Hervey Willetts

Hervey Willetts stood petrified. He was in the hands of the gods—or the devils. I have sometimes wondered if he ever, ever thought. Behind every act, good or bad, there is some kind of intention. And I have told you about boys whose intentions were not of the best. But what of this boy? There was just never anything behind his acts. No boy could catch him. Yet the band and the waiting light caught him. And what did they do to him? The light seemed to be waiting for him, there at the foot of the ladder. All else was darkness. Only the area of brightness bathing the ladder and the big tank with its metal corners. It seemed to say, “Come, I am going up with you.” And, God help him, he went to it as a moth flies to a flame.

When he had ascended a few feet, he remembered that Diving Denniver went up very slowly seeming to test each rung. He knew now that this had been for effect and to make the climb seem long. For the rungs were sound and strong. Also the performer had occasionally extended his arm. The substitute realized that there had been good reason for that, for the breeze was more brisk as he ascended and he knew that the diver had thus held out his hand by way of keeping tabs on the breeze.

The small tank permitted no divergence from the straight descent. To land outside it—

He went up slowly, but did not pause at each rung. He could be reckless, but not theatrical. But he did hold out his hand every few feet and the gay breeze cooled his sweaty palm. Was the wind too strong? What would Diving Denniver do? Go back? But in any case Hervey could not do that. He never turned back.

He continued ascending, up, up, up. He could feel the ladder sway a little. When he was about half-way up, the breeze made a little murmur where it was cut by one of the wires extending off slantingways, far off down to the earth somewhere. It was funny how he could see these wires in the circle of light that had accompanied him in his long climb, but could not follow them with his eyes to their distant anchorages. Each wire disappeared in the darkness, and he had an odd fear that they did not go anywhere. He saw the lights of the carnival, but no human beings. Were they gazing at him—hundreds of upturned faces?

Up, up, up he went. Was there no end to it? Now he did really feel the force of the breeze. Was it too strong? How could he decide that? He could hear the band, but he knew it would cease playing when he reached the top. In that one brief moment of suspense it would cease playing. His companion light moved with him like a good pal. And beyond and below all was darkness except for the lights of the carnival.

Up, up, up he climbed. And he came at last to the little platform at the top, as big as the top of a stepladder. It was just a little shelf fixed to the fifth or sixth rung from the top. But the part of the ladder above that would serve as a back and he could lean against it. By fancying the ground was right below him, by eliminating the distance from his mind, he was able to squirm around and get onto this tiny shelf. He did not know how Diving Denniver did this, but he managed it.

Standing on the little shelf and leaning back, he could feel the ladder shake under him. Of course, there were several ladders clamped together and the extending wires could not hold the towering structure absolutely taut. But it was steady at the top.

Far below him was a square frame of lights marking the sides of the tank which had been illuminated during his ascent. Within it the water shimmered. His senses swam and he closed his eyes, then opened them and got control of himself. A straight down dive would do it. Would it? Yes, he was sure. He let go the ladder and laid his two hands palm to palm above his head.

There was no music now.

CHAPTER XXX
STUNT OR SERVICE

The next thing he knew he was lying propped up against a tree and people were crowding about him. He knew this was not in tribute to him for he heard a voice say, “Some crazy little fool, all right.”

“Did you ’phone?” he heard some one ask.

“Yes, he’ll be here soon.”

“He isn’t the regular one, is he?” another asked.

“Don’t ask me,” another answered; “I just followed the crowd.”

All the while a boy in a scout suit was moving his hand around near Hervey’s foot. Emerging from his stunned condition, Hervey had an odd impression that this boy was stirring something in a bowl. Far off was the monotonous, incessant music of the merry-go-round. Then, as Hervey blinked his eyes and brushed his soaking hair back with a wet hand it seemed as if this boy were playing the music, for his hand moved in time with that muffled clamor. Hervey lapsed off into unconcern again and closed his eyes. It was only giddiness. When he opened them again, he watched the boy with a kind of detached curiosity. He felt a tightening sensation in his leg. Then he realized that the boy had been drawing a bandage tighter and tighter around his calf by revolving a stick. Still Hervey was only vaguely interested.

“Stopped?” some one asked.

“Yep,” said the boy. He sat at Hervey’s feet with hands clasped around his drawn-up knees. Soon he arose and stood looking as if to ascertain on his own account if some one were coming.

“Who are you looking for?” Hervey asked weakly.

“The doctor,” answered the boy. He was a tall boy. As he stood looking, he kicked something with his foot.

“What’s that?” Hervey asked.

The boy picked it up and dangled it in front of him, laughing. It was just about recognizable as the body of a kewpie doll, and it was a ghastly sight, for the head hung loose and the body was mangled and out of shape. “Glad you’re not as bad off as that, hey?” said the scout. “I won that blamed thing ringing canes and I got—I bet I got three yards of cloth off it; there goes.” And twirling it cruelly by one leg, he hurled it gayly over the heads of the throng.

“You people get away from here, go on,” said the robust voice of a policeman. “Go on, all of yer, get away from here; he ain’t hurt much. Go on, chase yourselves, you kids.”

“He can’t chase me anyway,” said Hervey.

“That’s a good one,” laughed the boy. “Nor me either; I’m the surgeon general or whatever you call it.”

“You can’t chase me,” said Hervey to the policeman. “That’s where I’ve got the laugh on you.”

“If I was your father, I’d chase you to the padded cell,” the policeman commented, then busied himself clearing away the loiterers.

The scout examined his twisted bandage and gave it one more twist. Then he sat down on the ground beside Hervey. Two or three men and the policeman lingered about, but did not bother these two.

“That was some crazy stunt all right,” said the scout.

“Did I—where did I fall?” Hervey asked.

“You went in the tank, but only just, I guess. Your foot must have knocked the edge; four of the electric bulbs were broken. I don’t think there’s any glass in your foot; anyway, I stopped it bleeding. Gee, boy, I did murder that kewpie doll! How the dickens did you happen to do that, anyway?” Hervey told him briefly.

“Good night, some daredevil! I dived to-day, but I had the whole river to dive in. Me for that tank stuff—not.”

“Are you a scout in this town?” Hervey asked. “Yep, South Farrelton. I was here last night and I had my fortune told and the old woman told me I’d be lucky. I was all right. And believe me, so were you.”

“How were you lucky?” Hervey asked.

“Oh, things came my way. I’m here with my patrol to-night; I guess the cop chased them—good thing. They’d have trampled all over you.”

“They’re always chasing people,” Hervey said. “They came and got that diving wonder even, they’re so blamed fresh. And he’s a wonder of two continents. Anyway, I’m always lucky.”

“I’ll say you are!”

“I’m going out to Montana, maybe to South America. I bet you can do what you want down there. They weave Panama hats under the water; gee, I bet I could do that. I always land right side up, that’s one thing about me.”

“It’s a darned good thing,” said the scout.

Hervey did not bother to ask him his name, but the boy told him; it was Wyne Corson. “That’s a good first name, hey?” he said. “Wyne? It’s better than lose. There’s a scout in our troop named Luze—they call us Win and Lose. He’s a Hungarian on his great granddaughter’s side, I guess. Here comes the crowd back; I guess the doctor’s coming.”

The doctor came and kneeled down, brisk, smiling and efficient. He seemed not to take any interest in the spectacular exploit, only in the injured foot. “Well, I guess you’re all right,” he said after treating and bandaging the foot. “You won’t be able to run any marathon races to-morrow.”

“Can I the next day?” Hervey asked.

“No, you can’t the next day,” the doctor laughed. “Who’s going to take you home?”

Then he offered to do it himself and Wyne Corson got the hero’s brown shirt and knickerbockers from the tent and maneuvered him into them. He even placed the treasured hat on his head at an unconventional angle. He seemed to have an inspired appreciation of Hervey’s bizarre character. Then they helped him to the waiting car. Gaping stragglers watched the self-appointed understudy of the diving wonder as he limped between the doctor and the scout, past the enclosure of the five-legged calf, and around the festooned platform where the merry dance was on. Whirling couples paused to stare at him and one girl ran out and boldly inspected the celebrity from head to foot. “Oh, he has the brightest eyes,” she confided to her waiting partner, “and the funniest little hat with all sorts of buttons on it. Do you know who he reminds me of? Peter Pan.”

At the doctor’s car half a dozen scouts stood about gazing at Hervey. They hardly knew what to make of him, but they had a kind of instinctive respect for him and showed it. I am not sure that this was just on account of his daredevil exploit. There was something about him and that’s all there is to it. Good or bad, he was different.

“Did I do the right thing?” Wyne Corson ventured to ask the doctor. He had hoped he might be asked to accompany Hervey, but apparently this was not to be.

“Oh yes indeed—the only thing,” said the doctor. “You were on the job and efficient and clever. That’s the kind of thing I like to see.”

“You ought to have seen what he did,” Wyne ventured. Was he falling for this cracked-brained youngster too?

“I don’t believe I’d care to see that,” said the doctor with brisk good-humor.

And there stood Wyne Corson with his scout comrades about him. They did not comment upon his efficiency nor the doctor’s ready compliment.

“Did he talk to you? What did he say?” asked one.

“Where does he live?” asked another.

“Is he friendly, sort of?” asked a third.

“For the love of Christopher, why didn’t you talk to him yourselves?” laughed Wyne. “He wouldn’t eat you up. Come on, I’m going to treat to ice cream again, then let’s go home.”

CHAPTER XXXI
HOPELESS

He sat in a big old-fashioned chair in the living room with his injured foot upon a stool, in deference to the powers that be. There was a knock on the front door and presently young Mr. Ebin Talbot, scoutmaster, poked his head around the casing of the living room in a way of mock temerity.

“May I come in and have a look at the wonder of wonders?” he asked. “How are we; getting better?”

“It hurts a little when I stand on it.”

“Then the best thing is not to stand on it, hey? Like the advice to a young man about to stand on his head on a steeple—Don’t. Good advice, huh? Well Herve, old boy, I’ve got you where I want you at last; your foot’s hurt and you can’t get away from me. Did you ever hear the story about the donkey that kicked the lion? Only the lion was dead. Well, I’m the donkey and you’re the lion; I’ve got you where you can’t jump down my neck. Do you know that was a crazy thing you did, Herve? You just put yourself in my power. Maybe you did it so you wouldn’t have to go to school, huh? Where’s your dad?”

“He’s at the store.”

“Have you heard about this conspiracy to send you to military school?” Poor man, he was trying to reach Hervey by the good pal method. He drew his chair close and spoke most confidentially. “I think we can beat it,” he said.

“Leave it to me,” said Hervey.

“You’re not worrying?”

“I’d be there about three days,” said Hervey.

“I think you’d be there about three years, my boy.”

“What do you bet? Everybody’s calling me a crazy daredevil. Do you think I wouldn’t be enough of a daredevil to get away from a military school? Bimbo, that’s a cinch.”

It seemed to be something that Hervey was quite looking forward to; a lure to new adventure. Mr. Talbot went on another tack.

“Well, I thought if we could slip you into the Scouts in time, we could beat your dad to it.”

“I’ll beat them all to it, all right,” said Hervey vaguely. “They arrested that wonder—even of two continents he’s a wonder—but I gave them a good run. I nearly bit that feller’s hand off when he grabbed me. Do you dare me that I won’t get away from military school?”

“Oh goodness no, but listen, Herve.” He became soft and serious. “You can listen, can’t you? You haven’t got anything else to do—now. You know that boy who put the jigamerig around your leg?”

“Carter—something like that?”

“You don’t remember his name, Herve? Wyne Corson. That fellow is in the troop they’ve got down in the south end; they’ve got quite an outfit. One of them—he’s just a kid—wants to have a hat like yours. When you jumped, you jumped right into the hearts of the Raccoon Patrol; you didn’t hit the tank at all. Well, that fellow was—now listen, here’s a knockout for you. Do you know how those fellows happened to be at the carnival last night?”

“Do you think I bother ringing canes?” said Hervey.

“Well, it’s good he won a kewpie doll, now isn’t it? But that’s not the knockout. He won a prize yesterday and he was giving his patrol a kind of a blowout last night at the carnival. I think there’s going to be a shortage of pop-corn for the next forty-’leven years.”

“Well, yesterday morning he was up the river with that scout—that little stocky fellow; did you notice him?”

“No.”

“Well, he noticed you. They were up on Blackberry Cliff; as near as I can make out they’re always out for eats. There was a girl in a canoe down below; she belongs in that white house right across from the cliff. What I’m telling you is in this afternoon’s paper—you can see it. Well sir, the canoe upset, and this Wyne, he dived from the Cliff—that’s pretty high, you know, Herve, and he got her and swam to shore with her—now wait. Here’s the punch. He gets the Ellen C. Bentley reward for this year. You remember nobody got it last year. He goes on a trip to California next summer—six weeks. Naturally he was feeling pretty good last night. And he never told you a word about it! Think of those two things that scout did yesterday! Dived from a cliff and saved a life, won a trip across the continent, then put a what-d’ye-call-it around your leg when you might have bled to death after making a crazy dive that didn’t get you anything—not one blessed thing.”

“Do you think I didn’t have any fun?”

“Hervey, boy, why did you do it? Why—why did you do it? A crazy fool thing like that!” Hervey was silent, a trifle abashed by the seriousness and vehemence of his visitor.

“Why did you do it?”

“I—I couldn’t help it.”

Young Ebin Talbot just looked at him as a wrestler might look, trying to decide where to take his adversary. “I guess so,” he said low and resignedly.

But he was not to be beaten so easily. “Hervey, there are only two boys in this town who could do what Wyne Corson did, and he is one of them and you’re the other one. Why are you never in the right place at the right time?”

Hervey flared up, “Do you mean to tell me I don’t know any one who could do that—what Wyne Corson did? Do you bet me I don’t?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Hervey! You did a hair-brained thing, a big stunt if you will; and Corson did a heroic act. And here you are making bets with me about something of no importance. What’s the matter with you? Why I was paying you a compliment!”

“You said I don’t know anybody who could swim out like that. Do you say I can’t—do you dare me—”

Young Mr. Talbot held up his hand impatiently. Hervey not only never did the right thing, but he even couldn’t talk about the right thing. Like many men who are genial in hope, he was impatient in failure. He had not Mr. Walton’s tolerant squint.

“Please don’t dare me, Hervey. Dares and stunts never get a boy anywhere.”

“How do you know how many fellers can do a thing?” Hervey demanded.

“Well, all right then, Hervey, I don’t,” said Mr. Talbot rising. “But let me just say this to you. I know you could do what Corson did yesterday and it was a glorious thing, and brings him high reward. Also, if it’s any satisfaction for you to know it, I believe you could find a way of escaping from a military school. You see, I give you full credit. I think there is hardly a single thing that you could not do—except to do something with a fine purpose. Just to stand on your head isn’t enough; do you see? The first time you do a brave, reckless thing for service you’ll be the finest scout that ever lived. None of them can touch you on action, but action means nothing without motive. It’s just like a car jacked up and the wheels going round; it never gets anywhere.”

“Didn’t I do a service to Diving Denniver?” Hervey demanded.

“Well, did you? Honor bright; did you? Did you want to help him? Was that the idea? Come on now, Hervey. Fair and square, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You did it because—”

“Didn’t I tell you it was because I couldn’t help it?” said Hervey angrily.

CHAPTER XXXII
UPS AND DOWNS

Young Mr. Talbot gave Hervey up. I think he lost patience too readily. As for Mr. Walton, he was past the stage of quiet argument with his stepson. He was as firm in resolve as he was patient in discussion. And never was Hervey more bent on action that was his harassed guardian from the moment he was apprised of the carnival escapade. Even gentle Mrs. Walton, who had pled after the satchel episode, thought now that it was better for Hervey to go to military school than to break his neck.

“Well, he won’t even break rules there,” said Mrs. Walton.

As for Hervey, he was not worrying about military school. He never thought or worried about anything. He would meet every situation as it came. He was not staggered by Wyne Corson’s opportunity to go west. To give him credit, he was not selfish or envious. He forgot all about Wyne Corson.

One matter he did bear in mind and it was the very essence of absurdity. With his own narrow escape to ponder on, and Wyne Corson’s splendid deed to thrill him (if he was capable of a thrill) he must set off as soon as he was able to prove his all-important claim that there was another individual capable of doing what Mr. Talbot had said that only he and Corson could do. He accepted the young scoutmaster’s declaration not as a compliment, but as a kind of dare. That is how his mind worked and I am giving you just the plain facts. I told you in the beginning that no one understood him.

But now he was to receive something as near to a shock as he had ever received. He sought out Diving Denniver in his sanctum and approached him rather sheepishly (for him) for he knew not how his feat had impressed the wonder of two continents. It was the last day of the carnival, the matter of the permit had been adjusted, and Diving Denniver was that evening to dive for the last time in Farrelton. On this occasion he wore his regular clothes and his little derby hat was on the back of his head as he packed his trunk in anticipation of departure.

“Hello,” said Hervey.

“Hello, yer gol blamed little fool.”

“Well, I did it, didn’t I?” said Hervey defensively.

“Sure you did it, but you were just lucky. You’re just a crazy kid, that’s all. That there kid that’s got his name in the papers fer savin’ a girl’s life, now he’s a regular guy, he is. If you want to jump why don’t you get in the big parade, kid?” He folded some clothing and did not pay much attention to Hervey as he talked. “If yer want ter pull the big stuff why don’t yer get in with them guys. This here ain’t narthin’.”

“Do you know what a scoutmaster told me?” demanded Hervey, somewhat aroused. “He said that only two fellers—me and that other feller—could dive off that cliff and swim to shore with a girl. So as long as you’re a friend of mine will you come and show him that you can do it? Just to show him he’s not so smart. Then he’ll see you’re a friend of mine, and he’ll see you can do it. Hey? So I can put it all over him. Hey?”

“Naah, cut that stuff, kid. Why wuz yer thinkin’ I can swim and save lives? I ain’t much on swimmin’, kid.” He reached over to where Hervey sat dangling his legs from the makeshift table and good-naturedly ruffled his hair. “Yer got me wrong, kid. What’s bitin’ yer anyways? This here is a trick, that’s all it is. I know me little trick. Why wouldn’ I? I been doin’ it fer seven years. There ain’t narthin’ to it when yer once get it right. Did yer think this here wuz a kind of an adventure like? Hand me them two saucers, will yer. Listen here, kid. Here’s how it is. When yer know how ter do it there’ ain’t narthin’ to it; see? An’ if yer try it when yer don’t know how, yer a blame fool. I bet yer kin swim better’n what I can, at that. I jus’ do me turn, kid. See?”

Hervey was staggered. “Ain’t you the wonder of two continents?” he asked. “Don’t you say it yourself?”

“Sure thing, and I’m sorry I didn’t make it five continents when I wuz printin’ it. What’s a couple of continents more or less? Pull that there broken glass down and let’s have it, will yer? Yer don’t think yer done narthin’ big do yer?” He paused and faced Hervey for just a moment. “Dis here is just a trick, kid. Go on and join them kids what’s doin’ the divin’. Come out o’ yer trance, little brother. You’ze got the makin’s of a regular hop, skip and jumper, yer has. Wuz yer old man sore at yer?”

Hervey felt as if the bottom had fallen out of the earth. Not that he wanted praise and recognition; he never craved those. But what he had done was just nothing at all. He was no more a hero than a man who tried to commit suicide is a hero. And the wonder of two continents was just a good-humored, tough little young man who knew a trick! How brave and splendid seemed the exploit of Wyne Corson now! That was not a trick.

“You beat it home now,” said McDennison, “and don’t go inter no business what yer ain’t got the dope on. A kid like you oughter had that trip ter the coast. Look at me, I ain’t got the carfare ter open up in Bridgeburgh Fair.”

Hervey went away, not exactly heavy-hearted, for he was never that. And not exactly thoughtful, for he certainly was never that. But disgruntled. And even that was unusual with him. He might have had that trip to the coast. Or at least on a dozen different occasions, he might have won such a reward. But for all his fine bizarre deeds he got just nothing; not even honor. And the pity of it was he could not figure this out. He never remembered what anybody told him; he never pondered. Yet I think that poor Diving Denniver did some good; I think he almost reached him.

On the way home, he was saved from any of the perils of thought by the allurements of action. Near the entrance to the carnival was a basket full of booklets about Farrelton the Home Town. There was a sign above this basket which read. Free—Take One. Hervey did not take a booklet, but he took the sign. It was an oblong wooden sign and had a hole in it to hang it up by. By inserting a stick in this hole, he could twirl the sign around as he ambled homeward. He became greatly preoccupied with this pastime and his concentration continued till he reached the Aunt Maria Sweet Shoppe. Here were bottles of honey and tempting jars of preserves standing on a display shelf outside, and he coyly set the Free—Take One sign on these, proceeding homeward with that air of innocence that he knew how to affect.

Crossing the deserted Madden farm, he discovered a garter snake. It was a harmless little snake, but it filled its destiny in Hervey’s life. It was necessary for him to lift it on the end of his stick and, before it wriggled off, send it flying through the broken window of the Madden barn. This was not easy to do, because the snake would not hold still. With each cast, however, it seemed to become more drowsy, until finally it hung over the stick long enough for Hervey to get a good aim and send the elongated missile flying through the broken, cobweb-filled window.

The shot was so successful that Hervey could not refrain from giving an encore. One good sling deserved another. So up he vaulted to the sill of the old window, brushing ancient cobwebs out of his eyes and hair, and down he went inside. But he went down further than he had expected to, for the flooring was quite gone from the old barn and he alighted all in a heap on a pile of dank straw in the cellar.

Four unbroken walls of heavy masonry arose to a height of ten or twelve feet. Far above him, through the shrunken, rotted shingles, little glints of sunlight penetrated. A few punky boards strewn in this stenchy dungeon gave evidence that the flooring above had rotted away before being entirely removed. Perhaps there had been an intention to lay a new flooring. But it was many years since the Maddens had gone away and now there were rumors that the extensive farm land was to become a bungalow colony.

As Hervey lifted one of the punky boards it broke in the middle and fell almost in shreds at his feet. A number of little flat bugs, uncovered in their damp abode, went scooting this way and that after similar shelter. The snake too, recovered from the shock of being a missile, wriggled off to some agreeable refuge amid the rotting litter of that dank prison.

CHAPTER XXXIII
STORM AND CALM

Hervey’s fortunes were never at a lower ebb than when he stood in that damp cellar as the night came on and tried to reconcile himself to sleeping on the straw. Even the morrow held only the hope that by chance some one would discover him in his dreadful dungeon. It was not until a rotten board, laid diagonally against the foundation, had collapsed with him that he gave up and threw himself down with a feeling as near to despair as his buoyant nature had ever experienced.

Through the cracks and crevices of the shingles high overhead, he watched the light die away. A ray from the declining sun streamed through the window from which he had fallen, lingered for a few moments, then withdrew leaving the place almost in darkness. Such a price to pay for a merry little game with a snake!

Meanwhile, events occurred which were destined to have a bearing on Hervey’s life. At about half past nine that night, young Mr. Talbot emerged from the Walton house and encountered Wyne Corson coming in through the gateway. They both laughed at the encounter.

“Missionary work?” Mr. Talbot inquired.

“You beat me to it?” laughed Wyne.

“No, I’m through,” Mr. Talbot said. “He isn’t even home; nobody knows where he is. No, I’m through working on that prospect, and I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you, Corson. He’s going to military school and I guess that’s the best place for him.”

“The fellows in my troop are crazy about him,” said Wyne.

“They might better be crazy about you,” Mr. Talbot answered. “If they’re as crazy as all that, they’re better off without another crazy fellow in their troop. Come on, walk along with me; there’s no one inside but Mr. and Mrs. Walton and they’ve decided to send him to Chestnut Hill School.”

“Jiminies, but that chap has possibilities all right,” said Wyne, as they walked down the street together.

“Impossibilities, you mean. Why they don’t even know where he is to-night; hasn’t been home since noontime. You know I had him in my troop; I know something about him.”

“Two fellows in my patrol are so nutty about him that they waited around here in front of his house to-night just to get a squint at him. I don’t know, there’s kind of—oh, I don’t know—something about him; don’t you think so?”

“Oh, there’s plenty about him,” laughed Mr. Talbot, “and I know a few things that nobody else knows. You take my advice and keep away from the buzz-saw. The name of Hervey Willetts means trouble. Corson, when you talk to him and deal with him you get just absolutely no comeback; there’s nothing to work on.”

“Yet look what he did.”

“Does that kind of thing ever get anybody anywhere?”

“That’s some funny hat he wears, hey?”

Mr. Talbot threw up his hands good-humoredly. “I see he’s got you,” said he.

Wyne laughed, “Oh, I don’t know; you just can’t help liking him. He’s different from any fellow I ever knew. He asked the doctor how much it costs to get tattooed.”

“Well, there’s one thing he hasn’t done yet; I’m surprised at that. What does he want; mottoes on his arm like on his hat?”

“The doctor seemed to like him,” said Wyne.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“I thought I might get him into my troop—”

“You’re wasting your time, boy. Listen.” Mr. Talbot put his arm over Wyne’s shoulder as they walked along the street together. “Now I’m going to tell you something and you mustn’t ever mention it—to anybody.”

“Yes, but you can’t tell me there’s never anything to get hold of. When I was trying to save that girl the other day, I thought there wasn’t anything to get hold of. Well, I got my fingers in her mouth and I grabbed hold of her chin. I found something to get hold of all right.”

“And you’re going to California. You’re the biggest hero that’s ever come under this local council.”

“Yes, because I found something to get hold of.”

“Listen, my boy. Do you think I haven’t tried? Why we had him in our troop. All last summer he was up at Temple Camp—”

“That’s some camp, I guess.”

“I’ll say it is. He’s the only boy in my troop who was lucky enough to go up there. You know, Corson, Mr. Walton is one of the finest men that ever lived—absolutely. He’s strong for Temple Camp. You know it costs something up at that ranch—oh yes. He had Hervey up there all summer and the little devil was dismissed at the end of the season. He just did as he pleased all summer. When they were closing up they let him down easy; told him never to come back. And they meant it. Mr. Walton doesn’t know anything about this. And Hervey doesn’t know I know. It came to me indirectly from a scoutmaster in Clover Valley who had a patrol up there. I wrote up to camp, saying I was Hervey’s scoutmaster, and asked them about it. You ought to see the letter I got back. Now Mr. Walton tells me he’s going to send Hervey up to Chestnut Hill Military Academy for the fall and winter and next summer up to Temple Camp—”

“Good night!”

“Interesting? I just smiled. I thought I wouldn’t say anything; just let matters take their course. If I can’t help Hervey, at least I don’t want to hurt him. Mr. and Mrs. Walton are going to Europe next summer and Hervey’s going up to Temple Camp. I think Mr. and Mrs. are entitled to a vacation.”

“But Hervey can’t go up there,” Wyne said.

“Oh, can’t he! Leave it to him.”

“Does he know he’s going to be sent up there?”

“I dare say.”

“I bet he’s worried.”

“I bet he isn’t. He doesn’t know that word is in the dictionary.”

Wyne shook his head.

“I’ll tell you just what Hervey’ll do if you want to know,” said Mr. Talbot. “He’s not giving Temple Camp a thought. They didn’t fire him; he fired them. He’s forgotten all about it. But you know he’s lucky; he always says he’s lucky. When Mr. Walton sends him up there he’ll go and he’ll trust to luck. He can’t say that he’s forbidden to go, not now. He’ll go up there—he’s just reckless enough to do it—and he’ll trust to doing some big daredevil stunt and being allowed to stay.”

“And he’ll succeed, too, I bet,” said Wyne.

“No, he won’t succeed. They’re not falling for things like that up there. He’ll be just packed off home as soon as he gets there. And I don’t know what he’ll do. Mr. and Mrs. Walton won’t be here; the house will be closed up. But I’m not going to poke my nose in Hervey’s concerns. It’s like putting your hand in the fire, you just get burned. There’s nothing to get hold of with Hervey; he’s got to make his own trail. Why look at to-night! Where do you suppose he is?”

Wyne shrugged his shoulders. And so they walked along in silence for a few minutes.

“But I had to laugh how he wanted to know about getting tattooed,” Wyne said finally. He was thinking about Hervey. It was not just that he wanted to help him either. “I’ve often noticed him on the street; he never seems to be in a hurry. He’s always kind of fooling around as he goes along.”

“Oh, he has no idea of time at all,” said Mr. Talbot. “That’s where military school’s going to do him good. He wanted to bet me he’d escape!”

“Well, I bet he will,” said Wyne.

“No siree!”

“I don’t know, I kind of think he’d do anything he tries to do.”

“Hmph, well he usually tries to do the wrong things,” said Mr. Talbot. “But he’s going to do the things that other people want him to do for a while now,” he added with a chuckle.

“Just the same I bet they liked him up there—at that camp.”

Mr. Talbot laughed, it was so palpable that Wyne Corson was under Hervey’s spell.

“What’s the matter?” Wyne asked, with just a suggestion of testiness.

“Nothing. I don’t think they saw a great deal of him up there, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Honest, do you think he’ll go up there next summer?”

“He will if you dare him to.”

“No, honest, do you?”

“Of course he will,” Mr. Talbot smiled, then added more seriously. “What else can he do?”

“Jiminies!” said Wyne with a kind of sorrowful shake of his head. “Some fix he’s in; I bet he’s worrying.”

“Yes, that’s the trouble with him,” said Mr. Talbot. “He just wore himself to skin and bone last year worrying about the national debt. I don’t think I’d lose any sleep over him,” he added seriously; “he isn’t worrying at all.”

“But what’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure; stand on his head I suppose. Well, here we are; come in a minute and I’ll show you some scout pictures.”

They lingered for a few minutes in front of Mr. Talbot’s house. “Wait a second, I’ll see if I’ve got a booklet about Temple Camp,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to glance it over. I wish you’d come in.”

“No, I’d better scoot, I think it’s going to rain,” said Wyne.

“Was that thunder?” Mr. Talbot asked. “All right, just wait here a second.”

As Wyne waited, the rumbling of distant thunder could be heard in the sky. He held out his hand, but felt no drop of rain. Presently a flash of zigzag lightning lit the sky and one of the blinds of the Talbot house blew shut, then open again. Soon he was hurrying home to South Farrelton with the Temple Camp booklet stuffed in his pocket and was scarcely indoors when the storm which had been threatening broke in full fury. Wyne’s parents and sister had retired, but his mother called to him to know if he had got wet, and asked him to go up and shut the attic window for the rain seemed to be blowing from the north.

Wyne paused in the dark attic for a few moments, listening to the torrential downpour on the shingles and looking out of the window which was streaming with rain. He wondered where indeed Hervey Willetts could be so late at night. Why did his thoughts dwell on Hervey Willetts? There were fine, brave scouts in his own troop. He went downstairs to his own room, stirred by the heroic fury of the maddened elements and, as he entered, a deafening peal of thunder smote his ears. It seemed to shake the house in its tumultuous frenzy. That was the climax of the storm.

It was odd how two things strangely related to each other occurred immediately upon the waning of that spasmodic storm. And how each of those things was characteristic of the boy concerned in it. At about the same time that Wyne Corson propped himself comfortably up in bed for a leisurely perusal of the beautifully illustrated Temple Camp booklet, Hervey Willetts scrambled up a broken rafter of the old barn roof which had been struck by lightning and had fallen into his dank and streaming dungeon.

Oh, he was lucky! Just as he always said he was, he was lucky. But he did not know of his greatest luck. He did not know that a boy down in South Farrelton was sitting propped up in bed looking at the pictures of lake and cabin and reading about the rules and awards and all the pleasurable routine of a great scout community in the sequestered woodland of the Catskills.

Wet, hungry and exhausted, with a stern military school staring him in the face, Hervey Willetts was luckier than he knew. Reading, looking at books even, was something that he never did. He had never even seen that familiar booklet about Temple Camp! Yet that little booklet was destined to influence his future. It is funny, when you come to think of it, how that pretty, tasseled prospectus was to deal this doer of mighty deeds a knockout blow. He had blithely disregarded every by-law and rule that it contained. He had repudiated it in toto. And now, out of its own prosy printed matter, it was to strike him back with a fine retaliatory swat.

CHAPTER XXXIV
SUMMER PLANS

Mr. Talbot had spoken correctly; Hervey went to Chestnut Hill Military Academy. Also Hervey had spoken correctly; he escaped. He was sent back and remained till the Christmas holidays. It is not pleasant watching a caged squirrel and we shall not follow his troubled career when he marched in line and saluted and went “in formation” to Chestnut Hill village twice a week, once to church and once to the movies.

Under the influence of Mrs. Walton and the Christmas spirit, Mr. Walton allowed Hervey to return to school in Farrelton after the holidays and Chestnut Hill saw him no more. But he remembered it and walked a fairly straight and narrow path till early summer. Only once did he fall from grace and that was when he hiked to Centervale in quest of a retired sailor who was said to be an expert at tattooing. He did not find the artist, but he got a ride in an airplane to Commonwealth landing field (twenty miles out of his way) and had to sleep in a shed that night.

As summer approached, Hervey’s home presented unmistakable signs of the tremendous enterprise of his old-fashioned, home-keeping step-parents—the long projected trip to Europe. For the first time, Mr. Walton would entrust his book and stationery store to a competent young assistant, Snoopy Seeley as Hervey called him, because he conscientiously saw to it that the girls attended to their work. There were no late dances in Walton’s Book and Stationery Store after the advent of Snoopy Seeley. But for all this young man’s horrible dependability, poor Mr. and Mrs. Walton contemplated their vacation with the true home-keeper’s dread and anxiety.

“Well, there are no worries about Hervey, anyway,” said Mrs. Walton. “Temple Camp is the one place where he really did seem to get on. I’d be dreadfully nervous about going if it weren’t for that. I do believe you and I are more nervous about this than Hervey is.”

“We are no such experienced travelers as he is,” said Mr. Walton.

“You’re going to talk to him, aren’t you?”

Mr. Walton talked to him and found that so far as Hervey was concerned everything was quite all right; he would have been glad to give his permission for them to go to Mars. He was not the one to curb the freedom of any aspiring soul.

“And you won’t mind being alone; I mean up at Temple Camp?” Mr. Walton asked him.

“Sure thing, go as far as you like,” said Hervey. Did he recall the circumstances under which he had been sent home from camp? And if so, did not his position now trouble him the least bit? It would be hard to say. “Sure, I’ll stay up there till you come back,” he said; “you should worry.”

“I’m sure I will,” said poor Mrs. Walton.

“You don’t think it’s necessary for me to write up there?” Mr. Walton asked.

“Sure not,” said Hervey gayly, “they know me.”

“Well then, I’ll give you a check for July and I’ll mail them another check on the first of August. I guess that will be all right.”

“Posilutely O. K.,” said Hervey. He was nothing if not compliant and accommodating.

Mr. Walton, always thoughtful and deliberate, paused considering. “I think it would be best for you to go up next Saturday, then we’ll know you’re settled there before we go.”

“Believe me, I’m never settled,” said Hervey.

“Well, as near settled as it’s possible for you to be; that better?” Mr. Walton queried.

“Sure thing.”

“Then he wouldn’t be able to go to Boston and see us sail,” said Mrs. Walton.

“That’s where you said something,” said Hervey. “I’m going to Boston, that’s settled.”

“No, I think we’ll settle it the other way,” Mr. Walton reflected. “You better go up next Saturday, Herve. Boston is too slow for you anyway. Seeing folks sail isn’t much pleasure.”

“I bet I could be a stowaway, hey?”

“You go up to camp next Saturday,” said Mr. Walton. “That councilor, what’s his name—”

“Wainwright, he’s a nice feller,” said Hervey blithely. He bore no malice.

“Well then, let’s see, I’ll give you a check for three weeks in July and you can tell Mr. Wainwright I’ll send another check the first of August. Now when you get up there if everything isn’t all right you can write me here. But it isn’t as if you were going to a strange place; they all know you,” he added.

Hervey made a flourishing motion with both hands as if to say that all was well, that peace and perfect understanding prevailed. “They know me and I know them,” he said with the greatest of good cheer.

CHAPTER XXXV
HERVEY’S LUCK

He went to Temple Camp with a check and his nerve, and neither did him any good. I have sometimes thought that this blithesome piece of effrontery marks the high spot in Hervey’s career. But I am at a loss to account for it. Of course, he was not without reasoning faculty or memory. I think it was just that he took everything as it came and never burdened his mind with anything. His nature refused to consider two things at once. He could not think of an act of one day in the light of its consequences on another day, much less another season. I cannot follow his reasoning, if he had any; I can only follow his acts. He could hardly have forgotten his dismissal; perhaps, if he thought at all, he thought the management would have forgotten it.

Officially Temple Camp did not pay him the compliment of being shocked by his bizarre reappearance. But the scouts who had been there the previous summer noticed him and commented on the circumstance of his unexpected presence. He was a conspicuous figure in his fantastic hat, as he wandered aimlessly about, and several tenderfeet who had never seen him before were inspired to follow him and look on while he scaled flat stones into the lake. After a while they began selecting stones for him.

Little Harold Titus, the office boy in Administration Shack who had originally summoned the prodigal to his doom, saw him engaged in this idle pastime and was struck dumb with consternation. Many who had known him the previous summer greeted him cheerily; they either forgot or avoided the incident of his dismissal. Some had never known of it. New boys noticed him as an odd, picturesque figure ambling about the camp grounds with a group of tenderfeet behind him.

One of these admiring youngsters had a large hollow brass sphere as big as a cocoanut, which was somewhat the worse for being knocked about. It had a hole in it which was plugged up by a cork. He was only too glad to proffer this to the enchanting stranger and Hervey amused himself and the others by hurling it into the lake and watching the camp dog bound in after it and push it ashore with his nose. There were limits to his effrontery and he thought it the part of wisdom thus to occupy himself at a distance from the center of things.