Along the Mohawk Trail; Or, Boy Scouts on Lake Champlain

The camp consisted of three wall tents, a small tent of modified tepee fashion, and a lean-to used for cooking, outside of which was erected a huge, rough dining board. The whole appearance of the place was very homelike. Woods trophies and articles of woodcraft handiwork hung about from the low-spreading branches, and it was evident that the campers had been there for some time.

Before each of the wall tents was planted a patrol flag, and gathered about the cheerful fire was as merry a company as Gordon had ever seen. A genial-looking man of perhaps thirty-five years was sitting amongst a score or so of boys, who in negligée scout attire squatted and lolled about him, as if intent upon what he was saying.

All this Gordon saw from a distance. But before he had approached within fifty yards of the camp, and before he could possibly have been seen and scarcely heard, a tall boy rose suddenly, looked intently in his direction, and called:

“Who’s there?”

“Gee, he’s a peach, all right!” breathed Gordon, never answering, but rushing pell-mell into their midst. Every boy rose, surveying him wonderingly. The man remained seated. Gordon paid not the slightest heed to the gaping throng, but made a bee-line for the man and, standing panting and disheveled before him, made him the full salute. Then, breathlessly, he gasped out his errand. Instantly all was activity.

“Call in Billy,” said the man, quietly, as he took a railroad lantern from a tent pole. “You, my boy,” he went on to Gordon, “will stay here. Who are you, anyway?”

“Kid—I mean, Gordon Lord, sir; 1st Oakwood New Jersey, Troop. My patrol leader and I came up to see if we could find camp—our own camp, I mean. They’re somewhere up this way. I—”

“Well, you can tell me the rest when we get back,” said the man, cheerfully. “Where’s Billy, anyway? Give him another call, George.”

A succession of shrill whistles was repeated, and presently a boy wearing spectacles came dashing into camp.

“Get your kit, Billy, and come along,” said the man. “Walter’s gone down that chasm in the farther woods—head cut and leg in a bad way. Here, Wentworth, you and Norton get the stretcher and come along—you’d better come too, Charlie.”

“Sure you can find the place?” asked Gordon, a little doubtful.

“Oh, yes,” answered the man. “We put up the logs. Is Cattell there? Here, Cattell, you rake up some grub for this boy. Go over there, my boy, and let the Ravens take care of you.”

The Ravens knew how to do more than croak, as Gordon presently found, for they sat him at the rustic table and gave him such a helping of hunters’ stew as would have sufficed for the entire patrol. He entered upon the ambitious task of eating it with the same nonchalant determination that had led him into the woods, without the slightest idea of the magnitude of the task before him, but with cheerful confidence in his ability to see it through somehow.

While he ate, the boys gathered about him, plying him with questions, and soon had the full story of his trip and the circumstances of his finding the injured boy. He learned that they were a troop of Albany scouts, three full patrols, that the man was Mr. Wade, their scoutmaster, and that Billy, or “Four Eyes,” or “Doc,” as he was indifferently called, was their “First Aid” boy, who had attained to a superlative proficiency in that art. He learned also that Walter, the injured boy, was, as he had surmised, trying to complete his fourth test for first-class scout, on his way back from a visit to the city.

“They have pink chalk in Albany,” said Gordon, “haven’t they?”

“Sure they have,” answered several boys.

“We have that in Oakwood, too,” Gordon commented.

Presently, a tall, serious-looking boy vaulted up on the table and began to question Gordon while he ate.

“You say you saw a footprint just as you left the chasm on this side?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see any more of them?”

“No, it was too dark in the woods. In a few minutes when the moon came out and the woods thinned out the other side of the hill I saw a wet spot on a stone.”

“Footprint?”

“No—place where a turtle had been.”

“Well, what of that?”

“Turtle went away.”

“What of it?”

“Somebody must have passed.”

“Bully for you!” chimed in several voices.

“That’s nothing,” said Gordon, encouraged. “Do you know how—”

“Just a minute,” interrupted the serious-looking boy. “After you saw the turtle mark, didn’t you see any other sign?”

“No,” answered Gordon. “I was so crazy to get here that I didn’t look.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed the boy. “You say you saw the wet spot near the swamp, then you started up the hill crossing the road?”

“Yes.”

“Have some more stew?”

“Y-es.”

“Here, Cattell, fill her up again! He’s game.” Then to Gordon, “Did you find any trail up the hill?”

“No—didn’t look. If I hadn’t spotted you fellows from the top of the hill, I’d have gone back down again, most likely, and tried to pick her up, bird’s-eye.”

“You mean with the fire, the way you did before?”

“Yes.”

A murmur of admiring comment passed through the group, and one or two enthusiastic boys pounded Gordon on the shoulder. But the serious-looking boy was absorbed in thought.

“Whoever it was,” he finally said, “must have turned down the road—or up.”

“Sure,” said Gordon.

It was characteristic of him that the suspicion of foul play had sat but lightly in his thoughts up to this moment. The footprint near the chasm had puzzled him and he had attached a significance to the wet spot on the rock—perhaps a greater significance than it deserved. He had also wondered how the three slender logs, out of which he had fashioned the rough couch, came to be at the bottom of the chasm. But he was altogether too lighthearted to connect any or all of these circumstances with the idea of a crime. With him, tracking and such arts were a delightful species of amusement, and the idea of using these things as a means to a serious end had never entered his head.

But now he realized that this serious, precise, calculating boy who sat at his elbow was endeavoring to squeeze information out of these trivial signs and make them point to the solution of a secret, the very existence of which Gordon had hardly suspected. He perceived, somewhat to his annoyance, that he had only noticed those things which appealed to his romantic love of woodcraft, and that certain other things which Harry Arnold might have seen had entirely escaped him.

“You say the pamphlet was lying in the mud?”

“Yes—it—it never occurred to me how it got there.”

“Of course not—you were in a great hurry. Don’t think I’m criticising you. You’ve got the silver cross coming to you for what you did.”

“Honest—do you think so?”

“It would be a queer committee that would refuse it.”

“Cracky!” said Gordon.

“Have another dish of stew?”

“N-no.”

“Now listen. There were no tracks, prints, signs of any kind in the chasm?”

“No, the mud was so thick it would close right up. Besides—”

“Yes, I understand; you were busy and excited, and you did fine. But I’ll tell you something that you didn’t know. That boy had forty dollars with him to buy a canoe. At least, I suppose he had it. He intended to get it while he was at home.”

“You think somebody robbed him?” said Gordon.

“I think it’s likely. There were two young men here, strangers, just dropped in on us a few days ago. Walter and the rest of us talked pretty freely about his trip to Albany.”

“Yes, and he said he was going to get the money,” chimed in another boy.

“He expected to come back last night, too,” said another.

“Who were the strangers?” Gordon ventured.

“No idea,” answered one of the boys, “except that they said they were hunting. They were country fellows,” he added quickly.

Most of the boys, including Gordon, had now repaired to the camp-fire, which was blazing cheerfully. There was a slight constraint among them, caused by their suspense and uncertainty as to the news Mr. Wade would bring them; and Gordon, despite his native buoyancy, felt the influence of this atmosphere.

Presently, the tall, serious boy (the others called him Al), who had been pacing back and forth like an animal in its cage, suddenly paused and spoke to Gordon. The question that he asked, however, was destined to lead him on to very dangerous ground, as he soon found.

“Where did you say your friend is now?”

“He kept to the straight road north from Ticonderoga,” Gordon answered. “He was to wait for me where the road I took joined his again—right under Dibble Mountain.”

“Now this road you crossed coming up the hill yonder—do you know where that goes? Well, if you had taken it and turned to your right, you would have made a long, sweeping curve and brought up under Dibble Mountain on the same road where your friend is waiting, about a quarter of a mile above him.”

“Then that’ll be the best way for me to get to him,” commented Gordon. “I must start along as soon as your scoutmaster gets back. He’ll be wondering what’s become of me.”

“How long do you suppose he’s been waiting?”

“Close on to an hour, I guess, but he knew I was going to stop to make inquiries.”

“Then you think he’s still there?”

“Guess so.”

“Don’t think he’ll get rattled because you haven’t shown up?”

“He never gets rattled,” said Gordon, contemptuously.

The boys smiled.

“He understands the Morse code—probably?”

To this question Gordon disdained to reply except in a very general way. “He understands everything,” said he.

“Bully for him!” called several of the boys.

“He’s the real thing, all right,” commented another.

Gordon was conscious of the suggestion of “jollying” in these remarks, and his answer was not altogether tactful; but he had been touched in a sensitive spot, for he could tolerate no question as to Harry’s all-round proficiency.

“He can do anything he tries,” he said vehemently. “He’s been down Long Island Sound in a canoe; he lived in a lumber camp—he was lost in the Canadian woods once—he knows all about South Africa—he swam three hundred miles, I mean yards—and shot the rapids—and—and—he can make a rice pudding!” That was the best he could do for Harry on the impulse of the moment, and he paused to take breath.

“Did he use his rifle when he shot the rapids?” asked one boy, quietly.

“He’s been on a log jam, too,” shouted Gordon.

“That anything like currant jam?” inquired another.

“He can lick any scout in—”

“Let up,” said Al, still pacing the ground thoughtfully, and the whole thing went up in a general laugh. It was Gordon’s fate always to be jollied, which meant (if he had only known it) that everybody, especially older boys, liked him. And on the present occasion it was done largely to relieve the suspense of waiting.

Suddenly, however, Al paused and addressed the group: “Scouts, I suspect Walter has been robbed—by whom I don’t know. I shouldn’t like to say that I suspect any one in particular, but it looks funny. If the things our friend here noticed mean anything, they mean that whoever tampered with the bridge and then went through Walter’s pockets after he fell, came in this direction till he reached the road on the other side of the hill. If there had been any trail over the hill, I think our young friend here would have found it. Now, if somebody turned into the road and went north, he’s making a long circuit to Dibble Mountain. There’s no crossroad, and he’ll come out on the road where this fellow’s friend—”

“He’s patrol leader of the Beavers,” said Gordon.

“Yes,—where the Beavers’ patrol leader is supposed to be waiting.”

“Well?” said several voices.

“Well, you see that hill? I propose to send a Morse message to that fellow from the top of the hill. I think if he’s still where we think he is, he could see it; even if he was farther along the road, he could see it. There’s just about one chance in fifty that the scheme will pan out right. But I propose right now to flash a Morse message northeast from the hill. The top of the hill is bare. If this Oakwood scout is anywhere along that farther road, he ought to see it. Whether we can make our meaning clear is another question. If he sees it and understands it—well, here, wait a minute.” He entered a tent and presently came out with a paper on which he had written something. This he read aloud.

“Camp here. Take first road north. Notice strangers. Scout robbed. Am safe. Lord.”

“How does that strike you?” said he, as a dozen boys crowded eagerly about him.

Gordon was all excitement. He had used the Morse code as a plaything many a time, but now it was to flash a message through the night, over wood and valley, perhaps to outwit a criminal. It was to sweep aside darkness and distance, and take a short cut to the country under Dibble Mountain. If Harry was still there and saw it and read it, he would go a quarter of a mile or so along the road, to where it met the circling road from the hill, and watch any one who might pass. He thought of the boy at the other end, waiting in the darkness of a strange country. And his heart beat with anxiety lest, for some reason, the plan might not carry. Perhaps he doubted a little the reliability of the Morse code. Never for an instant, at least not yet, did he doubt the efficiency of Harry Arnold.

There was a rustling among the trees, and presently the little group of rescuers appeared bearing the stricken scout on a stretcher.

“Come inside a minute, Al,” said Mr. Wade, in a low, grave voice. “You come in, too, my boy,” he said to Gordon.

There was something in his tone that almost frightened Gordon, and he had difficulty in controlling himself as he followed Al into one of the tents. There was no one there but Mr. Wade, the “First Aid” boy, Al, and Gordon.

“Walter’s been robbed, Al,” said the scoutmaster. “He was thrown down the cliff—the bridge was fixed. He’ll get well. I want Winthrop to go right to Ticonderoga.”

“I’m going to flash a Morse message from the hill, sir,” said Al. “This boy’s patrol leader is over east there somewhere. There’s a possibility that he might get it and watch the road.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Wade. “Good idea.”

It seemed to Gordon, however, that he did not have much faith in this. Al did not pause to discuss the matter, but left the tent. Presently, he and a dozen other boys started through the woods in the direction of the hill.

Gordon stood, rather uncomfortably, near the entrance to the tent, not knowing what he was supposed to do.

“Did you have something to eat?” Mr. Wade asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, go over there a second, then; don’t stand and talk to him, and I want you to go right out.”

Gordon crossed to the stretcher where the “First Aid” boy was adjusting a bandage on Walter’s forehead. Mr. Wade stood quietly by. The “First Aid” boy leaned over and whispered to the stricken scout, “Here he is.”

Gordon stood looking down into the white face. Presently, he was aware of a movement under the blanket. The “First Aid” boy evidently knew what it meant, for he raised the covering slightly and a white, shaking hand appeared from beneath. The twitching fingers seemed to grope for a moment, then the little finger was bent down and the thumb pressed over it. The hand was raised feebly to the shoulder, resting on the pillow. Then Gordon became conscious of a film over his own eyes and everything seemed to glisten. He pressed his own little finger down with his thumb and raised his three middle fingers level with his shoulder. Then the eyes of the prostrate boy weakly closed. Neither spoke.

Gordon made a bee-line through the woods in the direction of the hill, and presently overtook several of the boys, one of whom carried a lantern. When they reached the brow of the eminence, they found that preparations, under Al’s direction, were rapidly going forward.

A lone sapling stood on the summit, and about ten feet from this they had planted a pole eight or nine feet high, steadying it by lines running diagonally to the ground and attached to pegs. From the top of this pole to a branch equally high on the sapling ran a stout line on which had been placed two metal rings (evidently all that were available), and some of the boys were now busily binding willow withes around the line, so that presently the rope had half a dozen rings of one sort or another encircling it. The moon had gone behind clouds which were fast covering the sky, and the boys worked almost wholly by the light of their lantern. But they worked rapidly, and within a few minutes a large square of tent canvas had been hung from the line, thus forming a curtain which could be shifted back and forth. Its position, facing a little north of east, was determined by the compass, and was, of course, accurate so far as compass points were concerned. But whether Harry Arnold was precisely northeast, or precisely east, and just how far and in just what direction, there was no telling.

Gordon looked down from the hill, over the low-lying woods which stretched eastward, a little north of where he had found his way through. He thought he could discern a shadowy mass which seemed to appear and then dissolve in the distance, and which he took to be Dibble Mountain. And beneath him he saw a faint gray band which he knew to be the road. This, he now knew, inscribed a great curve through the woods and came out about a quarter of a mile above his intended meeting-place with Arnold. He meant, as soon as this signaling was finished, to set forth along the road toward Dibble Mountain.

As he watched the rapid and rather elaborate preparations, he became conscious of a feeling of responsibility and accompanying apprehension that he might be held accountable in some degree if the signal failed to bear results. So troubled was he that he did not at once notice the boy who was kneeling behind the canvas and littering the ground about him with burned matches.

“Will you let me try it?” said Gordon, finally, coming out of his absorption.

“Sure,” answered the boy, rising with alacrity.

Gathering a number of chips which had been scattered by the ax in trimming the pole, Gordon knelt, crunched a piece of paper into a little, loose wad, and quickly, daintily constructed a tiny pyramid around and above it. Over this pyramid he made a larger one, keeping by the necessary fuel for one still larger. The process reminded one of the wooden egg enclosed by a larger one, and that by a still larger one, often seen at Easter time.

Now his small hands formed a partial dome over the outer pyramid; now there came a crackling and a little smoke, now the third pyramid was quickly built over the second, and Gordon watched it intently while a few little snakes of flame squirmed out from their inner cage. He paid no heed to the admiring comments of the boys about him. Like a true artist, his mind was fixed upon his task, not upon his audience. Now his hand groped behind him for some larger twigs. One or two he threw away (the boys did not know why). With those which met his approval still another pyramid was formed to receive the flames which were now escaping freely from the third pyramid. For a moment he studied the little mass intently, holding several sticks in his left hand. The thought came over him that presently his fire would flash the first sign in a message to his friend, somewhere beyond those thick woods, waiting, or perhaps searching, in the darkness. And oh, how he hoped the fire would be seen, but scarcely dared to hope it would be understood.

Presently, satisfied, he rose, and pulling an apple from his pocket refreshed himself with a gigantic bite.

“You’re all right,” said the tall Al, slapping him on the shoulder. Gordon smiled his broadest scout smile, with unconcealed pleasure at the older boy’s praise. He was the smallest boy in the group, and there was something about him which drew the others irresistibly to him.

“You’re a wonder!” shouted one, with genuine enthusiasm.

“That’s nothing,” said Gordon, as he took another huge bite. I do not know where he got the apple.

The fire was now coming on famously. “Pull her over,” called a boy, grabbing the curtain. “Never mind the regular call signal—let’s begin and run her across the flame quick for four or five minutes—that’ll do to attract attention.”

This advice was taken, for all the nice points and rules of the Morse signal code cannot be observed with a bonfire on a hilltop. They pulled the curtain rapidly from side to side, alternately revealing and concealing the blaze, and skillfully relieving each other from time to time, for it required some strength and a good deal of agility.

As Gordon stood watching them, he was roused by a light hand on his shoulder and turned to find Mr. Wade standing by his side.

“You mustn’t expect too much of your friend,” he said in a kind of reassuring tone. “It’s possible he’ll see this, but there’s many a slip, you know, betwixt the cup and the lip. Anyway, it won’t be his fault.”

“He can do ’most anything, sir,” said Gordon, earnestly. “Honest, he can. If he only sees it he’ll—”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Wade; “and this is good practice for the boys, anyway.”

“But I’m going to start along toward Dibble Mountain just as soon as they get through this. He must have been waiting a couple of hours already.”

“Better stay with us till morning,” said Mr. Wade; “you’ve done enough for one night.”

Just then Al came up to ask about Walter Lee, the injured boy.

“He’s doing well,” said the scoutmaster. “The wound isn’t deep, and seems to be clean, thanks to our young runner here. It bled a good deal, though, and his ankle is strained. The bridge was tampered with, and he must have gone down as soon as he set foot on it. I was wondering who those fellows were who dropped in on us the other day. Walter’s pockets were empty; he says he had forty dollars. I’ve sent Winthrop and John down to Ti to notify the authorities and get a doctor. I guess they can pick their way there all right; I told them not to try any Gordon Lord short-cuts. Walter’ll be all right. Here, Frank,” he called, “let Al stand near you with the message in code form. Let’s see that. That’s all right. Now, just call the code signs and cross them off as they’re shown—something may come of this yet.”

He started for the camp again, and it seemed to Gordon that he took but secondary interest in the signaling. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry for this skepticism. He felt that if the plan failed to carry, as he feared it would, it would be well to have the head of the camp there to acquit Harry of any blame. Gordon did not give a serious thought to the impression he might have made in this strange camp; but he was very jealous for Harry’s reputation, especially after the puff he had given it, and he wanted more than he could tell to have his friend do the improbable and make good. He had an unselfish and unqualified admiration for Harry, and he was sorely troubled now lest his hero fail in the face of these Albany scouts.

The first letter of the message had been stamped upon the darkness when Gordon came out of his preoccupation, and he watched the rest of the work with keen and nervous interest.

“Haul her over, Bill—now back again—cross off your dot, Al—wait a second now—let her go again—that’s the ticket. Hold on now—three seconds—there you are. Now show her for two even spaces; now wait—three seconds—don’t be in too much of a hurry; he’ll wait if he sees it. Let her go again—quick now—do this one careful. Read her off, Al, wake up—short flash—wait—long flash—wait, wait! Another long flash now—wait—now a short one. There you are, fellows, printed right plank against the side of old Dibble Mountain, C-A-M-P! Hurrah for the Raven signal corps!”

All this involved a good deal of exercise on the part of several boys, but nothing happened as a result. Gordon did not exactly expect anything to happen, but it seemed like a good deal of energy wasted.

On the hilltop all was bustle and excitement, but the dark woods below and beyond, and the open lowland stretching farther still to the shore of the great lake, took not the slightest notice. Gordon looked over Al’s shoulder at the message. They had not done one-tenth of it. He wondered how the flashes would look from a distance and thought how much concentration of mind it would require to make head or tail of it. Though he was a scout of the scouts, he found that he had to strain his faith a little to believe that anything could really come of this. And he was conscious of almost a feeling of regret that he had given quite such a glowing account of Harry.

A fresh relay of boys had started the second word.

“Wake up, Al—spin her off!”

“Four short flashes,” said Al.

“Four it is; here she goes—over and back—over and back—wait!”

“One short,” called Al.

“That’s E—now for the next.”

“Short, long, short,” called Al.

“Pull her over, Ed—now back—now a long one—shut her off! Now a short one. Next letter, Al.”

“Short flash.”

“Correct for Albert. Over and back—seat your partner!”

“Camp here!” shouted a boy, enthusiastically.

Thus the work went cheerfully on. It required precision, exertion. It was close to half an hour when they reached the end.

“How do you spell your name?” said Al; “G-o-r-d-o-n?”

“Put it ‘Kid,’” Gordon answered; “that’s shorter and it’s what he always calls me.”

A sudden inspiration seized Al. “Here,” he said; “come and sign your own name.”

Gordon hesitated, then went forward. The boys, catching the spirit of the thing, fell back, while Al himself took the other end of the curtain. Gordon hauled the canvas over, revealing the flame long enough to indicate the dash. Then came the short flash, then the dash again. He almost heard Harry’s quick, low voice, saying, “Hello, Kid,” as he paused before the middle letter.

“Forward and back,” called a boy.

Gordon’s scout smile broadened into its wonted crescent as his small hands worked the two short flashes.

“Hurrah for the Oakwoods!” several fellows shouted, and Gordon smiled still more broadly, as he always did when encouraged or jollied or praised.

“Dash and two dots,” said Al.

And the name that Harry Arnold always called him had been flashed forth over woods and valley and meadow, toward the now invisible Dibble Mountain and Lake Champlain.

That night the Ravens, of whom Al Wilson was patrol leader, doubled up with the Elephants. The Elephant patrol consisted of smaller boys and was sometimes facetiously called the infant class. The whole six of them were tenderfeet with a vengeance, and Mr. Wade usually slept in their tent. This night, however, he shooed the Ravens into the Elephants’ quarters so that Walter Lee, himself, and the “First Aid” boy might have a tent to themselves. But some of the Ravens roosted out under the trees.

The Elephant patrol was a great institution, and their leader, Frankie Haines, was fully aware of this fact. He attended all the officers’ meetings in the tepee, and on one memorable occasion had sat on a troop committee. The Elephants’ flag was flauntingly displayed outside their stronghold; they took a mighty pride in their name and were very clannish, and hung much together. They were all very punctilious about their uniforms. Indeed, they furnished so much wholesome entertainment to the third patrol that the boys of that division had found it impossible to limit their smiles to the requirements of Section 8, Scout Law, and were known as the Laughing Hyenas.

It was with the Hyenas that Gordon was to spend the rest of the night. It was with difficulty that he had been persuaded to give up his intention of going in search of Harry; but Mr. Wade realized that he stood in need of rest. To save Harry Arnold from anxiety, however, he offered to send two of the camp boys to the meeting place at Dibble Mountain. So Cattell and another boy had started north along the road, it being agreed that if they found no trace of Harry near the junction of the two roads they should return to camp early in the morning.

If the Laughing Hyenas had been cast to sleep with the Elephants, there is no telling what might have happened. But the Elephants and the Ravens got along very well considering, and it was as good as a circus to see the older boys coming in, one by one, and making the full salute to Frankie.

The Elephants had looked upon Gordon as in some measure their especial property, and felt that his glory was their glory, for he was younger than any of the camp boys save themselves, and small for his age. It would have pleased them to extend the hospitality of their tent to the honored guest and strut a little in consequence, but Mr. Wade’s order was not to be questioned.

Gordon lay among the Hyenas, who had given him a rousing welcome to their tent, and listened to their talk about the accident at the chasm and the sending of the Morse message. One by one, voices dropped out of the discussion as their owners fell asleep, until only three talked on in the darkness.

“He’s all right,” said one, “and a mighty clever little fellow. He seems to have an idea that his chum is just as smart as he is himself.”

“He thinks the world of his patrol leader, all right,” said another. “I don’t suppose there’s one chance in a thousand of that fellow’s catching the message.”

“Oh, he might have seen the fire,” put in another, “but whether he could follow it is another question. It was pretty long for a fire message.”

“Yes, and even if he got the sense of it, he’d be a wonder if he did anything.”

“What could he do, anyway?”

“He can make a rice pudding.”

“Sure he can!”

“Well, it was good sport sending the message, anyway, but jiminy, my arm is stiff!”

“Silence there between decks!” called a new voice.

“Ralph, the bos’n, as I live! Thought you were asleep, Ralph.”

“I bet Al Wilson could have caught those flashes and spelled them out, all right.”

“You bet he could.”

Presently the voices ceased altogether, and Gordon lay in his corner near the wall of the tent, thinking over all that had happened since he parted from Harry. He had made a great hit with this Albany troop, greater than he supposed, but his mind was by no means at ease. He thought of his chum waiting or searching for him with no clue to his whereabouts, and of how Harry must spread his balloon silk shelter and lie down alone, perplexed and anxious about himself. And here was he, resting on a springy cot after a goodly supper of hunters’ stew. And he had allowed two strangers to go out in the night to find and make explanations to his friend. Oh, how he hoped that by some fortunate chance Harry had caught the message and actually understood it.

Of course, he had no doubt as to his duty after finding the stricken Walter. But perhaps he ought to have gone first to meet Harry, and then together they could have followed the trail of the pink arrow. He made up his mind that as soon as morning came he would take this road under the hill and go straight to Dibble Mountain, and if Harry were not there he would track him and find him. “I can do it all right,” he assured himself; “that’s nothing.”

During the excitement of the evening, his chief desire had been that Harry should do a mighty feat in the face of all odds, and show these Albany fellows what a winner he really was. But now he found himself growing more and more doubtful of the possibility of this and thinking only of Harry’s anxiety when he did not appear.

Still, he dreaded the morning, when the boys would doubtless speak indulgently of Harry, cheerfully humoring his own hero-worship, and probably feeling in their hearts that his friend’s greatness existed chiefly in his own mind. “If they only knew of the things he has done,” he thought; “if they only knew.”

Then, for the first time, he fell to thinking of the robbery. It was inconceivable to his honest, buoyant soul. Never had he been brought so close to a crime before. Some one who knew that Walter Lee would be coming through the woods with money had tampered with the bridge and lurked about until the boy fell insensible, then robbed him, and left him, perhaps to die. He began to realize the horror of the thing now. He thought of Walter, as he had found him, lying stark and white in the muddy chasm. For all he knew, Harry might now be lying, bleeding and unconscious, in some gully where he had fallen searching for his recreant friend. Sleep was out of the question.

He hastily pulled on his clothing, raised the wall of the tent, and crept softly out, stumbling into the drain ditch. A few yards away a gleam of light shone from a tent upon the Ravens’ patrol flag just outside. Gordon stood at a distance looking in. Walter Lee lay on a cot in the center, and the “First Aid” boy stood near making jerky motions as if hammering tacks. Then he placed something in Walter’s mouth. It seemed to Gordon that Walter was smoking a cigarette—strange doings for a boy scout! Then he saw that the “First Aid” boy had been shaking down the mercury in the clinical thermometer, preparatory to taking his patient’s temperature.

This “First Aid” boy had not mixed with the others, had hardly spoken to any one during the evening. He had shown no interest in the signaling, nor even in the robbery. Apparently he had no intention of sleeping. He wore above the elbow of his right arm one of the grandest badges that a boy scout can seek—the ambulance badge.

“I wish Dr. Brent could see that fellow,” thought Gordon. He was always ready to admire others. In a corner of the tent under a lantern sat Mr. Wade writing. Gordon wondered if he were writing to Walter Lee’s parents. A faint odor of carbolic from the tent mingled with the pure, still air of the night. It was very quiet within. The “First Aid” boy made no sound as he moved about. “I wish I knew that fellow’s name,” said Gordon.

He crept away into the woods and up the hill, where the fire—a long period to the message, as Al called it—was still burning,—a useless beacon, as it seemed. He went down the other side of the hill to the road, took out his jack-knife, opened both blades, and stuck one of them into the earth. Kneeling, he fixed his teeth on the other blade. There was no vibration, no sound which could possibly be construed into a distant footfall. He tried it again, fifty yards or so along the road, with the same result.

Slowly he trudged up the hill again, pulled up his stocking, and stood by the fire. In the woods below he could distinguish the faint gleam of the lantern in the open tent. There was no sound but the low sputtering of the blaze and the distant hoot of an owl. Gordon sat down and clasped his hands around his drawn-up knees.

“These fellows don’t know how hard it is to shoot rapids and ride logs down a river,” he said.

He did not even have an apple to comfort him.

Harry Arnold sat on a rock by the roadside, eating raisins out of a small pasteboard box. On the ground lay his canvas pack, and against it leaned his rifle. The air was brisk, for the night was well along, but he wore no jacket, and the double row of pearl buttons on his blue flannel shirt shone occasionally in the fitful gleams of moonlight. The moon was working like a suffragette for its rights, but was continually being effaced by the clouds which were rapidly coming to monopolize the sky. If the breeze continued to increase Harry would, perhaps, compromise with it by getting out a thin sweater, but under no circumstances would he so far yield as to put on a coat. The matter of attire was his weak point, and his total absence of any interest in the scout regalia was the source of a great deal of sorrow to Gordon.

Once he tightened the thin book-strap which he used for a belt and put his belt ax into his canvas bag. Once he leaned and fastened the laces in his mooseskin moccasins. He was as slender as a boy could be without being noticeably thin,—gracefully slender, one would say.

At the present moment he was just passing from the stage of mild curiosity into that of anxiety for his young friend. For, making full allowance for delays caused by inquiries and for Gordon’s independent propensity to amble along in search of treasure, he was already very much overdue.

“I bet he shows up with a fifty-cent piece that he’s found, or a lady’s buckle, or a rusty jack-knife,” said Harry.

But Gordon did not show up with any of these things, and when an hour and a half had gone by and still he did not come, Harry became seriously anxious. He knew Gordon’s tendency to jump the track, as he called it, and he thought it not at all improbable that he would any minute hear, from the thicket, the hollow hand clap, merging into a rubbing sound, which so accurately simulated the noise made by a four-footed beaver. It had cost the patrol some trouble and not a little expense to get this sound from first sources, and learn to make it, and you might practise it a week and not fool a beaver; but Gordon had it pat.

So Harry did not think it wise to leave the spot for long at a time. At length, however, he tied a wisp of grass around a sapling, and concealing his bag in the undergrowth started down the road along which Gordon should come. A walk of fifteen minutes brought him to a house where a dog barked at him vociferously. He did not waken the inmates, for he knew that if Gordon had passed or called at the house, he would have heard the distant barking. Another fifteen or twenty minutes brought him to a ramshackle building, the home of one of the unprosperous farmers of the district. Here he made inquiries, but the farmer, roused from his sleep, was very brief and surly and had seen no one. Harry thanked him with unaffected courtesy and went on.

What surprised him most was that the occasional moonlight showed him no footprints. After a few minutes he came to a little opening at the left of the road and, straining his eyes, looked down through a vista of trees which ran through the woods at a direct right angle from the road. This reminded him that he had looked through a similar vista on the west side of the straight road on which he had gone north. So there was evidently a woodland track connecting the two roads he and Gordon had taken, which did not show on the map. Turning rather abruptly into this woodland byway were two wide concave tracks. He walked a little farther down the road and in a flare of moonlight discovered a perfect carnival of footprints. They faced in every direction, north, south, east, west. There were scoopy indentations showing the heel counter of a shoe, and little points in the ground, indicating the downward thrusts of a toe.

“There’s only one thing lacking,” said Harry; “I wonder where she waited.” He walked over to the stone wall and picked up a little reticule containing, on hasty inspection, sixteen cents, a handkerchief, and a bottle of smelling salts. This he thrust into his pocket. He also thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled.

“I bet he enjoyed this,” he soliloquized; “I can just see him standing here watching—and waiting for a chance to spring a good turn.”

He was perfectly satisfied that an auto had broken down. He picked out where a man had lain on his stomach, had knelt, had lain on his back. He put big prints and little prints together, like a picture puzzle, and made human attitudes out of them. And he concluded that this interesting exhibition, right in Gordon’s line, was accountable for the boy’s delay. The auto had evidently turned down the wooded byway in order to get into the better road. That Gordon should have abandoned his investigations to be carried to his destination in an auto seemed hardly probable, except on the theory that he was on the trail of a good turn. But what other explanation was there?

Acting on this theory, he turned back, sure that he would find Gordon waiting for him. When he was within hailing distance of the point where the roads converged he made the Beaver call, and was surprised that it was not answered. Presently he reached the spot. The rock was empty, the wisp of grass was as he had left it on the sapling. The moon was behind a cloud now, so he lit a match and examined the eastern road. There were the auto tracks, but running along one of these with lighted matches for fifty yards or so (covering the spot where the two roads met), he could find no interruption in the concave line. The auto had not stopped. It had gone straight on along the road which skirted Dibble Mountain.

Now, Harry was truly alarmed and more than perplexed. It was late at night, the moonlight was fitful and uncertain, it was more often pitch dark than not. He did not like to give up and rig his shelter for the night. Idly he picked up the empty raisin box. Above him rose almost sheer the grim, black side of the mountain. Soon he must eat something, at any rate, for he was cruelly hungry.

“Kid,” he said aloud, “where are you, anyway?”

And then, on the minute, the answer came. Over in the west—a mile—two—three,—he did not know,—there flickered a tiny light in the darkness. Presently it grew larger, then disappeared, then came again. Half interested, in his preoccupation, he waited for it to reappear. Now it came and went, rapidly, in alternate flashes. He looked behind him into the east to see if there were any answering light, but the flame came jumping out faster and faster, as if to say, “Look here, you—I have something to say—wait.” He waited, and when it came again it stayed, one, two seconds. Instantly he was on his feet. It disappeared and showed again for just a fraction of a second, then flared steadily, then showed for another fraction of a second. He watched it intently as it came and went. Now came a longer pause between the flashes.

And on the bottom of the little raisin box that Harry held he had written with the lead of a rifle cartridge the letters CAMP.

He did not write the arbitrary signs for translation later; he took the message in plain English, with never doubt or hesitancy, and in good time he had it all.

“All right, Kid,” he said, smiling; “glad to hear from you,” and dropped the cartridge into his pocket.

He was much relieved, of course, and very curious. Taking his pack and rifle, he ran up the road until he came to the first turn. The distant fire now burned steadily, though not as high as before, and he could see that the road he had reached must lead in its direction. He was to go down this road and watch any one he met. He hid his pack near the roadside, took his rifle, and crept stealthily along through the trees which bordered the road. His toes, free and pliant in their soft moccasins, pinned and held the twigs on which he stepped and he made no sound. Now and then a low, sudden scurrying told him that he had disturbed some smaller creature of the wood, but save for these trifling sounds he walked in perfect silence.

The moon edged slowly from behind a cloud. “That’s right,” he whispered, “bully for you—be a scout—come on out and help.” Perhaps the moon was influenced by his persuasive words and felt that such a boy on such a business and against such odds was entitled to all the help that she could give. In any event, she sailed majestically clear of her encumbrances and, as sure as you live, smiled a broad scout smile down upon Harry Arnold. “Now you’re talking,” commented Harry. “Keep it up and I’ll see you get the bronze medal—only keep it up.”

He crept up to the road and looked for footprints, but found none of recent making. His information was pitiably meager. A scout had been robbed, and it was evidently suspected that the robber or robbers had taken this road. That was all he knew. No one had passed here lately, that was sure. He assumed that the signalers had good reason to believe that some one had taken this direction. He figured that he could get to the vicinity of the fire inside of an hour. So it would work the same the other way. He would conceal himself and watch the road for an hour. If he saw no one, he would simply assume that the robber had not taken the open road.

Now, if he had carried out this plan, he would shortly have seen the two boys who had set out to find him. But Harry Arnold, Scout, was a mile off the road when these boys passed, and this is how it happened.

Before settling down to watch the road, he noticed a small bridge a few yards farther along under which a stream flowed. You could canoe from the Albany scouts’ camp to Lake Champlain on this stream, but Harry knew nothing of the Albany camp. For all he knew, the Morse message had come from the Oakwood scouts. In quest of a draught of water, he went stealthily down the bank. He knelt, looked at the water, felt of it, and shook his head. Then he stood on the brink of the stream with his two hands resting on the bridge, which was about level with his shoulder. Thus he craned his neck, looking up and down the road. Satisfied, he vaulted silently up to the planking. His spring was as graceful and agile as a panther’s. Instinctively, he looked down to see if he had left any sign, for it is part of the A B C of scouting to leave no clue behind, whatever your business, except what you leave for a purpose. There on the edge of the planking were the wet prints of his two hands. “Humph,” said he, and studied them closely. Then he knelt, felt of one, daintily, softly, and brushed his two hands together. “Dried quick,” said he. He leaped down to the bank and felt of the water.

“Tisn’t so muddy, either.” He placed his hands on the planking over the two marks. They did not match his. “I didn’t think I had a paw like that,” he said.

He looked beneath him on the bank where the dank grass was flattened. “Too clumsy to vault it,” was his comment. “One of those big gawking country jays, I guess.” He crept up the bank to the road, where the moonlight flickered down through the branches of a willow tree. Reaching up, he wriggled a broken limb, then smilingly kicked a small twig that lay in the road. Crossing, he found a ruffled place, half in the road and half in the bordering growths, where the brush seemed to be trampled down. All this he examined in an amused, half-careless way. Presently he took a short run and leaped across the road. “Easy enough,” he said. Stooping, he carefully examined the ground and rose triumphant, holding a small, flat paper package in his hand. “Maunabasha!” he whispered to himself. (Maunabasha was the good Indian spirit that occasionally smiled on his endeavors.) He lighted a match and read the lettering on the package: