“What the dickens does he mean by an invisible badge, do you suppose?” Westy Martin asked.
“You can go throughmypockets,” said Roy. “Tomasso is the Boy Scout puzzle. They ought to give him away with a years subscription toBoys’ Life. I wish that hadn’t happened, though. Jiminy, who’d have thought that kid would go up in the air like that!”
Tom had not been long in regaining his stolid composure; he appeared to entertain no grudge against Raymond, and even offered to bait his hook for him, for the little fellow angled continually, notwithstanding that he never caught anything. But his offer was indignantly refused, and Raymond would have nothing to do with him.
TheHonor Scoutcruised leisurely up the river, held at anchor for the scouts to swim now and then, and making shore at safe places when the tide was full, for luncheon or supper on the wooded banks with the precipitous mountains rising sheer above them.
Harry Stanton was hardly recognizable now as the panic-stricken, scatter-brained youth whom they had found on the mountain. Under Mr. Ellsworth’s eagle eye he had a chance to show his skill at swimming, but his wish to be ever in the water was discouraged and for the most part he contented himself with reading the Handbook and studying the second-class tests. Already he had “backfired” which was the word they used for the act of qualifying for a merit badge before one reached the stage where the scout rules would permit him to receive such a badge.
This was in music. He had played a mandolin in former days and now he had one of those Hawaiian instruments—a Ukulele—and he would sit on the cabin locker by the hour picking out the soft South Sea airs, to the delight of the whole troop.
The dream of his life at present was to attain to second-class, and he would talk eagerly about tracking and signalling and first-aid. His impulsiveness sometimes ran to the point of agitation and he seemed to have little balance wheel when he got excited, but he was getting better fast and as the boys came to know him for what he was they grew to like him immensely.
In the course of their meanderings northward, they came again to Catskill Landing and Roy, Doc Carson and Pee-wee hiked up to the camp to see how things were and to get a sweater which Doc had left there, while the others transferred some of the luggage from theHonor Scoutto theGood Turn, for the Elks meant to continue in the smaller boat so as to relieve the rather congested condition of the other.
Late in the afternoon the three scouts returned, Doc carrying the sweater on the end of his staff like a pennant. Roy carried a large jar of marmalade (or “motherlade” as he called it) which the chief cook had presented to the voyagers; and Pee-wee carried an extensive scout smile. He was Law Eight, personified.
DOC CARRIED THE SWEATER ON THE END OF HIS STAFF LIKE A PENNANT.DOC CARRIED THE SWEATER ON THE END OF HIS STAFF LIKE A PENNANT.
DOC CARRIED THE SWEATER ON THE END OF HIS STAFF LIKE A PENNANT.
“What’s the news?” called one of the group that was lolling on theHonor Scout’scabin.
“The plot grows thinner,” said Roy. “Here, take this and put it in the galley, compliments of Beefsteak Ben.... Don’t say a word, a dark and bloody mystery has been solved. Believeme, they’ve got a sleuth up there that has Tom beaten forty-’leven ways.”
“How’s everybody?” Will Bronson asked.
“Fine,” said Doc. “There’s two troops there from Boston——”
“You ought to see the beans that crowd eats,” Roy interrupted; “and mince pie—go-o-odnight!”
“There’s a bunch came from Brooklyn——”
“Can you blame them?” interrupted Roy again.
“And a troop from Canada——”
“Daon’tcher knaow,” interrupted Roy, with an exaggerated imitation of the English accent.
“Gee, that’s some troop,” said Doc. “They came from Montreal and they wear trousers that don’t tuck in and show part of their legs and they wear little silver swastika badges that they get for special service. They look awfully different from the other fellows——”
“They showed us how to raise the English flag,” said Pee-wee, excitedly. “Maybe you think the English flag hasn’t got any top and bottom to it. Anybody can tell when the American flag is upside down——”
“Well, I should hope so,” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“And maybe you think because the English flag has a center design that you can’t fly it upside down—— There’s where you’re wrong!”
“I don’t see that any of us is wrong since none of us has committed that crime,” laughed Mr. Ellsworth. “We’re not in the habit of flying the British flag at all.”
“I did,” boasted Pee-wee.
“Well, then, don’t blame us for your sins,” chuckled the scoutmaster.
Pee-wee subsided for the moment, but the time was to come, and that not so far distant, when this redoubtable “good turner” should enter stores and even public buildings, in Uncle Sam’s domain, and do the British Empire a good turn by explaining how her proud emblem was being flown without, upside down.
“They’ve been doing war work,” said Doc. “They built recruiting stands in Montreal, and they sand-papered three thousand muskets that had to be varnished, and distributed enlistment posters, and—— Oh, I don’t know what all. They showed us a poster like the ones they distributed. It said ‘Meet me at the battle-line.’”
“Meet me at the clothes-line, that’s where I hang out!” put in Roy.
“Oh, they’re one peach of a troop!” enthused Pee-wee.
This troop of Canadian scouts had produced a great impression on the three boys, and, from their account, had done the same on all the others at Temple Camp. The three were full of enthusiasm for their wide-awakeness and efficiency, to say nothing of their patriotic activities. It started the Bridgeboro boys thinking of what part they might be permitted to play if Uncle Sam were drawn into the great war.
These Canadian youngsters, according to Doc, had shown the greatest friendliness toward their American brothers, standing with hats removed when theStar Spangled Bannerwas sung, and had become very popular in camp, and shown an almost uncanny proficiency in tracking and the faculty for deduction. One of their patrol leaders, indeed, was a veritable hand-writing expert, and knew besides dozens of scout signs used in the Canadian Rockies. But it fell out that he did Tom Slade a very bad turn.
The enthusiastic report of the boys had two very marked effects upon the party, one of which they would be destined to recall in strenuous days to come. These were their admiration for the fine organization and superb proficiency of the English scouts, and for the manner in which they were “doing their bit” for their country in these days of trial. It seemed to bring the Bridgeboro boys very near to the war.
Garry, who sat quietly upon the combing listening to Doc’s account, with occasional spasmodic punctuations by Pee-wee, thought regretfully of his own efforts to form a little troop, and of how meagre and discouraging the results had been beside these splendidly organized scout units with which it seemed his fate to mingle.
“Well, how about the mystery?” Connie Bennet prompted.
“I thank you,” said Roy. “The mystery is all right, all right, and it proves the good old rule that your sins are sure to find you out. I hold here an envelope to be delivered to Tomasso Slade—main geezer of the Elks. Stand, Tomasso, so I can get a good shot at you!Who sent the money for Raymond Hollister to stay at camp till September?” he shouted, suddenly. “And you thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you—you big sneak! Deny it at your peril!NowI know where the profits from theFriday Evening Pestwent! There’s a fellow—Rolly Culver, from Montreal, Canada—who hasyournumber, all right! Deny the allegation and denounce the alligator, if you dare!”
Everybody stared at Tom, who was blushing right up to the roots of his towsled shock of rebellious hair.
“What do you mean?” said he, sullenly.
“Ah, well may you ask what I mean, Sherlock Nobody Holmes!” triumphed Roy, shaking the envelope exasperatingly in Tom’s face. “I mean that you tried to beat Mr. John Temple to it—that’s what I mean! And Rolly Culver from Canada FOILED you! See?”
“No, I don’t,” said Tom, glancing shamefacedly across the deck at little Raymond and looking as if he had committed a crime.
“I mean it’s good we hiked up there,” said Roy, more seriously. “A check got there yesterday from Mr. Temple—a check for fifty bucks—mailed in the West Indies. It was for Raymond to stay at camp till fall.”
“Go-o-odni-ght!” exclaimed Will Bronson.
Garry stared, intensely interested.
“You ought to have heard Jeb tell about it,” said Roy. “‘When I see es haow they follyed one anuther up,’” he went on, accurately mimicking Jeb. “‘I sez thar’ must be sump’n wrong somewhar.’ And just by chance,” Roy continued, “he hauled out of his old buckskin wallet the old crumpled piece of paper that had come with the other money—the fifty buckarinos in cash—and it’s lucky he happened to show it to that Culver kid, believeme! That fellow said it was the same writing as the writing on the bulletin board at camp. Other fellows said, no; but he stuck to it and showed them how to compare curves and letters, and strokes and dots and things—even straight lines—and there you are,” concluded Roy, delightedly. “We all know who had charge of the bulletin board—— And you thought you’d make Mr. Temple the goat, didn’t you, with your two twenties and a ten! You thought he’d forgotten Raymond, didn’t you. And you thought you’d get away with it! We’ve got your number, Tomasso, my boy, and we know why you’ve been wearing old gray flannel shirts and book straps, and things. Here you are—there’s your fifty!” he concluded, throwing the envelope triumphantly in Tom’s face. “It would have gone back to Mr. Temple if it hadn’t been for Rolly Culver and me!”
There was no mistaking Roy’s overwhelming delight, despite his denunciatory tone and he watched joyously as Tom, distressed and uncomfortable, in face of the whole troop’s stare, tore open the envelope and took out two twenties and a ten. For Roy had asked the camp trustees who cashed the check to return Tom’s money in just the form in which he had sent it, when, having seen the Temples start for South America, he had gone to the post-office at home in Bridgeboro, and with characteristic disregard of the risk, had sent his whole savings in cash to Temple Camp, that nature might complete the good work she had begun for little Raymond Hollister.
“I didn’t think anybody’d find out,” said Tom doggedly.
“No, I don’t suppose you did,” laughed Mr. Ellsworth.
“John Temple spoiled it for you,” said Doc.
“You can’t get the best of that man!” shouted Pee-wee. “There’s no use trying!”
“Tom,” said Garry, simply, “I was always glad I turned Stanton over to you, but now I’m gladder than ever. You can see yourself what you’ve done for Raymond.”
“Yes, and we can all see what kind of a pal Raymond has, too,” Roy shot back. “You’ll be leader of a swell patrol some day, Garry, or I miss my guess.”
Garry only smiled. “All things come round to him who waits,” said he.
“Come here, Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “If there was a merit badge for this sort of thing you’d be a star scout tomorrow. Come over here, my boy.”
There was the faintest reminder of the old hoodlum shuffle in Tom’s clumsy gait as he went sheepishly across the deck and leaned against the boat’s rail near his scoutmaster, speechless, almost expressionless. The book-strap was drawn absurdly tight around his waist. The old, worn, faded gray flannel shirt that he wore was a sight. But upon the back of it, such as it was, Mr. Ellsworth administered a resounding slap.
“That’s what you meant by an invisible badge, hey?” said Westy, suddenly; “a good turn kept secret.”
“I’m afraid none of us have quite understood Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, simply. Then he turned and looked with the winningest smile at little Raymond. “None of us have understood him, have we, Ray?”
“No, sir,” said Raymond, timidly.
“And it shows us that being a scout means more than just wearing the scout suit, eh?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“You see, one can be a very good scout in a very ragged shirt, and he can, if he wishes to, be a very punk scout in full khaki. You get me, Ray?”
“Ye-yes, sir.”
“Well, then, what are we going to do about it?” Mr. Ellsworth asked pleasantly.
Garry understood, if Raymond did not, for he started the little fellow over toward Tom, and Tom took the timid hand and held it.
Then suddenly, in one of those freaks of impulse that Raymond sometimes showed, he reached with his other hand and grasped Tom’s arm. With the arm that was free Tom encircled the small, agitated form.
Raymond was crying like a baby.
“Do you know what I’ve decided, do you know what I’ve decided?” demanded Pee-wee, uproariously.
“Break it to us gently and let us hear the worst,” said Roy.
“I decided that we ought to stop in Albany and have Tom buy a suit. I didn’t say anything before, but crinkums, he ought not to go to Plattsburg without a suit. You can see that yourself. And he can get one now, all right.”
“Hear that, Tom?” said Mr. Ellsworth, quizzically.
They were running up the stretch of river above Castleton and would reach the capital that day, if their plans held good.
“I got no objections to getting a suit,” said Tom. “I believe in suits. I never said I didn’t.”
TheGood Turnhad run up alongside theHonor Scoutwhich had come to anchor for swimming and luncheon, and Tom and his patrol had gone aboard the larger boat for “eats,” where an uproarious session of jollying usually awaited him.
“Hurrah for Sigmund Eisner!” shouted Roy. “He’s the fellow that makes scouts, hey, Raymond?”
“No, he isn’t,” said Raymond, quite boldly. “He’s the fellow that makessuits.”
“Same thing, only different,” said Roy.
“I guess we all believe in the khaki,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “only we know it’s not the khaki that makes the scout.”
“Any more than it’s the pants that make the panther, or the badge that makes the badger,” said Roy. “I vote for Tom to buy a suit and we’ll all go with him to help him choose it.”
“No, you don’t,” said Tom, with an actual approach to animation. “I won’t buy it if the whole troop goes along.”
“We wouldn’t kid you,” said Connie. “Honest, we won’t.”
“Hear what Bennover Connet says? We’ll promise to be good and——”
“I’ll take no chances,” said Tom. “I don’t mind if two or three go, so’s to help me get fitted right, but——”
“One representative from each patrol,” suggested Roy.
“All right,” said Tom, resignedly.
About the middle of the afternoon they reached Albany and tied up at a lumber wharf right under the shadow of the big night boat, the majestic bulk of which made theGood Turnand even the more imposingHonor Scoutlook very insignificant.
“Now for a fling on shore,” shouted Roy. “Hand me something till I fling it on shore,” he added, hitching his trousers in true mariner’s fashion.
“Oh, the sailor’s life is bold and free,Yo hum, yo ho, yo ha, yo hee!The briny foam he doesn’t fear—When the foam is on an ice cream soda.
“Oh, the sailor’s life is bold and free,
Yo hum, yo ho, yo ha, yo hee!
The briny foam he doesn’t fear—
When the foam is on an ice cream soda.
Tom’s going to treat.”
Roy, being the leader of the Silver Foxes, represented that patrol in the suit-buying expedition; Tom represented his own patrol, and Artie Van Arlen, leader of the Ravens (of whom you shall know more in another volume) completed the trio.
“Correct imitation of a boy scout hunting for an ice cream soda,” said Roy, climbing stealthily over the lumber pile and picking his way up to the street. “Gee, it seems funny to be in a city, doesn’t it? What are all the flags for?”
“What flags?” said Tom.
“Flagstones—you’re walking on ’em. No sooner said than stung!”
“Tom’s easy,” said Artie.
“He bites like a sunfish,” said Roy.
It did not take them long to reach a thoroughfare where their tanned faces and jaunty, out-of-town air attracted no little attention.
“Maybe they know we’re just fresh from a life on the ocean wave,” suggested Artie.
“They can see we’re fresh, all right,” said Roy. “We should worry.”
In the first confectionery store which they came to they lined up at the soda counter from behind which a white-jacketed man smiled at them.
“Give me a raspberry sundae,” said Artie.
“V—vanilla,” said Tom, hesitatingly.
“I’ll take heliotripe—trope,” said Roy.
The man waited, laughing good-naturedly.
“I can’t seem to make up my mind,” Roy went on, studying the tempting printed list. “Aren’t mad, are you?”
“Me?” said the man. “No, indeed, I’m glad you’re so happy.”
“We’re not happy,” said Roy. “We laugh, ha-ha, and dance ha-ha, but we’re not happy. I think I’ll take—let’s see—I’ll take—I think I’ll take—chocolate. Happy thought, that’s my patrol color!”
Tom paid for the sodas and Roy bought some peanut brittle. The man smiled after them as they went out.
“The natives on the island seem to be friendly,” said Roy.
“That’s a good idea,” said Artie, “picking out your patrol color.”
“Sure,” said Roy. “I’m going to write to National Headquarters and tell them to print a rule in the Handbook—next edition.”
“What?”
“Don’t you know what an edition is? You know what a dish is? Well——”
“Rule,” said Artie. “‘Scouts buying sodas should always select their own patrol colors’?”
“Sure,” said Roy. “Good idea. Tom would always take raspberry, I’d take chocolate, and you’d take—let’s see——”
“Oh, there’s a big dry goods store,” said Artie.
They cut across the street and entering a large store, asked where scout supplies were sold.
“Two aisles to your right, then one to your left,” was the answer.
“We get you,” said Roy.
Reaching the point indicated, and seeing no scout supplies, they asked again.
“Two aisles down and take the elevator to the third floor; then two aisles forward,” said a young lady.
“We thank you,” said Roy, bowing elaborately.
Having followed these directions and seeing no scout supplies, they inquired of another clerk.
“In the basement,” said the clerk.
The three tramped back and down the stairway.
“Keep your scout smile on,” said Artie.
“Scouts, I think we’re lost,” said Roy, “and darkness is coming on.”
In the basement they saw tents and canoes in the distance.
“Maybe it’s a scout camp in the wilds of a department store,” said Roy. “Are you getting tired, Tom?”
“I bet Jeb Rushmore could find it all right,” said Artie.
“You said something; but I think we’re hot on the trail now.”
Arrived at the spot which looked like a camp, they asked for scout suits.
“You want supplies,” said the young lady.
“Right the first time,” said Roy.
“Those are on the fourth floor.”
The three sank down in one of those swinging porch benches and breathed heavily, much to the girl’s amusement.
“What do you say we blaze the trail,” said Roy, “so other scouts will be able to follow it?”
“It seems there’s a difference between camping goods and sporting articles,” said Artie.
“I say, let’s not give up,” contributed Tom.
They rose and sallied laughingly forth, through aisles and around corners to the elevator. On the fourth floor they found themselves in a wilderness of carpets and rugs and bureaus, tables, chairs and curtains.
“This beats the hill where we found Stan,” said Tom.
“Keep a good heart, scouts,” said Roy. “We’ll come out all right yet. This has got the Canadian Rockies beat twenty ways.”
“Sporting supplies?” pleaded Roy of the first clerk they saw.
“Two aisles over.”
“Scout suits?” he asked, reaching that point.
“One floor down, in the boy’s clothing.”
Near the stairway they encountered a friendly looking man in black, standing with his hands clasped behind him.
“Hey, mister,” said Roy, “we are boy scouts and we’re lost. It’s getting late and we have to get back to our boat before dark. We can’t seem to hit the right trail and we’re afraid we’ll starve if night comes on. We want to find the place where they sell scout suits.”
The man laughed pleasantly and resting his arm over Roy’s shoulder, went part way down the stairs with them and pointed to a scout suit on a wooden form at the other side of the store.
“There you are,” he said, smiling.
“We thank you,” said Roy.
“Don’t lose sight of it,” suggested Artie.
“We’re all right now,” said Tom.
Reaching the elusive spot, they found themselves at last at the haven of their desire, for there was the wooden boy scout facing them, his stiff arm raised and his painted fingers sticking upright in the scout salute, as if to greet the tired wayfarers, who sank down, panting ostentatiously, upon a bench close by.
“What do you say we agree not to tell the fellows that we were lost and—and—asked our way?” said Artie.
“All right,” said Tom, “we’re the three leaders and no one knows it but us. We’ll keep quiet.”
“If Pee-wee should ever hear of this,” said Roy, “and find out that weasked our way—G-o-o-dni-ight!”
The salesman was busy waiting on two boys, both scouts, one of whom was evidently buying a new outfit. Tom expressed surprise at this, since the uniform which he was wearing seemed almost new.
“I suppose the new one is for Sundays,” said Artie.
“We should worry,” said Roy.
The boy who was doing the purchasing was of a trim physique, with very red hair and he had as many freckles upon his cheerful countenance as there are stars in the quiet sky. There was much joking, which the Bridgeboro boys could not hear, between these boys and the salesman, and while waiting for the purchase to be wrapped the three formed a little laughing group.
The freckled boy, in particular, interested the waiting scouts who were attracted by his trim figure, his jaunty manner and the shiny redness of his rather curly hair.
“Well, I wish you luck,” said the salesman as they left him; “it’s some stunt!”
As the two passed the bench where the Bridgeboro boys were sitting, the red-headed boy turned and gave them the scout salute with a merry smile.
“They live around here?” Artie asked.
“No,” said the salesman, inspecting Tom’s scout certificate to be sure that he was entitled to buy the official suit. “They’re down from their camp up Lake Champlain. Quite a pair, aren’t they?”
Artie felt that he would like to ask more about them, for he was sure they had been telling “their adventures,” as Pee-wee would have said, to the salesman. But scouts are not officious, and these particular scouts believed somewhat in Roy’s advice for winning the business badge;viz., Mind your own business.
The salesman, however, did vouchsafe them one little morsel of information while he was fitting Tom.
“They’ve got a great scheme on foot, those kids,” said he.
“I think I know what it is,” said Tom. “They’re going to give a scout suit to a new fellow for a surprise.”
“Sherlock Nobody Holmes again,” jeered Roy.
The man only laughed. “You scout fellows don’t seem to know what fear is, do you?” he added, pleasantly.
“We wouldn’t know it if we met it in the street,” said Roy, not, however, understanding the significance of the remark. “Tomasso’s the courageousest—look out he don’t bite you! We’ve been feeding him meat today.”
Tom loosened up and decided he would get a sweater, too, and the joint deliberation over a suitable color put an end to their immediate thought of the stranger scouts.
“A kind of a blackish white would be good,” said Roy.
Artie suggested a pale lavender. The salesman was greatly amused at their talk, but Tom was somewhat nettled and embarrassed, and he was glad when the completion of the business put an end to their nonsense.
On the way back to the boats and afterwards they speculated somewhat about the two scouts. There was no particular reason for their doing so except that the red-headed boy lingered in their minds with his trim appearance and his vivacious manner. Later, they recalled his jaunty, careless air, his friendly salute and his winning smile, almost with a shudder.
“We saw the kind of scout that Raymond believes in,” taunted Roy, upon their return to the boats. “He had on the full uniform, belt-axe, whistle, bugle, gaiters, hat——”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Ellsworth, winking at Raymond. “That’s what they’re for—to be worn.”
“There was only one thing wrong with him,” Roy concluded.
“What?” demanded Raymond, quite boldly for him.
“He was made of wood,” said Roy.
“Well, then, let him serve as a terrible example,” laughed the scoutmaster. “I dare say there are a few others like him.”
“Did he have any invisible badges on?” Doc asked slyly.
“Doesn’t Tomasso look too sweet for anything?” teased Roy.
“Cut it out,” grumbled Tom. “It’s time to get supper.”
They stayed at their mooring that night and lolled about on the cabin roof of theHonor Scoutwhile Harry Stanton strummed his ukulele and those who knew the soft music of the far-off Pacific isles hummed the airs which seem nowhere so melodious as on the water. A group of small boys from the unkempt waterside section caught the strains and shuffled down, grimy and ragged, to sprawl upon the piles of lumber on the wharf, staring with wide open eyes, and listening. To them it was like a circus come to town. To the scouts it was a new kind of camp fire.
In the morning they were gone, doubtless leaving a refreshing memory with the youthful denizens of that squalid neighborhood.
The Hudson above Troy is no longer of majestic beauty and the voyagers were not sorry for the novelty which presented when they entered the canal. At least, they did not have to “squint” for hidden perils, though the locks played sorry havoc with the beautiful enameled freeboard of theHonor Scout.
“Cruising in a canal is about as exciting as a hike on Broadway,” commented Roy.
“You said something,” agreed Connie.
It was not long, indeed, before the novelty began to wear off, and they were one and all glad when the boats emerged into the broad expanse of Lake Champlain.
“Lake Champlain,” said Roy, contemplating it in his favorite attitude, sitting on the cabin roof with his hands clasped about his updrawn knees; “Lake Champlain rises early in the morning, takes a northerly course, and flows into the sink. Correct, be seated, Master Blakeley.”
They could accelerate their speed now and theGood Turnhad her work cut out for her keeping up, even with theHonor Scout’smotor throttled down to half-speed.
“This is historic territory,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Almost every rock has its tale to tell of the bloody French and Indian War——”
“I hope they won’t tell them,” said Roy. “School’s closed.”
But for all that he was interested as “our beloved scoutmaster” recalled some of the stirring events which occurred along the rugged, historic shores between which they were passing. They paused to see the ruins of the old Revolutionary fort at Crown Point, and the restored fort at Ticonderoga, with its underground passage to the shore.
The first night of their cruise through the lake they tied up at Port Henry and early in the morning sallied forth into the town for oil, gasoline and supplies, replenishing their depleted stock sufficiently for the fifty mile run up to Plattsburg.
“Believeme, this is some hike,” said Roy.
“I dare say it looks about the same,” mused Mr. Ellsworth, glancing about at the wild shore, “as it did when Champlain sailed through it with his Indian guides——”
“That was sumpty-sump years ago,” said Artie Van Arlen, “you have him in the third grade.”
“Maybe he stopped at Port Henry for gasoline,” suggested Roy.
“I hope he didn’t have to pay twenty-three cents for it,” said Connie.
For about fifteen miles above Port Henry the lake is comparatively narrow, then it opens up to a breadth of ten miles or more, becoming a veritable inland-sea, with the rolling hills of Vermont reaching far eastward and merging in the distance with the lofty Green Mountains.
About ten miles above Port Henry, and at the narrowest part of the lake’s narrow stretch, there rises upon the New York side an extent of precipitous and rugged height known as the Split Rock Mountain. On the landward side the slope from the mountain is easy enough, but toward the lake this irregular eminence presents a steep surface interspersed with woody patches and gray rock. Nestling under this forbidding height is a narrow area of marshy woodland between it and the shore.
It is related that in the olden days a Mohawk warrior, being pursued and finding himself upon this dizzy summit without an arrow to his bow, tried to scramble down and losing his foothold was precipitated against trees and over rocks and his mangled body became a prey to vultures in the wooded swamp below. There are guides about that historic water who can point you where his skeleton and tomahawk were found—if you are disposed to venture within that tangled morass.
As the little flotilla approached this spot, Tom who was steering the smaller boat noticed a green canoe drawn up at the wood’s edge, and he called to Roy, sprawling on the cabin of theHonor Scout, to look.
“It’s a canoe all right, ain’t it?” he called.
“Sure it is,” answered Roy.
“It’s the same color as the woods, that’s why you can’t see it plainer,” said Will Bronson, looking through the field glass.
Scarcely had he spoken when two scouts emerged at the shore and busied themselves at the canoe for a moment or two.
“Why, that’s the red-headed fellow we saw in Albany!” said Artie, who had taken the glass. “I can see him plain.”
“Sure it is,” added Roy. “You can recognize him without the glass.”
The scouts on the larger boat passed the glass from one to another, though most of them could distinguish the boy without it.
“His hair is as red as a brick, isn’t it?” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“That’s him, all right,” said Tom, ungrammatically, from the other boat.
They were almost abreast of the spot when the two boys disappeared in the woods. Roy had meant to hail them and perhaps would still have done so but for the fact that the freckled scout presently reappeared alone climbing up the precipitous slope.
“You don’t suppose he’s going to try to climb that, do you?” Mr. Ellsworth queried as he watched.
“Looks that way,” said Connie.
“Wonder where the other fellow is.”
The other scout did not appear, and they watched the agile form as it scrambled up the almost sheer face of the mountain. The sunlight was falling upon the dull face of rock and touching the sparse vegetation with its bright glow, and they recognized the boy clearly now, even to his red hair which shone when it caught the rays of the sun.
“Well—that’s—some stunt!” exclaimed Garry, in amazement. “Do you suppose their camp is up there?”
“They ought to call themselves the Eagles, if it is,” said Roy.
“Watch him,” called Tom from the other boat.
The eyes of the whole troop were upon the nimble figure as it worked its way upward, now scrambling, now climbing among trees, now going zigzag over a precipitous area.
THE EYES OF THE WHOLE TROOP WERE UPON THE NIMBLE FIGURE AS IT WORKED ITS WAY UPWARD.THE EYES OF THE WHOLE TROOP WERE UPON THE NIMBLE FIGURE AS IT WORKED ITS WAY UPWARD.
THE EYES OF THE WHOLE TROOP WERE UPON THE NIMBLE FIGURE AS IT WORKED ITS WAY UPWARD.
“Some monkey, hey?” called Garry, to the boys in the smaller boat, where Harry Stanton watched, fascinated.
“Some scout, all right,” one of the O’Connor boys called back.
“That’s a most amazing feat,” said the scoutmaster, watching with the glass.
Soon the agile form, verging to right or left to follow a path of less resistance and sometimes pausing to use his brains as a scout should, had reached a little clump of freakish trees, growing out of rock, and for a few moments he was hidden from the distant watchers.
They had shut off the power of both boats and lay drifting. A scout is brother to every other scout, and I dare say the whole party took a pride in the scout who dared attempt so hazardous an undertaking.
“I could see it in his face,” Tom said.
“Sherlock Nobody Holmes again,” called Roy from the other boat.
Presently, the scrambling figure emerged upon the bare surface above, wriggling and bracing itself on what seemed to be mere points of rock. A few yards more and he would be safe upon the wooded summit.
“Don’t shout!” said Mr. Ellsworth, anticipating an impulse on Roy’s part. “You might rattle him. Wait till he’s out of danger.”
Now he had reached the edge of the woods which covered the summit and extended somewhat down the precipitous side, and as he disappeared among the trees the scouts on the lake sent up a lusty cheer.
Scarcely had the echo of their shout died away when Roy jumped to his feet.
“Look!” he cried.
Following his pointing finger, the whole troop stood aghast in utter horror as they saw the limp and sprawling figure of the freckled scout go tumbling headlong over tree and rock down the rugged precipice. Harry Stanton gasped and almost fainted away. Pee-wee grasped the rail, white as a sheet.
The figure fell against a crooked tree, the limp arms of the apparently dead or unconscious boy making no effort to grasp it, then tumbled headlong from the ledge and fell with a sickening impact upon the jagged rocks below. There it paused for a second, then fell again like a dead weight, over sheer walls of rock. Once again it paused against some obstacle and Mr. Ellsworth, watching with the glass, could see the neck hanging limp, the head far back in a ghastly, unnatural attitude. The boy was evidently quite dead. Again the body fell, the loose arms and limbs sprawling this way and that until it was precipitated over the edge of the lowest rocky wall and the dreadful sight was ended by its disappearance into the swampy woods below.
“He must have lost his foothold,” whispered Connie.
“It’s—it’s terrible,” breathed little Raymond, almost in a panic.
“Get the oars,” said Mr. Ellsworth, quietly. “We’ll row ashore. Cast the anchor,” he called. “We may be able to get the body. That’s about all we can do, I’m afraid. He probably lost his life with the first impact. He was dead long before he reached the bottom.”
There was not a scout among them but was sobered by the dreadful thing; Harry Stanton had lost his nerve entirely; and it was a solemn little group that scrambled into theHonor Scout’sskiff and rowed for shore. Garry Everson, who was a better swimmer than any member of the Bridgeboro troop, had already thrown off his outer clothing and was well toward shore. Others, for whom there was not room in the skiff, followed swimming, until only Harry Stanton, Raymond, and Westy Martin whom Mr. Ellsworth had asked to remain with them, were left on the smaller boat.
“It’s worse than that hill near camp,” Garry called to the boys in the approaching boat. “It’s a regular everglades.”
They found the place a veritable maze of tangled swamp, with a spongy, uncertain foothold. In toward the hill the land was firmer but at close range and without an open view it was impossible to determine where the body had fallen.
“Can you point out about where it was?” called Roy, from the shore.
Westy pointed as best he could and the shore party, spreading, began a systematic search of the spot.
“Is this the place?” said Doc who, as a matter of general precaution, had his first-aid case slung over his shoulder. He was standing on the brink of a black pool, which they thought to be right under the spot where the body had fallen.