Skinny McCord

CHAPTER XXVII

SKINNY'S HERO

Danville Bently was not fifty feet distant from Skinny. He was bending over the boy he had rescued and was just recovering from his consternation at finding him a stranger when he heard the shouting. It was rather odd that Skinny's frantic call caused this prostrate boy to open his eyes, by which Danville knew that he still lived. He closed them again, as if he had been disturbed in slumber.

Danville scrambled up through tangled brush to the summit of the overgrown mound which enclosed the cave. Smoke was still coming from the hole; the place looked like a miniature volcano in the crater of which lay Skinny, the long branch which he had used tight against him like a stilt.

"Don't—don't touch me," he breathed almost in anguish; "keep away—look—the snake."

Danville could hardly believe his eyes. "He bit you?" he asked quickly.

"No he didn't—he's sort of asleep or something—don't scare him—he came out where I made a hole so—so as to save you. He's dopy from the smoke, I guess."

"He's not so dopy," said Danville, as the reptile shot out his tongue; "he's awake enough to do that. Lie still, that isn't what he bites you with; don't get excited. I wish I had my scarf if we need a twister."*

* Meaning a tourniquet, or bandage drawn tight by turning an inserted stick.

For a moment he paused, thinking and glancing about. Skinny lay trembling, not daring to stir. Somehow he was more fearful and excited than he had been before his friend's arrival; something was to be done and it might precipitate a fatal sequel. "Anyway you got safe," he said.

"Keep still—I know—now just, just a second," Danville said.

He moved with lightning stealth now. Quickly he took out his jack-knife, opened it, and held it between his teeth while he hurried to the nearest tree and pulled off a large piece of bark which was already warping away from the dried trunk. This was perhaps a foot in diameter. He next pulled off his shirt, tore a strip from it and looking about picked up a stick suitable for his purpose. Thus completely prepared he stole up, motioning Skinny to lie still, and laid the stick and the torn strip of shirt on the ground within easy reach. Then with lightning dexterity he slipped the piece of bark downward along Skinny's leg till it was stopped by the snake's coiled body. But it lay between that cruel head and Skinny's flesh, and being rounded to the curve of the tree, it fitted rather nicely.

With another movement that can only be described as instantaneous, he plunged his jackknife into the drowsy reptile's head. He was none too quick, for even as he did so its horrid tongue was darting, and scarcely had the knife touched its scaly head when its fangs were plunged against the bark. But there ended its deadly power; it was pinned to the protecting bark, and a trickle of blood flowed from Skinny's leg where the knife had pierced through. There was a spasmodic tightening of the coils around his little limb, then a loosening bringing infinite relief.

"Did he bite me?" Skinny asked pitifully.

"No, he's gone out of that business," said Danville, lifting Skinny's big implement of rescue with the snake hanging limply over it. "See? Look at the size of him, will you! That was a blamed funny thing to happen, hey! He got busy just too late."

"Don't—don't drop him near me," Skinny pleaded, as his rescuer dangled the loathsome body. "My leg stings, I think he bit me."

"No he didn't, Alf; I just jabbed you with my knife. Look." He held up the curving slab of bark and there upon it was a tiny wet spot, appalling evidence of the deadly substance that had been ejected from those deadly fangs. "He struck out, but it was meant for a home run all right," Danville said. "Come on, don't be scared, come down and see my new boy friend. I'm going to pass you up now, I've got a new pal."

Skinny did get up at that. "See where I made a hole?" he said. "All the smoke came out here and maybe it saved you, hey?"

"I think I must have been out when you started, Alf. I pulled somebody out, I thought it was you; I guess I came blamed near getting suffocated. I don't know how I got out, all I know is I got out. I guess some scout from camp must have hiked here ahead of us; he's still dopy. What the dickens happened anyway? There wasn't anything that would burn in that damp place, was there?"

"Whatever it was, it was damp," said Skinny; "that's what made the smoke so thick; it was smudge smoke, like what scouts use for signals. Even little bugs came out. I lit a match and then I stumbled over something that was never there before. Anyway, one thing sure, you'll get the Gold Cross. You'll get it for saving me, and you'll get it for saving that other feller. I bet I know who it is, too; it's Pompy Arliss in that Brooklyn troop, because he's out for Test Four, and I was telling him about the cave. But I didn't know he was on his test to-day. You know the feller I mean, that wears his hair all sticking up? He's all the time kidding me."

They scrambled down, working their way through the thick underbrush and over rocks, making slow progress because of Skinny's bleeding leg, which soon they had to bandage effectively before going on.

"And how about you?" Danville asked.

"As long as I know I didn't get bit by poison," Skinny said in his quaint way; "as long as I know that I don't care."

"I mean about the Gold Cross," Danville said. "Is that bandage too tight—no? I mean about what you did."

"I didn't save anybody, I only tried to," said Skinny. "You don't get it for only trying. But maybe if you were still in there I'd have saved you, hey? But you get it twice, kinder. And I'm just as glad, too, because now I got a friend that's a hero. So are you going to stay my friend even now I Even when you get the Gold Cross, are you? I won't be mad if you don't—but are you? Because now Howell Cross and all those scouts will surely be after you! Because the Gold Cross is the biggest, specialest thing in scouting. Even it's greater than being an Eagle—even. It's for saving life when you risk your own, like you did—twice even. Because that snake might have killed you, mightn't he? So now you'll get your first class badge, and you'll get the Gold Cross, and will you let me be the first one to see it? I bet you're proud, hey—that you'll get it? Do you know who'll give it to you? Not anybody that belongs at camp—not trustees even. A commissioner! A national one!"

"No!"

"Honest, I cross my heart. So will you go around with me kinder steady, even after that?"

"No, that's asking too much," Danville laughed.

"I can tell you're joking."

For answer Danville only drew the little, limping fellow close to him, and so they picked their way down through the brambly thicket off the eminence which enclosed the little cave.

"Sure I'm proud, Alf," laughed Danville frankly.

"Then why don't you act so?"

"Do you want me to dance a jig in this jungle!"

"You'll be the big hero of Temple Camp, that's what you'll be. Even they print all about you in the newspapers, when you get the Gold Cross."

"And do you think I'm going to forget all about the pal that was with me when I won it?" Danville asked, rather more earnestly than was his wont.

"Because," said Skinny with that nervous eagerness that Temple Camp was so fond of mimicking, "now I got a friend that's a hero and I can talk about him. Because my brother Danny, I couldn't talk about him to fellers, but I can talk about you all I want—how you're a hero."

"Take your time, I haven't got it yet," said Danville.

"Sure, you've as much as got it."

"Don't count your chickens till they're hatched. When I get it I'll have it."

They picked their way down by a circuitous route and around to the entrance of the cave where Danville's rescued victim of the fumes sat on the ground with hands clasped around his updrawn knees, blinking and looking about in a dazed kind of way. Skinny stopped short, his whole thin little body trembling.

"Danny!" he cried. "It's Danny, it's my brother! It's Danny that you pulled out of the cave! Danny, nobody knows where you are, and they didn't catch you, hey? The reform school people—Danny?"

"Who's the guy you've got with you?" Danny asked uneasily.

CHAPTER XXVIII

IT RUNS IN THE FAMILY

There was no chance of escape now. The simplicity and trustfulness of Skinny's nature supervened and there, in the very presence of his wretched half-brother, he told about the whole miserable affair of Danny's masquerade at camp. Danville Bently, greatly astonished, sat on a rock listening. He did not seem to be angry, his face was a puzzle. He had picked up his dripping, muddy scarf and held it dangling in the final pause when the two half-brothers had ceased speaking. While still they talked he had glanced rather curiously from one to the other, paying to each the tribute of friendly attention. And now, when he spoke, his casual remark bore no reference to Skinny's concealment, to Danny's fraud, or to his dubious record.

"You'd never guess that scarf used to be white, would you?" he asked, looking at neither Skinny nor Danny. "That was white silk. Lucky I've got a couple more of them." Then after a pause, "I'll bet you found it pretty damp in that blamed rat-hole. What did you haul the log in there for?"

"So as to keep the leaves from spreading," Danny said. "I carried them in and piled them between the log and the wall."

"Some bed," said Danville. "You must have got good and tired of eating fish. How'd you do, fry them?"

"Yep, that's easy."

"And that what's-his-name you took the blame for—Sharpe? He just let it go at that, huh!"

"I don't take any credit," Danny said. "I'd have been found out when you showed up anyway. Sharpy's nothing but a flivver; let him have his fun."

"Look how I can wring the water out of this darned thing," Danville said. "Lucky there was water in the cave, hey? I wish you could go back to camp with us. It's a sticker, what we're going to do now. We all came through with our lives fine and dandy, and now we don't know what to do."

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

"I never get mad," said Danville. "Only I don't see how he's going to go back to camp—I'm kind of mad about that. We could have some fun."

"Oh I'll go back," said Danny, desperately. "I'm out of luck; what's the use trying to beat the game? You did the kid a good turn, and you did me one too; you saved the both of us. I've got the camp after me at one end and the school bunch after me at the other—I'm through. Come on, we'll go back and you can get your Gold Cross, we'll take care of that, won't we, Tiny? What do you think we are—half-baked sports? Just because I pulled a slope* on the reformatory? Hey, Tiny, tell him how I smashed Kinney, and that boy scout for what he said."

* The elegant phrase meaning escaped.

"I did tell him, he knows," said Skinny.

"Sure, I'll go back; all they can do is give me over to that bunch of dopes at Blythedale and I'll get a couple of years extra, if I don't pull another slope on them. They sleep standing up, that menagerie of yaps. What I did for Sharpy, the boy detective, I can do for you. I may be black, but I ain't yellow."

"What color would you say I am—not counting the mud on me?" said Danville. "I never said I wanted any Gold Cross. I saved Alf because he's my side partner. And as long as I saved you I might as well finish the job. I'm not going to say I came to this place at all; I'm not going to say I saved either one of you. And I'm not going to make a strike for the badge on this hike. It's all off. If I say I saved Alf then there'll be a whole lot of questions, and nix on lying. Nobody knows we came here and nobody needs to know it. I've got twenty dollars and I'll give it to you—ten for smashing Kinney, and ten for that other fellow for what he said. Will you look at the mud on that twenty spot? It went right through my clothes. You visited me for two weeks in camp only I didn't know it, and my dad will pay the bill. Why don't you go back to reform school?"

"Would you?" Danny asked.

"Hanged if I know; only won't they get you?"

"Not if I can once get on a ship."

"Well, you have to mind your business, and I have to mind mine. And maybe I can't see my way clear to go by notices on bulletin boards. Anyway, I forgot all about saving anybody's life and making the fourteen mile hike, and you're a darned good scout only you don't know it. I'd rather be you than Sharpy. I came up here to have a good time and not to be a detective. I don't care a hang about the Gold Cross. You can't prove anything by me."

"You mean you're not going to tell—how you found him, and how you saved us both?" Skinny asked excitedly. "You mean you're not going to get the Gold Cross?"

Danville Bently shook his head and made a wry face. "I don't like it, it costs too much," said he. "I'm a stingy scout and I won't pay the price. Come on, what do you say we eat! Tea for three. How the dickens can you cut two sandwiches to make three helpings? There's a sticker. Got a lead pencil and I'll see if I can do it by geometry."

CHAPTER XXIX

JUST AS EASY——

Thus ended the adventures of Danny McCord in the neighborhood of Temple Camp. He had been an expensive luxury during his brief and colorful sojourn. He had cost poor Skinny much worry, and he had cost Danville Bently the Gold Cross for heroism. He went forth upon his way with Skinny's scout suit (much the worse for wear) and the twenty dollars that Danville had insisted on his taking. His unexpired term at reform school must also be charged against his account.

Yet I like Danny, even though I do not approve of him. The blow he struck the historic Kinney, as also the blow he struck Vic Norris, was rather to his credit; he was a pretty good big brother, even if he was not such a very good boy. And the blow that he did not strike Ralph Warner showed him capable of sacrifice. It was because of this sacrifice that Holman Sharpe remained at Temple Camp and filled three note books before the season was over.

We shall meet Danny again in a future story and you are warned not to expect to find angelic wings sprouting on his pugilistic shoulders. He had, I think, the raw material of a scout, but it was very, very raw. He should not be dismissed, however, without mention of an incident which recalled him to Danville Bently after the lone Polar Bear had returned to his beautiful home in Florida. It was in November that Danville received an envelope enclosing ten dollars and a slip of brown wrapping paper on which was scrawled, "Here's a ten spot, see you later about the rest. Danny." The envelope was postmarked Porto Rico, so it seemed likely that Danny had succeeded in ingratiating himself with the captain of some ship or other. He must have made a rather interesting cabin boy.

On their way back to camp, Danville made no mention of Danny and he closed the Gold Cross matter with a few words that his little worshipper, Skinny, had cause to remember. "What's the use talking about it?" said he. "If I won it, I won it. Only nobody knows it. And nobody's going to know it. The Gold Cross is only kind of like a receipt and I don't need any receipt."

"It's people knowing that counts," said Skinny.

"What they don't know won't hurt them," said Danville.

On reaching camp they parted, Danville going to Tent Village to wash up. When Skinny next saw him, he wore another scout suit, and a new white scarf, its wavy and spotless folds falling loosely below where it was gathered into the silver ring, which took the place of the usual scout knot. You would never have supposed he had saved two lives and almost lost his own. And lost the Gold Cross for heroism. His easy-going self-possession was the most conspicuous thing about him; that and the snowy scarf which was the badge of the distant Polar Bear Patrol. Skinny thought he must be a "specially rich feller." And so he was, indeed, with a richness that only generations of gentle breeding can impart.

As for Skinny, he was pretty dirty and he shuffled up to Martha Norris Memorial Cabins in fear and trembling lest his sorry appearance and sore knee cause embarrassing questions. But no questions were asked, perhaps because Skinny always had a sorry look. "Playing in the mud?" was all that Vic Norris asked of this little fellow who had opened an outlet for the deadly fumes in Henny's Cave. "Must have been tracking mud-turtles," said Hunt Ward. And that was all that any of them said on the dangerous topic of Skinny's adventures.

Perhaps this was because they had something else to say to him. They had something to ask him, and they asked it in ever so nice a way, so that their questions furnished the answer. Connie Bennett, the Elk leader, had told them to leave it to him, that he would "fix it." And he did fix it. He knew just how to handle Skinny.

"Hey kid," said he, "listen. I want to ask you something."

Skinny was not accustomed to be consulted and he gazed at Connie with pleased and eager eyes.

"Listen kid, do you like it in Tent Village!"

"I only go there because Danville Bently is there," said Skinny.

"Sure, and I bet you have a lot of fun there too. Now listen, Shorty; you know Holly Hollis back in Bridgeboro—lives up near where Blakeley lives, on the hill?"

Skinny did not know; he knew nothing about the grand upper world of Bridgeboro. He had once pushed his ramshackle little wagon up to Terrace Avenue with a clothes basket full of washing for one of the gorgeous houses up there. But Holly Hollis he did not know. He listened, wide-eyed, to this boy who was paying him the compliment of conferring with him.

"I'll tell you how it is, kid. You know the other Bridgeboro Troop that busted up; the one they had in the brick church!"

Skinny did not know, but he listened.

"Well, anyway," said Connie, "they busted up; couldn't get a scoutmaster, I guess. You know Holly, that—he's a sort of a slim fellow? Sure you do! Well, he's an Eagle Scout and he wants to come up here."

"I don't think there's any room in Tent Village, or in Pioneer Row either," said Skinny innocently.

"Sure there isn't, not for a new scout. This is the middle of the season. So we were thinking—now listen. We were thinking if you wanted to stay over there in Tent Village with Bently, they'd put up a cot for you—we'll fix that. Then we could do a good turn to Holly Hollis and let him come up here and bunk in with us, as long as you're having so much fun. And I'll say that Bently's one fine scout all right. Hey, Vic?"

"Sure thing," said Vic Norris.

"You're a lucky kid," said Bert McAlpin.

"Every scout in camp is after that guy," said Stut Moran.

"I'd like to be you all right," said Connie. "Only trouble with him is he's so darned hard to get in with; you never know how to take him. But jiminies, you seem to have him buffaloed, you little rascal."

Skinny smiled, elated, and his wonderful, eager eyes were full of pleasure and pride.

"How do you do it, anyway?" Vic Norris asked.

"Do you mean I won't be a member any more?" Skinny asked.

"Well—no, not exactly that, as you might say," said Connie, as he motioned to the others to let him do the fixing. "You wouldn't say exactly that. But if we form two troops when we get home in the fall, like Mr. Ellsworth says, jiminies, why you'll have your pick of patrols, won't you?"

"Y—yes," said Skinny doubtfully.

"Why sure, why won't you? I'll see to it you stay in our troop if you want. I'm only talking about now, up here at camp. Gee, I thought you were so strong for doing good turns; didn't you, Vic?"

"I sure did," said Vic Norris.

"Skinny's all right, he's one little peach of a scout," said Stut Moran. He did not explain why they did not cling to such a little peach of a scout.

"Why, look at the camps at Bear Mountain," Connie argued. "They bust up troops and patrols just like with dynamite up there. It's all like big families in a lot of those camps. Then when they go home they get together again. You're having a dickens of a good time over there in Tent Village. Where Bently is, that would be good enough for me. Jimmy crinkums, I don't know how you got next to that fellow, kid. White Scarf, that's what everybody's calling him."

Skinny was proud, elated, to hear these comments on his hero. He was too guileless to see that what these Elks wanted was an Eagle Scout. He honestly believed, in his stout little heart, that they were keen for a grand good turn. Moreover he did not aspire, he did not dare, to confer on equal terms with these colleagues of his. Yet some little quiver of pride caused him to say:

"It isn't like as if I was expelled is it—so people will think you threw me out?"

"Threw you out?" gasped Vic. "Say, how do you get that way! Let any scout say that in my presence—just let me hear him. Threw you out—good night! No, but we thought you'd like the idea. We thought we were giving you a big chance. Can't you see it?"

"Y—yes," said Skinny.

"And you'll be up here all the time, won't you?"

"Yes, if you want me to."

"Want him to, did you hear that?" said Connie.

Skinny's simple honesty caused them some embarrassment. They were doing this thing artistically, lulling their own consciences, and loading their act onto the back of that willing beast of burden, the good turn. They did not expect anything quite so logical and pathetic as what Skinny now did. He pulled up from under his torn white shirt a piece of string that hung round his neck, detached his locker key from it and handed it to Connie. He was quite too guileless to do this for effect, but it was a little masterpiece and it made Connie feel mean. He was jarred by this perfectly honest response to all he had been saying.

"Oh, you needn't give us that," he said with brusque good-humor. "You're not exactly what you might say getting out."

"Holly Hollis will have to have a locker," said Skinny. "Anyway, I haven't got anything in it much."

It is rather to the credit of Bert McAlpin that he turned away, rather ashamed, and pretended to be busy as Connie hesitatingly accepted the key.

The deed was done. It was not as good a piece of work as Skinny had done that day. But of course, nobody knew about that.

CHAPTER XXX

FIXED

Skinny did not understand, but Danville Bently did. Still the little outcast Elk had a certain feeling of humiliation. He knew he had not been "let out," but it might look that way, and he was afraid that Danville would think so. What Danville really did think, Skinny never knew.

But the diplomatic Elks knew, for Danville told them that very evening. Having attended to certain other matters which pleasantly evidenced the esteem in which he was held by the management, he strolled up to Martha Norris Memorial Cabins just before supper, a time when he thought the Elks would be at their patrol cabin.

It was characteristic of Danville that he seemed never to take particular notice of things that were unusually costly and attractive. Perhaps this was because he had been brought up in refined luxury. In any event he seemed always quite at home. He was one of the very few boys at camp who could enter Administration Shack with perfect ease and speak familiarly to the trustees and councilors. So he did not take particular note of the three beautiful large cabins which housed the First Bridgeboro Troop. He did not even notice the big radio set in the Elks cabin as he stepped inside, greeting the scouts who were hurriedly brushing up for supper. He was thinking of Skinny and not the realm from which Skinny had been so neatly ousted.

"I wonder if you fellows want to give me the key to the boat-locker where Alf keeps his canoe?" he asked in his easy-going way. "Seems he forgot to ask you."

If it had been some one else they would probably have challenged his right to come on such an errand, but there was something about Danville which made them all feel a trifle ill at ease. There was a certain atmosphere about White Scarf, as they called him, which caused them to respect him.

"There's only one key," Connie said.

"Yes, that's the one he wants," said Danville.

"How are we going to get in the locker then?" Vic Norris asked. "That canoe is patrol property; that's a rule in our troop about prizes."

"Tent Village has got two boats assigned to it," said Bert McAlpin. "Gee, what more do you fellows want?"

"You mean the scouts in Tent Village? I don't know," said Danville, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm talking about Alf's canoe. We're not going to be in Tent Village, we're going up on the hill; Black Hill you call it?"

"You mean Overlook Cabin?" Connie asked in surprise.

"Mmm, soon as they clear it out for us."

"That'll cost money—twelve bucks a week not counting board," Connie said.

"Yep, so I understand."

"The bosses will have something to say about that."

"I've engaged it," said Danville, then he added rather oddly: "You don't suppose I'm not acquainted with my own father, do you?"

"Gee, that's some perch," said Connie.

"Not so bad," said Danville. "How 'bout the key?"

"You going to take the kid up there?"

"N—no."

"Bunk up there alone?"

"No, Alf and I are going together."

"That's what I mean," said Connie.

"It isn't what you said," said Danville. "How about the locker key? They tell me in Administration Shack you'll have to hand it over. In fact, they wouldn't let you do this thing at all if I hadn't asked them to let us have the cabin. You can't let out a member of your patrol up here, without your scoutmaster. But as long as it's O.K. with Alf I don't suppose anybody cares; I'm sure you don't. Only if you don't let him have his prize canoe you'll get the management interested and then you won't be able to have your Eagle Scout at all. You fellows ought not to complain at handing over his canoe; you're getting an Eagle Scout."

"Hey, Bently," said Hunt Ward in a sudden burst of familiarity; "is it true that you're an Eagle Scout? A lot of scouts say you are?"

"No, I'm not."

"Nobody seems to know about you," Vic said.

"Tom Slade seems to think it's all right if Alf wants to go up on the hill," said Danville, ignoring their personal queries. "Seems to me you Elks are getting your own way pretty soft and easy. Only you'll spoil everything if you don't hand over the locker key."

"You told—you talked to Slady?" Connie asked.

"Oh, yes. I don't think there'll be any trouble as long as I hire the cabin and you hand over the canoe; 'long as Alf has a place to stay."

"Did they take your word for it before hearing from your father?" Connie asked.

"Why, sure; why not?"

"Scouts can't do business with the management," Connie said.

"So? Well, I must have caught them napping, I suppose," said Bently. "How 'bout the key?"

"Here it is, tell him we wish him luck and hope he won't get drowned," said Connie.

"If he does, I'll let you know," said Danville. "And I congratulate you on getting an Eagle Scout; that's some nifty haul."

"Can you blame us?" Bert McAlpin asked.

"No, an eagle's an eagle," said Danville.

"Poor kid, he's only a little mascot," Vic said. "I haven't been up there on Black Hill since we were having signal tests last summer. Are there two bunks in the cabin? I thought there was only one."

"There are three," said Danville. "So we can each have one and a half. Well, so long."

"Gee williger, that guy has a way of managing things," said Connie. "I only hope Wainwright doesn't put the kibosh on it. Gee, if we can't get Holly now, good night, I'll be sore! There's only two other Eagle Patrols in camp. An eagle has got wings, and when you've got wings you can fly."

"We'll fly all right," said Bert McAlpin. "That gives us a look in on three awards, Yellowstone Park——"

"The kid will be just as happy," said Connie.

"Sure, he will," said several others in chorus.

CHAPTER XXXI

HOLLY HOLLIS

Overlook Cabin had not been built for season occupancy. It had been thrown up as a little storehouse for paraphernalia used on the hill, which was called Black Hill because it rose above a treacherous marsh and overlooked Black Lake. The reader will find helpful the accompanying rough sketch of the locality. Black Hill, as will be seen, lay to the east of the camp. The slope was gradual from the south where the highroad passed. But on reaching the brow of the hill one looked down from a dizzy precipice.

Between this precipice and the lake was a marsh about which weird stories were told, but the worst that was actually known of it was that it was the foregathering place of a choral society of frogs whose croaking made it seem weird enough at night. From the lake you could pole a boat into this marsh, but not all the way to the base of the cliff. Sometimes, after heavy or prolonged rains, the marsh would be entirely submerged, but usually it was visible as a rank and vivid green area with patches of scum.

The cabin on the brow of the cliff had been built for the accommodation of certain scout activities which had been conducted there. Close to the edge was a rather odd contrivance, conspicuous from the lake below, and newcomers seldom failed to ask about its purpose, though now in its time of disuse and comparative dilapidation, few took the trouble to ascend the hill and view it at close range. This was a square wooden frame about eight or ten feet in size, standing upright and held by means of braces in the ground. It was loose and rickety from the force of heavy winds. Stretched in this was a sheet of canvas, bound to the frame with windings of light rope, by which it could be tightened. The canvas came to within a few inches of the frame all the way round.

This affair was known as a signal easel and had been used for practice in signalling. Illuminated at night by a bonfire at a safe distance in back of it the screen was as brilliant as the silver screen of the movies. Then a scout standing between it and the precipice was revealed in striking silhouette as he manipulated wigwag flags. From all the way across the lake he could be seen, a weird and vivid sight in the night time, and in this way codes were tried out and practiced. Once, on a memorable occasion, that redoubtable showman, Pee-wee Harris, had given a motion picture exhibit here with his prize outfit at the appallingly low admission fee of ten cents. But there being no gate, the place was overrun by deadheads and the exhibition ended in a riot.

The cabin was filled with old signalling paraphernalia, flags and smudge buckets. It had three bunks and some rough camping necessities used by hunters in the winter. A ghost was also said to live there, but if so he must have been of a retiring nature for he was never seen. The rental charge which Connie Bennett had mentioned was made so as to limit the use of the place to older visitors at camp, field men and the like. Eagle Scouts may come and go, but it is probably true that Danville Bently was the only boy of scouting age at camp who could so easily have made arrangements to use the place.

It was here that he and Skinny settled down to a kind of frontier life, to a companionship which Danville regarded in a humorous way, but never so as to belittle his odd companion. They ate down at camp, of course, and usually attended camp-fire, but otherwise they led a life apart, stalking, tracking and hiking about the woods. Danville did his fourteen mile hike, but there was no boy to train for a tenderfoot, so there he remained for the time being; he seemed not greatly interested in scouting progress merely for its own sake. He was easy-going and casual, a good looker-on. He seemed never to think about how near he had come to wearing the Gold Cross; so far as Skinny could see, that badge of the highest heroism meant nothing to him. Perhaps he did not care for things because it was so easy for him to get them. The pomp and fuss and honors and awards did not appeal to him.

He showed no resentment toward the Elks for their shabby treatment of Skinny, but the Elks knew that he had seen them at their worst and they avoided him. Every scout in camp felt that here was a boy of unlimited reserve power; a boy who would never do a thing simply for a thrill or a badge, but who would prove invincible when aroused to act for a purpose. They all respected him and there was no hint of banter in the nickname of White Scarf by which he came to be known. That spotless white scarf was a familiar sight in camp and singled him out from all other scouts and made him conspicuous.

As for the Elks, they got what they wanted and basked in the glory of it. An Eagle Scout is a wonderful thing, embodying all the heroic romance of scouting. He is a glory to his patrol. And at Temple Camp such a one was an asset to his patrol since only certain endowment rewards were open to Eagle patrols. Holly Hollis came not unheralded by his new patrol colleagues, and it must be admitted that he filled his place with a becomingness never achieved by poor little Skinny. On the evening of his arrival he attracted a good deal of attention as he passed through the "eats" pavilion with the Elks on his way to supper. A number of scouts arose and gave him the full salute, and there was a rather discordant attempt on the part of a few enthusiasts to sing

"You can't go higher than an Eagle,
    As every scout should know;
You have to stop when you get to the top,
    It's as high as you can go."

He wore his full regalia with his Eagle badge above his left breast pocket, and his sleeve was covered with his twenty-one merit badges. A slim boy he was, with very black hair and a look in his pleasant face that bespoke something rather more than powers—a touch of the venturesome. No stick-in-the-mud was this Eagle of the darting and roaming black eyes.

And those eyes did not fail to notice things, for no sooner had he taken his place at table than turning to the proud Connie he asked, "Who's that fellow over at the third table with the white scarf?"

He was to know that fellow well before his season at Temple Camp was over.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE NIGHT BEFORE

Again there was great excitement around the camp-fire. Again they were making merry at the expense of Skinny. Again Skinny smiled shyly, just as he did on that night when they made such ostentatious show of helping him find his compass. Seeing him bashful and discomfited, scouts who did not even know him (for now the big camp was crowded) laughed, and added their bantering comments to the general chorus. Few knew his last name; fewer still knew his first name, or who he was or where he bunked. He was just the little camp mascot. They were talking about the Eagle race, which was one of the big events of camp, and some waggish scout had suggested Skinny to accompany one or other of the three Eagle Scouts in this contest. And another boy had scorned this suggestion, saying that Skinny was too heavy. And so on, and so on.

Each summer, at the height of the season, this gala contest was held. It was dated to occur at that time because then there were likely to be several Eagle Scouts at camp. Eagle Scouts are none too prevalent and if rigid testing were the invariable rule, they would be even less prevalent. It often happened that a whole season passed at Temple Camp with only one or two Eagles present, and these not at the same time. Once the race (most spectacular event of the season) had not been held because there were no contestants. This event was the world series of Temple Camp, establishing a supreme hero, an Eagle Scout with a sensational triumph to top his glory. Despite the song, one could get a little higher than an Eagle, and that was by a thrilling victory over other Eagles. Such a victor was always the great hero of camp.

Just as no scout is eligible for merit badges until he is in the first class, so no scout but an Eagle of twenty-one badges was eligible to try for this Mary Temple Cup which carried with it a two weeks' holiday at the Grand Canyon for the victor and his patrol. Transportation papers were always inside the cup, a tempting beverage indeed, proffered by the pretty hands of the young daughter of the camp's founder. So you can hardly blame the Elks for coveting this prize; they were not the first in this glorious republic to resort to political maneuvers to acquire an eligible contestant. There were just three such contestants now, Howell Cross, Ellis Carway and Holly Hollis.

Everything was set for the morrow and they were making merry at the expense of Skinny. His shy smile illumined his pale, temperamental face, and his characteristic embarrassment was amusingly evident in the fitful glow of the mounting blaze.

"Hey, Howell, don't you think if Skinny took off his shoes and shirt he'd be light enough?"

"How 'bout you, Eagle Carway? Skinny means good luck. I took him on a hike and found an oriole's nest, honest. You can't lose with Skinny."

"Sure, if you should fall in a faint he'd take the oars right out of your hands and glide to victory; he wouldn't stop till he got to the Grand Canyon."

"How 'bout you, Holly? Skinny used to be an Elk, honest. But he's way above that now, he's up on Black Hill."

"Trouble with Skinny is he'd sink the boat. If he started smiling it would go right down. Why his smile alone weighs forty pounds, don't it, Skinny? What are you blushing about, Skinny? What would you do if you had to take the cup from Mary Temple?"

"Yes, and suppose she should kiss you—good night!"

"I'm going to have Skinny root for me," said Eagle Scout Cross.

"Sure, the human megaphone. Stand up, Skinny, and let the three of them draw lots for you; don't be afraid. Who wants Skinny to man the tiller?"

And so forth and so on. All three Eagles had chosen their steersmen from their own patrols; they laughed pleasantly at the idea of Skinny as steersman of a racing shell. Holly Hollis, who sat across the fire, made a funny grimace at him. Danville Bently wondered how much Hollis knew of Skinny's ups and downs in the scouting field, and especially his fate in the hands of his honor seeking colleagues. The funny grimace didn't mean much.

"Never mind, Alf," said Danville as they walked up the hill. The night seemed unusually black after the glare of the camp-fire. "If you help them to have fun, what more do you want?"

"I don't mind," Skinny said. He was perfectly at ease with Danville and always talked freely. "Even I want them to win—my patrol, I mean. He smiled at me, that Eagle Scout, did you see?"

"Yep, I saw."

"I can call it my patrol even now, can't I! Connie said I could."

"Sure, if you want to; 'long as I don't have to call them mine."

"Are you mad at them?"

"No, no, Alf."

"They're my patrol just like Danny is my brother, ain't they? I got to be loyal."

"Yes, sure, I understand, Alf."

"Can I help liking Danny?"

"No, I can't help liking him either. I have a sort of hunch that he could win that race if he were an Eagle."

"Then I'd have a lot of honor, hey!"

"Sure would."

"I bet you could win it, too."

"I've got my job," said Danville.

For a few minutes they walked on up the hill and neither spoke. Then, noticing that Skinny's shoulders were shaking, Danville paused abruptly. The little fellow was gulping. Danville broke his rule and called him kid.

"Alf—what's the matter, kid?" he asked feelingly. "Don't—what's the matter, Alf! Can't you tell me?"

Skinny couldn't tell him, because he didn't exactly know.

"Anyway, they were right, because I didn't have any scout suit," he sobbed.

"Well, you've got me, haven't you? Aren't you satisfied?"

"Yes, but I want them to win and go out there to the cannon,* because they're my patrol and I'm not mad at them. Only I don't want to go and see the race, because I'll get all excited like, because I want them to win. Do you think they'll win?"

* He meant canyon.

"Who can tell who will win, kid? We'll stay up on the hill all by ourselves and watch it from a distance. Will that be all right?"

"Yes, but do you think they'll win?"

"I think Hollis has got the stuff in him."

"You've got to be an Eagle, haven't you?"

"Yes, but you see there are three Eagles? And we can't tell who'll be the big scream when the day is over."

No indeed, no one could tell that.

CHAPTER XXXIII

VICTORY AND THEN——

The precipice was not a bad place from which to view the finish. It was not close enough to the excitement for most scouts, but it afforded a good gallery seat. Danville was glad that no one came up there. He had a big piece of charred wood with which he intended to mark the name of the winner in big letters on the signal canvas as soon as the race was over. Then he and Skinny would shout and draw attention to it. He hoped for Skinny's sake that the name would be Hollis.

The race, as you will see by the map, began at the northwestern end of the lake, followed a southeasterly course and ended where the shells passed an anchored skiff in which were spectators, who had a good view of the approaching shells. The lake was dotted with boats and canoes and it required a constant zigzagging about of the camp launch to keep them off the course. It was a gala scene.

After a while the launch chugged away along the course and there were fifteen or twenty minutes of tense waiting. Soon its shrill whistle could be heard and Skinny was trembling with excitement as it reappeared with its clear the way pennant flying and its whistle calling a warning to keep the course clear.

Then they came in sight, the three shells, red and shining in the bright sunlight. They seemed to be abreast, throwing out three white V's of light spray as on, on, on they came. Every nerve in Skinny's little body was on edge as he stood near the brow of the precipice trying to identify the salmon colored pennant of the Elks. Then he saw it—yes, he saw it. It was one of the two shells that glided abreast; the other had fallen behind. He could see the form of the rower bent forward and back, the long oars feathering, the slender shell moving nearer, nearer, under the impetus of that steady, increasing leverage.

The third shell, manned by Ellis Carway, seemed now quite out of the running. Its heroic Eagle was doing ragged and erratic work, never getting the full benefit of his strokes. In that short course he could never make up what he had lost. But the other two seemed evenly matched. Suddenly Howell Cross's shell, with the blue pennant of his patrol, shot ahead. Skinny trembled, his eyes stared, he quivered with excitement.

He might have saved his fears. Howell had his spurt, and having spent his reserve energy, could only maintain his former speed. The time for a spurt is at the end and Holly Hollis knew this. Easily he shot ahead in an excess of effort that would surely carry him past the skiff. He would not have to pause for breath till he could pause for good. Now he was half a length ahead. Now a full length. And then amid a wild chorus of cheers and the waving of hundreds of flags, he swept forward past the skiff. The Eagle of the Elk Patrol had won them the cup and the trip to the Grand Canyon, and the glory of being the banner patrol of Temple Camp. Skinny's patrol.

Then something happened which caused Danville Bently to run along the cliff excitedly trying to make out just what the trouble was. There was a sudden change in the tone of the shouting below. He came to a point where he could descend with caution and as he did so, he perceived the dreadful thing that had happened. Hollis had evidently turned his victorious shell quickly so that the tremendous force of its impetus would not carry it against the steep shore (see map) and it had swept into the marsh and capsized. And there he was quite out of reach of it, sinking in the treacherous rank growth. Danville made out that he had tried to swim only to be caught in the mire. From where Danville was descending cautiously the victim looked like only half a boy, the upper half. He seemed standing up right in the swamp.

"Do your feet touch?" Danville heard some one call.

"Help, help!" was the frantic answer.

It had always been said that there was death in this marsh. There was a story of a duck hunter who had been swallowed up in it. If Hollis had not tried to swim and remained by his inverted shell, he would have suffered nothing worse than an inglorious climax to his spectacular triumph. But he had somehow got to the very center of the horrible place where no boat could penetrate. The excitement on the neighboring shore was frenzied. Some one tried to pole a boat into the marsh; it got stuck in the thickening growth and could not be moved either way. And meanwhile, Hollis' frantic cry for help rose as he sank lower, lower....

Then suddenly a great white thing seemed to fill the sky. It tumbled, shook, like some airplane run amuck. And with a loud sound of splitting wood it settled flat upon the enveloping marsh. They saw, but they hardly knew what they were witnessing. They stared aghast. Then as they saw a little living form reach out from the safe area of canvas that lay flat upon that frightful consuming mud a cheer went up—and another, and another, until the heavens seemed rent with a swelling chorus of mad acclaim. But it was not for the victorious Eagle they were screaming their lungs out as their fears subsided. It was just for the little outcast scout who, in such a sublime frenzy as only his trembling body could experience, had torn and wrenched the signal easel from its lodgment and crashed down with this spreading parachute to the rescue of the boy who had brought glory to the Elk Patrol.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE PRICE

Given time they managed to get a boat in somehow, poling it this way and that and finally taking the marsh, as one might say, by flanking tactics. With the large area of resisting canvas lying upon the yielding morass, there was no great need for hurry. The frame was broken, but it could not sink. And the Eagle Scout, beneath whose weight the loosened canvas sagged, was safe. No boat could have saved him. No swimmer could have averted that imminent tragedy. But the eager-eyed little fellow who squatted there on that outlandish, sustaining rug, glancing at the Eagle Scout as if he were a god, had done it. His shirt was in shreds; a great rent in his faded trousers exposed his whole thin little leg. He did not look like a boy scout at all; you could not find a picture on all of your scout posters that bears the faintest resemblance to him.

As the boat neared the canvas a tall boy with a white scarf gently pushed a couple of scoutmasters aside and helped the bewildered Skinny into the boat. He seemed to intimate that Skinny belonged to him and the rest should take notice and keep their hands off. Then he allowed them to help Holly Hollis aboard. And so they made slow progress out of the dreadful place and nothing was left there but the big broken frame with its soiled expanse of canvas. A very big triumphant pennant for such a little boy!

They were all crowding at the landing place and the diving board bent dangerously under the weight of gaping scouts. The Elks were there. Even Chocolate Drop, the darky cook, had come down in his white cap and apron, gazing as if he saw a ghost. And no one said a word about the race.

"Can't I go up on the hill with you fellows?" Holly asked.

"Sure, only you'll have to come down again," said Danville. "Wait till you get your bathing trunks off and are all washed up and rested, then come up and make us a call. Eagle Scouts are always welcome."

But Holly Hollis shook his head and brushed Connie Bennett aside and interrupted Vic Norris, who seemed to have something to propose.

"No, I mean to stay," said he. "You're the ones I belong with. I resign from the Elk Patrol."

"You can't do that, you're our Eagle Scout," said Connie.

"And where would your Eagle Scout be if it wasn't for the little chap that gave his place to him, and just now risked his life to save him—for you!" said Danville Bently. "I don't know whether they have diamond studded crosses; all I know is that the Gold Cross isn't good enough for him. But he'll get it all right. And if your Eagle wants to come with us, why just remember that the eagle is a free bird; he flies high and goes where he pleases—he belongs up on precipices and crags, with others who jump off cliffs. Do you get that, Connie Bennett? And you're going to lose him! Look in his face—you can tell what he's thinking. I guess he never knew that he's filling Alf's place in your patrol. Tell him about it, why don't you? How about you, Holly? Do you follow the Gold Cross—or the Elk Patrol?"

"I follow the Gold Cross," said Holly. "An Eagle is nothing but a lot of merit badges."

"So that's that," said Danville Bently.

Yes, that was that. They played for big stakes, Connie and his patrol, and they lost. They lost both the Gold Cross and the Eagle Scout. They paid the penalty. You dance and you pay the fiddler. You may have what you crave, but you pay the price. And sometimes the price is very large. You may play high for an Eagle Scout. And the Eagle Scout may bow before the Gold Cross awarded for the heroism that is made divine by the spirit of sacrifice. For it is not true, as the song says, that an Eagle is as high as you can go. You can go higher than that if there is an elemental frenzy in your soul. The price of the Gold Cross is very, very high. For you must forget yourself and then they will remember you. Even if you are a ragged little codger out of Corkscrew Alley, they will scream your praises to the sky.

An Eagle is not as high as you can go.

THE END