"13—A scout can make a sacrifice. He can keep from winning a medal so somebody else can get it. Especially he must do this if it does the other scout more good. That is better than being a hero."
"13—A scout can make a sacrifice. He can keep from winning a medal so somebody else can get it. Especially he must do this if it does the other scout more good. That is better than being a hero."
He turned to the fly leaf and wrote in sprawling, reckless fashion: "I am not a coward. I hate cowards." Then he tore the page out and threw it away. He hardly knew what he was doing. After a few minutes he turned to page 58, where the picture of the honor medal was.As he sat gazing at it, loud shouting arose in the distance. Nearer and nearer it came, and louder it grew, until it swelled into a lusty chorus. Around the corner of the pavilion they came, two score or more of scouts, yelling and throwing their hats into the air. Tom looked up and listened. Through the little window he could glimpse them as they passed, carrying Garry Everson upon their shoulders, and shrieking themselves hoarse. Pee-wee was there and Artie Val Arlen, of the Ravens, and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough, running to keep up and yelling proudly for his chief and idol.
"Hurrah for the silver cross!" they called.
"Three cheers for the honor scout!"
"Three cheers and three extra weeks!"
They paused within a dozen feet of where Tom sat, and pushing, elbowing, fell into the woods path leading up to Hero Cabin. Tom listened until their voices, spent by the distance, were scarcely audible. Then he fell to gazing again at the picture of the medal.
CHAPTER XVIOSTRACIZED
The question was as to the bronze cross or the silver one, and it was the silver one which came. Roy, who had been the most observant witness, testified before the Honor Court that the frantic struggling of the rescued scout must have incurred danger to the rescuer and that only his dexterity and skill had saved him.
But after all, who can say how much risk is involved in such an act. It is only in those deeds of sublime recklessness where one throws his life into the balance as a tree casts off a dried leaf that the true measure of peril is known. That is where insanity and heroism seem to join hands. And hence the glittering cross of the yellow metal lying against its satin background of spotless white stands alone by itself, apart from all other awards.
There was no thought of it here and least of all by Garry himself. When asked by the court how much he believed he had jeopardized hislife, he said he did not know, and that at the time he had thought only of saving Dory Bronson. He added that all scouts know the different life-saving "wrinkles" and that they have to use their judgment. His manner had a touch of nonchalance, or rather, perhaps of indifference, which struck one or two of the visiting scoutmasters unfavorably. But Jeb Rushmore, who was in the room, sitting far back with his lanky arms clasped about his lanky limbs, and a shrewd look in his eyes, was greatly impressed, and it was largely because of his voice that the recommendation went to headquarters for the silver medal. In all of the proceedings the name of Tom Slade was not once mentioned, though his vantage point on the spring-board ought to have made his testimony of some value.
So Garry Everson and his little one-patrol troop took up their abode in Hero Cabin, and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough raised and lowered the colors each day, as Tom had done, and ate more heartily down at mess, and made birchbark ornaments in the sunshine up at his beloved retreat, and was very proud of his leader; but he had little use for Tom Slade, because he believed Tom was a coward.
In due time the Silver Cross itself came, and scouts who strolled up to visit the cabin on the precipice noticed that sometimes the little sandy-haired fellow wore it, so that it came to be rumored about that Garry Everson cared more about him than he did about the medal. There were times when Garry took his meals up to him and often he was not at campfire in the evenings. But the little fellow improved each day and every one noticed it.
In time the feeling toward Tom subsided until nothing was left of it except a kind of passive disregard of him. Organized resentment would not have been tolerated at Temple Camp and it is a question whether the scouts themselves would have had anything to do with such a conspiracy. But the feeling had changed toward him and was especially noticeable in certain quarters.
Perhaps if he had lived among his own troop and patrol as one of them the estrangement would have been entirely forgotten, but he lived a life apart, seeing them only at intervals, and so the coldness continued. As the time drew near for the troop to leave, Tom fancied that the feeling against him was stronger because they were thinking of the extra time they might havehad along with the honor they had lost, but he was sensitive and possibly imagined that. He sometimes wondered if Roy and the others were gratified to know that these good friends of their happy journey to camp could remain longer. But the camp was so large and the Honor Troop stayed so much by itself that the Bridgeboro boys hardly realized what it meant to that little patrol up at Hero Cabin. Tom often thought wistfully of the pleasant cruise up the river and wondered if Roy and Pee-wee thought of it as they made their plans to go home in theGood Turn.
Two friends Tom had, at all events, and these were Jeb Rushmore and Garry Everson. The Honor Troop was composed mostly of small boys and all except the little boy who was Garry's especial charge were in Tom's tracking class. He used to put them through the simpler stunts and then turn them over to Jeb Rushmore. Apparently, they did not share the general prejudice and he liked to be with them.
One afternoon he returned with three or four of these youngsters and lingered on the hill to chat with Garry. He had come to feel more at home here than anywhere else.
"How's the kid?" Tom asked, as the sandy haired boy came out of the cabin and passed him without speaking.
"Fine. You ought to see him eat. He's a whole famine in himself. You mustn't mind him," he added; "he has notions."
"Oh," said Tom, "I'm used to being snubbed. It just amuses me in his case."
"How's tracking?"
"Punk. There's so much dust you can't make a track. What we need is rain, so we can get some good plain prints. That's the only way to teach a tenderfoot. Jeb says dust ought to be good enough, but he's a fiend."
"He could track an aeroplane," said Garry. "Everything's pretty dry, I guess."
"You'd say so," said Tom, "if you were down through those east woods. You could light a twig with a sun glass. They're having forest fires up back of Tannerstown."
"I saw the smoke," said Garry.
"There's a couple of hoboes down the cut a ways; we tracked them today, cooking over a loose fire. I tried to get them to cut it out; told 'em they'd have the whole woods started. They only laughed. I'm going to report it to J. R."
"They on the camp land?"
"If they were they'd have been off before this."
They strolled out to the edge of the cut and looked off across the country beyond where the waning sunlight fell upon the dense woods, touching the higher trees with its lurid glow. Over that way smoke arose and curled away in the first twilight.
"There's some good timber gone to kindling wood over there," said Garry.
"It's going to blow up to-night," said Tom; "look at the flag."
They watched the banner as it fluttered and spread in the freshening breeze.
"Looks pretty, don't it?" said Tom. "Shall we haul it down?"
"No, let the kid do it."
Garry called and the little fellow came over for the task he loved.
"Sunset," said Garry. "Now just look at his muscle," he added, winking at Tom. "By the time this precious three weeks is up, he'll be a regular Samson."
Garry walked a few paces down the hill with Tom. "I wish I could have had a chance to thank Mr. Temple when he was here," he said, "forthis bully camp and that extra time arrangement."
"He deserves thanks," said Tom.
They walked on for a few moments in silence.
"You—youdon't think I'm a coward, do you?" said Tom, suddenly. "I wouldn't speak about it to anyone but you. But I can't help thinking about it sometimes. I wouldn't speak about it even to Roy—now."
"Of course, I don't. I think you were a little rattled, that's all. I've been the same myself. For a couple of seconds you didn't know what to do—you were just up in the air—and by the time you got a grip on yourself—I had cheated you out of it. You were just going to dive, weren't you?"
"Sometimes it's hard to make a fellow understand," said Tom, not answering the question. "I can't tell you just what I was thinking. That's my own business. I—I've got it in my Handbook. But all I want to know is,youdon't think I'm a coward, do you?"
"Sure, I don't."
Garry turned back and Tom went on down the winding path through the woods to camp. The breeze, becoming brisker, blew the leaves thisway and that, and as he plodded on through the dusk he had to lower his head to keep his hat from blowing off. The wind brought with it a faint but pungent odor which reminded him of the autumn days at home when he and Roy raked up the leaves and burned them behind the Blakeley house. He avoided this train of thought. His face was stolid, and his manner dogged as he hurried on, with the rather clumsy gait which still bore the faintest trace of the old shuffle Barrel Alley had known so well.
Near the camp he ran plunk into Roy.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello," said Roy, and passed on.
"Roy," Tom called after him, "I want to speak to you a minute."
Roy paused.
"I—I was thinking—do you smell smoke, Roy? It makes me think how we used to rake up the leaves."
Roy said nothing.
"I understand the troop is going home tomorrow and some of you are going in theGood Turn. I hope you'll have a fine trip—like when we came up. I wish you could all stay longer. It makes me kind of homesick to see you all go."
"We might have stayed longer," said Roy, coldly, "only—is that all you want to say to me?" he broke off.
"I just want to say good-bye and——"
"All right, good-bye," said Roy, and walked away.
Tom watched him for a few seconds, then went on down to supper.
CHAPTER XVIITHE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN CROSS
The wind had become so strong that it was necessary to move the mess boards around to the leeward side of the pavilion. Several fellows remarked on the pungent odor which permeated the air and a couple who had been stalking spoke of the woods fires over beyond Tannerstown.
Garry was not at supper, nor the little sandy-haired fellow, but the others of his patrol came down before the meal was over.
"Guess we'll cut out yarns to-night," said Jeb Rushmore, "and hike out on a little tour of inspection."
"There are a couple of tramps in the woods this side of the cut, right up the hill a ways," said Tom.
"We need rain, that's sure," said another scout.
"Maybe we'll get some with this wind," remarked another.
"No, I reckon it's a dry wind," said Mr. Rushmore,looking about and sniffing audibly. "Gol smash it," he added, rising and sniffing still louder. "Thar's somethin' in the air."
For a minute he stood near his place, then strode off up the hill a little way, among the trees, where he paused, listening, like an animal at bay. They could see his dark form dimly outlined in the darker night.
"J. R.'s on the scent," remarked Doc. Carson.
Several fellows rose to join him and just at that minute Westy Martin, of the Silver Foxes, and a scout from a Maryland troop who had been stalking, came rushing pell-mell into camp.
"The woods are on fire!" gasped Westy. "Up the hill! Look!"
"I seed it," said Jeb. "The wind's bringin' it."
"You can't get through up there," Westy panted. "We had to go around."
"Ye couldn't get round by now. B'ys, we're a-goin' ter git it for sure. It's goin' ter blow fire."
For a moment he stood looking up into the woods, with the boys about him, straining their eyes to see the patches of fire which were visible here and there. Suddenly these patches seemed to merge and make the night lurid with a redglare, a perfect pandemonium of crackling and roaring assailed the silent night and clouds of suffocating smoke enveloped them.
The fire, like some heartless savage beast, had stolen upon them unawares and was ready to spring.
Jeb Rushmore was calm and self-contained and so were most of the boys as they stood ready to do his bidding.
"Naow, ye see what I meant when I said a leopard's as sneaky as a fire," said Jeb. "Here, you Bridgeboro troop and them two Maryland troops and the troop from Washin't'n," he called, "you make a bucket line like we practiced. Tom—whar's Tom? And you Oakwood b'ys, git the buckets out'n the provish'n camp. Line up thar ri' down t' the water's edge and come up through here. You fellers from Pennsylvany 'n' you others thar, git the axes 'n' come 'long o' me. Don't git rattled, now."
Like clockwork they formed a line from the lake up around the camp, completely encircling it. The fire crept nearer every second, stifling them with its pungent smoke. Other scouts, some with long axes, others with belt axes, followed Jeb Rushmore, chopping down the small treeswhich he indicated along the path made by this human line. In less than a minute fifty or more scouts were working desperately felling trees along the path. Fortunately, the trees were small, and fortunately, too, the scouts knew how to fell them so that they fell in each case away from the path, leaving an open way behind the camp.
Along this open way the line stood, and thus the full buckets passing from hand to hand with almost the precision of machinery, were emptied along this open area, soaking it.
"The rest o' you b'ys," called Jeb, "climb up on the cabins—one on each cabin, and three or four uv ye on the pavilion. Some o' ye stay below to pass the buckets up. Keep the roofs wet—that's whar the sparks'll light. Hey, Tom!"
As the hurried work went on one of Garry's troop grasped Jeb by the arm. "How about our cabin?" said he, fearfully. "There are two fellows up there."
Jeb paused a moment, but shook his head. "They'll hev ter risk jumpin' int' th' cut," said he. "No mortal man c'u'd git to 'em through them woods naow."
The boy fell back, sick at heart as he thought of those two on the lonely hill surrounded byflame and with a leap from the precipice as their only alternative. It was simply a choice between two forms of awful death.
The fire had now swept to within a few yards of the outer edge of the camp, but an open way had been cleared and saturated to check its advance and the roofs of the shacks were kept soaked by a score or more of alert workers as a precaution against the blowing sparks.
Tom Slade had not answered any of Jeb's calls for him. At the time of his chief's last summons he was a couple of hundred feet from the buildings, tearing and tugging at one of the overflow tents. Like a madman and with a strength born of desperation he dragged the pole down and, wrenching the stakes out of the ground by main force, never stopping to untie the ropes, he hauled the whole dishevelled mass free of the paraphernalia which had been beneath it, down to the lake. Duffel bags rolled out from under it, the uprooted stakes which came along with it caught among trees and were torn away, the long clumsy canvas trail rebelled and clung to many an obstruction, only to be torn and ripped as it was hauled willy-nilly to the shore of the lake.
In he strode, tugging, wrenching, dragging itafter him. Part of it floated because of the air imprisoned beneath it, but gradually sank as it became soaked. Standing knee-deep, he held fast to one corner of it and waited during one precious minute while it absorbed as much of the water as it could hold.
It was twice as heavy now, but he was twice as strong, for he was twice as desperate and had the strength of an unconquerable purpose. The lips of his big mouth were drawn tight, his shock of hair hung about his stolid face as with bulldog strength and tenacity he dragged the dead weight of dripping canvas after him up onto the shore. The water trickled out of its clinging folds as he raised one side of the soaking fabric, and dragged the whole mass up to the provision cabin.
He seized the coil of lasso rope and hung it around his neck, then raising the canvas, he pulled it over his head like a shawl and pinned it about him with the steel clutch of his fingers, one hand at neck and one below.
Up through the blazing woods he started with the leaden weight of this dripping winding sheet upon him and catching in the hubbly obstructions in his path. The water streamed down his faceand he felt the chill of it as it permeated his clothes, but that was well—it was his only friend and ally now.
Like some ghostly bride he stumbled up through the lurid night, dragging the unwieldly train behind him. Apparently no one saw this strange apparition as it disappeared amid the enveloping flames.
"Tom—whar's Tom?" called Jeb Rushmore again.
Up the hill he went, tearing his dripping armor when it caught, and pausing at last to lift the soaking train and wind that about him also.
The crackling flames gathering about him like a pack of hungry wolves hissed as they lapped against his wet shroud, and drew back, baffled, only to assail him again. The trail was narrow and the flames close on either side.
Once, twice, the drying fabric was aflame, but he wrapped it under wetter folds. His face was burning hot; he strove with might and main against the dreadful faintness caused by the heat, and the smoke all but suffocated him.
On and up he pressed, stooping and sometimes almost creeping, for it was easier near the ground. Now he held the drying canvas with his teeth andbeat with his hands to extinguish the persistent flames. His power of resistance was all but gone and as he realized it his heart sank within him. At last, stooping like some sneaking thing, he reached the sparser growth near the cut.
Two boys who had been driven to the verge of the precipice and lingered there in dread of the alternative they must take, saw a strange sight. A dull gray mass, with two ghostly hands reaching out and slapping at it, and a wild-eyed face completely framed by its charred and blackening shroud, emerged from amid the fire and smoke and came straight toward them.
"What is it?" whispered the younger boy, drawing closer to Garry in momentary fright at the sight of this spectral thing.
"Don't jump—it's me—Tom Slade! Here, take this rope, quick. I guess it isn't burned any. I meant to wet it, too," he gasped. "Is that tree solid? I can't seem to see. All right, quick! I can't do it. Make a loop and put it under his arms and let him down."
There was not a minute to spare, and no time for explanations or questions. Garry lowered the boy into the cut.
"Now you'll have to let me down, I'm afraid,"said Tom. "My hands are funny and I can't—I can't go hand over hand."
"That's easy," said Garry.
But it was not so easy as it had been to lower the smaller boy. He had to encircle the tree twice with the rope to guard against a too rapid descent, and to smooth the precipice where the rope went over the edge to keep it from cutting. When Tom had been lowered into the cut, Garry himself went down hand over hand.
It was cool down there, but they could hear the wild flames raging above and many sparks descended and died on the already burned surface. The air blew in a strong, refreshing draught through the deep gully, and the three boys, hardly realizing their hair-breadth escape, seemed to be in a different world, or rather, in the cellar of the world above, which was being swept by that heartless roistering wind and fire.
Along through the cut they came, a dozen or more scarred and weary scouts, their clothing in tatters, anxious and breathing heavily. They had come by the long way around the edge of the woods and got into the cut where the hill was low and the gully shallow.
"Is anyone there?" a scout called, as they neared the point above which Hero Cabin had stood. They knew well enough that no one could be left alive above.
"We're here," called Garry.
"Hurt? Did you jump—both of you?"
"Three, the kid and I and Tom Slade."
"Tom Slade? How didheget here?"
"Came up through the woods and brought us a rope.We'reall right, but he's played out. Got a stretcher?"
"Sure."
They came up, swinging their lanterns, to where Tom lay on the ground with Garry's jacket folded under his head for a pillow, and they listened soberly to Garry's simple tale of the strange, shrouded apparition that had emerged from the flames with the precious life line coiled about its neck.
It was hard to believe, but there were the cold facts, and they could only stand about, silent and aghast at what they heard.
"We missed him," said one scout.
"Is the camp saved?" asked Garry.
"Mostly, but we had a stiff job."
"Don't talk aboutourjob," said Doc Carsonas he stooped, holding the lantern before Tom's blackened face and taking his wrist to feel the pulse.
Again there was silence as they all stood about and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough crept close to the prostrate form and gazed, fascinated, into that stolid, homely face.
And still no one spoke.
"It means the gold cross," someone whispered.
"Do you think the gold cross is good enough?" Garry asked, quietly.
"It's the best we have."
Then Roy, who was among them, kneeled down and put his arm out toward Tom.
"Don't touch my hand," said Tom, faintly. "It isn't that I don't want to shake hands with you," he added. "I wanted to do that when I met you—before supper. Only my hands feel funny—tingly, kind of—and they hurt.
"Any of my own patrol here?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes, Connie Bennett's here—and Will Bronson."
"Then I'd rather have them carry the stretcher, and I'd like for you to walk along by me—I got something to say to you."
They did as he asked, the others following at a little distance, except the little sandy-haired boy who persisted in running forward until Garry called him back and kept his own deterring arm about the boy's shoulder.
"I don't mind my own patrol hearing—or you. I don't care about the gold cross. It's only what it means that counts—sort of. I let Garry save your brother, Will, because I knew he needed to stay longer—I knew about that kid not being strong—that's all. I can go through water as easy as I can through fire—it's—it's easier—if it comes to that."
"Don't try to talk, Tom," said Roy, brokenly.
"But I wouldn't tell even you, Roy, because—because if he'd found it out he wouldn't think it was fair—and he wouldn't have taken it. That's the kind of a fellow he is, Roy."
"Yes, I know what kind of a fellow he is," said Roy.
"Anyway, it's no matter now. You see yourself Hero Cabin is burned down. A fellow might—he might even lose the cross. It's the three weeks that counted—see?"
"Yes, I see," said Roy.
"And tomorrow I want to go back with youfellows in theGood Turn—and see Mr. Temple. I want to ask him if that kid can stay with Jeb 'till Christmas. Then I'll come back up to camp. I've thought a lot lately about our trip up in theGood Turn, Roy."
"Yes—so have I, Tom. But don't talk now. Doc doesn't want you to."
"We've got to find Harry Stanton," said Tom, after a few minutes.
"Yes," said Roy.
But whether they ever did find him and the singular adventures attending their quest, are really part of another story.
THE END