Billy To-morrow Stands the Test

BILLY kept every one busy till an excellent meal was ready. It would surprise those unaccustomed to camping to know that they had hot potatoes, broiled bacon, coffee, and hot bannocks—“sinkers,” the boys called them. Yet they had neither kettles nor dishes, except one aluminum pail, and each scout had his collapsible cup.

The potatoes were roasted in the ashes, the bannocks were mixed in the pail, patted into thin, wafer-like biscuits, spread on a clean board Billy had begged at the farmhouse, and put to bake before the fire. The pail was then washed and used for the coffee. The bacon was toasted, each man for himself, his slice pinched in the split end of a green stick.

Butter, jam, crackers, and canned milk added the “class” to the meal, for which Billy carefully measured out the rations, that they might not encroach upon to-morrow’s supplies, for there would be no time for fishing: a more serious business claimed them.

Around the camp-fire they sat a while, toasting and drying, for the night was damp and chilly. Billy insisted on some speech, song, or story from each one, knowing that would help to banish the gloom. He called for opinions or stories regarding the Scouts’ motto, “Be prepared,” showing how it might become more of a talisman to them, how it could become a continual incentive to effort.

“You never know when knowledge is going to come handy,” Redtop said. “That reminds me of a story of the desert country over east of the mountains, where the ranches are fenced with barbed wire. They run their telephones by means of them now; but some years back before any one had thought of that, some miscreants planned to rob a place, and cut the telephone wires that their escape might be easy. A bright boy discovered the cut, suspected some deviltry was up, and connected up the wires by tying the cut ends to the fence. The robbers did not discover the trap, and when they went to loot the house they met the police, and were caught.”

“A good story,” Billy declared; “I wonder how that boy saved himself a shock?”

“Rubber would do it,” Redtop answered; “and glass, though that would be hard to manage.”

“The shock from telephone wires wouldn’t be much,” Mumps said.

Billy called for a count of things each had noticed in the woods that day, Redtop to keep the count, and was pleased when Hugh outdid all in original observation.

“Some of those things have never been reported in any book that I ever read,” Bump declared. “You’ll make a boss scout, Fairy. I never can get the hang of making fire the way you do.”

“If I live long enough,” Hugh gloomed; “I’m big as sixteen and not twelve yet; just a baby.”

“No matter, kid. Put your thinker to something else. Who’s trying for the city flag design? September will be here before you know it.”

“Have you done anything, Billy?”

“I’ve an idea coming, but I haven’t chased it down to paper yet.”

“Are you going to try, Redtop?” Hugh’s thin little voice finished in a low rumble that made the rest laugh.

“Me? I couldn’t draw a flag-pole that anybody’d recognize unless it was labelled.”

Billy tried hard to keep the talk brisk, yet his own mind wandered. He was thinking unusual thoughts. Something in the lush fragrant woods, in the silence and the leaping flames,—or was it the feeling that other denizens might be prowling near?—recalled “The Idyls of the King,” that king

All his boyhood Billy had wished he might have lived in the olden days of chivalry, when men gave their lives for the succor of the weak and wronged. The glitter and splendor of court and tournament described in Tennyson’s ringing, singing lines, thrilled him; stirred a passion that he hid within the silence of his own heart, since he found few that understood the feeling. Hugh and May Nell were the only ones of his friends who felt as he did about the ideals of chivalry. Erminie either looked at him in wonder or laughed at him for a visionary.

But to-night the world-old stories of high adventure, where all was risked for love of humanity, came to him with new force, culminating in a sudden vision of what the tragedy on Calvary meant. There could have been no good deed done in the past that was not possible to-day; and perhaps this very quest for the little child was as worthy as the romantic deeds of Arthur’s knights.

Suddenly Billy straightened, and began to tell the story of that famed Round Table where sat the knights of the king, Launcelot, Sir Percivale; Merlin, the Magician, and his evil fate, Vivien. He told of the pitiful Elaine, the beautiful queen, and how she wrecked Arthur’s court, and of Sir Galahad and his search for the Holy Grail.

At first the boys were not interested; but Billy’s voice deepened with earnestness; and the fire declined, leaving only its glowing heart changing, gleaming, and paling like a monster opal, while the silent forest drew closer, seemed to reach down and clasp them, till almost they felt themselves transported to those

“Fellows, every age needs its King Arthur and a Round Table of knights who think more of redressing human wrong and abating human suffering than they think of their own bodies and meat and drink. That is what our Congress at Washington should be. I wish it might become the fashion to go to Congress for what men could put into the nation, not for what they can get out of it.”

He rose and reached his hand up toward the stars, showing bright in the small open space above the tall trees. “Think of it! Just to do nothing but feed oneself, earn, spend, sleep, and die,—an ox does that. Yet most of us think that if we do that and keep out of jail we do enough; we are men.”

“Just what are you driving at, Billy?” Bump yawned.

Billy, out of patience, went over and shook him. “Driving at? I’m thinking of the chances I waste every day while I moon over the great things men used to do: that if we can only find that child and I can get back to work, I’ll dig! I’ll ‘be prepared’ even if my sword is a shovel instead of Excalibur. I’m going to—”

He stopped abruptly. “It’s time to turn in, boys,” he said quietly, turning away, ashamed of having shown his emotion.

Rubber blankets over boughs were all “to the good.” They spent little time in chaff or “rough-house,” and in a few minutes all but Billy were asleep. He could not rest. The day had been too exciting to give room to any of his own affairs; but now Erminie intruded.

Why had she not come out the night of the playground rally? He knew her contention that she should keep out of sight, yet she had almost promised. Had her father learned of their night on the island? He had thrashed this over before, but in each quiet moment the question came again insistently. He tossed and turned wondering that he should notice that the bed was hard, that his blanket was short, that the others snored; usually these things were as nothing.

But at last he slept.

They were astir at five o’clock, and breakfast was soon over, when they were off again. They stopped first at the farmhouse to hear the latest word, which was not encouraging. The men had been out all night and found no trace; now they were starting for the lake where nearly all felt the search would end.

Not Billy. He decided that, if the lake proved the child’s fate, it mattered little when she was found. Yet she might be in the forest; and with the endorsement of the others he set about a still more careful hunt in the woods.

Through the forenoon, which was clear and warm, they travelled by twos, taking many by-paths they had neglected the day before. The going was hard, and their faces were scratched by thorn and brier. They climbed logs and delved into many a hidden hole where the child never would have thought of going, unless she had crept there in fear. Billy kept the details well abreast of one another by whistles and calls, and as fast as possible made their general direction toward home, for soon they must give up the search and be on their way.

Near noon a shout from Bob who was following up one side of a huge fallen tree halted Billy on the other side. “I’ve found the flag!”

Billy ran around the towering root of the trunk. It was true, but such a flag! Creased, torn, and soiled, it was hardly recognizable. Where it lay, the ferns and wild grasses were trampled as if some light thing had walked about, perhaps lain there.

A whistle said imperatively “Come!” and Billy, marking the spot and the way, followed the call to find Mumps and Hugh excited over a little black stocking. That, too, was torn; and a dark spot on it showed where briers had pierced the tender skin.

“We’re warm!” Billy exclaimed. “We’ll find her near here, or—” He did not finish; but each knew what Billy did not voice. They forgot their own fatigue; their scratched hands and weary feet. A fresh strength invaded them as a tide from some unknown sea of life. They divided again, travelling faster and in parallel lines following the direction pointed by flag and stocking.

It was perhaps half an hour later when Billy’s quick eye detected a splotch of white protruding from under a fallen log ahead. He called to Robert and ran forward, his heart beating with mingled fear and hope of what he should see. His feet were lead and would not move, he thought; yet he was running fast, catching in tangles, recovering, jumping logs, fighting each clinging, hindering vine and shrub.

When he reached the place he saw what he sought—the child. One small scratched bare foot lay out from under the torn white frock, beside the other, hardly more protected by its torn shoe and stocking. With a sick fear Billy bent to look upon the face hidden by the drooping ferns.

But when he looked, he saw a sweet little face, stained with tears but unmarred by claw or tooth, the lips red with life, her breath coming evenly.

At once he turned and gave a great shout which Robert echoed; and both blew their whistles. Instantly came replies. The sudden noise woke the child in fright, and she screamed and cowered closer; yet in a second she hushed, and peered cautiously out from her leafy nook.

“Don’t be afraid, little kid,” Billy said softly, not touching her lest that might add to her fear. “You’re lost and we’ve been hunting you a long time. Come out. Are you hungry?”

Between each sentence he paused, thinking she might be dazed with wandering, loneliness, and sleep, and could not at once realize that they meant her no harm. “Don’t be afraid, little girl,” he said again. “We’ve come to take you home.”

She sat up and looked the boys over with calm, questioning eyes that measured them well before she spoke. “Are you a gypsy man? Because if you are, you won’t take me home, but to your gypsy country.”

“Not so bad as that, baby; just American boys going to take you to your mama.”

“I’m not a baby,” she gravely replied, creeping out of her nest, surprisingly free from stiffness. “I’m seven, and my name is Signa.” But when she put her weight on her brier-torn foot she winced and cried out with pain.

Billy opened his knapsack and offered her some crackers and cheese. “Here! Eat this. You must be awfully hungry.”

She took the food, but ate slowly, at which the boys marvelled; they had expected to see her bolt it.

“Have you had anything to eat since you ran away?”

“I didn’t run away, I walked. And I had my dinner pail, and in it was some lunch I didn’t eat at school. I tooked some cookies from my Aunt Felda’s pantry too.”

The others came tearing up, expectant, excited, puffing with their speed. After so much walking an extra run told on them; but the relief of finding the little girl safe and well was as good as rest.

Billy ordered them back to a more open space to make camp, carrying the little girl himself. In a jiffy they prepared their light meal, dispensing with coffee for no one felt like taking time to hunt for water.

While Billy was carrying the child to a place of honor at their luncheon she spoke up shyly. “I ’spect my face is dirty—I didn’t wash this morning; I couldn’t find any water.”

“I’ll fix you, kid.” He put her down, took from one of his pockets a clean handkerchief, searched a moment till he found a wide, cup-shaped leaf full of rain water in which he wet a part of the handkerchief, and went back to her. “Here you are, a whole toilet outfit, little kid.”

“No, I can do it myself,” she said as he began gently to wipe the smudged little face. She caught the cloth and used it vigorously.

“Weren’t you afraid?” Redtop asked when the first, busy part of the meal was over.

“Of what?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Of everything: bears, the dark, and—”

“Dark doesn’t hurt; it isn’t anything. And bears—we don’t have much of them. For a minute I was afraid of—of him.” She pointed to Billy. “I thought he was a gypsy man, and they are the baddest, they are.”

“She’s plucky for a girl kid,” Bump volunteered.

“She’s plucky for anybody, boy or man. It’s no sociable experience to be lost overnight in these woods, I bet.” Mumps looked gloomily into the dark depths in front of them.

Some laughed, and the reaction from the long strain brought relief; but Billy interrupted it.

“Fellows, our scout has been different from the plan, but we have found what we came after, the flag and—the good deed.”

“Oh, is that a flag? Where’s the red, white, and blue? I was cold and I wore it.” The child reached up where it hung and traced the design with her finger, the while rubbing one brier-scratched leg with her calloused little bare foot.

Billy explained the flag to her, and then to the others said, “We must start if we are to reach home to-night. There’s no time for Sunday exercises, but what do you say to a song?”

“All right! Good enough!” they shouted.

“What shall it be?”

They answered one thing and another, but the girl piped, “‘My Country, ’tis of Thee’; I can sing that.”

So there in the woods they sang the hymn, not so inappropriate as it might seem, since a country is its people, and these young citizens had performed a noble service. There was a note of thanksgiving in the voices swelling there in the forest stillness, the child’s thin treble standing out clear from the rest.

The mother was beyond speech when they brought her baby to her; but the father, who had been summoned from the city and had spent the night in vain search, coming now from his dismal task on the lake, had more than words for two. He praised the boys, begged them to stop all night, tried to reward them, and failing that, ordered his wife to cook the best dinner “ever spread in the shack.”

With difficulty Billy explained that they had no time to wait for dinners, that they must get back to the city by sunset.

The Swedish farmer frowned at this speech, and tried to dissuade them. Failing that, he made a welcome proposition. “I have a good team and carriage, my neighbor also; we’ll drive you to town in two hours. To that you shall not say no.”

They were glad to accept this offer, and none knew how tired they were till they were jogging on their way home. Billy’s pedometer recorded forty-one miles.

They arrived in town with no adventure; and after reporting by telephone to Mr. Streeter, Billy went home to find his mother keeping dinner warm for him.

Mrs. Bennett waited on him, and listened to as much of his story as he felt like telling; he found it hard to repeat from sheer fatigue. When he had left the table she handed him a note.

“Bess brought that to-day, and said you were to read it the minute you arrived; but I thought something to eat might prepare you. She seemed to think it of great importance.” Mrs. Bennett smiled and began to clear the table; but Billy, with a prompting he could not understand, took it to his room to read.

What he saw in the printed slip, a circular in form, banished sleep, fatigue, every emotion but anger.