SKINNY McCORD

CHAPTER I

SKINNY LOSES SOMETHING

There was great excitement around the camp-fire. Skinny McCord had lost his compass. He had dropped it and it had rolled away, and all the boys were making a great show of helping him to find it. They did this not wholly from kindness.

Skinny was a sensitive boy and it gave his comrades great delight to see him embarrassed, as he always was when made the subject of group talk or the center of interest. Not that they would have hesitated a moment to assist Skinny. For they liked him immensely and would have done anything in the world for him. But they were a mirthful lot, these scouts of Temple Camp, and felt a certain bantering enjoyment in seeing him uneasy, as he always was when the spotlight was thrown on him. They liked that diffident way of his—that bashful smile. This was his second summer at camp and still he was shy; he would probably always be shy....

It was not much of a compass that he had lost; just a little tin affair. He was sorry that he had chosen to transfer it from one pocket to another, for now he found himself the star attraction of the camp-fire throng. "It—it isn't much good anyway," he said; "don't bother."

But they did bother. They had Skinny where they wanted him and they could not let the occasion go by. He would have to go through with this torture. He often suffered such torture at the hands of these scouts who would have knocked any one down who dared to harm him.

"Everybody hunt for Skinny's compass!" called Roy Blakeley. (He was easily the worst of the lot.) "Get out of the way," he said as he rolled Pee-wee Harris over on the ground, and made great pretense of scrutinizing the spot. "Don't sit around gaping when Skinny's compass is lost. Correct imitation of boy scouts hunting for a lost compass that didn't know which way it was rolling."

"Would you mind getting up, Uncle Jeb, so we can look under that log for Skinny McCord?" said another boy. Poor Skinny looked almost frightened to see the old western trapper, master of woods lore in camp, smilingly arise while a dozen scouts searched under the log seat, to the accompaniment of a clamorous chorus.

"All fall to and hunt for Skinny's compass!"

"Hey, Skinny, we'll find it!"

"Go and get a couple of scoutmasters and a few councilors."

"Tell them Skinny McCord lost his compass."

"We'll form a posse," said Roy.

"Don't worry, Skinny, we'll find it."

"Everybody hunt for the compass of Skinny McCord."

"Sit still, Skinny; your thousands of friends will find it for you."

He sat still, his face as red as the end of the big iron poker which lay in the fire. He might have served as a model for a statue of embarrassment as he sat on his old grocery box fearfully contemplating the rumpus he had caused. Timidly he glanced at Councilor Barrows as if to assure that smiling official that he had not intended to interrupt the proceedings with all this hubbub.

In company Skinny never permitted himself to occupy a whole seat. He sat on the edge of a chair or box or boat seat; this was the invariable sign of his embarrassment. "Sit back and make yourself at home, Skinny," they would say. But that was the one thing poor Skinny could never do—make himself at home. His getting into the scouts was the great thing in his young life and he had been in a sort of trance ever since. He had never got over the shock. They had told him that pretty soon he would be a patrol leader. His elevation to that height would certainly have killed him.

A scout from Indiana (one of those robust jolliers who enliven camps) jumped upon a rough seat, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted like a fish pedler, "Ooooooh! Everybody! Scout McCord of Bridgeboro—First Bridgeboro Troop—has lost his compass! Come one, come all, and help find it!"

They were all crawling about on their hands and knees, fifty or more of them, upturning boxes and throwing camp stools about in hilarious exaggeration of helpfulness. And there sat poor Skinny smiling bashfully. If a pack of lions had suddenly taken it into their heads to roar their tribute to a kitten as a member of their family, the kitten's attitude would have been comparable to that of poor Skinny.

But the spasm of raillery was soon over. They were more concerned with Skinny's discomfiture than with finding the fugitive compass. And they did not find it; it had rolled gayly off and baffled all these trackers and pathfinders. Skinny did not let his uproarious comrades know how much he really did want to find it. He was even glad when the excitement was over. He hoped they would resume camp-fire yarns and forget all about it. He had suffered quite enough this agony of being in the public eye.

But the fire was burning low now and there were no more camp-fire yarns. There was a continuous exodus from the spot. Sitting there one might see scouts, singly and in groups, moving into the darkness, up the hill or along Cabin Lane or toward Tent Village, as they called it, to their quarters. Slowly the reflection of the fire in the lake near by diminished until there was nothing but a tiny red glow on the black water.

"So long, see you in the morning," was repeated again and again as patrols went their several ways off into the solemn stillness of the big scout community, It was more than a camp, this lakeside foundation started by Mr. John Temple; it was a sort of scout city in the wilderness. One could be quite alone and unnoticed there, if he so chose, even as one may be a hermit in the metropolis.

Soon only half a dozen or so of the merry, lolling throng remained, and these sat meditating as they waited for the fire to die. There were always a few to linger like this; a few who had that gentle sentiment that likes to see the old year go out, or watch beside a dying fire. Old Uncle Jeb and Tom Slade, camp assistant, always waited to trample out the last embers. With them sat two or three of the older boys.

"Poor kid, it's a lot of fun to see him all flustered," one said.

"He's even got a regular scout suit," said another. "He drove down to Kingston with Curry in his Ford and bought it and now he's afraid to wear it. Somebody told me he's been saving up for it ever since last summer. And now he's afraid to wear it."

"Curry told me it's about forty-'leven sizes too big," drawled lanky Brent Gaylong. "But I s'pose Skinny figures on growing up to it. Probably he means to wear it when he's National Scout Commissioner. A scout has to be prepared as I understand."

"Look out, you'll burn your shoe," said Tom. "If you dressed more like a scout it wouldn't hurt you any."

"I have the soul of a scout," drawled Brent. "I don't need the tinseled regalia. What do you suppose would happen," he said meditatively after a pause, "if Skinny were to be awarded the Gold Cross and all the high dinkums of scouting were here to pull the presentation stuff to the plaudits of the multitude! What do you think he'd do if old man Temple made one of his speeches about him!"

"I think he'd drop dead," said Tom. "But Skinny is no coward; he's just bashful and sensitive."

"Huh, funny," mused Brent. "He doesn't seem to be any more at home with the Elks than when he first joined them."

"He's happy," said Tom.

"Thar's cowardly animals, and thar's timid animals," said old Uncle Jeb, "n' they ain't the same by no manner o' means. That thar youngster's all right, I reckon. On'y he's shy."

Two of those who had lingered went away; they were silhouetted as they passed the big lighted window of Benson Dormitory, then were swallowed by the darkness. Still the trio waited by the dying fire, silent, meditative. Tom was watching a particular patch of embers as one by one little particles went out and the tiny area of red diminished. He could have stamped this out with one foot, but he took a certain idle pleasure in waiting till it vanished in the black night. "Why don't the Elks get after Skinny about his new suit?" he mused aloud.

"I suppose they don't know anything about it," drawled Brent.

"Hmph, poor kid," said Tom.

CHAPTER II

SHADOWS

Tom, Brent and Uncle Jeb were not the only persons who waited that night for the camp-fire to die. All unknown to each other two boys lingered in the darkness. One was a slim little fellow with big, staring eyes, a queer gnome of a boy, who stole out of the Elks patrol cabin and stood with his gaze fixed on the dying embers, listening and eagerly waiting for the last watchers to withdraw. He intended to steal back alone and search for his precious compass. For this little trinket meant more to him than he had been willing for that hilarious company to believe.

Now that he had at last achieved the glory of a real scout suit he could wear this little appurtenance dangling from his scout belt in the flaunting manner of Pee-wee Harris. In the store at Kingston he had bashfully tried this suit on (to the great amusement of his companion, Curry) and he had looked like a bolster in it. But no size seemed to fit him. Poor Skinny would never look trim. As he waited there in the darkness, watching the last faint glow of the fire, he had not a little the appearance of an hour glass, with his belt drawn so absurdly tight that his clothing seemed to bulge above and below it.

The other boy who waited for the fire to die was not a scout. He sat on a rough bench up at the roadside just where the path led down through the woods into camp. Approaching along this road one reached a sign with an arrow pointing down into the woods and with the words To Temple Camp printed on it. A trail wound down the wooded slope to the sprawling scout community at the lakeside. At this point where the trail left the road stood the old bench and close by it a post surmounted by a huge letter-box where the rural carrier left the camp mail.

The spot was a pleasant loitering place as was evidenced by the many carved initials on the bench and the post. No part of the camp was visible from this spot though sometimes a little glint of silvery water was discoverable through the trees. But at night two distinct glowing areas could be seen from the wayside seat. Many a new scout had been fooled by these. It was one of the popular jokes of camp to take a new arrival up to the road at night, and then send him forth to find the northern-most glow, which was only the reflection of the camp-fire in the distant lake. Even so good a scout as Bert Winton, who was a Vermont Eagle, had gone hiking down into the dark woods in search of this fire and had gone clear around the camp and come out up at the end of the lake where Tenderfoot Cove is, only to see the glow reduced to a little glinting patch on the water.

The boy who was not a scout had come along the road looking for the camp. At Leeds, the nearest village, he had been told where to turn down into the woods. But now that he had reached the spot he hesitated, for the two bright areas down there in the woods told him that the camp people were still about. It was his intention to enter the camp unseen. He was very weary and was not averse to sitting on the bench and waiting. Now and then he glanced furtively up and down the dark road as if fearful that he might be discovered, and once when an auto sped by, throwing a momentary glare over the spot, he cringed and breathed quickly.

He was about sixteen, this boy, and tall of stature with a litheness about him which suggested the cautious stealth of an animal. His eyes were gray and large, but he kept them half closed and used them with a kind of darting agility. When he arose and stepped across the road for a better look at the glowing areas, there was a certain elasticity in his step, a silent springiness, very suggestive of wild life and extraordinarily graceful. He laid his hands against his hips and narrowed his eyes in studious concentration on those distant spots of light. It was a fine, unconscious posture.

The path of least resistance for a boy's hands at this moment would have been his trousers pockets, but the trousers worn by this boy had no pockets. They were gingham trousers and afforded their wearer not one single carrying facility. This boy had grown used to pocketless trousers and accustomed himself to that picturesque way of standing with his hands against his hips.

For several minutes he gazed steadily at those distant glowing patches. His narrowed eyes became steely in this concentration. A fine, inspiring figure of a scout, baffled and yet resolved, he made as he stood there. Suddenly some little creature of the woodland made a sound in its nightly prowling and the boy turned with lightning rapidity, listening fearfully. Then he resumed his study of the distant patches of light. He was vivisecting them at long distance, comparing the flickering movements one with another.

"I'll be—Those aren't two fires," said he. "There's only one. The other's just a reflection. The two of them move alike."

It was not so bad for a boy who was not a scout. Still, when this boy set about doing a thing he usually succeeded. The very night before he had essayed to do a daring thing, a dreadful thing. And he had succeeded.

CHAPTER III

EARS THAT HEAR

It was a desperate business, but he had succeeded—so far. He was not going to jeopardize his success now by an ill-considered move. So he resolved to rest on the bench till the last distant flicker disappeared and he could feel certain that every one in camp had retired. Then he would follow the path down through the woods.

He removed his hat and took an empty cigarette box from inside the crown. There were no cigarettes left in it, but a certain devilish instinct of caution had prompted him to save the little pasteboard folder with removable matches that had accompanied his forbidden purchase. Then he took off a shoe and withdrew from it a damp and soiled slip of paper containing a memorandum which he read by the light of a match. Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. Up path from fire turn left—second cabin. He knew the words by heart, but scanned them finally before crumpling the paper and throwing it away.

As he dropped it under the bench he saw a little square of white lying on the ground and picking it up found it to be an unopened letter. It was close to one of the legs of the bench and almost at the foot of the post supporting the mail box. He struck another match and read the typewritten address on the envelope: Temple Camp, Black Lake, Greene Co., New York. In the corner was an imprint: Bently's Family Hotel, Wave Crest City, Florida.

He now made a discovery which was destined to give a turn to his fortunes and start an altogether singular series of adventures. He found that the heavy dew had dampened the envelope and melted the glue of the flap so that the envelope lay limp and open in his hand. He could not forbear to examine a missive which lay thus exposed. The thought occurred to him that the letter could not have lain long on the ground without being discovered by those who frequented the spot. It had probably been brought by the rural carrier that very afternoon and dropped by the messenger who had emptied the box to take its contents down to camp. In the dim light of his few remaining matches, he read the letter.

Wave Crest City, Fla.,
June 27th, 1927.

Board of Councilors,
Temple Camp,
Black Lake, N.Y.

Gentlemen:

This is to notify you that my son, Danville Bently, who was to have spent the month of July at your camp will not be able to begin his vacation with you until August second. He is to accompany his mother and myself to Europe.

We are closing our place here for the summer season to travel abroad and I have taken the liberty of assuring our boy that the reservation made for him for July (for which check was sent to cover) may be shifted to August without prejudice to your summer arrangements.

He is looking forward with high anticipations to his promised month at your famous camp and we have arranged for him to return with his older brother on a steamer which will arrive in New York on August first, so that his trip with us may not interfere with his scouting activities.

Will you kindly wire me upon receipt of this whether the check forwarded in recent communication may be applied to accommodation for August instead of July? If that is satisfactory he will report on August second.

I sincerely hope that this will be agreeable to you as he would suffer a very keen disappointment if compelled to forego this first season at a scout camp.

Very truly yours,
    Roswell T. Bently.

As he followed the path down into the woods he had no other thought in regard to this letter than to see that it was delivered into the proper hands. He knew well enough how he was to accomplish this without making his presence known to these strangers. The faintest glow of the distant fire still burned and by this tiny beacon he saw that to reach the site of the camp-fire he must leave the beaten path. He now began to pass isolated cabins, the scattered advance guard of the growing camp. They were all in darkness, but in one he heard laughter and singing. Now he passed a row of tents; there was a dim light in one of them and a figure silhouetted on the canvas. As he passed the light went out. He moved silently, cautiously pausing now and again. There was no sign of life.

Presently he was shockingly made aware of the need of stealth. Pausing before a cabin in front of which was planted a staff with a white pennant he saw a figure appear suddenly in the doorway.

"No, you don't," said the apparition.

"Did he get away with it?" some one within asked.

"Not so you'd notice it," said the figure in the doorway.

"What's the idea!" the newcomer asked.

"The idea is you didn't get away with it," laughed the boy in the doorway. "Just keep away from that pennant." And he disappeared within.

Here was a strange business. They evidently slept with one ear open at Temple Camp. But why should they think he intended to take something! Why should they suspect him? Was there anything about him that enabled strangers to discern his secret? At all events he must be careful in this uncanny place.

CHAPTER IV

BY THE DEAD FIRE

Of course no one suspected him of trying to steal. He had just had a glimpse of a little nocturnal game that was popular in camp. Whoever could remove this pennant was welcome to it and might plant it in front of his patrol cabin. These midnight raids were very common and not infrequently successful. Our stealthy visitor had chanced to pause before the pennant cabin.

He now came to the main body of the camp and saw the whole expanse of the dark lake with the great bulk of wooded hills beyond. He glanced about at the cluster of rustic buildings, the main pavilion, the storehouse and cooking shack, the "eats" pavilion, Administration Shack. Cautiously (for now he was fearful of the slightest sound) he approached the lake and stood on the float looking off across the black water. Close by him the rocking boats knocked one against another; there was the metallic sound of clanking oar-locks now and then. How strange seemed all these evidences of life when deserted and wrapped in darkness!

The diving board pointed out into the lake like a big, ghostly finger. Slanting upward as it did, it seemed to be pointing at the precipitous hills across the lake which cast their inverted shadow in the water, making the dark surface still darker. At night there seemed always to be two shades of blackness on that enclosed lake, caused by the vast shadow of the rugged heights beyond. Scouts had tried to row out to where this deeper gloom in the water began, but they could never find it.

The prowling stranger examined one of the boats to see if it was locked. He lifted the chain as gingerly as one would handle a snake. No, the boats were not locked. He might take one, if he could find the oars, and row across and baffle pursuit among those wilderness-clad hills. He could push the boat back into the lake again and they would just think it had drifted away from its mooring. He was altogether too clever, this strange boy.

But just now he had business in the camp; then he would consider how best to proceed on his fugitive way. This was a ticklish matter that he had now to transact. Then all would be well. So far he believed he had done well—if you call it doing well to do what he had done. At least good luck had smiled upon him.

He must now find the camp-fire spot. From this point (according to the only hint he had) he would see a hill and up that hill to the left, would be the Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. But how to find and awaken a particular sleeper in that group was a puzzle. If these boy scouts (he called them boy scouts notwithstanding that he was himself a boy) were all like the one who had appeared in the cabin doorway, he would have to practice super-human stealth. He could do that. He had, in perverted form, every physical quality dear to scouting.

If he had not been absorbed by very pressing business, he might have spared a moment to flatter himself that not many boys could prowl around a sleeping scout camp undiscovered. He was beating them at their own game. But his only thought about this remote scout community was that it was to serve his purpose. Two days previously he had never thought about it. Then he had had an inspiration, two days hence he would forget that there such a place as Temple Camp.

He found the camp-fire spot, a circle of low masonry, about eight inches high and ten feet in diameter. It was well removed from the nearest building. As he looked at it, it reminded him of a tiny circus ring. It was all strewn with gray ashes and charred bits of log. He was in the very heart of Temple Camp. For as the camp had grown larger and extended up the wooded hillside away from the lake, this nightly gathering place had come to be more than just a camp-fire. Scouts who seldom met at other times, met here. It was the market-place of camp.

The roaring blaze which nightly painted its counterpart in the dark lake, embodied the very essence of scouting. And the romance of this enchanted spot lingered in the daytime when only ashes remained within the stone circle, and only upturned boxes and ramshackle benches and pieces of canvas lay about outside, giving silent testimony of the throngs that gathered there when the day was done. The roaring fire is a feature of every camp. At Temple Camp it was an institution.

But our stealthy visitor had no sentiment about this merry ceremonial of scouting. He approached the hallowed spot with caution and glanced about. There seemed to be a hill, or spreading knoll, rising from the neighborhood, but he could see no cabins on this rising ground. There was a trail, however, which seemed to come from around the cooking shack and peter out on this slight eminence. He hardly knew what to do. He had not fancied the camp to be anything like this, a community made up of cabin groups and rustic avenues and tiny isolated abodes far removed from the body of the original camp. It was like a little city with tiny suburbs. Even with the information he had, he was hunting for a needle in a haystack.

His foot caught in a loop of rope attached to a square of old tent canvas on which several scouts had sprawled. He stumbled, fell over a bench, scrambled to his feet, and was instantly aware of a dark figure on the opposite side of the circle. It seemed to have risen simultaneously with him, almost like his shadow. He was startled, every nerve on edge. Was this another of those uncanny beings appearing to challenge him? The dark figure said not a word, only stared at him.

CHAPTER V

FACE TO FACE

For a few moments the stranger scrutinized the figure. It moved, and he seemed relieved.

"That you, Tiny?" he ventured hesitatingly.

"It's—it's Danny!" said the other, aghast.

"Hsh, not so loud. Yes, it's Danny. I'm in luck."

He stepped across the circle and put his arm around the younger boy. "What are you doing here—this time of night?" he whispered.

"I was hunting for my compass. They were making fun of me so I came back alone to hunt for it. Did they—Danny, did they let you out?"

"Shh—ut up. No, I gave them the slip. I hiked it all the way here to see you. I'm on my way—now don't get excited and don't talk loud."

"You mean—you—mean you escaped?"

"Yep, and you're going to pay me back for licking Dick Kinney. Don't you know how you said you would?"

"Yes, only I'm scared."

"I'm the one to be scared—only I'm not."

"Yes, but Danny," Skinny pleaded as he nervously gripped the other's shirt with both hands, "listen—Danny—" (he almost pulled the shirt up over the other's belt in his nervous excitement) "you, you stepped right in the ashes and now you'll make tracks."

"You little devil of a boy scout," laughed the taller boy in a good-humored whisper. "Come on, where can we go and talk? This blamed place sleeps with its ears open."

"Are they—Danny, are they coming after you?" Skinny asked in panic fright. "Are they coming here, Danny?"

"Not to-night, kid."

"But to-morrow—Danny?"

"I'll be gone before to-morrow."

"Yes, but they'll get you, Danny," Skinny said, jerking in a panic of fear at the shirt he still gripped. "I know how you licked Dick Kinney, but——"

"Come ahead, where can we talk, kid?"

"Maybe they don't know you've got a brother here, hey?" Skinny said hopefully.

"Naah, they don't know that. They're a bunch of yimps."

"Yes, but—all right, come on up this way."

You would never have supposed that the diffident, bashfully smiling little fellow who had blushed scarlet at the rumpus he had caused at camp-fire was the same as he who now hurried silently up the wooded hillside away from the main body of camp, expressing nervous excitement in every look and move. Little did his scout comrades know of the fire that burned in the soul of this forlorn little scout whose quaint discomfiture they so much enjoyed.

"Come on up here," he breathed excitedly, looking fearfully back toward the area of peril. "Now I'm glad they jollied me—you bet; I'm glad I went back there. Come on up this way and don't speak when we go past that cabin. There's a scout in there that's got the one eye cup. That's for sleeping with one eye open. It don't mean that exactly—shhh. He's the one makes fun of me, because I didn't have a scout suit——"

"He'd sleep with both eyes black if I was here," said Danny. This was quite a boast, but I dare say he would have made it good.

"Hsh, we have to be good and scared of that feller."

It was no wonder that this dubious brother treated Skinny with a kind of protective kindness. Such an odd, likable, temperamental little bundle of nerves he seemed, when aroused. It was his fate never to be at his best in public; his sadder fate to be at his very best with this fugitive adventurer when secrecy was imperative. A queer little hobgoblin of a boy he seemed without one single evidence of the scout in his appearance.

He led the way up the hill till their progress was interrupted by an old railroad cut, which at that point was so overgrown that it seemed a natural hollow. Clambering down the side with the aid of trees and brush, Skinny stood triumphantly beside a tiny shanty which had once been a shelter for a switchman. It was now quite fallen to pieces, but its board roof had been propped up, and the dense brush that tumbled over it effectually concealed it and kept it from leaking too freely. As a romantic retreat there was much to be said for it. Skinny had discovered it and made it his own; it was his private retreat.

Within there was nothing but a shelf and an old red lantern hanging on a rusty nail. But there was oil inside the lantern which Skinny had once fetched thither in a tomato can. The smell of this lantern when lighted was like unto no stench that ever assailed human nostrils. To this remote refuge Skinny was wont to repair when he wanted to pretend that he was a pioneer, and when the banter at camp was too vociferous for him.

The very sight of this place was a relief to Danny, and he perched on the shelf while Skinny lighted the lantern. "Listen here, Tiny," said he. "Do you remember when you was just a little bit of a shaver and you said I was half a brother——"

"I didn't mean it that way—honest——"

"I know you didn't, you thick little dub. Do you remember how pop told you I was half-brother, not half a brother! Then when Dick Kinney said you were only about a quarter of a brother and he took your ball away, do you remember how I landed him one? Knocked him goofy? And you said you'd pay me back?"

"Sure, I do, Danny, only——"

"Naah, there's no only about it kid. I got a letter from pop and he said how he sent you fifteen dollars—I got it at Blythedale. He says when I get out next year he hopes I'll work. Get a picture of me sticking around a reformatory till next year! Listen, kid, they had me out fixing a grape-vine over an arbor, tying it up. They even give me a ball of cord, the poor simps! So listen to what I did. I picked out a nice long stem of grape-vine—a nice long one. Nice and long—and thick. And that one I didn't wind around the new arbor; I only laid it nice and easy on top. You'd think it was all wound up like the other branches and things but it wasn't. Camouflage! About—oh thirty or forty feet, maybe, of the cord I rolled up and put in my pocket. Of course those wise guys had to have their ball of cord back.

"Well—don't get scared. Any one would think it was you doing this. Well, as——"

"I'm not scared, only——"

"Wait till you hear, kid; it's good. It was so easy I'm sorry now I didn't go and say good-by to Punkhead; he's got charge of my floor."

Skinny's expression seemed to say that he thought it just as well his half-brother had not done that.

"After supper I did my little job carrying ice in from the ice-house and dumping it in the box in the outside pantry. Then I went upstairs with the ice-tongs—don't laugh at them, kid, they're simps. At Blythedale Home all those managers need is a mother's care."

Skinny was far from laughing at this dreadful recital.

"So I put the ice-tongs under my mattress. Then I stayed awake till I heard the church clock in Blythedale ring two. Then I tied the ice-tongs to the cord and dropped it down out of the window and pulled up the grape-vine and tied it good and fast to the shutter hinge. Zip goes the fillum. I wrote on a piece of paper, Get two hunks of ice to-morrow so you can cool down. So long. Then I slid down the grape-vine.

"I had some stuff I kept from my supper and I got as far as Tonley's Corners before it got light. Then I hid under a lunch wagon that was all boarded up till last night and then I started hiking again. I grubbed some eats and got a hitch with a wop in a flivver—he can't even speak English. So here I am and it's just exactly fifty-one miles from Blythedale Home to Temple Camp and you're looking great, kid.

"All I want is that fifteen bucks so I can get a good start. I was thinking I'd bang down to New York and get a job on a ship. But I can't chase around in these blamed calico things, I'll get pinched sure. Say, kid, how about that lake; what's on the other side! Could I get through to Catskill that way without going on a road? Hsh—listen."

"That's only a bird house that kinder creaks in a tree when the wind blows. Collie Edwards put it there; he's a Star Scout."

"Didn't you hear voices—men?"

"No, it wasn't voices, Danny. Now I'm sorry I bought a scout suit and some things, because I haven't got that money. I only got eleven cents of it now—that's all I got."

"You got a suit and things?" Danny asked, aghast.

"Yes, because I never had any and they kept saying how I have to have one, because I'm a scout. Honest Danny, I'm sorry."

The elder boy sat on the shelf dangling his legs and contemplating his half-brother in a daze.

"If you're mad I don't blame you, but it isn't my fault," said Skinny.

"Now what am I going to do? Now what in blazes am I going to do?" was all that Danny could say.

"Could—maybe you could wear the suit," Skinny ventured. "Then people wouldn't know you got out of a reform school. You can have it if you want it; anyway, it's too big for me. Curry had to laugh at me in it. They don't make them like the shape I am."

Something in this last wistful remark touched the brother. Even in his troubled preoccupation he reached out and ruffled the younger boy's hair. "Who's Curry? Did you tell him what I did to Kinney for making fun of you?"

"No, because he's a nice fellow; he's an assistant scoutmaster. They all kinder laugh at me, but just the same I'm good friends with them."

"I couldn't pay railroad fares with a scout suit, kid."

"Maybe you could hook a ride, you're so smart. I guess you could do it if you wanted to like the way you do 'most everything. I never told them about you 'cause I couldn't."

Danny only gazed at him in a kind of blank abstraction. Sometimes great anxiety finds relief in a trifling, irrelevant act. "Here," said he impulsively, "here's a letter I picked up. You better chuck it on the counter or somewhere. Who's Danville Bently; did you ever hear of him?"

"There's lots of fellers come here I never heard of," said Skinny. "Anyway, most of them don't bother with me; even my own patrol doesn't."

"Well that's a guy that isn't coming," said Danny. "He's giving them a stall till August. Maybe I might be him, huh?" He laughed at the absurdity of the idea. "Hide inside of somebody else. Ever hear of that? Go ahead, read it, it's open."

It was then that Skinny, all in innocence, made a remark much deeper than his wit had intended. He was great for blundering remarks. His sober and literal answers were one of the jokes of camp. "You can't hide inside of a scout if you're not a scout; you can't do that," he said, looking wide eyed at his half-brother.

Danny reached forward and ruffled his hair again. Skinny was accustomed to that. It was done to him twenty times a day.

CHAPTER VI

IN THE DIM LIGHT

"Just the same I think I can," said Danny. "And just the same I think I will."

It was in just that casual, reckless spirit that Danny McCord first proposed the impersonation of Danville Bently at Temple Camp. He thought of it as a joke, and then the idea captivated him. He was amused by Skinny's terror at the very thought. It would be hard to say just when or how he passed from humorous to serious consideration of this preposterous enterprise. But once decided, the terrified Skinny could not dissuade him. He had unbounded confidence in himself, this fugitive boy, and he knew nothing whatever about scouting.

Skinny's disbursement of his funds had dashed the brother's hopes. He had not the wherewithal to make good his escape. But he might remain at camp, pretending to be this boy whose coming was postponed for a month. It was such a bit of daredevil effrontery as left Skinny speechless with fear and apprehension.

"You'll—you'll be sorry," was all he could stammer, as he stood, a pathetic little figure, in the dim glow of the smelly old red lantern. "Remember what I said when you were going to take Mr. Burt's Ford for a joy ride—remember what I said."

"You said you wouldn't tell," said Danny, ruffling the little fellow's hair in that fraternal way he had. I dare say the best thing about this dubious brother was his condescending but genuine fondness for Skinny. He trusted him. "And you didn't either, because you're a little brick."

"Even if they had killed me," said Skinny emphasizing the word with nervous tension; "even then I wouldn't tell. Even if they had killed me!"

"Don't get excited, Tiny," Danny laughed, pulling Skinny toward him and unclenching the little fellow's fist; he had even dug his nails into the palms of his hands. "Sure you didn't tell. And am I blaming you because they chased me up to Blythdale? And I'm not sore because you haven't got any money, kid."

"No, but now you're going to get into more trouble. If you stay here they'll come and find you."

"Not if I'm Danville Bently, kid. Do you want me to start away from here without any money? I was going to go and get a job on a ship. How can I do that now? This is my only chance, Teeny-weeny; don't worry."

"That's what you said before and you went to reform school."

"And I got away from there, too."

Skinny gazed at his half-brother, admiringly, trustful, but panic-stricken. "You're going to get in a lot of trouble, Danny," he said in fearful agitation. "I know you licked Kinney and he was bigger than you, and you climbed over the fence of Garrett's Field with me so I could peek under the circus tent, and I know you got away from the Home——"

"Hey, don't call it a home, kid."

"I don't blame you for it," said Skinny loyally, "only now you're going to get found out, because being a scout is—kinder you got to know all about it, how they do and everything. I know you're all the time laughing at them, Danny, but anyway, you got to know how they do and everything." His panic apprehension was pitiful, but Danny only laughed.

"Give us the letter, kid, and I'll burn it up. Now I tell you what you do; you're going to be a bully little kid and stand by me like you always did; hey?"

"Yes, but——"

"You chase down and get that primer or whatever you call it, that you kids use."

"That's the Scout Handbook, it ain't a primer."

"Yere, you get that. How much oil is there in this blamed magic lantern; will it burn a couple of hours? Gee, it makes your face look red kid——"

"I gained two pounds, Danny, up here."

"Yere? The blamed thing makes us look like a couple of Indians——"

"Now I got a thought, Danny. A red light means danger. There's danger waiting for you Danny."

"All right, tell it to wait. Now you chase down and see if you can sneak in and get your book and your new suit and bring them up here. Bring anything you've got that you don't need. Go on, chase yourself now and if you wake them up I'll know you're a ham scout. That gosh blamed bird-house—are you sure that's what it is?"

They both listened. In the stillness of the night was a creaking sound followed by another like the breaking of twigs. "Is it somebody walking!" Danny whispered.

"I never heard it just like that before," Skinny whispered in terror. "Shall we look out?"

"If I start running, don't you say who I am," said Danny. "They might have dogs out, I don't know. Shh—ut up."

Skinny McCord had many times been hurt by boys who meant him no harm. Occasionally his pride had been touched when bantering comrades had referred to his humble origin and poor abode in Bridgeboro. But when Danny mentioned the possibility of dogs being on his trail, something in that narrow chest of little Skinny McCord rose and he flushed with anger. Instinctively he felt what officialdom does not feel, the degrading character of setting a beast to catch a human being. Truly, indeed, human nature can sink no lower than this. To the powers of law enforcement belongs the contemptible distinction which places them below the level of the vilest criminal.

"They wouldn't do that!" whispered Skinny.

"Oh, wouldn't they, though!"

"I'll do what you want me to," Skinny said.

CHAPTER VII

DARK PLANS

There came a time when they said of Skinny that he had been frightened into participation in his half-brother's bizarre and daring plan. But that was not true of him. He tried, as we have seen, to dissuade Danny. When the worst came to the worst and he knew that he could not dissuade him, he was loyal. He was loyal in a dastardly business.

This wonderful big brother of his could not teach him anything in the matter of stealth; he was a little demon at that. He had accustomed himself to stepping carefully and making no noise in the days when he went barefoot in the slummy east end of Bridgeboro whence he had emanated one day to stare wide eyed at the scouts practicing archery. There happened to be a vacancy in Connie Bennett's patrol (Elks), so they took him in. He was their mascot. They didn't even mind his not having a scout suit. He had a winsome smile when they jollied him and they liked him immensely. He was not only glad, but proud to run on errands.

When the McCords moved to Bridgeboro and hired three rooms in Corkscrew Alley down near the marsh that bordered the river, Danny was not with them. He had already taken his departure, under escort, to Blythedale Boys' Home, which he was right in saying was not a home at all. He had been sent thither because of his escapade with Mr. Burt's Ford, though this had by no means been his first escapade. But it was the crucial one. So the scouts of the First Bridgeboro Troop, of which Skinny was an obscure and lowly member, had never seen the enterprising Danny. His colorful career came to a halt in Irontown and soon afterward the hapless family moved to Bridgeboro, where Mr. McCord had secured a job in the paper mill. Danny's mother was dead and Skinny was the child of Mr. McCord's second wife. Whatever else may be said of Danny, he had always afforded Skinny all the sturdy advantages of a big brother.

Skinny missed him when he moved to Bridgeboro. The hoodlums down in Corkscrew Alley called him Owleyes and Jumbo and other piquant appellations. Once or twice he was moved to tell them that things would be different when Danny returned. When he got in with the scouts he never mentioned Danny. He had too much pride and these strange, wonderful boys of the upper world would not understand. They would not appreciate the knock-out blow administered to the unhappy Kinney. And now, at last, when Skinny had attained to the glory of a real scout suit, here was this brother come to Temple Camp, a fugitive, and with all his wonted assurance proposing a scheme for hiding which struck poor Skinny dumb with terror.

Silently he sped through the woods back to camp and stealthily, ever so stealthily, up to the Martha Norris Memorial Cabins, where his troop was quartered that season. A splendid organization was the First Bridgeboro Troop, with four full patrols, and they held sway in these four cabins which represented one of the camp endowments. In the Elks' cabin all was still.

With every nerve on edge, Skinny crept to the rustic lockers at the end of the building. He was so fearful that he jerked his foot up in nervous excitement as he turned the key of his own locker. He paused after the slight click, listening. His heart beat like a trip-hammer. No sound, no stir. Only the audible breathing of Vic Norris. One of the other boys turned over and settled down in deeper slumber. Somewhere outside an owl hooted. Skinny stood stark still.

The plaguey hinges! He eased the swing of the locker door as he opened it inch by inch. There was his old pasteboard suit-case; he was the only boy in the patrol who had not a duffel bag. On top of it lay the bundle containing his scout suit and hat just as he had brought the treasured purchase back from Kingston. He had not dared to wear this flaunting regalia nor even to tell his patrol about it. He did not know whether or not they knew about it. Would the paper rustle as he lifted the bundle? No; he lifted it out carefully. Then he opened his suit-case and got his Handbook. So far, so good. Softly he closed the door and locked it. Then with his precious Handbook and the bundle he crept stealthily over to the trail which led up through the woods.

Now his heart beat more easily. Action is always stimulating, and being launched on this perilous business it was not so hard to go ahead. He had not done much so far, but what he had done had been successful. He had done what Danny had told him to do and it had been easy. It seemed to Skinny that this was a dreadful thing his brother was about to attempt, but Danny must know what he was about.

"Why it's going to be a cinch," his brother assured him when he had donned the suit; it fitted him much better than it fitted poor Skinny. When he tossed the hat on, he looked like a scout indeed and poor Skinny was even moved to feel a certain pride in him. He was a fine looking boy, there was no denying that, with an easy nonchalance about him that was captivating.

"You—you won't be a really truly scout," Skinny warned him. The warning seemed to include a confession that Danny did look like one. "And what are you going to do when he comes—that other feller?"

"I'll be on my way," said Danny lightly.

"You'll be using up the money that's going to pay his board, too," Skinny said.

The answer did not comfort him. "Sure, he'll be out of luck," said Danny.

Skinny gazed at this daring brother of his in mingled admiration and terror. "Will you—Danny, will you—if I get fifteen dollars, will you not do it?"

"Where would you get fifteen bucks, kid? You should worry," he added. "Let's take a look at that book. Does it tell all about it and everything? How you drill and everything?"

"Now you see, you don't know anything about it," Skinny said excitedly, in a pitiable way of triumph. "They don't drill at all; they track and stalk and all like that, and win merit badges, and all like that. Now you're going to get in trouble." He clenched his little hands nervously and almost cried as he spoke. "You're going to get in trouble Danny. They're smart, scouts are, and they'll find out. Just because I'm not so smart and they make fun of me like; and just because I can't do all the things they do, you needn't think they're not smart. That's where you're all the time wrong, you think boy scouts——"

"Who makes fun of you?" Danny asked with a queer scrutiny in his eyes.

"Now you're going to get into scraps, too," poor Skinny said. "You're going to call them kids and everything. Even if they make fun of me they're not mad at me."

There was a grim look in Danny's eyes and a menacing sneer in his voice as he said, "Is—that—so!" In the lowering comment was real feeling for Skinny and a high contempt for Temple Camp and all its scouts.

"You should worry, kid," he said. "Go on back and go to bed. All you've got to do is not notice me. Don't be coming around. Act just like if you didn't know me. All I want to do is just lay low for three or four days; I'll get away with it that long, don't worry. If you had the money I'd beat it, but I can't bang out of here without a red, and that bunch after me. What am I going to do? I know what's troubling you, kid. You think it's kind of like stealing, using up that what's-his-name's board money. You're a little brick, kiddo. But I'll only be here two or three days. And when he gets here next month—why these guys won't know till then there was anything phony about me! And you won't be hooked up with it at all. Now trot along and turn in, Tiny, old pal."

"Won't I see you any more after you go away from here? Maybe you'll go all the way around the world on a ship, hey?"

"Suuuuure, you'll see me again. And you'll get paid back for your suit too. Don't I line up pretty nice as a boy scout. How do you do that—what is it, a salute they've got?" He wriggled his thumb against his ear in a funny way and laughed at Skinny and gave him an affectionate shove. "Go on back now or you'll be walking in your sleep," said he. "And whatever you do, don't let on when you see me again."

"I can look at you, can't I?" said poor Skinny.

CHAPTER VIII

STEALTH

Well, if it was for only two or three days it would not be so bad, poor Skinny reflected as he went back through the darkness. Still his conscience troubled him and he was beside himself with fear. The only gleam of light he saw in this sorry business was that Danny did have a way of succeeding in the things he undertook. He trusted Danny to avert the catastrophe which would naturally ensue in such a daring and perilous business.

He hoped that during those dreadful two or three days the scouts at camp would not overstep their prerogative of banter where he was concerned. Or at least that Danny might not see them in full swing with their raillery. The historic Kinney of Irontown had got over the licking that Danny had given him. But poor Skinny had never got over it.

As he wandered, fearful and conscience-stricken, down the wooded slope a thought came to him. There was a rich boy in camp, Helmer Clarkson. That boy wanted a canoe and had tried for the Hiawatha Prize—a fine canoe to win which a scout must swim across the lake. Helmer had started (according to rule) with a rowboat escort, and like many another hopeful candidate had returned in the boat. So Helmer had decided to fall back on the less heroic plan of asking his father to buy him a canoe. If he had not already done this, then Skinny had a plan. He would swim across the lake, win the canoe, and sell it to Helmer Clarkson. Then he would give the money to his erring brother.

He knew the camp people would regard him contemptuously for selling a prize, but at least he could help Danny, and put an end to this dreadful thing that Danny was doing. All this might be done immediately—the next morning. The only difficulty would be that his comrades would laugh at him as soon as he proposed the heroic enterprise. Alas, they would not know how heroic it was! They would make a great joke of his trying for a prize—especially this prize. They would decline to accompany him with a boat. They would probably tell him, as they had so many times told him, that if he had to be taken into the boat it would probably sink it. Skinny weighed sixty-four pounds, not counting his heart, which weighed tons just now.

Well, he thought as he trudged along, if Danny could do such wonderful (albeit dreadful) things, he, Skinny could do this. And it would straighten everything out. Perhaps he could even do it before Danny presented himself to the powers in Administration Shack and signed up. That would be between ten and eleven in the morning. He wondered if Helmer Clarkson had any ready money; surely he must have some. Fifteen dollars was all that Danny had demanded. He would sell the prize canoe to Clarkson for fifteen dollars. Well, that was settled and things were not so bad.

As he passed down through the dark woods, he thought of his fugitive brother hiding in that little dank switchman's shanty. What would be the first thing he would do in the morning? Thus preoccupied with his thoughts, Skinny found himself approaching the cabin before which the white pennant flew. In there they would be sleeping with one eye open, as the saying is. If he could—if he only could—"lift" that pennant. What a glory for the Elks! It would raise him in their esteem; they might take him seriously. Then perhaps they would listen when he talked about trying for the Hiawatha Prize. He was elated; he believed that the whole situation was in his hands; Danny, all unknown to the camp, might be on his way in the morning. This whole business was not so bad after all.

Never in all his trembling little life had Skinny moved with such stealth and caution as when he now approached that coveted pennant, He was about to try to do what Warde Hollister had failed to do; what Ellis Carway (who was an Eagle) had failed to do. He retreated a few yards, and sat down on a stump. He knew that he was out of his sphere, that this sort of thing was not expected of him. He felt that he was intruding into the heroic field where he had no business. He removed his shoes, tied the laces together, and hung the shoes around his neck. They were almost worn out; you could have stuck a finger through the soles.

Now, trembling in every nerve, he approached the cabin. The door stood ajar. He advanced a pace and paused listening. No sound. He took another step. No sound. He could reach out now and lift the staff. He paused, fearful to move. Straining his eyes he looked all about the staff. Then, ever so cautiously, he stooped, and shuddered as the clasp on his belt clinked. He felt all around on the ground, for he had heard scouts speak of cord attached to the staff and tied to the arm of some drowsy slacker on his cot. That was not considered good scouting, but it had been done.

But here there was no cord; these unknown scouts were playing the game right. The usual way with the patrol holding the white pennant was to sleep in turns, with one scout always awake to listen. In a full patrol no one scout would have to remain awake very long.

Skinny stood up and with trembling hand reached out and grasped the staff. Still no sound. There was a cricket chirping and he wished it would keep still. He had heard of rocks laid against the staff so that when it was lifted one would fall upon another. But nothing happened as he slowly raised the staff up, up, up——

What a queer little goblin of a boy he seemed, as he reached one foot far forward so as to cover all the ground he could with every pace. With each grotesque straining of a leg his face unconsciously assumed an aspect of demoniac fear. Then all of a sudden he started to run, his shoes flapping back and forth against his chest and shoulders like an outlandish bulky necklace. He held the white pennant in his trembling hand.

He had done it!

CHAPTER IX

FOR DANNY

He would have been proud of his achievement in any case, but he was doubly elated now, for it simplified the matter of Danny. With this "really and truly" scouting triumph to his credit, the Elks could not take him otherwise than seriously. They would escort him in his swim for the Hiawatha Prize and perhaps that very next morning Danny, his secret hero, would be on his way. The criminal and dangerous character of what Danny was going to do at Temple Camp impressed Skinny, but his conscience was not troubled about Danny's final exploit at the reform school.

When he reached the Elks' cabin, he found his patrol leader, Connie Bennett, waiting for him. It was well that he returned with the white pennant for this saved him the embarrassment of explaining his absence. The white pennant was always an excuse. It was a midnight passport even with the powers of Administration Shack.

"I got it, I got it!" he said excitedly. "Look what I got!"

"You little demon," said Connie. "So that's what you went after."

"I got it, I got it!" was all that Skinny could say.

"They didn't chase you?"

"They didn't hear me—even."

Connie softly closed the cabin door so as not to awaken the sleepers and together he and Skinny stood outside.

"Calm down," said Connie; "you're all excited. Bully for you, but calm down."

"Wait—wait a minute and I'll calm down. I—can't do it all of a sudden. Now—now I'm going to do something else—wait till I tell you——"

Connie put his arm over the quivering form of the little Elk mascot who seemed now to be launched upon a wild debauch of heroism. "Hsh, all right, Shorty. You did fine; gee, I have to laugh. The patrol won't believe you did it."

"Now you got to help me do something else," said Skinny, gulping with excitement and satisfaction.

"Surest thing."

"You got to—to-morrow morning early I'm going to swim across the lake and get the Hiawatha Prize."

"Goodness me!"

"Yop—I'm going to swim across and get it. So will you get all the patrol up early so some of you can row across while I swim?"

"Listen, Shorty," said Connie. "You did one peach of a stunt; the patrol will go crazy when they hear it. Why Hunt Ward tried for that; you remember. The Silver Foxes tried for it—Roy Blakeley. That was the time he didn't do all the laughing."

"And maybe now they won't make fun of me, hey?"

"Listen, Shorty; go in and go to sleep now. And don't be thinking you can do everything just because you did this."

"I'm going to, I'm going to——"

"No you're not. You're not going to try for the Hiawatha canoe, because that isn't in your line. See? You little sneaky devil, you! Went in your bare feet, huh? Go on in and go to bed now and don't talk ragtime. What's the matter, aren't you satisfied?"

"I got to go——"

"Yes, you got to go—to bed. To-morrow we'll go over to Administration Shack and have them take your picture. You can put on your new togs, dress up in your regular scout suit, all dolled up like a Christmas tree. You know they want pictures for Boys' Life, fellows that win awards and do stunts and all that. You go to bed now and when you get up in the morning put on your new scout duds. What the dickens are you afraid of? Nobody's going to kid you. And we'll go over and let Mr. Wainwright take a snapshot of you holding the pennant. Alfred McCord of the Elk Patrol, Bridgeboro, New Jersey, holding the white pennant taken from a cabin where it was supposed to be guarded at Temple Camp, New York. How does that sound? Go on in now, and remember when you get up in the morning put on your scout suit. That's your patrol leader's order. You're all right, Shorty, you're a little winner!"

So this was the sequel of his triumph. "Put on your scout suit." A fine mess he had made of it. He knew Connie Bennett for a sober, sensible boy, who more than most patrol leaders had some notion of leadership and discipline. So Connie had known about the scout suit and had just not pushed him in the matter of wearing it. But now there was to be no more nonsense. Here was the penalty of heroism. What was he to do? It was clear from the way Connie spoke that the try for the Hiawatha Prize was quite out of the question; they did not regard him as a swimmer. What he would be expected to do, would be compelled to do, was put on his new scout suit and go to Administration Shack with his patrol and have his picture taken as the capturer of the white pennant. And all his fine plan of helping Danny to get out from the shadow of fearful peril would go for naught. This was Skinny's first experience in being a "really truly" hero.

There was a vein of something running in the McCord family. I don't know whether you would call it a vein of the heroic or just a vein of recklessness and rebelliousness. Diffident and sensitive little Skinny had a touch of it. Perhaps it was this that bound him to Danny. At all events there was this about him. His temperament was one of sweet diffidence, of a smiling shyness which made him a subject both for banter and affection. At the other extreme in his strange make-up was the capacity for utter frenzy. I suppose you might say that he was highly strung and afraid to show it until something tipped the scales of his delicate nature. There was no such thing as authority then.

They would not take this capturer of the white pennant seriously. Well then, he did not care. There was only one person in the world who could have dominated him then, and that was Danny. But it was for Danny that he was now possessed by a will so strong that it made his poor little body tremble. Danny could not help him; he was going to help Danny. He was possessed, inspired, this little fellow who smiled quaintly when they made fun of him. He did not sleep that night; he lay trembling with a towering resolve.

Early in the morning, while still his comrades were sleeping, he crept out of bed, pulled on the only clothes he had and started out. The grass was all covered with sparkling dew; the air was crisp and clear, the birds were making a great chorus in the trees as if they had over-slept and were in a hurry. Skinny had a queer little trot, something between a walk and run, that boys took delight in imitating. He did not look in the least like the scout on the cover of the Handbook.

He went down the hill on which the memorial cabins stood, casting a glance up through the woods to the point where the little shanty was. So clear was the morning that he might even have glimpsed it through the trees, only it was in the overgrown cut and below the line of vision. He wondered what sort of a night Danny had spent. The thought recurred to him (it had recurred many times in that eventful, sleepless night) that maybe bloodhounds had found him—found his half-brother who had knocked Kinney senseless—and had barked their beastly exultation to human pursuers. But that could not be; Blythedale Reform School was too far way for that sort of pursuit. Nevertheless Skinny's blood tingled at the thought.