Skinny McCord

CHAPTER XVIII

TO PASTURES NEW

One might suppose that such a boy as Danny would have at least the quality of understanding himself; he was nonchalant and self-assured; so easily the master of a situation. But strangely enough, now that he had plenty of money and could go upon his way with comparative safety, he felt neither safe nor comfortable. He had suffered no scruples at masquerading at the expense of an unknown scout, but now that the unused balance of this board money was handed him, he felt like a thief. Such is the strange quality of money! There are those who will accept favors of every sort, except money. As long as he had been a guest (?) at camp he had not thought of himself as doing anything dishonest. Risky no doubt, but not stealing. But now his act was reduced to its common denominator. He held the money, not simply what the money represented. And he felt exactly as if he had stolen it. It needed only these crisp bills to remind him of the outrageous fraud he had been perpetrating.—Money to return to Florida.

This climax of affairs troubled him, for it showed him that he was not so sure of himself. In a way, Temple Camp had found him out, or at least revealed him to himself. He had avoided scouting so as to keep under cover. Then he had deliberately sauntered to his own destruction by accepting the dismissal which should have been Holman Sharpe's. That is, he had done a good turn, which of course, is scouting. In the course of this renunciation he had found himself in possession of seventy dollars. And he could not keep it. He was thoroughly annoyed with himself at this. He was found out—he had found himself out. He had tracked himself and found himself. He alone had done the whole business!

"They must think I'm joy riding in a baby carriage, needing money," he said to himself. He was not willing to put his act of returning the money on the somewhat weak and "kiddish" grounds of honesty. Such a resourceful, skillful boy as he, could travel without money. And so forth and so on. Anyway, he sauntered with his finest nonchalant air into Administration Shack, giving a little sneery look at the stuffed birds and snake skins displayed there. He could never, never go in for scouting. Oh no! He pulled out one of the chairs around the big writing table, sat down, pulled a Temple Camp envelope to him, put the money into it and addressed it, "To the Managers of Temple Camp."

He scaled it over to the young clerk at the desk as he went out. "Here's a love letter for Wainey and the bunch," he said. "Tell 'em I didn't need it."

"Sorry you're going, Scout Bently," said the young scout clerk.

"That's all right, so long, old man."

"You'll find it pretty hot in Florida this time of year, won't you?"

"I'm not there yet."

"You going down on the bus?"

"No, I'm going to hike down and get the six thirty-two."

"Well, hope to see you again."

One thing he wanted to do and that was to find Skinny. Poor Skinny, he would be relieved by the departure of this unconcerned young masquerader. In that two weeks he had obeyed Danny's order and not sought him out. He had smiled shyly on the two or three occasions when they had passed each other by and once at night, when all the scouts were at campfire, he had ventured down to the deserted Pioneer Row to have just a few words with his dubious hero if Danny were there. But he could not find him. "He's scared, because he thinks maybe I look like him," Skinny said to himself. As if he, Skinny, could look like that resourceful and daring adventurer! He had thought much about Danny, and worried about him, in those two weeks. Once he had seen a strange man coming along the path west of the storehouse holding a boy by the collar and he had been seized with panic fear that it was Danny in the clutch of the Blythedale authorities, until he saw that it was just a visiting parent indulging in pleasantries with his son.

But Skinny was not to be found on that afternoon of Danny's sudden departure, and Danny took the trail around the lake without seeing him. He went that way because he wished to avoid villages and the open roads. The route was longer and much more difficult than that via the highroad, but he could get to Catskill without passing through Leeds. His intention was to hook a ride on a train to New York and then, having no money, to use his wits. But, of course, Danny never knew from one minute to another what he would do.

So Holman Sharpe was able to proceed uninterrupted with his strenuous cramming in the interest of scouting. We should not be too severe with Holman. Realizing what Danny was doing for his sake, he tried to find him and insist that they tell Councilor Wainwright the truth. But Danny had already gone. That was the great thing about Danny, he was always as good as his word and acted promptly. Whether it was hitting a boy in the eye or making a sacrifice, it was all the same. He hated talk and posing.

Thus baffled in his effort to make amends, Holman contented himself with the comfortable view that after all his "studies" were more important than the unprofitable loitering of a boy like Danny. Making good use of one's time was surely the paramount virtue, greater than generosity and sacrifice. We shall meet Holman again some day and it will be interesting to note how his studious concentration worked out. He cared more for scouting than he did for scouts.

Nor should we be too lenient with Danny. He had a kind of sophisticated contempt for the prescribed routine of scouting and it was not exactly in the spirit of self-sacrifice that he saved Holman from summary dismissal. It amused him and annoyed him to see this smug candidate for scout honors delving in books and planning to do things which he, Danny, could do so easily. As long as Holman liked that sort of baby play, Danny was quite ready to assure him his continuance of it. But it was with a tolerant sneer that he did it. And generous acts are not done with a sneer.

Moreover, Danny knew that in a couple of weeks the real Danville Bently would arrive and a crisis occur. He had done his stunt of masquerading, and had been able thus to lie low in the perilous days following his escape from the reform school. He went away owing Temple Camp (or the real Bently) the amount of two weeks board, but he had balked at taking the cash that had been proffered him, and had gone penniless.

It may be added that he succeeded in finding the trail through the mountain pass across the lake, which Holman Sharpe had tried four times to follow in doing test four for the first class scout badge.

CHAPTER XIX

THE NEW ARRIVAL

Perhaps poor little Skinny's big eyes stared a little more than usual on his hearing of Danny's departure. But he did not fear for Danny. He knew that Danny was equal to anything, that he led a charmed life. He did not know why Danny had left (nobody seemed to know that) but he was not greatly surprised. Back home, Danny had always been the true free lance, coming and going at will. He had followed a circus as far as Ohio and come safely home. To Skinny he was superhuman. Down in that stout little heart, Danny, with all his dubious qualities, was the real hero. He could do anything he wanted to do. All that troubled Skinny was that he wanted to do such dreadful things.

Early on the afternoon of August Second he trembled as a little group of new arrivals came down the woods path from the road where the bus had set them down. He stood, a poor, shabby little figure, on the porch of Administration Shack watching those khaki clad boys with suit-cases and duffel bags, as they were piloted into the office. He was just the queer little mascot of camp, a law unto himself, and no longer bothered because he did not wear the scout regalia. They took him around with them, rowing and hiking, because of a superstition that he brought good luck. Sometimes they took him out in the canoe that he had won in an insane frenzy, and he was always shyly pleased to go. Ask any scout in camp about that phenomenal exploit and he would tell you that Skinny did it in a fit and could never do it again. But he was always on hand on Administration porch to gaze at new arrivals. He was the court fool, the camp pet, always in evidence, staring in amazement at the great world.

Among these new arrivals on that day was a tall, merry faced boy, whose natty scout suit set off his trim, slender form. He was distinguishable from the others (a patrol and a two patrol troop) by a spotless white scout scarf which, instead of being tied in a knot was drawn through a wide silver ring. His belt was white, too, a noticeable variation in the scout raiment. He climbed to the porch rather hesitatingly behind the others, but he was not embarrassed at the patrol of authority, for he gave Skinny a funny wink which aroused the little fellow to eager laughter. When Skinny laughed the skin of his thin face tightened about his mouth, giving the appearance of an older person's smile, but his big eager eyes redeemed this rather pitiful effect.

"What's the white scarf for?" he ventured to ask upon the strength of that pleasant wink.

"Polar Bears of Florida," said the boy.

"They don't have polar bears in Florida," Skinny ventured.

"No, that's the funny part of it," the boy laughed.

Skinny did not realize till this boy had gone inside that he was the real Danville Bently of Wave Crest City, Florida. He did not venture into the office for there was a rug on the floor and somehow he was always timid where there were rugs. But he stood at the window looking in. He wondered if something involving himself would now happen. His nerves were all on edge. There would be an explosion, he thought. The tall boy stood aside waiting till the others were enrolled. Skinny felt that this was for a purpose. The boy looked very conspicuous in there with his white scarf and belt in striking contrast to his khaki attire. Skinny now noticed that the hat he held had a white cord on it also. He seemed to be waiting just from politeness, but Skinny's little hands trembled in panic excitement.

The others emerged, singly and in groups, and now the tall boy was at the counter. There was evidently some trouble and the clerk began running through a card catalogue. Councilor Tenny was called and together the three talked at the counter. Then Tom Slade, the young camp assistant, appeared among them. Pretty soon he began laughing and Skinny was relieved. The new boy laughed too. But Councilor Tenny did not laugh. He shook his head as if puzzled. Then they got a letter and read it. Pretty soon the new boy came out laughing.

"Well you don't have to worry," Tom called after him. "But it's blamed funny we never got that letter."

"I know my name if I don't know anything else," laughed the boy. "I wish I was as sure of my first class badges as I am of my—what d'you call it—identity?"

"Beats me," said Tom, pausing on the steps. "All right, Bently, don't worry; we like mysteries here."

"I'll write to my dad and he'll straighten it out," the boy said.

"This is a great place, Bent, we have dark and bloody mysteries," said Tom. "Long as you know who you are, you're all right. Get busy—eats at six." That was just his off-hand, hearty way with new arrivals.

So the worst was over and Skinny had not been torn to pieces or struck dead. Temple Camp survived the dreadful fraud. Tom Slade had even laughed; he loved so to have a joke on the office.

"Will you let me show you where you're going to go?" Skinny asked. "Are you going to the dormitory? I'll show you. 'Cause my patrol went on a hike, so I'll show you."

"I'm going to Tent Village, wherever that is?"

"I'll show you—it's dandy there. Is your name—what's your name?" he asked, hurrying along by the new boy's side.

"Danville Bently."

"Have you got a patrol?"

"Sure, but I don't carry it around with me; I just came from Europe. A chap was here for a couple of weeks and gave my name, that's what all the fuss was about. Nobody seems to know anything about him."

"Will—they won't catch him, will they?"

"If he was slick enough to do that, I guess they won't if you're asking me."

"He was smart, hey? Even if he wasn't maybe kind of a hero, he was smart, hey?"

"There have been lots of worse ones; look at Robin Hood."

"Even he was bad, but he was a hero, hey?"

"I'd kind of like to know who he was. I hope I'll turn out to be as smart as he is."

"You're not mad at him?" Skinny asked.

"I never get mad at anybody. My dad's the one that loses, and he'll have a good laugh over it."

"Why do you wear white? It looks awful different?"

"Why do kids ask questions?"

"You're a second class scout?" Skinny asked, noticing the badge.

"I'll be a first class one in a few days or I'll kick myself. Have you got seven miles around here that you're not using, so I can hike it?"

"That's in test four," Skinny said. "Do you want me to go for a witness?"

"Sure, you're always welcome."

"I know a good test four hike and I can always go, because mostly my patrol are away doing all kinds of things. I can always go—if you want me to. I won the Hiawatha canoe for swimming across the lake; I'll show it to you, but most of the time it's out."

"Ever hear of Dutch Henny's Cave?"

"Sure I did. I bet you read about it in the Temple Camp booklet, hey? It's just seven miles. I'll show you Spook Falls too, because they make a noise like crying at night. That's a good test five hike for second class, because it's just a mile; they go scout pace."

"How 'bout twelve on the first?"

"You mean getting a new scout? That's hard, because they're all scouts up here. If you ask me things, I can tell you."

"Good."

"Now we're coming to Tent Village," said Skinny. "It's good it's all full in Pioneer Dormitory, so they don't put you there. Can I be special friends with you? Are you going to get prizes and awards?"

"Search me; I'm going to get a lot of fun," said Danville Bently.

CHAPTER XX

SKINNY'S PROTÉGÉ

The next day a notice somewhat more lengthy and conspicuous than the usual hastily written announcements appeared on the big bulletin board at Administration Shack. It was typewritten and signed by the two resident trustees. Skinny gazed at it, appalled.

The management of Temple Camp is mortified to make known that the honorable uniform of scouting has been lately used to perpetrate a gross and criminal fraud in this community. On July First a boy representing himself to be a scout, enrolled and secured assignment to quarters at this office. He registered the name of Danville Bently of Florida, a scout who was expected at that time. This unknown boy was lately dismissed from camp for sufficient reasons at the end of two weeks enjoyment of the camp's hospitality. A letter, deferring the arrival of the true Danville Bently, failed to be received at this office and was probably intercepted.

The management of this camp has regretfully had occasion to warn its guests against canvassers representing themselves to be connected with the movement, but never heretofore against any one wrongfully impersonating a scout.

Loyalty to this camp and jealousy for the honor of the scout uniform, will prompt any one who has any knowledge or suspicions of the whereabouts and identity of this miscreant, promptly to bring same to the attention of the management.

This certainly set the matter forth in its true colors and Skinny was aghast. What would they say if they knew that this "miscreant" was also a fugitive from a reform school? But the affair was over and he would not worry any more about it. The bulletin was just a random shot in the dark and nothing happened. Danny was safe. No one knew Danny as he did or they would not put out such notices.

He became devoted to Danville Bently. The only way that Skinny could make friends with a boy was to catch him early, before he was drawn into the activities of the camp life. Every newcomer had a rather slow day or two before becoming acquainted, and this was particularly so with boys who came without their troops. After a new boy became involved in the camp life, he saw Skinny simply as the little mascot and was content to "jolly" him as every one else did. He was not likely to take this queer little fellow seriously and to make a pal of him. Skinny knew this from bitter experience and he capitalized his knowledge of camp and the neighboring countryside with every new arrival. New boys were glad enough to hobnob with this eager little guide while there was nothing else to do and had no scruples about deserting him as soon as they were drawn into the camp life. Skinny knew that he must strike while the iron was hot, as the saying is, and he was always to be found, a gaunt little figure, waiting on Administration steps when the bus came in. No boy could possibly dislike Skinny. But on the other hand no boy could possibly make a permanent comrade of him.

But Danville Bently did just that. The contrast between Skinny and himself was ridiculous, but he seemed not to notice it. A boy who deliberately chose Skinny's company was apt to get himself laughed at. But no one dreamed of laughing. Perhaps no one dared to laugh at this tall boy with the white scarf and belt who ambled about with the cadaverous little gnome who took such conspicuous delight in his company. Once again Skinny had done the unexpected and won a real prize. Truly indeed he never did anything on a small scale.

At first the camp paid no attention while this shabby little janitor showed the new tenant around the enchanted place. That was Skinny's customary job. But when Howell Cross, of the First Vermont Eagles (and an Eagle Scout) asked Danville to go on a point hike and he pleasantly declined, the big heroes of Temple Camp began to sit up and take notice.

"Sorry," said he, "but I'm going out on the lake with Alfred McCord. Tell your patrol I appreciate their asking me." Howell and the others who stood by were astonished not only because it was a compliment to the new boy for the Eagle Patrol so to honor him, but because none of them had ever before heard Skinny called by his real name Alfred. They were to hear that name a good deal in the future.

"Can't you go out on the lake with him any day?" one of these scouts asked.

"Sure, so why not to-day?" said Danville.

"It's up to you."

"How do you like it in Tent Village?"

"All right."

"If you don't like it with the singles you can be a season member of my patrol," said Eagle Scout Cross. "I'm one short, he's away with his folks. They let you do that up here, you know."

"Oh, he knows," laughed another scout. "I guess little sqeedunk told him everything."

"He never told me he stole the white pennant," said Danville not unpleasantly, but with just a touch of sharpness.

It was the first time these well known scouts of camp had come face to face with the tall boy with the soft southern accent, and they observed him closely. They were all scouts of achievement; the Vermont Eagles were a crack patrol and Howell Cross, their leader, was a hero with a following. There were, alas, drones at camp, but this circle was finely representative of scouting. They saw nothing about Bently to suggest the laggard or slacker, or mere "guest" at camp. He had what even Howell Cross had not, and that was a certain picturesqueness; but it was of a sort that revealed no crink or cranny where boyish ridicule could penetrate. An odd hat, or even too much attention to ostentatious details of scout attire (shades of Pee-wee Harris) was pretty sure to arouse mirth and banter in this big community. But the full white scarf with belt and hat cord to match, worn by this tall, self-possessed boy, excited no humorous comment. They asked him respectfully about it.

"Polar Bears," said he. "And I know there aren't any in Florida and that's the funny part. I bet I've said that fifty times since I came here."

"We can sure tell you a long way off," said Howell pleasantly. "Does the silver ring mean anything?"

"It only means my sister gave it to me when I joined the scouts."

"Gee, it's nifty all right. It's not a patrol ring?"

"Yes it is, we all got them."

"You don't have to tie it in a knot, gee that's good."

Ordinarily the mention of a sister would have given Temple Camp just the chance it loved. They would have used the sister to belittle their victim. They would have said, "Oh joy, he's got a little sister." But they just were not moved to do that. They looked at his white scarf gathered into the shining silver ring, and at his belt, and everything about him. They were interested, respectful. And a trifle puzzled. That he should have an engagement with Skinny McCord! And that he seemed to have every intention of keeping it, just as if it were a real engagement.

CHAPTER XXI

TEMPLE CAMP TAKES NOTICE

They even lingered in group form, watching him as he ambled off down toward the lake. He had been at camp nearly a week, and he was still quietly devoted to Skinny. He had not exploited Skinny nor made any ostentatious show of being his champion. Yet he was devoted to him in an easy-going unpretentious sort of way. He had never said, nor even thought, "I might as well be nice to the poor kid." Evidently he did not know that Skinny was just a poor little codger—a mascot. Somebody would have to tell him about that. The funny part of it was that he did not get himself laughed at.

Skinny's winning of the Hiawatha canoe had not brought him any lasting glory. The white pennant had been lifted many times since he had scampered off with it, eager and trembling. But now scouts began to wonder how he had secured this permanent award of the tall, polite, easy-going boy with the white scarf. They did not exactly begin to take Skinny seriously, but they were puzzled. They tried to find a weak point in Bently, some idle or effeminate quality, but there was just nothing to get hold of.

Skinny was waiting at the lake, eager and anxious. He lived in perpetual dread that Bently would "fall down" on him. But Bently never did. He came ambling down with that pleasant smile which always reassured Skinny.

"Did they ask you to go on bee-line with them?"

"Point to point, you mean?"

"Yes, they call it bee-line for short. I never went on one, but I know all about how they do; you have to go across brooks and climb over things and everything; you'd have a lot of fun. That feller that was kidding me at camp-fire last night—you know that fat feller?—he went through a house, even. Are you sure you're going to go out with me?"

"I ought to be the one to know," said Danville.

"Did they try to get you to not do it?"

"No, why? How are we going; in your canoe?"

"Yes, but it's out, my patrol is using it. Maybe we better take a boat, hey? That's it, over in the middle of the lake."

"Seems to be coming in, let's wait for it."

They sat down on the springboard to wait. The lake was dotted with boats; every one seemed to be out fishing.

"I couldn't swim across again, because I was crazy that time," said Skinny.

"You can do things when you're crazy," Danville said.

"I can," said Skinny, "but not any other time. I got to get all crazy like. Do you? It don't count so much if you're crazy like. That's why everybody forgot about it. They said I was lucky."

"They said that about Lindbergh."

"If I get good and mad, then I can do things. Only most of the time I can't get mad. They're nice to me up here, that's sure."

"Yes, that's good."

"Are we going to stay friends like! I don't mean just jollying me, but are we going to stay friends like this?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a mascot. Do you mind if I don't have a regular scout suit?"

"I never noticed."

"Here they come now, they're coming in. That feller paddling in front is Hunt Ward. That other one paddling is Connie Bennett, he's my patrol leader. That other one belongs in a troop from Rhode Island; he goes around with them a lot; he likes my patrol."

The Hiawatha canoe, with its merry trio, glided toward the float, Connie brought it around, and it paused rocking alongside. "H'lo Skinny," Hunt called.

"Can I go out in it now?" Skinny asked. "This feller's going with me, can I use it?"

They glanced at Danville who stood by, watching them. "You ought to have been down here an hour ago," Hunt said to him, "and you could have gone along. We've got some perch."

"Now is just as good," said Danville.

"She's all full of water, wait till we get her on the float and tip her," Connie said.

The three voyagers proceeded with the rather clumsy task of hauling the canoe up on the float and turning it over.

"You don't need to haul her up," Danville said. "Here, let me show you."

He kneeled on the float, and reached over, pulling the opposite gunwale up and toward him. By a quick application of dexterity and strength the canoe was tipped up sideways against the edge of the float, and the water poured out of it. Then Danville eased it down into the lake again. By this trick he did a two man job while the others stood watching and feeling a little superfluous. Yet it was more than a trick, for when Connie tried to do the same thing he could not with all his strength raise the canoe to the necessary angle. "That's some wrinkle," he said. He preferred to view it as a trick rather than as an exhibition of extraordinary strength. "I guess you've got to know how," he said.

"Oh, yes," laughed Danville.

They had intended to jolly Skinny and discourage his project of using the canoe. The Elks thought a good deal of this canoe. They liked to see it safely in its locker when they were not using it. They had intended to say as usual, "Oh, you don't want to use it." But here was an embarrassing complication. The tall, smiling boy with the white scarf had modestly shown them a trick and a strength of arm not to be ridiculed. This was no time or place for authority or banter. He was quite master of the situation. It would be quite absurd to remind Skinny of dangers.

"I suppose it's all right for us to go out in his canoe, isn't it?" Danville asked. There was no hint of sarcasm in his remark and his handsome open face was wreathed in a friendly smile. But just the same these Elks felt a rebuke. A strange, uncomfortable feeling was upon them that this boy was their master, mentally and physically. If they had been sure that he meant that pronoun Ids in a sneering sense, they could have got back at him. But they did not know what he meant, any more than they knew how he had tipped the canoe. They were wise scouts and they made no mistake. Somehow or other no boys ever made a mistake with Danville Bently. They sensed something. They were embarrassed—and respectful.

"Sure, it's his. Why can't he use it if he wants to?" Connie said. He seemed inclined to be reasonable.

"That'll be dandy," said Danville.

Just as Howell Cross's group had watched him rather puzzled, so now these three returning voyagers lingered there on the float watching him as he paddled away with Skinny wedged up in the bow like an uncanny little doll. He paddled, as he did everything else, without the slightest fuss or effort. He had that about him which suggested that he could make up his mind without the slightest fuss or effort, that he would jump off a roof without the slightest fuss or effort.

"I can't make that guy out," said the scout from Rhode Island. "Gee, that white scarf looks plain out on the water huh?"

"Notice how he holds his left hand!" said Connie. "I think he compensates with his right wrist, honest."

"No, it's the long back sweep," said Hunt. "Geeeee! Look at the reach he's got!"

"He kind of reminded us it was Skinny's canoe," said Connie. "Did you notice how nice he did that?"

"Sure, and he paddles the same way," laughed Hunt. "He does things the same way he says things. You never know what he means. Looks easy till you try to do it."

"Any other scout came up here with a bib around his neck they'd kid the life out of him," said Connie.

"Nothing about him looks like a bib to me," said the scout from Rhode Island.

CHAPTER XXII

PARTNERS

"Just flop around, hey?"

"Yes, that's the way I like to do," said Skinny. "If I was in the bow of a rowboat I couldn't look at you, because you'd be facing backwards. I like to look at you with your white scarf. I like canoes better than rowboats, don't you?"

"They're not so good for dancing or scrapping."

"That's the way you talk, and it's why fellows can't make you out," said the simple Skinny.

"Well, as long as you can make me out it's all right," said Danville. "How 'bout it, are you going to help me?"

"Will you let me! You mean getting your first class badge? Are you going to do it?"

"Might as well, hadn't I?"

"And that's all you've got to do? I mean just test four?"

"N—no, I've got two things to do," said Danville as he paddled idly, occasionally letting the paddle drip. "This scouting is a blamed nuisance."

"Now I can tell you're fooling. Kind of sometimes you remind me of my brother, only he's only a half a brother. Anyway, you're not so fresh like he is. He gets in a lot of trouble being reckless."

"That's the way to do it," said Danville. "Where's the other half of him?"

"I mean we got different mothers," said Skinny. "Once a feller got fresh with me and he knocked him kerplunk. Another feller——"

He was about to stumble into a reference to Danny's pugilistic exploit at camp, but caught himself just in time. He could not trust himself talking about Danny, and it made him feel false and dishonorable, so he changed the subject.

"Only just one test you've got to take to be in the first class? Two, you said two."

"Yep, the other's missionary stuff, training a boy to be a tenderfoot—twelve. I'm not so stuck on twelve except when it's twelve gumdrops for a cent. You don't happen to know any boys that want to be trained as tenderfoots or feets, whatever it is? I suppose we might kidnap one from a farm. But first how about Test Four? Tell me about that seven mile hike, or if it turns out to be any more than seven miles the boy scouts will have to give me a rebate. I've been climbing up the Alps this summer and I'm tired."

"Those are in Europe, hey?"

"And they're up in the air—in Switzerland. Where is this lion's den or whatever you call it? Maybe I could go in a taxi. I've got to do it before my dad comes up or I won't be able to stick him for a pony next winter."

"I can never make out whether you're honest and true for scouting or not," poor Skinny said.

"Oh, I'm honest and true," said Danville. "Tell me and let's plan it out and get it over with."

"You got to be serious about it," Skinny warned.

"All right, I'll start crying if you say so. As I understand it I've got to hike seven miles and seven miles back and write up an account of it—all the time being serious. Now is this cave just exactly seven miles? I don't want to make that hike and then find I didn't go far enough. And if I should find I hiked farther than necessary I'd be good and mad at you. I'm not going to give them any more than they ask for; I'm a stingy chap."

"Is it a real pony—a live one!" Skinny asked.

"If it isn't I'll have my dad arrested for swindling."

"Would you have anybody arrested?"

"I might if I happened to think of it. Let's talk about something pleasant. If I do that fourteen mile hike and close up on the first class tests, will you find me a boy to train as a tenderfoot! That'll be the only thing left to do. Maybe you could leave the scouts and then I'd start in training you—no?"

"They wouldn't let us do that. Just the same we'll find some feller that's not a scout."

"All right then, I guess I might as well take a hop, skip and jump into the first class. Will you go with me to-morrow morning and hold my hand?"

"Sure I will; then I can tell them I was the one that went with you, hey? I can be the one to prove it."

"Sure thing; you tell 'em."

"Are you all excited about it?" Skinny asked.

"Oh I think I'll sleep to-night."

"And to-morrow you can write to your father that you're a full first class scout, hey?"

"Don't forget about the boy I have to catch and train for a tenderfoot."

"Yes, but that isn't exactly a test, kind of."

"Now if you weren't such a little peach of a scout I might use you."

"And I could go in your patrol, maybe; hey? Because my patrol wouldn't be mad if I did."

"Oh, is that so? Well, we'll have to be careful not to make them mad. I suppose they'd beat us up if they got mad; and they wouldn't let us use your canoe."

Skinny seemed to be thinking. "If you're breaking in a new feller then maybe you won't bother with me any more; hey?"

"Then again maybe I will."

"I bet when you get your first class badge, then you'll start getting a lot of merit badges; I bet you'll win a whole lot of them."

"Six or eight at a time, huh?"

"And when you've got your first class badge you can try for camp specials too. Those are things that are not in the Handbook, like the Mohawk Archery set for tracking; you get a target easel and a lot of targets and a real Indian bow and arrows and everything. You've got to track somebody, or an animal, five miles through the woods—then you get it."

"I kind of like that."

"First you've got to find tracks—I'll help you. There's a feller up here named Roy Blakeley; don't you let him help you. He told one scout where there were some tracks and they were nothing but railroad tracks. So do you want to try for that prize after you get your full badge?"

"That's the one for me. Tell me about this canoe; how did you win it?"

"I was all kinder crazy like—kinder like my fingers were asleep. So I even couldn't hold myself back. Do you say a feller can be kinder good even if he's reckless. You don't have to be so terrible if you're bad, do you?"

"Guess not."

"If you like me a lot——"

"That's it."

"If you like me a lot and I do something—kinder—maybe—if I'm kind of not so good all of a sudden—then would you like me just the same?"

Danville Bently gazed amusedly at the poor little fellow wedged into the point of the canoe. There was something pathetic about Skinny's very posture as he sat there, serious, eager, insignificant. He looked out of place and uncomfortable in this beautiful canoe, as if he did not yet comprehend how he had even won it.

His own spectacular excursion into the field of heroic enterprise was like a fairy tale to him now. But he was strong on hero worship. Danville lifted the paddle and poked him with it; Skinny was used to that sort of thing.

"No, I only like Sunday School boys," said Danville. "They've got to be perfect to suit me."

Skinny looked at him as if he did not know whether to believe this or not.

"So if you've been committing any murders or robbing any banks, it's all over between us. Shall we flop around toward camp again now, and wash up for eats?"

"To-morrow morning you'll go on Test Four!"

"To-morrow morning. Then for the archery set and the new recruit."

"Can I be partners with you while you're doing all that?"

"Sure—or falling down on it."

"Sometimes fellers forget when they have dates with me."

"Well I've got a good memory."

CHAPTER XXIII

HENNY'S CAVE

Skinny did not quite comprehend this rather whimsical boy. But here was a prize he had every intention of keeping. He no longer worried about Danny. That dreadful affair which had cost him sleepless nights was at last over. Danny had triumphed (if you call it triumph) and gone upon his dubious way. All that remained of that fearful nightmare was Skinny's love and admiration of the checkered hero.

Danny was far away and safe. His genius for beating any game would carry him through every difficulty. There was one place where he would always be safe and that was in the stout little heart that beat beneath the the shabby and faded shirt of his little half brother. There Danny dwelt, but nobody knew it. Only Skinny wished that they would take that dreadful notice from the bulletin-board.

But now he had a new worry. He feared that he would lose this scout of the white scarf, just as he had lost his prize canoe. Because he knew that prize canoes and tall scouts with white scarfs were not for him. He made no complaint that his canoe had been absorbed into his patrol, even if he himself had not been absorbed into it. He had never quite comprehended the glittering romance of his induction into scouting and that fine patrol.

But he did want to "keep in" with Danville Bently. And he lived in mortal fear of losing him, even as he had lived in mortal fear of Danny's being found out during that awful fortnight of his presence in camp. He saw that Danville was admired, that the whole camp was puzzled at his choice and he feared that any moment this splendid, picturesque boy would be lured into the maelstrom and be lost to him. Particularly he was afraid of the Vermont Eagle, Howell Cross. What had he, Skinny, to offer as against the delights of comradeship with that crack patrol! He slept hardly an hour that whole night, fearing that something might happen to ruin his sponsorship of Danville's one remaining test for first class rank. His high strung nature was all worked up with fear and expectancy. Again his "hands felt as if they were asleep kinder, all tingly," the same as when he had plunged into the lake, and when he had lifted the white pennant. Because, you see, the whole thing was too good to be true. That night they "kidded" him at camp-fire, but he did not mind. He went up to Elks' cabin and lay restlessly all night, waiting for the morning.

He did not dare to approach Danville at breakfast where he sat with a group from Tent Village. But after breakfast he went down to the lake and there was Danville waiting. Again his hero of the white scarf had not failed him.

"I thought maybe I only dreamed it," said Skinny.

"I guess it will turn out to be a pretty strenuous dream," Danville answered. "Well, are we all set?"

"Sure, and I got Chocolate Drop to make me some sandwiches; see? He's a good friend of mine."

"One cook is better than a dozen scouts; huh?"

"Sure, but are you going to join Howell Cross's patrol for the season?"

"Don't you know I've got a patrol of my own?"

"That's what I can never remember, because kinder you seem all by yourself, as if there weren't any fellers like you. Do they all wear white scarfs and belts like you?"

"Yep. Come on now, for the big parade."

"I'll show you," said Skinny eagerly.

Henny's Cave was an ideal destination for scouts making the fourteen mile hike specified in Test Four. It was exactly seven miles distant through the woods and supplied en route much material for the required written description. An observant scout would not miss the crooked willow tree with the two trunks a few yards east of the path. If his hearing was keen he would find Spook Falls down in the hollow, and note this crystal cascade as one of the things observed. But few were the scouts who saw in the chewed and broken branches at one spot a clue to the location of a beaver dam a quarter of a mile or so off the trail.

The cave itself was an interesting natural phenomenon with a rocky entrance as well concealed as that of any pirate's lair. Inside it was as large as a small room, dank and dark. But if you directed a search-light here and there against its wet, rocky walls you would see scores of names and initials scratched upon the surface to prove that the weary artists had achieved their seven mile hike and might claim credit for Test Four. The verification was usually enough for the presiding powers.

It was nearly noontime when Danville and Skinny approached this romantic destination after their long hike over mountains and through dense woods. "I'm glad I don't have to write up the account of it with my feet," said Danville. "This is some spooky place; I bet ghosts live here. Let's take a look inside and then we'll sit out under this tree and eat."

"You have to stoop down and crawl under that rock," said Skinny, "and then you walk between those two others; it's really one big rock that's split; then you're on the inside. In the middle it's water so you have to step around the edge, but there's plenty of room where it's dry. There's lots of little red lizards inside. If you catch one by the tail it's good luck."

"Not for the lizard."

"No, for the feller that catches him by the tail."

"You got a flash-light!" Danville asked.

Of course Skinny had no flash-light; he had nothing mentioned in the alluring scout equipment list. But he did try to "be prepared" in his humble way and he had a metal shaving-stick box containing a few matches. This gloomy cave was his exhibit and he proudly led the way, crawling on hands and knees under the slab of overhanging rock which was a sort of vestibule leading under an uprooted tree. Part of this great root (enough to keep the fallen tree alive) still had anchorage in the ground, but the sun-baked tentacles of the rest of it hung in air like some outlandish whip-lash curtain and through this mass the visitor must crawl, assailed by these lifeless, dangling pendants. This grotesque approach opened upon a cleft between great rocks, or the parted halves of one great rock, and here the explorer could walk erect through a passage roofed by the great tree that had fallen over the top of the cleft. It was an intricate entrance to the dank, secluded chamber within, an earthly and rocky dungeon where one's voice sounded strange to one's own ears.

Probably the disturbance caused by the breaking apart of that great rock had forced open this tiny apartment in the dense hillside, who shall say how many years ago? Nor did any one know who Henny was, whose name was perpetuated in this gloomy retreat. There was a legend that he had lived on a farm and had been buried alive here in a quick transformation of the uncertain walls. Enterprising scouts had searched for his bones, but there seemed to be nothing left of the unknown Henny save only his name. Of course, the place was one of Captain Kidd's many safe deposit vaults, but no vestige of his fabulous treasure was ever found by Temple Camp excavators.

"Great Scott!" said Danville as he looked about in the darkness, and gropingly felt for the dank walls. "Gives you the shudders; I feel as if I were buried alive. Where are you anyway!"

"Here I am," said Skinny, delighted at Danville's reaction to the place. "Look out where you step, there's all water. The ground slants up in one place and it's dry there. Wait till I light a match."

To Danville the feeling of confinement in this gruesome hole was all but unnerving. It needed only the warning that it was not safe to move in the darkness to give him the feeling that he was indeed buried alive in this ghostly, stifling place. One little glint of uncertain light he did see, cheerful reminder of the bright world without, and this was the only beacon to show where the intricate entrance was. It was a mere speck of light leaking through under those weird tree roots and through the rocky passage.

"Wait till I strike a match," said Skinny.

"Hsh, listen!" whispered Danville. "Did you hear a sound?"

"No, you always kind of hear noises in here," said Skinny.

"No, but I heard something moving. I thought it was you, but you're on the other side of me. Hurry up, your matches won't last anyway. I wish we had a candle or something."

Just as he said this there was a slight rustling near him like the sound of paper being crumpled. He knew that Skinny had no paper.

CHAPTER XXIV

MISSING

The startling thing that followed, happened suddenly. Skinny struck a match and in its brief uncertain light Danville saw him stumble and fall. For just a second he was aware of something that looked like a log and he supposed that Skinny had tripped on this. Then he sniffed smoke and in less than half a minute the tiny place was full of suffocating fumes. Yet there was no blaze, only a little red glow which shed no illumination.

"Quick, get out of here," Danville gasped. "See that little streak of daylight? Follow that, it's the entrance."

"I know, you come too," Skinny said, as he began coughing.

"Get down and crawl," Danville was just able to say; "keep near the ground!" He was overcome by a paroxysm of coughing but he heard, half-consciously, a sound which he thought to be Skinny crawling away. "All right?" he asked, his senses reeling. He heard Skinny answer, but the words were not clear. He did not know whether that was because Skinny could not speak clearly or because of the drumming in his own ears. His eyes were streaming and he fought for every breath.

He would have fallen unconscious if he had not lowered himself to a crawling posture. Even so the ground seemed uncertain under him, like a yielding mattress. But he was in muddy water and the wetness reminded him to pull off his scarf and saturate it in the puddle. Hardly conscious of what he did, he pulled the dripping scarf over his head and face, gathering up the end of it between his teeth.

His head swam, his hands trembled, but with his face swathed in the dripping scarf he was measurably restored. He was conscious of the gritty taste of thin mud in his mouth, and the stinging in his eyes diminished. For a few seconds he was sufficiently master of his senses to wish that he had reminded Skinny to wet his shirt and take it in his teeth. He called but the word he uttered did not sound like Skinny to his swimming brain.

He was just conscious enough to know that he must act quickly. His improvised mask afforded but incomplete and temporary relief, and he knew that he was tottering on the brink of oblivion. But by pulling the scarf away from his eyes he was able to see that little glint which told of the fresh air and the bright, clear world outside. On hands and knees he crawled toward it. Suddenly his hand lay against something soft; he felt cloth, then hair, then a face. His senses were reeling now, his head bursting. He gathered more of the wet scarf into his mouth. In a vague way he realized that this soft object was Skinny, that the little fellow had not escaped, but had sunk unconscious.

He could not speak to ask a question. What he did he seemed to be doing in a trance. But he got his arm around the prostrate form and hauled it with him toward the tiny beacon. To his ebbing senses the fume-filled place seemed vast, he was oddly persuaded that he had miles of suffocating area to cross, hauling his limp burden. Even the little glint of light deserted him. It did not disappear, but there were other lights, not real, but in his reeling brain. They came and went like stars and he knew not which light to follow.

Still he moved, slowly, uncertainly; one might say unconsciously. He fell over his lifeless burden, let his throbbing head rest for just a moment on the soft body, then gathered the wet scarf again into his mouth and knew that he was still alive by the gritty, earthy taste in his mouth. He could not keep his stinging eyes open, but he thought, or rather felt (for his mind was not capable of thinking) that he was near the entrance. Instinctively he reached out a clammy hand and groped for the light, as if it were something tangible that he could get hold of. His cold, trembling fingers closed upon a bit of root in the rocky passage. The knowledge of this inner entrance had quite passed from his mind, but instinctively he clutched the root and pulled with all his might, dragging the body after him. He knew (as one is conscious in a dream) that he was pulling with one hand, dragging something with the other, and helping his progress with both feet, in this final, supreme, spasmodic effort.

And it brought him to where the air was a little clearer. Even here in the passage it was thick and stifling, but it was mixed with the pure air of heaven. He never knew how he groped his way out. But there came a moment when he pushed the muddy, drenched scarf from his mouth and breathed freely, though his head pounded and his eyes stung. He was under the tilted root of the great tree, brushing the dangling tentacles aside with his hand as he crawled through, dragging his burden after him. Not until he emerged on the rugged, green hillside did he pause. He heard a bird singing. Just as he sank back in utter exhaustion he saw several crows in flight overhead; their cawing sounded miles away. Idly, half-consciously, he tried to count them.

Hazily, he looked at the face of the boy he had dragged to safety. It was streaked with blood and dirt from contact with the rocky earth. The eyes were closed; the body lay limp, in a way to strike terror, with an arm extended as if the prostrate thing were making a speech. The victim wore a scout suit which was in shreds and covered with mud. Danville blinked his stinging eyes, trying with his slowly returning senses to comprehend this strange sequel to his harrowing adventure. He did not know what to make of it; all that he knew was that the boy was not Skinny.

And Skinny was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER XXV

FROM ABOVE

At the moment when Skinny had crawled out of the cave an inspiration had come to him. He had no idea what had caused the suffocating fumes which had filled the place. The cave, as he remembered it, contained nothing inflammable into which his lighted match could have fallen; nor anything on which he could have tripped. Yet he had stumbled on something of considerable bulk. However, he did not pause to consider these mysteries.

He emerged into the fresh air and daylight, coughing incessantly. He called to make sure that Danville was following, but there was no answer. Astonished and concerned, he re-approached the entrance, calling. Not hearing any answer he was seized with panic fear. To reënter the cave was quite impossible. Even the outer entrance under the tree root was smoky, and the passage between the rocks was filled with the dense fumes. That was at about the moment when Danville thought to soak his scarf in the muddy water. Skinny shouted into the volume of emerging smoke, but it stifled him, even where he stood in the open, and he was compelled to withdraw from the entrance.

It was then he had his inspiration. He remembered that very early that summer he and Charlie Avery, a new boy from Long Island, had seen a little speck of light in the low roof of the cave. Charlie had poked his scout staff up through this and Skinny had gone out and scrambled up to see if it had penetrated through to the open air. He found that it had, and that by reason of a rather odd condition. This cave was part of a jumble of dense brush and fallen trees; it had probably been made in some terrific storm. A tree on the hillock above the cave had been blown over, doubtless from the same cause which had uprooted the one below that formed part of the intricate entrance. Indeed the spot was a tangled jungle of rock and dense brush and fallen trees, and the cave only a grotto caused by the upheaval.

In falling, this tree above the cave had wrenched part of its root up and it was just in this depression, now soggy and overgrown, that Charlie Avery's staff had gone through. If the little dungeon underneath had been lighted one could have seen the disturbance caused by that wrenching from above, and it was one of the standard jokes of Temple Camp to tell a new boy there were snakes in the cave and then direct his groping progress against a dangling end of root that hung down into the dank, earthy vault. The startled visitor usually reacted very satisfactorily to this. Here, you will understand, the roof of the cave was thinnest, and the ground in the excavation where the root had been was soft because of the water that was continually collecting in it and seeping through into the cave. Some day there would be a cave-in here, but no one ever worried about it.

Skinny knew about all this and now it occurred to him that he might work open a hole in this soft depression and release the fumes more rapidly than they would escape through the entrance. It was, indeed, the only rescue work that he could do. He was already fearful that it would be too late to save his friend. If his effort resulted in a cave-in, even so that would release the smoke and probably not completely engulf the victim.

Breaking off a branch from a tree, he began churning it around in the soft earth with feverish excitement. He became possessed, just as when he had won the prize canoe. His emotional power (which no one knew about) gave him strength, and he strove with maniacal effort to get the stick down, pushing it, then working it in a circle. Soon it broke and he secured another, so large that he could hardly handle it. When it became blocked by rock or bits of root he actually cried in nervous excitement and gave vent to his annoyance by screaming. One cannot keep this sort of thing up very long; the nerves give out if the strength does not. Skinny was on the verge of hysteria. But still he strove like a little David with his great unwieldy Goliath of a stick, pushing, twisting, pulling, crying, falling and rising again, and hanging on it to pry open a hole into that stifling tomb below.

At last something happened. The stick plunged, Skinny lost his balance and went sprawling into the depression. But he smelled smoke. He had been successful, the long stick had penetrated into the cave. Right beside him a thin column rose and dissolved in the air. He rose, breathing excitedly, and holding a cut knee. But he did not care. He grabbed hold of the stick again, pulling the end of it around in a large circle to enlarge the tiny hole he had made. He tripped, he stumbled, and again cut himself sorely when he went sprawling on a bit of pointed rock. But he was up again, pulling, hauling, wrenching. He was in a state of frenzy, this insignificant, staring little fellow whom they "jollied." He seemed to be fighting the whole universe, wrestling with the elements. Blood was streaming from his cut leg, his face was dripping with sweat, his eyes were wild.

Suddenly the ground on which he stood settled, he heard a dim thud, and the stick descended till only a few inches of it remained above surface. Now the smoke came out freely; there was no cave-in, but something had happened. In his small way, Skinny had changed the face of nature. Frantic with joy he brushed the smoke away from his face and tried to haul the stick up. Then he saw something which he could hardly believe; it seemed like magic, and to conjure his whole maniacal striving into a tumultuous dream. As he raised the long stick a snake was coiled loosely about it.

Slowly, almost mechanically the drowsy reptile included Skinny's leg in its slow winding. It tightened around the stick and the little thin limb binding them together like things bound around with cord. The action of the snake was not belligerent, it seemed asleep and made the horrible affair seem unreal. Its movement was like the weirdly slow motion pictures sometimes shown so as to reveal detail to the spectators. There was something appalling in its slow, drowsy tightening.