Roy Blakeley, Pathfinder

All right, there isn’t much more. We had no guess how long the man had been in the boat or whether he had starved or what. He might have been dead several days, I thought. The life boat was awash. There was the name of some ship or other on the bows, but the boat had been painted since the name was printed there, and all I could make out was a few indistinct letters under the fresh paint. I made out an L, then DY, then NNE. I have a hunch the name was Lady Anne, but maybe not.

The man must have been a pretty rough character from all I could judge; a sailor, I daresay. It was out of the question rescuing the body. Every ounce of weight in our own boat made it worse for us, and we couldn’t have hauled it over the side without danger. So we did the next best thing and that was to go through his pockets in the hope of finding something to identify him.

You getting sleepy? No? Well, we found a weather wallet on him. Know what that is? It’s a pocket-book made of rubber. You can see them in ship supply stores all along South street in New York. In there he had two hundred and seven dollars and a letter. The writing was all smeared and some of it I couldn’t read at all. I couldn’t make out the address, but I think it was signed “Father.”

That was no place to be doping things out, with the seas rolling us goodness knows where, so I just stuffed the money in my trouser pocket, because it made too big a wad to go in my wallet. But I dried the letter as best I could and put it away in this little case I always carry. Here’s the case and here’s the letter now. And I suppose that if there’s any mystery, as you call it, why this is it.

Now just wait and don’t get excited and you’ll see the letter. Just let me finish. We pushed off from the life boat and I think it must have sunk soon afterward. The sea got pretty calm after a while and late that afternoon we were picked up by a schooner and set ashore.

Jake and I agreed to say nothing about our discovery; I’ll tell you the reason in a minute. He forgot and blurted out something about our finding a life boat and it got into the newspapers, but no harm was done, because after our rescue we gave the names of Mike Corby and Dan McCann and after we had started home, no one knew who to hunt for, even if they wanted to.

But the principal reason we gave false names was, because my leave from camp was already up and I didn’t want anybody, my own folks especially, to know that I had sidestepped home and mother to go off on a crazy fishing trip. Get me?

Jake went home and I haven’t seen him since. I hustled to Bridgeboro by train, sneaked over to Little Valley in a big hurry to change my duds and—the house-boat was gone. The boy scouts had carried away my uniform and Lieutenant Donnelle was a ragged outcast, a couple of days overdue at camp.

How to get my uniform, that was the question. The boy scouts had done me a bad turn. I traced the fugitive house-boat to St. George, Staten Island. I lurked near shore till dark, and when a party of you kids came ashore and one of you mentioned to another that a certain Roy had remained on board, I said, “Here is my chance.”

I rowed over, made his acquaintance, took him into my confidence, obtained his promise of silence, and changed my clothes. I found him a bully little scout. The old rags which went by the name of trousers I put into the locker, forgetting in my hurry, to take the two hundred and seven dollars. After fastening the locker I took some change out of my uniform to reward our young friend, but he spurned my offer. I must have dropped the locker key when I pulled the change out of my pocket. As you all know, little Skinny found it and got himself suspected of hiding the money in the locker. So much for that. I returned to camp and got slapped on the wrist for being late.

But the letter which I had taken from that dead man I had with me, and here it is now. When I visited Temple Camp upon the urgent plea of my old pal Skeezeks, I claimed the two hundred and seven dollars, but it was not mine.

It wasn’t the dead man’s either.

Now listen to this water-soaked letter, or as much of it as I can make out:

There is quite a lot more, but I can’t make it out.

Well, kids, I’ve studied that letter like a spelling lesson and this is what I make out of it. I can kind of see a picture of an old fellow that fought in the Civil War. I don’t know who he is or where he is. But I can see him in an old faded blue uniform. I kind of like him. Look in the fire, every one of you, and keep your eyes fixed on the blaze. See him? I do. I can see him just as plain—poor old codger. Funny thing, a camp-fire, isn’t it? I can see him better now than I could before. He’s got white hair and he’s writing a letter to that kid of his in France and telling him to be careful of that money. He’s having a hard time trying to make two ends meet. Poor old fellow, he’s warning that son of his about places in France where soldiers get robbed. I’ve seen some of those places, sailors’ hang-outs, in Brest, and I can back him up there.

I have a kind of hunch that the old fellow—put some more wood on, Roy—I have a kind of a hunch that he sent the kid a ring, a cameo ring, with the head of President Lincoln on it. I can see old honest Abe now—right there where the new sticks are blazing up. Huh? Maybe it’s only a crazy notion; what do you say? But I’ve doped out a kind of a notion that that old fellow got the ring when he started off to war; that somebody or other presented one to each fellow that left the village. I’d give a doughnut to know where that village is.

Anyway, the old man wore it on the second finger of his left hand and I kind of think he wanted that kid of his to do the same—over there in the trenches.

Maybe I’m just a sort of a day dreamer, but that’s the picture I’ve had in my mind ever since I was fishing with Jake Holden. And it seems to all fit together now when I look right there in that blaze. Pretty good camp-fire yarn, hey? Not so worse? Just look into the fire yourselves and think about that letter. Nothing but a kind of fancy, hey? Faces in the blaze and all that sort of stuff. Never saw me get sentimental before, did you—Skeezeks?

The funny part of the whole thing is that the man we saw in the boat didn’t have any second finger on his left hand. It couldn’t have been his finger the writer of the letter meant.

Gee whiz, I didn’t even know that he had stopped talking. I was just looking into the blaze and I could see the whole thing right there. Maybe it wasn’t true at all, but anyway, I could see it. Especially I could see the old man. That’s just the way it is with camp-fires.

Then, all of a sudden Harry Donnelle poked up the fire and began to laugh. “Funny, hey?” he said.

I said, “Do you think the dead man in the boat stole the money and the letter?”

“The letter happened to be with the money,” Harry said; “I don’t know that I think anything in particular. But how did a sailor with the second finger of his left hand gone, happen to have a letter asking him to wear a ring on that finger. How about the soldier who is warned against going where he will get robbed? Maybe he went, after all, and got robbed. We might start a search for a soldier who happens to have a second finger on his left hand. But then, quite a few soldiers enjoy that distinction. So there we are—up a tree. But here is a sailor with two hundred odd dollars and a letter referring to two hundred dollars. There is something about him wearing a ring on a certain finger and he doesn’t happen to have that finger. Funny.

“Well then, here’s a query—as long as queries don’t cost anything. Might not the sailor have robbed the soldier of his two hundred and odd dollars? And just neglected to destroy the letter that was with it? You see, kids, I just ran plunk into the middle of the thing and I’d like to get hold of one end or the other. Somebody or other got a ring when he went away to war fifty years ago. He lived in a village. Who was he? Whoever he is, he’s having a hard job making two ends meet. If I could find him I think I’d turn over this money to him. Now at the other end of the line, somewhere, is a fellow that ran chances of being robbed—reckless, like your Uncle Dudley. He’s got a ring with President Lincoln’s face cut on it—a cameo. I’d like to find him.

“But you see I haven’t any way of finding either of them. The only thing I’m sure about is that the dead sailor couldn’t have worn the ring. His finger had been gone many years, that’s sure. So what are we going to do about it? I guess we’ll go to bed. But that isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?”

“Funny, hey? Kind of a mystery after all—Skeezeks.”

I guess every one of us lay awake thinking about it that night. Anyway, I know I did. And most all the time till the day we got home, we kept talking about it. Harry Donnelle would always laugh and say maybe there wasn’t anything to it at all and that if he knew who the sailor was, he’d go and give the money to his people—probably.

He said he guessed the camp-fire up at Temple Camp was what started him seeing pictures. But always he would say how it was funny that a man without his second finger should have that letter on him. But he said that as long as there wasn’t any finger, it couldn’t point anywheres, and we should worry.

But just the same all the way home, whenever we started a camp-fire, we’d look into it and kind of see an old soldier with white hair and a blue coat and then we’d see a young fellow, wearing khaki, and a ring with Lincoln’s head cut on it.

In the fire we made near Orange Lake just before we hit Newburgh, we saw a soldier in a kind of a restaurant where there were a lot of sailors and we saw them take something away from him. But that’s always the way it is with camp-fires. Mostly we saw the old soldier.

Harry Donnelle always laughed about it and said the camp-fire was a regular art gallery and he guessed he’d give that unlucky two hundred dollars to an orphan asylum, or to the widows and orphans of the poor garage keepers or to the destitute Standard Oil Company. So it got to be a kind of a joke, and that’s the way it was till the whole thing was solved. And I’m going to tell you all about it, too, but I can’t bother now, because I have to tell you about our hike and the crazy thing that happened next day.

Anyway, there was one person we never saw in the camp-fire blaze and that was Mr. Costello. If we had, we wouldn’t have seen the blaze. He was so big that he would have filled the whole fire. Harry Donnelle said he could even have blown a camp-fire out if he wanted to—even the big one at Temple Camp.

I wasn’t awake when Dorry started for Kingston in the morning, so I didn’t hear him go. But I knew when he came back all right. If I hadn’t known it, it would have been because I was dead.

He got back before noon and the first I saw of him he was sitting on a big, high fancy seat of a cage wagon, wedged in alongside a great big man with a high hat on and a cutaway coat and a red vest. The big man was driving and the two horses had sleigh bells on them and fancy harness and they made an awful racket. They were dandy white horses, though. Dorry looked awful scared and little alongside the big man. The cage wagon was all gold color and fancy on the top and the wheels looked like Fourth of July pinwheels.

Harry said, “Mr. Costello doesn’t exactly look as if he had sneaked off, does he? He’s not ashamed to be seen. What’s that, a searchlight?”

I said, “No, it’s a diamond; he’s got diamonds all over him. Somebody must have sprinkled him with diamonds before he started. He had them everywhere except on his feet. He had a big long whip in his hand, too. There was a man in the cage, besides; I guess he was a keeper.”

Harry said, “Get me a pair of smoked glasses, will you?”

As soon as the big man got down he took off his high hat and waved it and said, “How do you do, sir.” He said it in a big round voice, kind of.

Then he said, “I am Mr. Rinaldo Costello, proprietor of Costello’s Mammoth Show.” He talked so loud that he almost scared us.

Harry just said, “When I saw you coming I thought it was the village undertaker. We’re glad to welcome you to our temporary camp. We are also touring the country; this is my mammoth show.” Then he pointed to all of us fellows who were standing around, and Mr. Costello took off his hat again and waved it and bowed very low and held his whip so that I thought he was going to give us a crack with it, only he didn’t. I guess he was used to cracking that whip. It was awful funny the way Harry sat on the fence talking to him. I don’t know how it was, but that fellow could be awful funny.

Mr. Costello said, “This young gentleman who you were kind enough to send, has told me a very thrilling story. If it is all true I must pay my tribute to the dauntless young scout whose valor in combat is truly matchless.”

“Excuse me while I blush,” I said. I just couldn’t help saying it.

“He is known as Roy the Leopard Catcher,” Harry said. “In the wilds of Catskill village he is known by the natives as Skeezeks—Skeezeks the Bold. Allow me to introduce him.” Then he grabbed me by the hair and shoved me right out in front. Then he said, “Like all true heroes, he is modest. But perhaps you will wish to see Marshal Foch. We shall be sorry to part with him.”

Then they all followed Mr. Costello and Harry to the barn. Mr. Costello walked as if the whole world was looking at him. He looked awful funny, all dressed up that way in the country. I bet he was hot. I didn’t go, because I wanted to look at that cage wagon. It had gold mermaids on the corners of it, and oh boy, wasn’t it fancy. The mermaids’ tails went all along the sides. Inside there was hay on the floor. I bet it was fun for Dorry, riding on that thing. Every time the white horses stamped the bells would jingle afterward. Harry said it sounded like a junk wagon, but I liked them anyway.

I wished I was the man to ride inside of that cage with Marshal Foch. I guess he knew how to handle leopards all right, hey? Maybe they were good friends even. Gee whiz, I like hiking better than anything else, except apple pie, but anyway, I’d like to be in a parade, that’s one thing. That’s just what I said. I said it out loud to myself.

When they came back the keeper was leading Marshal Foch with a rope, and the fly paper was gone from his head and his body. Harry Donnelle said they melted the stickum with gasoline and that it didn’t hurt the leopard much. He said it came off easier than a porous plaster does. You bet I was glad; because that leopard and I were kind of friends. Anyway I would have been glad. The keeper had a pistol but I guess it was just safety first because the animal walked along by him just as meek as could be and walked right up the slanting board into the wagon. I guess he knew that keeper all right. His eyes were kind of half shut and all sticky like, and his nice fur was all stuck up but the men said they could fix him all right as soon as they had time.

I just couldn’t help saying, “So long, Marshal Foch, I’m sorry I had to do it; see you later.” He just walked back and forth in the cage, awful graceful, as if he was looking to see if everything was all right, and maybe he was glad to get back, hey?

Then Mr. Costello said in his big loud voice, just as if he was making a speech, “I am going to give the people of Kingston, absolutely free, an opportunity to view for the first time in America, the dauntless young hero of two continents.” I don’t know why he said two continents, because I only live on one, and believe me, that’s enough.

But most everything he said had two continents in it. Harry said it was a wonder he forgot Mars and the Moon. “The dauntless young hero scout, pride of two continents,” that’s what he said. Oh boy, didn’t I blush! And didn’t Harry Donnelle laugh!

“May I ask your name, sir?” Mr. Costello said.

I told him, “Roy Blakeley.”

“I would like you to ride with Marshal Foch in the parade,” he said, “and later at the performances. I think I will call you Roy the Redoubtable; or perhaps Blakeley the Bold would be better. This is an opportunity of a lifetime to the people of Kingston. It will rejoice the scouts of two continents to see their intrepid young hero riding in triumph with the savage, man eating, beast that he subdued.”

Harry said, “That would be delightful. What do you say, Roy?”

I said, “Good night, I won’t have to ride in the cage with him, will I? I like him all right, but—but we’re not—kind of, we’re not yet well acquainted yet.”

Mr. Costello said, “You will ride on the seat outside, as his triumphant conqueror. You will outrival the gladiators of ancient Rome. You will listen to the plaudits of the multitude. Are you able to look fierce? Just a little fiery? Just a little suggestion of fearless courage and intrepid power in your eyes? Something like this.” Oh boy, he gave me a look that nearly knocked me over.

Harry said, “Try it, Roy.”

I looked as fierce as I could, and all the fellows broke out laughing.

“That will be fine,” Mr. Costello said; “just a little glance of the eye to strike terror as you look from left to right. Our advance agent will do the rest. There is not much time, but he will see that the people are advised of their opportunity. The boys of Kingston will thrill with pride and glory. Step up to the seat, my young friend.”

I said, “I don’t believe I can look fierce enough, honest I don’t.”

Harry Donnelle was just sitting there on the fence laughing so hard I thought he’d fall off. All of the fellows began guying me and saying I was a fool to be scared and that they wished they had the chance. But gee whiz, I was never part of a circus before, and I didn’t want to sit ’way up on the top of that fancy wagon and just look fierce. I bet you wouldn’t, either.

Pretty soon we were driving away and Mr. Costello looked awful big sitting there beside me. He kept cracking his whip all the time.

“So long, see you at the parade!” the fellows shouted.

“Don’t get nervous,” Harry called.

“I should worry,” I called back; “I don’t care what becomes of me now.”

They had big red shutters with gold designs to cover up the cage so no one could see Marshal Foch, and the keeper sat on the step in back. Oh boy, how that Mr. Costello did drive; and he could crack the whip so it sounded like a rifle going off.

Pretty soon we came pell-mell into Kingston and I could see the circus posters in all the store windows and on the fences. The pictures of Mr. Costello looked just like him, kind of brave and bold like, and he always had a whip in his hand. I guess he slept with that whip under his pillow, hey?

While we were passing along one of the streets, a half a dozen scouts shouted to me and I gave them the scout salute.

Mr. Costello said, “Those intrepid young gentlemen will be proud of their young comrade; the whole city will do you honor for your daring and dauntless deed.” I noticed that whenever he strung together a lot of words they all began with the same letter. It sounded fine, too.

I said, “I know one thing, and that is I’d like to have a rich, red, rare, racy, raspberry soda, just now.”

“You will soon be able to regale your ravenous and rapacious capacity among the freaks of two continents who will accord you a warm and wonderful welcome,” he said.

Gee, you couldn’t beat him at it, that was one sure thing.

Jiminy crinkums, I may be a nut (that’s what the troop calls me anyway), but I’m not a freak and, believe me, when I saw who I was going to have dinner with that day—good night!

They all sat around a big mess board that stood on horses just like at Temple Camp. It was in a side tent. Judge Dot sat right next to me; he was a midget. I guess he was only about three feet high, and he had a special chair. On the other side of me was Lieutenant Lemuel Long; he was the thin man. He was about as fat as a clothes pole. He didn’t eat much, but it wasn’t because he didn’t have any appetite. He said he had a contract with Mr. Costello not to eat much, because that would make him fat. He said he had a contract not to weigh more than eighty pounds. Gee, you’ve got to keep a contract if you make one, that’s one thing.

But anyway, Madame Whopper could eat all she wanted to; she was the fat lady. She was a marvelous mammoth—that’s what it said under the picture. She ate nine pieces of pie. I ate four, but anyway, she was a professional. They kept bringing her more pie. Judge Dot said once she ate eleven pieces. I liked Judge Dot, because he said he was sorry about Marshal Foch. He gave me his picture with his name on. He said if it was anyone else but me, it would cost a quarter.

But anyway, the one I liked best was Jib Jab, is he human? He had fur just like a bear, but a head like a man, only his face was brown and it had long hair on it. His face didn’t look exactly like a man and it didn’t look exactly like animal. First I was kind of scared, because in the pictures he was in a cage and he was grabbing hold of the bars and glaring awful fierce and wild. And, gee whiz, I didn’t want to eat dinner with a wild animal. Oh boy, didn’t I have a good scare when I saw him coming to the table!

He jumped over the board seat and sat down right opposite me and took the fur right off his head, just as if he was scalping himself and laid it on the ground. He looked more like a man then.

He looked across and said to me, “Hello, old top, how are they treating you?”

I said, “I’m feeling pretty well.”

“Going into the parade, I hear,” he said. “That was quite a stunt you pulled. You’d never catch me like that if I once broke loose. Think you could?”

I said, “Maybe I couldn’t, but anyway, I guess you’re human, all right.”

Then he began to laugh and said to the thin man, “How goes it, Skinny; you going to ride?”

I guess he meant the parade. The fat woman said, “I wouldn’ do no ridin’ fer no proprietor, not me. The public has got to come to me; I wouldn’ never go to them.”

Jib Jab said, “All in the game.”

Judge Dot said, “It’s different with you, Jib; you ain’t human and you can’t say for yourself. You’re in the menagerie class. You got to ride in your cage. You ain’t a regular freak. I never heard of no parade work in a freak contract.”

Madame Whopper said, “I wouldn’ do parade work fer no proprietor, ride or walk, I wouldn’ not even Barnum hisself, I wouldn’.”

Jib Jab said for me to pass him the butter and then he winked at me and he said, “You’re too particular, Ma. Parade work is all right. I like parade work, except I can’t smoke. How about it, Kid?”

I said I didn’t mind being in a parade, but I wouldn’t want to ride in a cage like he had to do.

He laughed and said it was all in the game. He said if he ever broke out of that cage, I’d never capture him until he came back for his money on Saturday night.

I said “Sometimes boy scouts find people; sometimes they hunt for people that are lost. In our magazine there’s always a notice if a scout is lost and all the scouts are on the look out for him.”

“Yes, but those people are human,” he said.

I said, “Gee whiz, I can’t deny that.”

“You never hunted for a what-is-it, did you?” he asked, awful funny like.

I told him, “No, I never did, but once a troop of scouts found a girl that was lost on a mountain, and there was another troop that found a fellow just from seeing his name in the newspapers.”

He said, “You’re a wide awake bunch, you kids. They don’t have any boy scouts in the jungle where I was captured alive. If you ever get on my trail, I’d give you a run all right.”

I asked him where that jungle was where he was captured alive, and he said it was on Washington Avenue in the Bronx.

He was an awful nice fellow.

Before we were finished I could hear the band playing outside and when I went out all the wagons and chariots and things were in a line ready to start. There were two elephants, a big one and a baby one, and about a half a dozen cage wagons with animals in them and a steam calliope and a lot of things, all gold and red. There were some dandy white horses.

On Marshal Foch’s cage was a big sign that said:

I climbed up to the seat and sat by the driver. He had an awful fancy hat and kind of tinsel stuff all over him. He had a tassel on his hat and it kept blowing in my face. I didn’t know what they were waiting for, but pretty soon Jib Jab came out and he had a chain around his leg. He looked pretty fierce and savage. A keeper was holding the chain and Jib Jab pulled and jerked on it, so a lot of people who were standing around backed away. The wagons were all around in a circle so I could see him in his cage, and he winked at me while the keeper was fixing the chain to one of the bars.

Oh boy, but that was some parade! The streets were all full of people and the steam calliope made so much noise you’d think you were in a boiler factory. Oh, didn’t everybody stare at me! I guess my face was as red as the fancy wagons, but what did I care? On one of the streets I saw Harry Donnelle and the other fellows coming out of a candy store. They were all wiping their mouths with their handkerchiefs and Westy was rubbing his stomach with his hand, as if he had been eating something good. They just did that to jolly me, I bet. I should worry about them. Then they all began laughing at me, because I was trying to look fierce and bold. Maybe you think that’s easy.

Gee, I guess we went through every street in Kingston, with people staring at me all the while, and kids hooting, but I didn’t care. Anyway, I was proud to ride on that wagon.

Just when we were coming back into the circus grounds, I saw Harry Donnelle and the patrol and some other scouts waiting, so I climbed down, because I wanted to be with them. Mr. Costello came out and talked to us and said that I did fine. He said I was the idol of thronging multitudes—that’s just what he said. I was good and thirsty, I know that. Gee, didn’t Harry Donnelle laugh.

Mr. Costello said, “The boy scouts are an honor to this great and glorious country and I should like to take our intrepid young friend to Europe to appear before the high nobility.” Harry said that I was a modest kid and that he guessed one continent was about all I could carry in my pocket. He said that some day maybe I’d pick up Europe if I happened to be passing that way.

Then Mr. Costello gave us all tickets to the show that night and after that he made me a speech and said how I was beloved by all the world renowned personages in the side show. He said that Madame Whopper told him I was a little gentleman. A scout is courteous—oh joy. Then he put his arm over my shoulder and walked away with me and told me not to talk very much about Jib Jab being human, because he wanted the people to decide for themselves. He said it wasn’t telling a lie, because he never said Jib Jab wasn’t human. He just said, “Is he human?”

He said it’s all right to ask a question.

Gee whiz, nobody can deny that.

Those scouts that we met were nice fellows. They were hiking back to Newburgh; that’s where they lived. They told us they had hiked up along the river to visit a place named Elm Center, about ten or fifteen miles west of Kingston. They said they had a bivouac camp just outside the city and that they had stayed there for a couple of days, so as to take in the circus.

We all went to the show together that night, and I sat on Marshal Foch’s cage wagon and rode around in the parade at the beginning of the show. All the fellows cheered me, even those new fellows. After the show I told them all that I wanted to go into the side show and say good-bye to my friends. We were all standing outside and Dorry Benton said, “I’ll go with you.”

Of course, as soon as he said that, they all wanted to go, but Harry said he guessed two were enough. So Dorry and I went in and made a call. The freaks were getting ready to go to bed, but anyway, they were glad to see us. I guess Madame Whopper slept in another tent; anyway, we didn’t see her. Maybe she had a whole tent to herself.

Mr. Lemuel Long said he was hungry and he wished he could eat a lot like scouts do. Gee, I have to admit that scouts eat a lot—especially dessert. You can bet I wouldn’t want to be a human skeleton. Judge Dot said he should worry, because he couldn’t grow any taller no matter what happened. He said he was fifty-two years old and after you get to be fifty-five you begin to shrink. He said everybody does, mostly. He said if he shrunk, he was going to make Mr. Costello give him more money. Gee whiz, I couldn’t blame him, especially on account of the high cost of living. He said Madame Whopper had gained fifty pounds and she made Mr. Costello give her a raise.

While we were talking with Judge Dot, Jib Jab came in and said, “Hello, Scouty, how did you like the show?”

I said, “You looked good and wild, that’s one thing, especially with that chain on.” He said that chain was his own idea.

I guess he had just been washing his face, anyway, there wasn’t any hair on it and the brown was all cleaned off. I could see now that he was a mighty nice looking fellow. His hair was kind of curly and his eyes were awful bright. He took off his fur covering and put on a kind of a bath robe and then sat down on a chair and stuck his feet up on Madame Whopper’s platform. Oh boy, you should have seen Dorry stare. First he looked at the fur covering. It had paws and claws on it just like an animal. Then he looked at Jib Jab. I guess he didn’t know what to make of him.

Jib Jab said, “Now for a smoke,” and he lighted a cigarette; “nothing like a quiet smoke after the day’s work is over. Back in the jungle I never had all this bother of dressing and undressing. Civilization is just killing me. Fact is I can’t be tamed. Anybody got a newspaper? I suppose I ought to be thankful I haven’t got my face all plastered up with fly paper. Where’s old Sky Scraper?” That’s what he called the giant.

“Gone to bed,” Judge Dot said.

“How about you, Shorty; got a match?” he asked Judge Dot.

Judge Dot just said very stiff like, “I’ll bid you good night, sir.”

“Happy dreams, Shorty,” Jib Jab called after him. Then he said, “That’s the trouble with all these freaks—uppish, especially the giant. Why he looks down on everybody. Ma’s about the best of the lot. Shorty thinks he’s the whole circus just because he has three rings on his hands. Same with Skinny. I’d rather be back in the jungle than living with this bunch. Half the time they don’t speak to me. You see I’m not a regular freak; they look on me as a kind of a butt-in.”

I said, “Gee, I’m sorry; I should think they’d like you.”

“They’re all jealous,” he said; “that’s the trouble. They’re all down on parade work, even Ma. They couldn’t stand for me making a hit with that chain. Last week, up in Albany, I started to growl just as Shorty started selling his photographs. The louder he piped away with that silly little squeaky voice of his, the more I roared. When it comes to roaring, I’ve got even the lions jealous. Fact is I’m not liked; they are all jealous, even the animals. And I feel it, too; any honest hard working what-is-it would. Especially if he’s human. The little two-headed boy we had was about the best of the lot, only he was double faced. He’s with Barnum’s now—fifty a week and overtime.”

“I don’t see why you want to be a what-is-it,” I told him; “especially if they don’t treat you right.”

He just went on smoking, awful funny, kind of. Jiminy, I couldn’t make him out at all.

He said, “Now you take Teddy Roosevelt, the elephant. He’s what you’d call a big attraction—very big. Do you suppose he’d refuse to pal with me just because I’m a poor, neglected what-is-it? Only this morning we had a bag of peanuts together; he and I and little Ruth. He’s just as plain and democratic as he can be. But you see my position isn’t easy. I’m human and yet I’m not. I don’t know where I fit in. The animals are kind of leary; you can’t blame them. And the freaks are as stuck up as poor old Marshal Foch was. Sometimes I wish I was back in the jungle.”

Jingoes, I didn’t know how to take him at all, and I could see Dorry was just staring at him as if he didn’t know whether he was jollying us or not.

“Anyway, we have to be sorry for you,” I said. He just kept puffing on his cigarette and he said, “Well, it’s good to sit back here when the freaks have turned in and have a quiet smoke. Pretty strenuous work jerking and pulling on that chain. It’s a hard life being a question mark.”

“You said something,” I told him; “cracky, I wouldn’t want to be a what-is-it.”

He just said, “No, when you grow up, make up your mind whether you’re going to be human or not. Don’t try to be two things. Don’t be a question mark. Why away down in my savage, primeval heart, I wouldn’t hurt a kitten. Yet here I am growling and roaring and wrenching at my cage bars and straining at that old chain, and the children and old ladies back up on the street when they see me, frightened out of their lives. I’m not loved by anyone. It’s mighty hard. Either one of you kids got a cigarette about you?”

I told him no, that scouts didn’t smoke cigarettes.

He said, “Well, drop in and see me down at Poughkeepsie or Newburgh if you happen in when we’re there. You’re always welcome.”

Gee, we just couldn’t make heads or tails of that fellow. Anyway, I liked him. And I had to admit that that was good advice he gave me about making up my mind whether to be human or not.

The fellows were all waiting for us when we came out and we hiked out to where those scouts had their camp. There were only five of them, one patrol, and the biggest one was a kind of scoutmaster and patrol leader rolled into one. His name was Brent Gaylong. I walked with him behind the others and he told me all about his patrol and the troubles they had. He was an awful nice fellow, kind of quiet like; but he was funny, too. Christopher, that little troop must have been started on Friday the thirteenth, that’s one thing sure.

I said, “What’s the name of your patrol?”

“Well,” he said, “we call ourselves the Church Mice, because we’re so poor. First we were going to call ourselves the Job’s Turkeys, but we decided that a church mouse was poorer than Job’s turkey.”

I had to laugh. I said, “I’ve heard of most every kind of an animal’s name used for patrols, but never a church mouse. My patrol is the Silver Fox.”

“That’s a bully name,” he said.

“Anyway,” I told him, “the name hasn’t got so much to do with it. There was a patrol up at Temple Camp named the Pollywogs and they were all nice fellows. But they couldn’t keep still, they were always wriggling. Maybe they’re frogs by this time, hey? A fellow up there told me about a patrol named the Caterpillars and afterwards they changed it to the Butterflies. He said there’s a patrol out west named the Mock Turtles. There’s a lot of crazy fellows come to Temple Camp. One of them said there was a fellow in his troop named Welsh and he was chosen leader of a new patrol and they wanted to call it the Welsh Rabbits. Church Mice is all right, I think.”

He said, “It’s appropriate anyway. I’d like to see a camp like that Temple Camp; it must be great. Trouble with us is we’ve had such plaguey hard luck. I guess there’s only one thing harder than our luck and that’s the biscuits we make.”

I said, “I can make hard ones.”

Then he said, “You see, first our scoutmaster had to go to war. We were just starting then. It hit us a good whack. We tried to get another, but scoutmasters were pretty scarce; they were scarcer than coal and sugar. They were all in France. So I took the job. I suppose we could get one now, but since we’ve worried along all this time without one, we decided to wait till our scoutmaster gets back. He’ll be back in a couple of weeks, I understand, and we want to give him a welcome. We’ve got two dollars and fourteen cents toward it so far—two dollars and four cents, really, because there’s a Canadian dime. If there are any Canadian dimes around, we’re sure to get them. Then our little shanty burned down. It was about the best camp-fire I ever saw, only it left us without a meeting-place. We still have our scout smiles; they don’t cost anything. If they did, we couldn’t afford them.”

I said, “That’s one thing about scout smiles; they’re the only things that haven’t gone up.”

“So here we are,” he said, “hiking back home after one of our fool enterprises. We intended to go down on the train, but we went to the circus instead.”

“It’s about thirty miles down to Newburgh,” I said; “you’ll have to bivouac twice anyway.”

He said, “I guess we’ve got eats enough.”

“We might as well all hike that far together,” I told him.

“Good idea,” he said, “if you don’t mind chumming up with a travelling poor-house.”

“We should worry about being poor,” I said; “I know a man that’s rich and he can’t hike at all. He goes on crutches. How would you like to be him? Anyway, don’t you fellows get discouraged.”

“Don’t worry,” he said; “first it was hard, but now we’ve come to like it. You can get a lot of fun out of hard luck. And all we need is time, I suppose. This winter we’re all going to work on Saturdays. Trouble is that isn’t going to help us give our scoutmaster a welcome home. We’ve done more crazy things this summer trying to get a little money together! I guess it would have been better if we’d all knuckled down to jobs. But I wanted these poor kids to get a taste of scouting. Too late now, anyway. Why if I told you why we hiked up to Elm Center, you’d just laugh in my face. You’d say we were crazy. But we’ve had a good time anyway.”

I said, “One thing sure, everything will come out all right and it’s better to go on a hike and camping and all that in the summer than to be working in the city. One of those fellows ahead of us is named Dorry Benton and he’s kind of—not exactly poor, but—Anyway, he’s crazy to get a motorcycle and he was going to stay home and work this summer, but Mr. Ellsworth (he’s our scoutmaster) told him no, that it was better for him to go up to Temple Camp. That big fellow with us isn’t our regular scoutmaster. Anyway, Dorry is crazy to have a motorcycle and you can bet he’ll have more fun with it if he has to wait for it, won’t he? Anyway, I wish you’d tell me what you came up this way for. I won’t tell any of the follows if you don’t want me to.”

“Oh,” he said, “they might as well all have a good laugh. And I don’t want you to think that I’m grouching about hard luck, either. We’ll land right side up—scouts mostly do. The woods are free, thank goodness. All that’s troubling us is that when Mr. Jennis went away he gave us a spread and presented each one of us with a scout knife and we’d like to return the compliment, that’s all. We’d like to show him how much we think of him. I had a crazy notion we’d all go down to New York and meet him and give him something or other when the transport arrives. Happy dreams. I guess all we’ll give him is the scout salute. But we’ll come out right side up yet, even if we have to sweep up the streets in Newburgh. Principal trouble with us is that we’re a lot of dreamers; I guess I’m the worst of the lot. Not much money in adventures. So now we’re up against it. You don’t make money scouting, you make it working.”

I said, “I wish you’d please tell me why you came up this way, will you?”

“Sure I will,” he said; “it’s a joke—it’s a peach of a joke. Only I tell you beforehand, we’re a band of wild adventurers. Here we are at our luxurious camp. Pretty big tent, hey?”

“I don’t see any tent,” I said.

He said, “Don’t you see that big blue tent?”

“Where?” I asked him.

“With the little gold spots all over it?”

“Oh, you mean the sky?” I said.

“Some tent, hey?” he said. And then he began laughing.

“There’s no man can make a tent like that,” I told him.

“It’s only intended for rich scouts,” he laughed; “we don’t even bother to take it with us when we go; we just leave it here. Oh, we’re a reckless, extravagant bunch.”