,” said Brent.
Tom sat there studying the boy curiously.
Yes, that was it, the little rascal would have to make his own trails; Tom saw that. And he had evidently made some pretty poor ones. He was one of those boys from whose point of view the world seems to be against him.
“They pretty sore at you?” Tom asked.
“Sure—that bunch! I think up things and then they say they’re no good. I shot a woodchuck with a bow and arrow and still they wouldn’t give me the archery badge. Can you beat that? Ain’t that archery? I’ll leave it to this other fellow.”
“That’s archery,” said Brent.
“But there’s a regular way to win the archery badge,” said Tom. “Do you know the history of archery?”
“Naah, what good is history?”
“Yes, but you’re supposed to know something about it to get the badge,” said Tom.
“Didn’t I shoot the woodchuck; ain’t that enough? Actions count, don’t they?”
“Yes, but maybe you’re not supposed to shoot woodchucks; see?”
“Are you hunters?”
“Well, in a way we are,” Tom laughed.
“Didn’t I make a semaphore signal across the lake? Didn’t I make bugle calls—signals?”
“Did you?”
“SuuureI did. And they gave a signal badge to a feller from Brooklyn but not to me.”
“Well, you see, there must have been something; you didn’t fulfill all the requirements of the test—maybe.”
“I didn’t do a thing but tumble that feller off the springboard. That’s why I got discipline wished on me—dish washing.Not me!”
“So you’re quitting?”
“What’s the use staying as long as I’m in dutch?”
There followed a pause during which this redoubtable youngster ate with a vigor surpassing all his other achievements.
“They got no use for me and I got no use for them,” he said. “Now they won’t even show me, they won’t. They won’t even tell me the trail signs.Geeeeee, they needn’t worry, I’ll get along all right.”
“Help yourself to bacon,” said Brent.
“They don’t need to tell me where the launch is sunk—not that bunch. I’m out on the lake every night hunting myself.”
“Against the rules?” Tom queried.
“I don’t need them,” was the rather vague reply.
“All right,” said Tom; “now have you finished eating? Had enough? All right, now listen. I don’t know anything about your complete life and adventures in camp, but it seems you’ve got around on the wrong side of the bunch.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Spiff.
“Oh, I’m not worrying,” Tom said. “I’d put my last dollar on you. I think you’re all right. How ’bout it, Brent?”
“I’ll put thirty-two cents on him, that’s all I’ve got. The rest went out of my pocket when I was upside down.”
“You see,” said Tom in a very fraternal way, “you don’t fit. They can’t make a thing to fit everybody. Now scouting is a great big thing and it’s not going to change. You’re one fresh little gizinko and you’vegotto change. You’ve either got to fit into it, or quit—just a minute!
“Now, about quitting. I think it’s all right for a kid not to join the Scouts. But I don’t like a fellow that quits; see? Kids that don’t go in—well, I have nothing to say. But kids that get out—give up, surrender, climb out through the ropes and run⸺”
“You say that’s me?”
“Sure it is. You’re on your way to Sloatsburg. So far you managed to stumble in the right direction; you’re not a half bad Scout. I’m not handing you any bouquets for licking a fellow, but that’s better than being licked by one.”
“You said it,” vociferated Spiff. “I’d like to stay here with you, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“We’re not taking any boarders this season,” said Brent, then added in an undertone to Tom, “It wouldn’t be half bad having him around at that.”
Tom arose, stepping over to the boy, and in a humorous, friendly way lifted the four-jewelled pin out of the youngster’s scarf. “Here, Kid,” said he; “you put this in your pocket, you don’t need to wear it. One, two, three, four—four stones⸺”
“They’re glass,” said Spiff.
“Yep, and do you know what they stand for? Four means help; see? Four blasts of a whistle, four blasts of a horn, four flashes of light, four signs of any kind, says HELP. Four letters, H-E-L-P. That’s a rule we have up where I camp sometimes. Guess you never heard of it here? Now, I don’t think,” Tom added good-humoredly, “that you need to bat around with a call for help stuck up in front of you, do you? You put that lemon-drop pin in your pocket and get your sweater on and come along with me; I’m going to set you on the trail.”
The boy gazed at Tom, bewildered, fascinated. “To Sloatsburg?” he asked.
“No, back to camp. You’re going to go back and beat that game just as you licked the two fellows in Jersey City. You’re going to read your little book and find out just what you have to do to win badges. Then you’re going todo those things. And you’re going to have that whole crowd eating out of your hand, you fresh little rascal! Here, wear the pin if you want to; I was only kidding you.”
But Spiff Henshaw held the gorgeous ornament tight in his hand and would not replace it in his scarf. “I wouldn’t let anybody say I wear a call for help—geeeee, you don’t know me!”
“Here, slip your sweater on,” said Tom, “You’re going to bang around into the enemy’s country, and after you’ve read your little book—handbook, they call it?—why, you’ll have them on their knees begging for an armistice.”
“Shall I chuck the pin?” Spiff asked, with an air of manly independence.
“Well, it’s a call for help,” laughed Tom.
With a fine air of disgust the boy cast his magnificent ornament upon the floor, drew his sweater over his head and strode out into the night with Tom.
Brent, left alone, leaned over without disturbing his restful posture, picked up the pin, and gazed at it amusedly.
“Leave it to Tom,” he said to himself.
Tom was weary enough after his strenuous day, but he never did things by halves; he escorted his young acquaintance up to the Hawkeye Spoke Trail and set him upon his journey back into the land of the enemy.
“You going to read your little Scout book now?” he asked before taking leave of him.
“Suuuuure, if I say I do a thing, I do it.”
“Bully.”
“Don’t ever be a quitter or a walking call for help.”
“You leave it to me.”
“And you’ll go right straight back and report to your scoutmaster or camp manager or whatever he is? To the right one?”
“Suuuuure.”
“All right, so long. And you’re dead sure you stamped the fire out? Fires are bad things, you know. Some day I’ll show you how to roast potatoes on a stick—you need a wire.”
“I bet you’re a trapper, I bet.”
“So long, you little rascal. You don’t need any H-E-L-P.”
Tom watched him as he trudged along the dark trail, then retraced his steps to the cabin, staggering in with a theatrical show of weariness. “Guess we’ll call it a day, huh?” he said. “I’m about all in.”
“Did you look in the Ford while you were up that way?”
“I did not.”
“Some kid, huh?”
“All he needs is to get on the track,” said Tom. “He can do anything, only he never does it according to rules. Shoots a woodchuck with a bow and arrow and wants the archery badge! Can you beat that? He’ll land on his feet yet. Just at present the cruel world is against him.”
“The sign of the four got him,” said Brent.
Tom laughed. “It’s the only way to get a kid like that.”
“Some jewelry, ney?” said Brent, holding the gorgeous pin at length and contemplating it critically. “Well, this is our first treasure—gold and diamonds. We’ve done pretty well so far, for beginners. We’re pretty good bandits anyway. When they see us they throw down their jewels. Do you hear a sound, or is it the wind?
Sounds to me like⸺What the dickens!Listen—shh!”
“I guess it’s nothing,” Tom said wearily.
“Do you suppose we’d be able to get a little real rest if we moved to the Bronx?” Brent asked. “There’s too much doing up here. My idea of⸺Listen!No, honest,listen.”
As he spoke there was a sound of rustling leaves or bushes disturbed. Tom quickly opened the door and immediately there was the sound of running.
“You don’t suppose that kid is back?” Brent said.
“I’ll take him home by the collar if he is,” said Tom.
They went out and walked around, examining the neighboring brush. The night was too dark for them to see anything. Besides, as the wind blew in gusts, they thought it likely that these impetuous assaults against the dense growth were the only sounds they had heard. They were too dog-tired to extend their investigation, so they turned in for the night.
This was the beginning of their period of watchful waiting. If it had not been for the pleasure of camping in that romantic fastness, they might have abandoned their enterprise. But the camping life, the atmosphere of the primitive little cabin, and the charm of the wild surroundings carried them along.
In the days immediately following, Tom rummaged in the overgrown hollow from which the place derived its name, pulling aside great masses of brush and searching the open ground underneath. I suppose there wasn’t one chance in a hundred of his finding anything there. He finally acknowledged that the treasure-seeking phase of their enterprise was a failure. But there did seem at least a fair chance that the old fellow out west would turn out to be Mink Havers and would seek his old familiar home. There was adventure in the mere expectancy of this, for every rustle of a tree at night aroused the keenest apprehensions.
It was during this period that Brent (who declined resolutely to prosecute an aggressive search) hiked about the neighborhood and one day ambled into Scout Headquarters up at Kanawauke Lakes. Here he hunted up Spiffy and returned him his scarf-pin. I want you to read the letter he sent me, not only because it is so characteristic, but because it throws a light on certain interesting events which were shortly to occur. My facts I received from Tom, my local color from Brent.
Dear Friend:We have not found the money yet but we are very comfortable here. Tom pulls brush in the daytime and turns over suspicious rocks, and at night we amuse ourselves hearing noises. We hear as many noises as you hear on a Ford. Every now and then we start up and listen and then decide that it was only the zephyrs soughing in the trees. There is an owl around here who works nights. When there is nothing else to do we tell bedtime stories.I don’t believe the campers up around the lakes know anything about us; anyway, they haven’t bothered us any. Those kids travel on regular trails; very wild but you can’t get lost. One kid jumped the track and dropped in on us late one night. It seemed that the world was against him and he was retreating to Jersey City. Tom made him go back. I inquired about him when I hiked up that way. A chap said there wasn’t much hope for him—that his starting off like that had only made matters worse. His parents are away in the country somewhere, and as soon as the managers can get in touch with them, the kid goes back. It must be dreadful to spend a summer in Jersey City. If there is one type of kid I like, it’s the kind that has all the world against him.Oh, I forgot—there’s a piece of news. A man in Sandyfield told me that some one had told him that Sarah Ann Berry had mentioned to Seth Plummer that a person from Eddyville told her that June Sanderson was in the Highland Orphanage at Kingston. So there’s your little friend discovered for you. Tom said he told you about the fellow who ran away from his Ford, so I guess that’s about all now.Yours,Brent.
Dear Friend:
We have not found the money yet but we are very comfortable here. Tom pulls brush in the daytime and turns over suspicious rocks, and at night we amuse ourselves hearing noises. We hear as many noises as you hear on a Ford. Every now and then we start up and listen and then decide that it was only the zephyrs soughing in the trees. There is an owl around here who works nights. When there is nothing else to do we tell bedtime stories.
I don’t believe the campers up around the lakes know anything about us; anyway, they haven’t bothered us any. Those kids travel on regular trails; very wild but you can’t get lost. One kid jumped the track and dropped in on us late one night. It seemed that the world was against him and he was retreating to Jersey City. Tom made him go back. I inquired about him when I hiked up that way. A chap said there wasn’t much hope for him—that his starting off like that had only made matters worse. His parents are away in the country somewhere, and as soon as the managers can get in touch with them, the kid goes back. It must be dreadful to spend a summer in Jersey City. If there is one type of kid I like, it’s the kind that has all the world against him.
Oh, I forgot—there’s a piece of news. A man in Sandyfield told me that some one had told him that Sarah Ann Berry had mentioned to Seth Plummer that a person from Eddyville told her that June Sanderson was in the Highland Orphanage at Kingston. So there’s your little friend discovered for you. Tom said he told you about the fellow who ran away from his Ford, so I guess that’s about all now.
Yours,Brent.
Yours,Brent.
Yours,
Brent.
I answered this letter as follows, sending it to Scout Headquarters as per instructions:
Dear Brent:Thanks for your letter. If you could capture some of those breezes and send them down here, that would be better than treasure. And thanks for telling me about the little girl; I’ll send her a box of candy at Christmas. I wonder if she’d remember me?Anyway, I can pay you back for your kindness by telling you that last night on the radio, Pittsburgh said that a man corresponding to John Mink in appearance had been seen on a freight train east of that town. Eastern cities are asked to be on the watch for him. He may be heading for Highlands at that. I was reading an article about amnesia; it seems they do wonders with people whose memories are broken down.Let me hear from you again and good luck to both of you.
Dear Brent:
Thanks for your letter. If you could capture some of those breezes and send them down here, that would be better than treasure. And thanks for telling me about the little girl; I’ll send her a box of candy at Christmas. I wonder if she’d remember me?
Anyway, I can pay you back for your kindness by telling you that last night on the radio, Pittsburgh said that a man corresponding to John Mink in appearance had been seen on a freight train east of that town. Eastern cities are asked to be on the watch for him. He may be heading for Highlands at that. I was reading an article about amnesia; it seems they do wonders with people whose memories are broken down.
Let me hear from you again and good luck to both of you.
“Well,” said Brent, “I suppose we’d better kill the fatted calf and dust the cabin and tidy up a bit. Keep the home fires burning. He might drop off the freight at Tuxedo. Do you think I ought to put on a white collar?”
They were lingering in the cabin as they usually did after lunch. “And the dishes not washed, either,” Brent added.
This kind of talk always nettled yet amused Tom.
“It may be days and days, if he comes at all,” he said. “Well, we’re having a good time of it, aren’t we?”
“Watchful waiting,” mused Brent. “What do you say we go fishing this afternoon, Tommy? I’m getting tired of bacon.”
“Suits me,” said Tom.
“Here comes the kid again,” said Brent.
Someone was approaching the cabin with quick steps. Presently there was a brisk knock on the door.
“Come in, Spiffy,” said Brent.
The door opened and a stranger entered. He was evidently the person whose back Tom had seen on a previous occasion. He showed neither hesitancy nor embarrassment; indeed, his entrance and briskly cordial bearing bespoke one who had nothing to explain or conceal.
He was a young man of athletic build, certainly not more than thirty years of age. He had replaced his lost hat with another one, and under the edge of this the campers could see a profusion of bushy gray hair. Clearly he was gray long before his time. He wore a lumberjack sweater of bizarre design, khaki trousers, and gaiters laced up to his knees. His general appearance of an out-of-doors man was somewhat modified by the rimless nose glasses which he wore. Since Tom knew that he was not a Scout official, he was led (not a little by the glasses perhaps) to suspect that he might be a young army officer. Though, to be sure, there was no better reason for hitting upon this supposition than that combination of a rather studious and intellectual appearance and semi-military costume with his self-possessed outdoor manner. He had not exactly an air of authority. Yet he did have a certain breezy assurance about him which somehow (to Tom at least) suggested the officer class of the army. At all events, for the first moment or two our campers seemed at a disadvantage.
“Excuse me,” said the stranger briskly; “you camping here?”
“Looks that way,” said Brent.
“You haven’t seen anybody around in here examining trees?”
Tom shook his head. “I think I saw you before, didn’t I?” he added.
“Yes?” the stranger asked curiously.
“Down in—near our car?”
“Oh, did you? Yes, I looked in there one day; in fact, I bunked there overnight. All right, I suppose?”
“Sure enough,” said Tom, somewhat relieved by this frank declaration; “I thought you saw me that day.”
“No. I’m in the conservation service; checking up on trees around here; I sleep anywhere I happen to be,” the visitor said briskly. “I was on the watch for a telephone gang; you’ve got to get them red-handed, you know; they work at night. They need an extra pole or so, and findings is keepings. You’ve got some pretty rotten looking trees around here.”
“They don’t belong to us,” said Brent.
“You expecting them to chop some trees around here?” Tom asked, with increasing interest.
“Well, I did; but I guess they know I’m around.”
“Sit down and make yourself at home,” said Tom. “You for the state or federal government?”
“Oh, state,” the visitor answered, so briskly that Tom felt chided for his ignorance. “You know they’re building a dam over here by Brundige Mountain⸺”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said Tom.
“They’ve got the old road turned into a quagmire,” said the government man, contemplating his boots ruefully through his rimless glasses. “We’re going to bring some of the cement in through here and fill some of the trees; cut down the waste.”
“You mean the trees?” Brent asked.
“Oh, no,” the visitor laughed. “Just put cement in where the trees are starting to decay;fillingwe call it; tree dentistry.”
“It’s a mighty good thing, too,” said Tom; “a stitch in time. They’re doing a lot of that work up in the Catskills.”
“Well, they’re not going far into the woods—they can’t,” the visitor said, in his brisk, sociable way. “You fellows smoke?”
“I’ll take a cigarette,” said Brent.
“You see it’s only when a dam or something like that is built away back that we can ring in a little of this work. We graft on the engineering enterprise and get some cement. Wherever you find construction work going on in the woods or mountains, you’ll find some tree doctoring going on; sort of by-product.”
“It gives you a good chance,” said Tom. “I suppose you go ahead of the men and mark the trees?”
“Yes, and half the time they don’t get around to the trees I mark.”
“You come from Buffalo?” Brent asked.
“Buffalo and all over. I chalked, I guess, five hundred trees up in that region. Ever been in the Great Lakes section?”
“No,” said Tom. “I saw a Buffalo imprint in your hat that you left⸺”
“Yes, I don’t wear one half the time; just let my hair grow long. A hat’s a blame nuisance climbing trees. I was wondering if you fellows could put me up here for a few days?”
“We sure could,” said Tom. “The place don’t belong to us; we’re just camping here.”
“Gulch, they call it—or Gully or something or other?”
“Rattlesnake Gulch,” said Tom. “Some name, huh?”
“Don’t look much like Broadway,” laughed the visitor.
“There aren’t many dances,” said Brent.
The visitor laughed heartily—a friendly, appreciative laugh. “Well, I’m not likely to bother you much,” he said. “I’m going to chalk up some trees around Brundige Mountain, then maybe I’ll drop in here to-morrow, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll make a headquarters here for a few days—just bunk in a corner.”
“You can have the bridal suite in the lean-to,” said Brent. “Nothing is too good for Uncle Sam.”
“Father Knickerbocker you mean,” said Tom.
“Guess that old guy means New York City, doesn’t he?” the conservation man asked, rising, “or maybe he stands for the state at that,” he added, giving his khaki trousers a perfunctory brushing.
“Well, the state conservation bunch can bunk in here any time,” Tom said heartily.
“Do you do cross-word puzzles?” Brent asked.
“’Fraid not,” the visitor laughed. “Well, I’ll see you later.”
“How’s the work going on over there?” Tom asked.
“The dam? Oh, there’s going to be quite a lake over there. Only there’s a lot of trees down on the lower reaches of the mountain that have got to be filled.” He lingered in the doorway as if quite willing to explain. “You see, if they rot, why then there’s nothing left to hold the earth together on those slopes. What’s the result? It slides down into the lake and fills it up with mud. In the end they have to dredge it. That’s what they call erosion—earth falling away from where it belongs because there are no roots to hold it together. You see trees are important.”
“Well, I guess,” said Tom.
“The federal government is doing a lot of that out west,” said the visitor. He seemed quite willing to explain this interesting work, pausing still in the doorway, and smiling as if to encourage further questions.
“Well, I’m mighty glad you dropped in on us,” said Tom. “My name is Slade and my chum’s name is Gaylong.”
“Glad to know both of you,” said the visitor, with a little nod of acknowledgment. “My name’s Lawton.”
“Don’t you go to camping anywhere else now,” Tom said.
“Thanks,” said Lawton briskly; “you’ll see me.” And he hurried away.