“I don’t know as thar’s anything I got ter say. We’ve come out t’the end of our trail, en’ next season I hope we’ll see the same faces here. You ain’t been a bad lot this year. I’ve seen wuss. I never seed a crowd that ate so much. I reckon none uv yer hez got homes and yer wuz all starved when yer come.“Yer made more noise this season than anything I ever heard outside a Arizona cyclone. (Laughter) You’ve been noisy enough ter make a thunder-shower sound like a Indian lullaby. (Roars)“If these here honor badges thet Mister Temple is goin’ ter hand out’ll keep yer quiet, I wish thar wuz more uv them. As the feller says, speech is silver and silence is gold, so I’m for gold awards every time. Onct I asked Buffalo Bill what wuz th’ main thing fer a scout n’ he sayssilence. (Uproariouslaughter) So I reckon th’ best kind uv a boy scout is one that’s deaf and dumb, but I ain’t never seen none at this camp. I guess they don’t make that kind.“I wish yer all good luck and I congratulate you youngsters that are getting awards. If yer all got your just deserts——”
“I don’t know as thar’s anything I got ter say. We’ve come out t’the end of our trail, en’ next season I hope we’ll see the same faces here. You ain’t been a bad lot this year. I’ve seen wuss. I never seed a crowd that ate so much. I reckon none uv yer hez got homes and yer wuz all starved when yer come.
“Yer made more noise this season than anything I ever heard outside a Arizona cyclone. (Laughter) You’ve been noisy enough ter make a thunder-shower sound like a Indian lullaby. (Roars)
“If these here honor badges thet Mister Temple is goin’ ter hand out’ll keep yer quiet, I wish thar wuz more uv them. As the feller says, speech is silver and silence is gold, so I’m for gold awards every time. Onct I asked Buffalo Bill what wuz th’ main thing fer a scout n’ he sayssilence. (Uproariouslaughter) So I reckon th’ best kind uv a boy scout is one that’s deaf and dumb, but I ain’t never seen none at this camp. I guess they don’t make that kind.
“I wish yer all good luck and I congratulate you youngsters that are getting awards. If yer all got your just deserts——”
“I get three helpings,” came a voice from somewhere in the audience. It was the voice of Pee-wee Harris. “I getmyjust desserts!”
Amid tumultuous cheering and laughter, old Uncle Jeb lounged back to his seat and Mr. John Temple arose.
CHAPTER XXITHE FULL SALUTE
Great applause greeted Mr. Temple. He said:
“Gentlemen of our camp staff, visiting scoutmasters, and scouts:“A friend of mine connected with the scout organization told me that he heard a scout say that Temple Camp without Uncle Jeb would be like strawberry short cake without any strawberries. (Great applause) I think that most scouts, including our young friend in back, would wish three helpings of Uncle Jeb. (Laughter)“Coming from the bustling city, as I do, it is refreshing to see Uncle Jeb for I have never in all my life seen him in a hurry. (Laughter) All scouts can claim Uncle Jeb, he is the universal award that every boy scout wears in his heart. (Uproarious applause)“Scouts, this is a gala day for me. It beats three helpings of dessert——”
“Gentlemen of our camp staff, visiting scoutmasters, and scouts:
“A friend of mine connected with the scout organization told me that he heard a scout say that Temple Camp without Uncle Jeb would be like strawberry short cake without any strawberries. (Great applause) I think that most scouts, including our young friend in back, would wish three helpings of Uncle Jeb. (Laughter)
“Coming from the bustling city, as I do, it is refreshing to see Uncle Jeb for I have never in all my life seen him in a hurry. (Laughter) All scouts can claim Uncle Jeb, he is the universal award that every boy scout wears in his heart. (Uproarious applause)
“Scouts, this is a gala day for me. It beats three helpings of dessert——”
“Sometimes we get four,” the irrepressible voice shouted.
“I have been honored by the privilege of coming here to visit you in these quiet hills——”
“I have been honored by the privilege of coming here to visit you in these quiet hills——”
A voice: “Sometimes it isn’t so quiet.”
“and to distribute the awards which your young heroes have earned. You can all be scouts; you cannot all be heroes. That is well, for as the old song says, ‚When every one is somebody then no one’s anybody.’ (Laughter)“I wonder how many of you scouts who are down for these awards realize what the awards mean? They are not simply prizes given for feats—or stunts, as you call them. To win a high honor merely as a stunt is to win it unfairly. Every step that a scout takes in the direction of a coveted honor should be a step in scouting. The Gold Cross is givennotto one who saves life, but to ascoutthat saves life. Before you can win any honors in this great brotherhood, you must first be a scout. And that means that you must have the scout qualities.“Scouting is no game to be won or lost, like baseball. After all, the high award is not for what youdoalone, but for what youare. You are not to use scouting as a means to an end.“In trying for a high award a scout is not running a race with other scouts. There is no spirit of contest in scouting. To be a hero, even that is not enough. One must be ascouthero. He must not use the animals and birds and the woods to help in his quest of glory, whether it be troop glory or individual glory. He must not ask the birds and animals to tell him their secrets simply that he may win a piece of silver or gold to hangon his coat. But he must learn to be a friend to the birds and animals. For that is true scouting.“You will notice that on the scout stationery is printed our good motto,‚Do a good turn daily.’There is nothing there about high awards. Evidently the good turn daily is considered of chief importance. Nothing can supersede that. It stands above and apart from all awards. Kindness, brotherliness, helpfulness—there is no metal precious enough to make a badge for these.”
“and to distribute the awards which your young heroes have earned. You can all be scouts; you cannot all be heroes. That is well, for as the old song says, ‚When every one is somebody then no one’s anybody.’ (Laughter)
“I wonder how many of you scouts who are down for these awards realize what the awards mean? They are not simply prizes given for feats—or stunts, as you call them. To win a high honor merely as a stunt is to win it unfairly. Every step that a scout takes in the direction of a coveted honor should be a step in scouting. The Gold Cross is givennotto one who saves life, but to ascoutthat saves life. Before you can win any honors in this great brotherhood, you must first be a scout. And that means that you must have the scout qualities.
“Scouting is no game to be won or lost, like baseball. After all, the high award is not for what youdoalone, but for what youare. You are not to use scouting as a means to an end.
“In trying for a high award a scout is not running a race with other scouts. There is no spirit of contest in scouting. To be a hero, even that is not enough. One must be ascouthero. He must not use the animals and birds and the woods to help in his quest of glory, whether it be troop glory or individual glory. He must not ask the birds and animals to tell him their secrets simply that he may win a piece of silver or gold to hangon his coat. But he must learn to be a friend to the birds and animals. For that is true scouting.
“You will notice that on the scout stationery is printed our good motto,‚Do a good turn daily.’There is nothing there about high awards. Evidently the good turn daily is considered of chief importance. Nothing can supersede that. It stands above and apart from all awards. Kindness, brotherliness, helpfulness—there is no metal precious enough to make a badge for these.”
As Mr. Temple turned to take the first award from Mr. Wade the assemblage broke into wild applause. Perhaps Mr. Warren, sitting among his disappointed troop, hoped that Mr. Temple’s words would be taken to heart by the absent member. But none of the troop made any comment.
After the distribution of a dozen or so merit badges, Mr. Temple called out, “Alfred McCord, Elk Patrol, First Bridgeboro, New Jersey Troop.”
There was a slight bustle among the Bridgeboro boys to make way for their little member who started threading his way among the throng, his thin little face lighted with a nervous smile of utter delight.
“Bully for Alf!” some one called.
“Greetings, Shorty,” another shouted.
He stood before Mr. Temple on the platform, trembling all over, and yet the picture of joy. His big eyes stared with a kind of exaltation. For once, his hair was smooth, and it made his face seem all the more gaunt and pale. This was the crucial moment of his life. He stood as straight as he could, his little spindle legs shaking, but his hand held up in the full scout salute to Mr. Temple. Oh, but he was proud and happy. If Hervey Willetts, wherever he was, saw him one brief thrill of pride and satisfaction must have been his.
“Alfred McCord,” said Mr. Temple; “your friends and I greet you as a scout of the second-class. Let me place on you the symbol of your achievement.”
He stepped forward, just one step. Oh, but he was happy. He stood upon the platform, but he walked on air. Mr. Temple shook hands with him—Mr. John Temple, founder of Temple Camp! Yes, sir, Skinny and Mr. John Temple shook hands. And then the little fellow turned so that the audience might see his precious badge. And the wrinkles at the ends of his thin littlemouth showed very clearly as he smiled—oh, such a smile.
Then the scouts of Temple Camp showed that their wonted disregard of Skinny was only because they did not understand him, queer little imp that he was. For cheer after cheer arose as he stood there in a kind of bewilderment of joy.
“Hurrah, for the star tracker!”
“Three cheers for the sleuth of the forest!”
“No more tenderfoot!”
“Hurrah for S-S-S!” Which meant Skinny, second-class scout.
“I congratulate you, Alfred,” said Mr. Temple, pleased at the ovation. “You have the eyes that see, and this feat of tracking which I have heard of is a fitting climax to all your efforts to win your goal—to finish what you began. Let every tenderfoot follow your example. And may the scouts of the second-class welcome you with pride.”
Skinny saw Mr. Temple’s hand raised, saw the fingers formed to make the familiar scout salute—thefullsalute. The full salute for him! Hesaw this and yet he did not see it; he saw it in a kind of daze.
Then he went down and stepped upon the earth again and made his way back to his seat. Those who saw him thought that he was walking, but he was not walking, he was floating on wings. And the noise about and the big trees in back, and the faces that smiled at him as he passed, were as things seen and heard in a dream....
CHAPTER XXIITOM RUNS THE SHOW
“William Conway, Anson Jenks, and George Winters, for Star Scout badge, and Merritt Roth and Edward Collins for bronze life saving medals. These scouts will please step forward.”
Amid great applause they made their way to the platform and one by one returned, greeted with cheers.
“Gaynor Morrison of Edgemere Troop, Connecticut, is awarded the Gold Cross for saving life at imminent hazard of his own. Congratulations to him but more to his troop. Scout Morrison will please come forward.”
That was the moment of pride for Edgemere Troop, Connecticut. Gaynor Morrison, tall and muscular, stood before Mr. Temple and listened to such plaudits as one seldom hears in his ownhonor. He went down overjoyed and blushing scarlet.
“And now,” said Mr. Temple, “the last award is properly not an organization award at all. It is the Temple Camp medal for order and cleanliness in and about troop cabins. It is awarded to Willis Norton of the Second Oakdale, New Jersey, Troop. And that, I think, concludes this pleasant task of distributing honors. I think you will all be glad to know that one who is a stranger to no honor wishes himself to say a few words to you now. Whatever Tom Slade may have to say goes with me——”
He could not say more. Cries of “Bully old Tom!” “Hurrah for Tomasso!” “What’s the matter with old Hickory Nut?” “Oh, you, Tom Slade,” “Spooch, spooch!” “Hear, hear!” arose from every corner of the assemblage and the cries were drowned in a very tempest of applause.
MR. TEMPLE CONGRATULATES HERVEY WILLETTS.MR. TEMPLE CONGRATULATES HERVEY WILLETTS.
He never looked more stolid, nor his face more expressionless than when he arose from his chair. He was neither embarrassed nor elated. If he was at all swayed by the sudden tribute, it was as an oak tree might be swayed in a summer breeze. He knew what he wanted to say and hewas going to say it. He waited, hehadto wait, for at least five minutes, till Temple Camp had had its say.
Then he said, slowly, deliberately, with a kind of mixture of clumsiness and assurance which was characteristic of him.
“Maybe I haven’t got any right to speak. I’m not on the staff, and as you might say, I’m through being a scout——”
“Maybe I haven’t got any right to speak. I’m not on the staff, and as you might say, I’m through being a scout——”
“Never, Tomasso!” said a voice.
“But I saw something that none of you saw and I know something that none of you know about—except Mr. Temple, that I told it to, and the trustees.“Since I been assistant to Uncle Jeb—that’s two years—I saw the Eagle award given out twice——”
“But I saw something that none of you saw and I know something that none of you know about—except Mr. Temple, that I told it to, and the trustees.
“Since I been assistant to Uncle Jeb—that’s two years—I saw the Eagle award given out twice——”
“You won it yourself, Tomasso!”
“I saw it given to a scout from Virginia and one from New York. You always hear a lot of talk about the Eagle award here in camp. Lots of scouts start out big and don’t get away with it. I guess everybody knows it isn’t easy. If you’re an Eagle Scout you’re everything else. You got to be.“I’ve seen scouts get it. But in the last couple of days I saw one chuck it in the dirt and trample on it. That’s because when a fellow gets so far that he’s really an Eagle Scout, he doesn’t care somuch about it. A fellow’s got to be a scout to win the Eagle badge. And if he’s enough of a scout for that, he’s enough of a scout to give it up if there’s any reason. What doeshecare? If he’s scout enough to be an Eagle Scout, and gives it up, he doesn’t even bother to tell anybody. Being willing to give it up is part of winning it, as you might say.“Maybe you people didn’t know who you were cheering when you cheered Alfred McCord. But I’ll tell you who you were cheering. You were cheering the only Eagle Scout in Temple Camp. And he doesn’t care any more about the Eagle badge than he does about what every little tin scout in his own troop thinks of him, either. And I’m standing here to tell you that. I saw that scout give up one badge and win another at the same time. I saw him lose the stalking badge and win the animal first aid badge all inside of an hour. He thought he lost out by giving up his tracks to Alfred McCord, when he might have scared the life out of the little fellow and chased him back to camp.“But all the time he had an extra badge and he didn’t know it. That’s because he doesn’t bother about the handbook and because he wins badges so fast he can’t keep track of them. He’s an Eagle Scout and he doesn’t know it. He threw one badge away and caught another and he’s coming up here now to stand still for two minutes if he can and listen to the paper that Mr. Temple is going to read to him. Come ahead up, Hervey Willetts, or I’ll come down there and pull you out of that tree and drag you up by the collar!”
“I saw it given to a scout from Virginia and one from New York. You always hear a lot of talk about the Eagle award here in camp. Lots of scouts start out big and don’t get away with it. I guess everybody knows it isn’t easy. If you’re an Eagle Scout you’re everything else. You got to be.
“I’ve seen scouts get it. But in the last couple of days I saw one chuck it in the dirt and trample on it. That’s because when a fellow gets so far that he’s really an Eagle Scout, he doesn’t care somuch about it. A fellow’s got to be a scout to win the Eagle badge. And if he’s enough of a scout for that, he’s enough of a scout to give it up if there’s any reason. What doeshecare? If he’s scout enough to be an Eagle Scout, and gives it up, he doesn’t even bother to tell anybody. Being willing to give it up is part of winning it, as you might say.
“Maybe you people didn’t know who you were cheering when you cheered Alfred McCord. But I’ll tell you who you were cheering. You were cheering the only Eagle Scout in Temple Camp. And he doesn’t care any more about the Eagle badge than he does about what every little tin scout in his own troop thinks of him, either. And I’m standing here to tell you that. I saw that scout give up one badge and win another at the same time. I saw him lose the stalking badge and win the animal first aid badge all inside of an hour. He thought he lost out by giving up his tracks to Alfred McCord, when he might have scared the life out of the little fellow and chased him back to camp.
“But all the time he had an extra badge and he didn’t know it. That’s because he doesn’t bother about the handbook and because he wins badges so fast he can’t keep track of them. He’s an Eagle Scout and he doesn’t know it. He threw one badge away and caught another and he’s coming up here now to stand still for two minutes if he can and listen to the paper that Mr. Temple is going to read to him. Come ahead up, Hervey Willetts, or I’ll come down there and pull you out of that tree and drag you up by the collar!”
CHAPTER XXIIIPEE-WEE SETTLES IT
For half a minute there was no response, and the people, somewhat bewildered, stared here and there, applauding fitfully.
“Come ahead, I know where you are,” Tom pronounced grimly; “I’ll give you ten seconds.”
The victim knew that voice; perhaps it was the only voice at camp which he would have obeyed. There was the sound of a cracking branch, followed by a frightened cry of “Look out!” Some one called, “He’ll kill himself!” Then a rustling of leaves was heard, and down out of the tree he came and scrambled to his feet, amid cries of astonishment, Hervey Willetts was running true to form and the moment of his triumph was celebrated by a new stunt.
“Never mind brushing off your clothes,” said Tom grimly; “come up just the way you are.”
But he did not go up the steps, not he. He vaulted up onto the platform and stood there brushing the dirt from his torn khaki suit. The crowd, knowing but yet only half the story of his triumph, was attracted by his vagabond appearance, and his sprightly air. The rent in his sleeve, his disheveled hair, and even the gaping hole in his stocking seemed to be a part of him, and to bespeak his happy-go-lucky nature. As he stood there amid a shower of impulsive applause, he stooped and hoisted up one stocking which seemed in danger of making complete descent, and that was too much for the crowd.
Even Mr. Temple smiled as he said, “Come over here, my young friend, and let me congratulate the only Eagle Scout at Temple Camp.”
And so it befell that Hervey Willetts found himself clasping in cordial grip the friendly hand of Mr. John Temple with one hand while he still hauled up his rebellious stocking with the other. It was a sight to delight the heart of a movie camera man. His stocking was apparently the only thing that Hervey could not triumph over.
“My boy,” said Mr. Temple, “it appears that we know more about you than you know about yourself. It appears that your memory and your handbook study have not kept pace with your sprightly legs and arms——”
“How about his dirty face?” some one called.
“And his stocking?” another shouted.
“These are the honorable scars of war,“ Mr. Temple said, ”and I think I prefer his face as it is. I think we shall have to take Hervey Willetts as we find him, and be satisfied.
“Hervey Willetts,” he continued, “you stand here to-day the easy winner of the greatest honor it has ever been my pleasure to confer. Stand up, my boy, and never mind your stocking. (Laughter.) You have won the Eagle award, and you have made your triumph beautiful and unique by working into it one of the best good turns in all the history of scouting. I doubt whether a youngster of your temperament can ever really appreciate what you have done. But of course you could not escape Tom Slade—no one could. He has your number, as boys say——”
“Bully for Tom Slade!” a voice called.
“What’s the matter with Tomasso?”
“Hurrah for old Sherlock Nobody Holmes!”
“Oh, you, Tommy!”
“Tag, you’re it, Hervey!”
“I have here a paper procured by Tom Slade,” Mr. Temple continued, “and bearing the signatures of three scouts—John Weston, Harry Bonner and George Wentworth. These scouts testify that they were in Catskill village drinking soda water——”
“That’s all they ever go there for,” a voice shouted.
“They saw Hervey Willetts stop a runaway horse, saw him unfasten the harness of the animal when it fell, frightened and exhausted, and saw him procure and pour cool water on the animal’s head. This was never reported in camp till Tom Slade made inquiries. Hervey Willetts had neglected to report it.”
“He’s a punk scout,” some one called.
“I have here also,” Mr. Temple continued, “the testimony of Tom Slade himself that Hervey Willetts climbed a tree and in a daring manner saved a bird and its nest from the ruthless assault of an eagle. That bird’s nest, with itslittle occupant, hangs now in the elm tree at the corner of the pavilion.” (Great applause.)
“Thus Hervey Willetts won the animal first aid badge without so much as knowing it. (Applause.) He had won twenty-one merit badges and he did not know it. (Great applause.) He was then and there an Eagle Scout and he did not know it. (Deafening cheers.) But Tom Slade knew it and said nothing——”
“Thomas the Silent,” some irreverent voice called.
“So you see, my friends, it really made no difference whether our young hero tracked an animal or not. He was an Eagle Scout. He could go no higher. He had reached the pinnacle—no, not quite that. To his triumph he must add the glory of a noble, unselfish deed. Never knowing that the coveted honor was already his, he set out to win it by a tracking stunt which would fulfill the third requirement to bring him the stalking badge, and with it the Eagle award. He had said that nothing would stand in his way, not even mountains. He had made this boast to Tom Slade.
“And that boast he failed to make good. Somethingdidstand in his way. Not a mountain. Just a little tenderfoot scout. You have seen him up here. Alfred McCord is his name. (Applause.)
“And when Hervey Willetts found this little scout hot upon the trail, he forgot about the Eagle award, forgot about his near triumph, braved the anger and disappointment of his friends and comrades——”
The troop of which Hervey was a member arose in a sudden, impetuous burst of cheering, but Mr. Temple cut them short.
“Just a moment and then you may have your way. Hervey Willetts cared no more about the opinion of you scouts than this big oak tree over my head cares about the summer breeze. There were two trails there, one visible, the other invisible. One on the ground, the other in his heart. And Hervey Willetts was a scout and he hit the right trail. If it were not for our young assistant camp manager here, Hervey Willetts would this minute be witnessing these festivities from yonder tree, and little would he have cared, I think.
“But he reckoned without his host, as they say,when he sought the aid of Tom Slade. (Deafening applause.) Tom Slade knew him even if he did not know himself.
“My friends, many scouts have sought the Eagle award and a few have won it. But the Eagle award now seeks Hervey Willetts. He threw it aside but still it comes to him and asks for acceptance. He deserves something better, but there is nothing better which we have to give. For there is no badge for a noble good turn. Tom Slade was right.”
“You said something!” some one shouted.
“To be enough of a scout to win the Eagle award is much. To be scout enough to ignore it is more. But twenty-one badges is twenty-one badges, and the animal first aid badge is as good as any other. The technical question of whether a bird is an animal——”
“Sure a bird’s an animal!” called a voice from a far corner which sounded suspiciously like the voice of Pee-wee Harris. “Everybody’s an animal—even I’m an animal—even you’re an animal—sure a bird’s an animal! That’s not a teckinality! Sure a bird’s an animal!”
“Well, then, that settles it,” laughed Mr. Temple amid a very tempest of laughter, “if that is Mr. Harris of my own home town speaking, we have the opinion of the highest legal expert on scouting——”
“And eating!” came a voice.
Thus, amid an uproarious medley of laughter and applause, and of cheering which echoed from the darkening hills across the quiet lake, Hervey Willetts stood erect while Mr. John Temple, founder of the camp and famous in scouting circles the world over, placed upon his jacket the badge which made him an Eagle Scout and incidentally brought him the canoe on which so many eyes had gazed longingly.
And then one after another, pell-mell, scouts clambered onto the platform and surrounded him, while the scouts of his own troop edged them aside and elbowed their way to where he stood and mobbed him. And amid all this a small form, with clothing disarranged from close contact, but intent upon his purpose, squirmed and wriggled in and threw his little skinny arms around the hero’s waist.
“Will you—will you take me out in it?” he asked. “Just once—will you?”
“The canoe?” Hervey said. “You’ll have to ask my troop, Alf, old top; it belongs to them. What would a happy-go-lucky nut like I am be doing, paddling around in a swell canoe like that?”
“Let me—let me see the badge,” little Skinny insisted.
But already Hervey had handed the badge over to his troop. Probably he thought that it would interfere with his climbing trees or perhaps fall off when he was hanging upside down from some treacherous limb or scrambling head foremost down some dizzy cliff. No doubt it would be more or less in the way during his stuntful career....
CHAPTER XXIVTHE RED STREAK
There was one resident at Temple Camp who did not attend that memorable meeting by reason of being sound asleep at the time. This was Orestes, the oriole, who had had such a narrow squeak of it up at the foot of the mountain. Orestes always went to bed early and got up early, being in all ways a model scout.
It is true that just at the moment when the cheering became tumultuous, Orestes shook out her feathers and peered out of the little door of her hanging nest but, seeing no near-by peril, settled down again to sweet slumber, never dreaming that the cheering was in honor of her scout rescuer.
The housing problem did not trouble Orestesmuch. One tree was as good as another so long as her architectural handiwork was not desecrated, and having once satisfied herself that her little home still depended from the very branch which she had chosen, she did not inquire too particularly into the facts of that magic transfer. The branch rested across two other branches and Orestes was satisfied.
That was a happy thought of Tom’s to call the oriole Orestes, which means dweller in the woods, but thanks to Hervey the name became corrupted in camp talk, and the nickname of Asbestos caught the community and became instantly popular.
The shady area under Asbestos’ tree was already a favorite lounging place for scouts, and lying on their backs with knees drawn up (a favorite attitude of lounging) they could see that mysterious little red streak in their little friend’s nest. In the late afternoon, which was ever the time of sprawling, the sun had a way of poking one of his rays right down through the dense foliage plunk on Asbestos’ nest, and then the little red streak shone like Brick Warner’s red hair after he had been diving. But no one venturedup to that little home to investigate that freakish streak of color.
“I’d like to know what that is?” Pee-wee Harris observed as he lay on his back, peering up among the branches.
Half a dozen scouts, including Roy Blakeley and Hervey Willetts, were sprawling under the tree waiting for supper, on the second afternoon after Hervey’s triumph. Waiting for supper was the favorite outdoor sport at Temple Camp. Orestes was already tucked away in bed, having dined early on three grasshoppers and an angleworm for dessert.
“That’s easy,” said Roy Blakeley; “Asbestos is a red—she’s an anarchist. We ought to notify the government.”
“Asbestos is an I.W.W. He ought to be deported,” Hervey said.
“He’s ashe,” Pee-wee said.
“Just the same I’d like to know what that red streak really does mean,” Roy confessed.
“It’s better than a yellow streak anyway,” Hervey laughed; “maybe it’s her patrol color.”
“That’s a funny thing about an oriole,” another scout observed; “an oriole picks up everything itsees, string and ribbon and everything like that, and weaves it into its nest.”
“They should worry about building material,” Roy said.
“I read about one that got hold of a piece of tape and weaved it in,” said the scout who had volunteered the information. “Maybe that’s tape.”
“Sure, she ought to work for the government, there’s so much red tape about her,” Roy observed.
“It’s the color of cinnamon taffy,” Pee-wee said.
“There you go on eats again,” Roy retorted; “it’s the color of pie.”
“What kind of pie?” Pee-wee asked.
“Any kind,” Roy said; “take your pick.”
“You’re crazy,” Pee-wee retorted.
Their idle banter was interrupted by Westy Martin of Roy’s and Pee-wee’s troop who paused at the tree as they returned from the village. Westy was waving a newspaper triumphantly.
“What do you know about this?” he said, opening the paper so that the scouts could see a certain heading.
“Oh, me, oh, my!” Roy said. “Isn’t Temple Camp getting famous? Talk aboutred!Oh, boy, watch Hervey’s beautiful complexion when he hears this. He’ll have cinnamon taffy beat a mile.”
Willy-nilly, Roy snatched the news sheet from Westy and read:
TEMPLE CAMP HAS NEW HEROYesterday was a gala day up at the scout camp. More than five hundred people from hereabouts, as well as the whole population of the famous scout community, cheered themselves hoarse when Mr. John Temple, founder of the big camp, distributed the awards for the season.For the first time in four years Temple Camp produced an Eagle Scout in Hervey Willetts of a Massachusetts troop who won the award under circumstances reflecting unusual credit on himself and bringing honor to his troop comrades. Mr. Temple’s remarks to this young hero were flattening in the last degree——
TEMPLE CAMP HAS NEW HERO
Yesterday was a gala day up at the scout camp. More than five hundred people from hereabouts, as well as the whole population of the famous scout community, cheered themselves hoarse when Mr. John Temple, founder of the big camp, distributed the awards for the season.
For the first time in four years Temple Camp produced an Eagle Scout in Hervey Willetts of a Massachusetts troop who won the award under circumstances reflecting unusual credit on himself and bringing honor to his troop comrades. Mr. Temple’s remarks to this young hero were flattening in the last degree——
“You mean flattering,” Pee-wee shouted.
“Excuse myself,” said Roy.
and it was decided to give Hervey the award, because Scout Harris proved excruciatingly—I mean exclusively—I mean conclusively—that a bird is an animal just the same as Mr. Temple is, only different——
and it was decided to give Hervey the award, because Scout Harris proved excruciatingly—I mean exclusively—I mean conclusively—that a bird is an animal just the same as Mr. Temple is, only different——
“Let me see that!” shouted Pee-wee. “You make me sick! Where is it?”
“Here’s something to interest you more,” Roy said; “here’s the real stuff—a kidnapping. A kid was taking a nap and got kidded.”
“Where?” Pee-wee demanded.
“There,” Roy said, pointing triumphantly to a heading which put the Temple Camp notice in the shade. “Just read that.”
But for that sensational article, doubtless Hervey would have been more of a newspaper hero instead of being stuck down in a corner. The article was indeed one to arouse interest and call for big headings, and the scouts, gathered about Roy, peered over his shoulders and read it eagerly.
MILLIONAIRE HARRINGTON’S SON KIDNAPPEDAlarm Sent Out for Child Missing More Than WeekTRAIN HAND GIVES CLEWPolice authorities throughout the country have been asked to search for Anthony Harrington, Jr., the little son of Anthony Harrington, banker, ofNew York. The child, aged about ten, disappeared about a week ago and since then an exhaustive search privately made has failed to yield any clew of the little fellow’s whereabouts.When last seen the child was playing on the lawn of his father’s beautiful estate at Irvington-on-Hudson on Friday a week ago. From that time no trace of him has been discovered.The only bit of information suggesting a possible clew comes from Walter Hanlon, a trainman who told the authorities yesterday that on an afternoon about a week ago his attention was drawn to a child accompanied by two men leaving his train at Catskill Landing. Hanlon’s train was northbound. He reported what he had seen as soon as the public alarm was given.Hanlon said that he noticed the child, a boy, as he helped the little fellow down the car steps, because of an open jack-knife which the youngster carried, and which he good-naturedly advised him to close before he stumbled with it. To the best of Hanlon’s recollection the little fellow wore a mackinaw jacket, but he did not notice this in particular. It is known that the child wore a sweater when he disappeared.Hanlon paid no attention to the child’s companions and his recollection of their appearance is hazy. He says that the three disappeared in the crowd and he thought they joined the throng which was waiting for the northbound boat of the Hudson River Day Line. If such was the case, the authorities believe that the party left the train and continued northward by boat in hopes of baffling the authorities.One circumstance which lends considerable colorto Hanlon’s statement is the positive assurance of the child’s parents that their son had no jack-knife of any description. This, therefore, may mean that the child was not the Harrington child at all, or on the other hand, it may mean, what seams likely, that the men gave the little fellow a jack-knife as a bribe to accompany them. Hanlon thinks that the knife was new, and is sure that the child was very proud of it.
MILLIONAIRE HARRINGTON’S SON KIDNAPPED
Alarm Sent Out for Child Missing More Than Week
TRAIN HAND GIVES CLEW
Police authorities throughout the country have been asked to search for Anthony Harrington, Jr., the little son of Anthony Harrington, banker, ofNew York. The child, aged about ten, disappeared about a week ago and since then an exhaustive search privately made has failed to yield any clew of the little fellow’s whereabouts.
When last seen the child was playing on the lawn of his father’s beautiful estate at Irvington-on-Hudson on Friday a week ago. From that time no trace of him has been discovered.
The only bit of information suggesting a possible clew comes from Walter Hanlon, a trainman who told the authorities yesterday that on an afternoon about a week ago his attention was drawn to a child accompanied by two men leaving his train at Catskill Landing. Hanlon’s train was northbound. He reported what he had seen as soon as the public alarm was given.
Hanlon said that he noticed the child, a boy, as he helped the little fellow down the car steps, because of an open jack-knife which the youngster carried, and which he good-naturedly advised him to close before he stumbled with it. To the best of Hanlon’s recollection the little fellow wore a mackinaw jacket, but he did not notice this in particular. It is known that the child wore a sweater when he disappeared.
Hanlon paid no attention to the child’s companions and his recollection of their appearance is hazy. He says that the three disappeared in the crowd and he thought they joined the throng which was waiting for the northbound boat of the Hudson River Day Line. If such was the case, the authorities believe that the party left the train and continued northward by boat in hopes of baffling the authorities.
One circumstance which lends considerable colorto Hanlon’s statement is the positive assurance of the child’s parents that their son had no jack-knife of any description. This, therefore, may mean that the child was not the Harrington child at all, or on the other hand, it may mean, what seams likely, that the men gave the little fellow a jack-knife as a bribe to accompany them. Hanlon thinks that the knife was new, and is sure that the child was very proud of it.
So much of this sensational article was in conspicuous type. The rest, in regulation type, pertained to the unsuccessful search for the child by private means. A couple of ponds had been dragged, the numerous acres of the fine estate had been searched inch by inch, barns and haystacks and garages and smokehouses had been ransacked, an old disused well had been explored, the neighboring woodland had been covered, but little Anthony Harrington, Jr., had disappeared as completely as if he had gone up in the clouds.
“You fellows had better be getting ready for supper,” said Tom Slade, as he passed.
“Look here, Tomasso,” said Roy.
Tom paused, half interested, and read the article without comment.
“Some excitement, hey?” said Roy.
“It’s a wonder they didn’t mention the color ofthe sweater while they were about it,” Tom said.
“The kid had on a mackinaw jacket,” Roy shot back.
“How do we know what was under the mackinaw jacket?” Tom said. “Come on, you fellows, and get washed up for grub.”
“Mm-mmm,” said Pee-wee Harris.
CHAPTER XXVTHE PATH OF GLORY
The affair of the kidnapping created quite a sensation at camp, partly, no doubt, because stories of missing people always arouse the interest of scouts, but chiefly perhaps because the thing was brought so close to them.
Catskill Landing was the station for Temple Camp. It was there that arriving troops alighted from boat or train. It was the frequent destination of their hikes. It was there that they bought sodas and ice cream cones. Scouts from “up ter camp” were familiar sights at Catskill, and they overran the village in the summertime.
Of course it was only by reason of trainman Hanlon’s doubtful clew that the village figured at all in the sensational affair. At all events if theHarrington child and its desperate companions had actually alighted there, all trace of them was lost at that point.
The next morning after the newspaper accounts were published a group of scouts hiked down to Catskill to look over the ground, hoping to root out some information or discover some fresh clew. They wound up in Warner’s Drug Store and had a round of ice cream sodas and that was all the good their sleuthing did them.
On the way back they propounded various ingenious theories of the escape and whereabouts of Master Harrington’s captors. Pee-wee Harris suggested that they probably waited somewhere till dark and proceeded to parts unknown in an airplane. A more plausible inspiration was that they had crossed the Hudson in a boat in order to baffle the authorities and proceeded either southward to New York or northward on a New York Central train.
The likeliest theory was that of Westy Martin of Roy’s troop, that an automobile with confederates had waited for the party at Catskill. That would insure privacy for the balance of the journey.
The theory of one scout that the party had gone aboard a cabin cruiser was tenable, and this means of hiding and confounding the searchers, seemed likely to succeed. The general opinion was that ere long the child would be forthcoming in response to a stupendous ransom. But this means of recovering the little fellow did not appeal to the scouts.
Perhaps if Tom Slade, alias Sherlock Nobody Holmes, had accompanied the group down to the riverside village, he would have learned or discovered something which they missed. But Sherlock Nobody Holmes had other business on hand that morning.
“Do you want to see it? Do you want to see it?” little Skinny had asked him. “Do you want to see those tracks I found? Do you want to see me follow them again? Do you want to see how I did it—do you?” And Tom had given Skinny to understand that it was the dream of his life to see those famous tracks, which had proved a path of glory to the golden gates which opened into the exalted second-class of scouting.
“I’ll show them to you! I’ll show them to you!” Skinny had said eagerly. “I’ll show youwhere I began. Maybe if we wait till it rains they’ll get not to be there any more maybe.”
So Tom went with him to the rock close by the lake shore where the path to glory began, and starting here, they followed the tracks, now becoming somewhat obscure, up into the woods.
“Before I started I made sure,” Skinny panted, as he trotted proudly along beside his famous companion. “The scouts they said you’d be too busy to go with me, they did. But you ain’t, are you?”
“That’s what,” said Tom.
“I bet you don’t shake all over when Mr. Temple speaks to you, do you?”
“Not so you’d notice it.”
“I bet he’s got as much as a hundred dollars, hasn’t he?”
“You said it.”
“Maybe if I wasn’t a-scared I’d ask him to look at the tracks too, hey? First off I was a-scared to askyou?”
“Tracks are my middle name, Alf.”
“Now I can prove I’m a second-class scout by my badge, can’t I?”
“That’s what you can. But you’ve got it pinnedon the wrong side, Alf. Here, let me fix it for you.”
“Everybody’ll be sure to see it, won’t they?”
“That’s what they will.”
“Hervey Willetts, he’s a hero, isn’t he?”
“You bet.”
“I’d like to be like him, I would.”
“He’s kind of reckless, Alf. It’s bad to be too reckless.”
“I wouldn’t let you talk against him—I wouldn’t.”
Tom smiled. “That’s right, Alf, you stand up for him.”
“Maybe you don’t know what kind of an animal made these tracks, maybe, hey?”
Indeed Tom did not know. But one thing he knew which amused him greatly. They were following the path of glory the wrong way. Not that it made any particular difference, but it seemed so like Skinny. He had not actually tracked an animal at all, since the animal had come toward the lake. He had followed tracks, to be sure, but he had not tracked an animal. Hervey must have known this but he had not mentioned it. The thought thrilled even stolid Tom with freshadmiration for that young adventurer. Hervey Willetts was no handbook scout, but Tom would not have him different than he was—no, not by a hair. He thought how Skinny’s beginning at the wrong end was like his pinning of the badge on the wrong side of his breast. Poor little Skinny....
And he thought of that other scout coming down through those woods, tracking that mysterious animal indeed, and stopping short, and sitting down on a log and throwing away his triumph like chaff before the wind. Then there arose in his mind the picture of that bright-eyed, irresponsible youngster with his hat cocked sideways on his head, off upon some new adventure or bent on some new stunt. Not a very good scout delegate perhaps, but the bulliest scout that ever tore a gaping hole in his stocking....
Tom was aroused from his meditation by Skinny’s eager voice. “Here’s the log where he talked to me,” he said; “here’s just the very same place we sat down and he said he’d be my witness. He said I was old top, that’s what he called me.”
“Old top, hey?” said Tom, smiling.
CHAPTER XXVIMYSTERIOUS MARKS
Before reaching the log, Tom’s interest had been chiefly in his queer little companion. The tracks puzzled him somewhat, but since they had already served their purpose and were in process of obliteration he paid little attention to them. In his more ambitious rambles during late fall and winter, he had run across too many tracks of deer and bear and wildcat to become excited by these signs of some humbler creature of the woods.
But on reaching that scene of Skinny’s memorable meeting with Hervey Willetts, Tom’s keenest interest was aroused by something which he saw there, and which both of the others characteristically had failed to notice. Skinny, enthralled by his vision of the coveted badge, had been in nostate for minute exploration, and as for Hervey, these things were quite out of his line. Besides, his sudden impulse of generosity toward Skinny would have been quite sufficient (as we know it was) to cause him to forget all else.
But Tom was as observant and methodical, as Hervey was erratic, and as he paused to rest upon the log, he noticed how it lay directly across the path of the tracks. Thus the track line was broken for a couple of feet or so by this obstacle.
Supposing that the creature which had passed here had clambered over the log, Tom’s scouting instinct was aroused to examine the rough bark carefully for any little tuft of hair which the animal might have left. And not finding any, he was puzzled. For by its tracks the creature must have been very small, certainly too small to have stepped, and not at all likely to have jumped over the log. If then it had clambered over the log it seemed remarkable that it had left no trace, not even a single hair, upon that rough surface.
Tom knew that this was unusual. He knew that old Uncle Jeb would laugh at him if he went back and said that some small creature had crawled over that nutmeg grater and left no signof its crossing. He knew that no animal could graze a tree in its flight but old Uncle Jeb would find there some tell-tale souvenir of its passing.
Tom’s interest was keenly aroused now. He was baffled and a little chagrined. But no supplementary inspection revealed so much as a single hair.
Thus confounded, he examined the tracks more carefully. He followed them up to where they emerged from the lower reaches of the mountain. Then he followed them back, aided where they were dim by the deeper prints of Hervey’s shoes. Skinny sat upon the log waiting for him.
On the side of the log nearest the mountain the tracks turned and went sideways along the log for perhaps a yard to a point where the log was low and somewhat broken. Here, evidently, was where the animal had crossed. It must have been a very small animal, Tom thought, to have sought an easy place for crossing.
Having thus determined the exact place of crossing, Tom concentrated his attention on this spot, examining the bark systematically, inch by inch. But no vestige of a clew rewarded his microscopic scrutiny. He was baffled and his curiosity anddetermination rose in proportion to the difficulties. His big mouth was set tight, a menacing frown clouded his countenance, so that instinctively little Skinny refrained from speaking to him.
Tracing the apparent line of the animal’s crossing over the log, Tom scrutinized the prints on the other side, that is, the side nearest camp. Here the prints were very clear by reason of the crust of mud caused by the dampness usually found near logs and fallen trees. Marks on this showed like marks on hard butter.
Suddenly Tom’s attention was riveted by something directly under the apparent line of crossing, something which he had never seen the like of in all his woodland adventures since he had become a scout. What he saw looked singularly out of place there. Yet there it was printed in the hard crust of mud, and as clear as writing on a slate. No human footprint was near it. If a human being had made those marks that human being must have reached from the log to do it. And the printing was almost too nice for that.
Utterly dismayed, Tom looked again for human footprints but the nearest were those of Herveyon the other side of the log, some ten or a dozen feet beyond.
“Did either of you fellows do that?” Tom asked, pointing.
“Does—does it mean I can’t have the badge?” Skinny asked, apprehensive of Tom’s mood.
“Did either of you fellows do that?”
“N-no,” Skinny answered timidly.
“Have you brought any one else up here?”
“Honest—I ain’t.”
“Well then,” said Tom, with a kind of grim finality, “either some one else who didn’t have any feet has been here or else that animal knows how to write. Look there.”
Skinny obediently looked again. There below the log and close to the tracks were printed as clear as day the letters H. T. They were about two inches in size.
“Take your choice,” said Tom with a kind of baffled conclusiveness which greatly impressed his little companion. “Either those letters were printed there by some one who didn’t have any feet, or else the animal knew how to write. Either one or the other. It’s got me guessing.”