Tom Slade on the River

“These fellows are beginning to see you in your true light, I’m afraid,” said Arnold. “I thought maybe they were mistaken but I guess they’re not. They’re saying now that you did Tom Slade out of the Silver Cross last year.”

“Does Tom say that?”

“The rest of them do. Well, I don’t see as I can do much good staying here and talking. What I came to ask you was if you didn’t think it would be a bully idea to turn Jeffrey over to the Elks on Saturday—as a birthday present to the patrol.” Arnold waited a moment hoping Garry would make some reply. “Tom found him—he plowed up through that mess—Jeb calls it nature tied in a knot—it was his idea and it was his job—and it’s about all he could be expected to do.”

“He may have more to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing in particular.”

“Well,” concluded Arnold, “it’s just a case of rendering unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. What do you say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you fix it up with Jeffrey Waring to join the Elks?”

“No, I won’t,” said Garry.

Arnold looked steadily at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode away.

CHAPTER IX
A NEW KIND OF FIRST AID

Garry sat outside the little makeshift shack which he and Jeffrey and Raymond occupied, and whittled as Arnold strode along the beaten path toward the main body of camp. He was still whittling when Raymond and Jeff returned from the shore, their arms laden with willow branches.

“Kiddo,” he said to Raymond, “suppose you get me that other shirt of yours and I’ll sew up that tear. I’ve got to fix my own, too. We’re not very strong on clothes, are we?”

“I’ll buy us all clothes,” put in Jeffrey. “When I get my own scout suit I’ll get new ones for you and Raymond—I’ll have thousands of dollars.”

“All right,” laughed Garry. “You put some water boiling now, while Raymond peels the potatoes, so we can have grub. Then come over here and talk to me while I do the family mending.”

Raymond busied himself with preparations for supper and Jeffrey sat down on the ground close to Garry.

“I’m glad we’re here by ourselves, aren’t you?” he said, “and I’m going to give you two thousand dollars for letting me be in your class.”

“Class?”

“I mean, patrol.”

“Now you see if you can’t remember that word patrol so I don’t have to remind you. And what was the other thing—just think.”

“About money?” asked Jeffrey, doubtfully.

“Right. Try to remember never to promise people money—especially scouts—because they don’t like it. Now hand me that other spool of thread.”

“But it’s fine to be rich, isn’t it?”

“It’s better to be a scout. Any headache today, Jeff?”

“No.”

“Well, now see if you can remember how many willow canes you’ve carved altogether.”

“Eleven.”

“Right. You’re going to get the memory badge pretty soon.”

“Do they have a memory badge?”

“Now, tell me what you and I and Raymond did the day before yesterday—just before grub.”

“Played mumbly-peg.”

“And who won?”

“You did—but I’m not going to give you a hundred dollars like I said.”

“Wasn’t it a thousand?”

“No, it was a hundred—you can’t fool me.”

“Which was it, kiddo?” Garry called to Raymond.

“A hundred,” said Raymond.

“All right. Now see if you can remember the first time you ever saw Tom Slade.”

“That night on the hill.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s going to be the name of our—class?”

“Patrol,” corrected Jeff.

“Oh yes, patrol.”

“The Tigers.”

“I tell you what—you’re getting to have a crackerjack memory.

“Now turn your face around there so I can see it by the light of the fire. Put some more twigs on, kidlet, it’s beginning to get dark. I want to be able to see if you’re just joshing me. This is an important matter. When I was up at commissary shack for salt and things I was noticing the things on the bulletin board.”

“I saw that about the Elks birthday party,” interrupted Jeffrey.

“Well, did you see that one about the new rowboat being in the lake and asking everybody to vote on a name for it?”

“No.”

“Well, now——”

“Will we go to that dinner party?” Jeffrey interrupted.

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Garry, “but anyway, we’ll each of us vote a name for the new boat and I’ll drop them in the ballot box up at camp in the morning. What do you say?”

“I vote ‘Buster’!” called Raymond, who was poking up the fire.

“I vote ‘Queen’!” said Jeffrey, excitedly.

“Well, those are two punk names! ‘Queen’ isn’t so bad, but ‘Buster’ suggests busting, and a boat that would bust—go-o-dnight!”

Jeffrey stared at Garry. His face was right in the glare of the fire and though his look was of that vacant character which all the boys had noticed, it seemed less pronounced than it had been when he came to Temple Camp. Perhaps the quiet, even life in the solitude under these sheltering trees, with the tranquil lake hard by, was really showing its effect, as Mr. Waring had evidently hoped that it would do; perhaps the wholesome companionship of these other boys was already beginning to tell; it was a new kind of First-Aid at all events, and one quite outside of Doc Carson’s sphere. Or it may have been that Jeffrey was just startled into a livelier interest, as he had often been lately, at something that was said.

“Now,” said Garry, “I’m going to tell you my vote. And if there’s a prize, I think I’ll win it. I vote to name the new dory—Nymph.”

Jeffrey’s eyes were fixed on Garry with an intense wondering stare and Garry, looking quizzically at him, said, “Isn’t that a peach of a name?”

“It’s—it’s—somebody else thought of it—it——” Jeffrey’s utterance fizzled out in another stare.

“And speaking of boats, how about it, Jeff, do you think you could walk as far as Catskill Landing—seven full grown miles?”

“Sure I can! Didn’t I——”

“Well, then, by jingoes, if tomorrow’s clear, we’ll take that long promised hike—just you and me——”

“Not Raymond?”

“Nope—just you and me; and we’ll have a squint at that wonderful boat of yours, hey? And then I’ll show you the Bridgeboro Troop’s boat, even if we have to trespass, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Jeffrey grew excited at once.

“Are you—are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he demanded.

“Surest thing you know.”

“Those fellows don’t take any interest in my boat,” Jeffrey said.

“Well, I do,” said Garry, “what was the name of that game? I can’t seem to remember it.”

“Mumbly-peg,” said Jeffrey, contemptuously.

“Well, there’s no use getting excited about it,” laughed Garry.

CHAPTER X
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE ELK PATROL

“Maybe I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll make things hot for you if you don’t get away from here!”

Roy Blakeley, from the cooking lean-to, despatched an eggplant (which had not stood the physical test, as he said) straight at the scampering form of Pee-wee Harris, who had raided the sacred precincts of the larder for raisins and was now departing with scurrilous comments on his patrol leader. And the eggplant, faithful to its trust, landed plunk upon Pee-wee’s round, curly head.

“Plant that and raise some scrambled eggs,” Roy called after him.

Roy was assisting the camp cooks, for it was the second anniversary of the forming of the Elk Patrol, and there were to be “doings.”

“If that kid had got a hair-cut when he ought to have, he’d have felt that eggplant. That head of his is a regular shock absorber.”

“How long is a hair-cut, anyway?” queried Roy, sitting on the table and stirring a bowl of batter.

“Never you mind them riddles,” said the chief cook. “You git that batter ready—pour some more milk in from that pitcher.”

“Then I’ll have a batter and a pitcher both, hey?” said Roy. “Pretty soon I’ll have a whole baseball team. But honest, this is what I mean. A boy gets a hair-cut. Is it a hair-cut the next day? It is a hair-cut the day after? When does it stop being a hair-cut? And here’s another thing——”

“Never you mind,” laughed the cook. “You git that stirred and then I’ll let you make some raisin cakes—seein’ as you say you can.”

While Roy was busying himself in the cooking lean-to other scouts were forming the three mess-boards into one long table.

At five o’clock, an hour earlier than usual, the camp bugle sounded and patrols and troops, in formation, marched from their tents and cabins to the long board which was heaped with such a varied and bountiful repast as Temple Camp had never before seen. It was a pleasant scene as the boys came with their patrol pennants waving, and took their allotted places at the long rustic table under the trees.

Jeb Rushmore sat at the head of the table, one of the two visiting trustees on either hand. The scoutmasters sat each with his troop, and behind each patrol leader his staff bearing the patrol pennant was stuck in the ground so that one could easily distinguish the different patrols. Scouts who were visiting camp singly or in teams or small parties, like Harry Arnold and his friend, were seated toward the foot of the board. The three patrols of the well-organized Bridgeboro Troop, the Ravens, Silver Foxes and Elks, sat toward the head of the table on either side, close to the trustees. On the plate of each member of the Elk Patrol was a strip of ribbon bearing the words neatly printed by hand “Many Happy Returns.”

“I’ve got two here stuck together,” said Connie Bennet.

“That’s because you think you’re twice as good a scout as anyone else,” piped up Roy. “You should worry.”

The Elks were pinning these on amid much merriment when Garry Everson and his two companions came up the hill and took their seats near Harry Arnold, toward the foot of the table. Whatever show of coldness and resentment this odd trio (and particularly its leader) had borne lately, there was none visible now, save in a certain restraint on both sides and a lack of easy converse between Garry and those near him. Jeffrey seemed sober and half frightened, but little Raymond’s face was wreathed in smiles. Jeb Rushmore waved pleasantly to them from the distant end of the long board and they acknowledged his salute.

Then the camp master drew himself together and lifted his long, lanky form to his feet.

“I dunno’s I’m much on speechifyin’,” he said, “’n’ baout all I’m cal’latin’ ter do is jes’ ter set ye on the trail ’n’ let ye folly it. Onct thar come out west a gent from that thar Smithson Institution in Wash’n’ton, ’n’ hearin’t I wuz used ter killin’ grizzlies he sez, ‘Pard, you’re the man I want ter talk to ’baout grizzlies.’ He wuz one o’ them zoologist fellers. ‘All I know ’baout grizzlies,’ sez I, ‘I can tell ye in two words—Don’t miss! I leave it t’the other feller ter write ’baout ’em.’ ‘An’ it’s the same here likewise—ez the feller sez. I leave it to the others t’do th’talkin’—’cause if I try t’do it myself I’ll sure miss. ’An’ I reckon as Mr. Ellsworth is the proper one. I never stood behind nobuddy when anythin’ wuz goin’ on—Gen’l Custer cud tell ye that—but I reckon I’ll have ter make fer shelter naow ’n’ leave him on the firin’ line.”

He sprawled into his seat amid a very tempest of applause and cheering.

“Good old Jeb!” they called.

“Hurrah for Jeb Rushmore!”

“Bully for you, Jeb!”

He was forced to stand up three times in acknowledgement. Then Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster of the First Bridgeboro Troop, arose.

“It seems,” said he, “that Mr. Rushmore has, as usual, hit the mark——”

“There’s where you said something!”

“He uses no rifle nowadays, but scouts by the dozen fall for him. (Cheers) He may run for shelter, but he will never find any shelter from the love and the applause and the homage which every visitor at Temple Camp, young and old, has for him! (Great shouting.) He is a whole scout handbook in himself. I ask every scout at this board to stand and give three cheers for Jeb Rushmore!”

The boys were on their feet before the words were out of his mouth, and the lusty echo swept back from the hills across the lake as if nature herself would pay her homage to the man who knew and loved her so well.

“And while we are standing let us give three cheers for the man who discovered Jeb Rushmore and brought him from Arizona—by the ears. (Laughter.) You all know whom I mean—John Temple, the founder of Temple Camp!”

When the shouting had subsided, Mr. Ellsworth continued, “Scouts, we are not joining in this celebration to make a hero of any of our number. There is but one hero at Temple Camp. He sits at the head of the table. (Applause.) And if it were not for one fact I think I should have vetoed this merrymaking and the Bridgeboro Troop would have had its celebration by itself and not have obtruded its family joys upon others.

“We are here, scouts, to celebrate the second anniversary of the Elk Patrol of which Tom Slade is the leader—and organizer. It is not because Tom is a scout, but because he is a scout-maker, that we wish to honor him, and his all but completed patrol. And that is what I want every scout here to know and to take back with you to the several parts of the country from which you come. It is not enough to be a scout—one must be a scout-maker. He must reach out to the right and to the left—into the highways and byways—and muster his recruits. That is the only way that our great army—or rather, our great brotherhood—can grow. Do you get me?”

“We get you,” they answered, laughing at his use of the slang which he was so ready to learn from them.

“Tom Slade holds the gold cross for an act of great bravery here last summer. He holds seven merit badges and is about to win two more. On the first night of his arrival here this summer, he had the spunk and the courage and persistence to choose a little party and lead them——”

Cheer upon cheer drowned his words. Tom himself sat, stolid as usual, but smiling in embarrassment as scout after scout, clustering about him, slapped him on the shoulder. A few noticed that Garry smiled and applauded, but kept to his seat.

“Hurrah for Tom Slade!” they called again and again.

Mr. Ellsworth with difficulty continued, “And to lead them up into that wilderness over yonder, because he could not sit down, tired and travel worn as he was, while some one lay dying.

“Just a minute, scouts—listen and I will be through. These things are all to his credit—to the credit of his patrol, of his troop, of the whole scout family, here in this beloved land of ours. But when I think of Tom Slade—as I often do,” he added, smiling, oh, so pleasantly, at Tom; “I think not only of how he raised himself out of dirt and mischief to this noble level where you see him, but of how he went back into the byways and found these boys who now form his splendid patrol. I tried to get Connie Bennet and failed. (Laughter.) I made a stab for the celebrated Bronson twins—nothing doing. They were too busy ringing other people’s doorbells. (Laughter.) I made a grandstand play for others, but was turned down hard. Why? Because it takes a boy to recruit a boy. So all of you scouts pack that little fact down in the corner of your duffel bags and take it home with you. If every scout secured a scout, where there are ten thousand now there would be twenty thousand, and where there are five hundred thousand, there would be a million! I ask every scout here to stand up and as he gives three cheers for Tom Slade, scout-maker, to resolve that he will make at least one scout before he comes here another summer. And now three cheers for the Elk Patrol on its second birthday, and three cheers for Tom Slade, and three cheers for the eighth scout—whoever and wherever he may be—who before another summer shall make the Elk Patrol complete as well as honored!”

Back across the still bosom of Black Lake, again and again, the cheers reverberated, drowning the closing words of Mr. Ellsworth’s speech. Pee-wee Harris, standing on the seat, waved his scarf and shouted himself hoarse. Roy, with the announcement megaphone, called, “Oh, you Tomasso!” Raymond Hollister clapped his hands.

“Spooch, spooch—speak a spooch!” called Roy.

Tom, with his face scarlet, shook his head as Mr. Ellsworth looked at him and the scoutmaster held up a staying hand in sympathy with his embarrassment. “He says he’d rather eat,” he said.

“Three cheers for the eats!” shouted Roy, irrepressibly.

“The eats” after being uproariously cheered, were forthwith assailed until there was nothing left of them, and all agreed that the meal beat the regulation Temple Camp Sunday dinner twenty ways. And that was saying a good deal.

“And now,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “since this celebration originated in the fertile brain of the renowned leader of the Silver Foxes——”

“Wait, give them a chance to cheer me,” interrupted Roy.

“I think it is my duty to put the balance of our program into his able hands.”

“Excuse me while I blush,” said Roy.

“There are, I believe, a few remembrances and these it shall be his pleasure to bring forward. I present to you,” he added, smiling, “the most silvery fox of them all, Roy Blakeley.”

“Why pick on me?” said Roy. “I thought I was going to be the buttered toast master, but it seems I’m to be the souvenir slinger. I should worry. I go where duty calls, and I wouldn’t run after any job—especially if it’s a good runner.

“Scouts and sprouts,” he continued, with a sly glance at Pee-wee; “now you’re supposed to say, ‘Hear, hear!’”

“Hear, hear!” they called, laughingly.

“I thank you. There are several things for the Honorable Tomasso Slade, otherwise known as Thomas the Silent, or Sherlock Nobody Holmes of Bridgeboro, N. G. Tomasso Slade is a home-made scout—I mean a self-made scout—and he’s made so as he can’t smile.” (He was beginning to smile however.) “The first present is from his boyhood’s friend, Roy Blakeley (that’s me) and it is intended to make him laugh.”

He handed across the table a turkey feather with a bow of ribbon tied about it. “And this,” he added, lifting the huge elk’s head to the board and smiling at Tom’s surprise, “is from Mr. Rushmore; its history, by Mr. Rushmore himself, is writ, wrot, wrote—on that piece of paper tied to the horns.”

Tom lifted the panel with the noble head and magnificent antlers and as the boys crowded about him he could only look toward Jeb with his eyes swimming.

“That’s all right, Tommy,” smiled Jeb, as pleased as Tom himself.

The cat’s collar belt was handed over amid much laughter, and various other small tokens, some humorous and all of a kind easily made or procurable in the woodland community. The wireless set almost knocked Tom off his feet, and when it was followed by the bugle with the Elk patrol names engraved upon it, he was overwhelmed.

He blinked as he gazed at the highly polished metal, at the names which had meant labor and long effort for him, and which bespoke his success. His hand almost shook as he fumbled the silken tassel of the beautiful instrument, and the familiar names upon it seemed like fifty names wrought into an intricate design.

“That’s all right, Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They understand.”

But it was Roy who came to his rescue, as he had done more than once before, and saved him further embarrassment.

“Blow it, Tomasso,” said he. “Maybe you can blow up your other recruit if you blow loud enough.”

“Sure, maybe it’ll be like the shot heard round the world,” said Pee-wee.

“Or like the music of old Ichabod Crane, which they say is still heard in Sleepy Hollow,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Perhaps it will be heard months hence.”

“Blow for him, anyway,” said Roy. “He’ll come some day, you can bet, and we’ll all wish it at the same time, while you’re blowing, Tom. Go ahead!”

Tom raised the bugle to his lips laughing, and as he blew lustily the echo of its attenuated final note was borne back with the freshening night breeze, like a faint answer from the encompassing hills.

“He is here,” said an impassive voice.

They all stood staring, the scouts still at their places and those clustered about Tom, and saw Garry Everson standing in his place in the characteristic attitude which was familiar to them all, one hand on his hip, the other in his pocket.

As they stared at him, Jeffrey Waring, gulping nervously, rose from his seat and stood beside him for a second. Then, at Garry’s nod, he moved around to Tom’s side.

“Tell him your name,” said Garry, smiling, “They’ll want it for the bugle, you know.”

“My name is Harry Stanton,” he said, hesitatingly, but seriously.

“And you fellows,” said Garry quietly, “had better take him home to his mother and father before you make any other plans. I’m not going to do your work for you. I’ve done my part. It’s for you to take him back. May I look at that bugle?”

But Tom did not hand him the bugle. He stood rooted to where he stood, staring like an idiot.

Some one stooped and picked up the bugle which had fallen to the ground.

CHAPTER XI
GARRY’S STORY AND HARRY STANTON’S

It was around the glowing camp fire on that memorable night that the wondering boys heard Garry Everson’s simple, unboastful tale of the new kind of first-aid which had helped him to solve the mystery of Jeffrey Waring and put Tom Slade in the way of realizing his fondest dream—that of returning Harry Stanton to his young sister and his home.

“If we looked like beans, I’d say you were trying to string us,” observed Roy, as he sat in his familiar posture near the fire, his knees drawn up and his hands clasped about them. “It beats anything I ever heard. Our beloved scoutmaster will have to go away, way back and sit down.”

Mr. Ellsworth, still half incredulous, shook his head. “The pity of it is,” said he, “that there’s no merit badge for this kind of first-aid. There can be no doubt of the truth of this thing, I suppose?” he added.

Garry laughed good-naturedly. “I wish I could be as sure of his having the boat for his own—now that he’s somebody else. It’s one peacherino.”

“And you suspected that first night, you say?”

“Well, no—not exactly. You fellows have got to remember that my father was an alienist, if you know what that is, and I’ve heard him tell about just such troubles as Harry’s. So I don’t deserve much credit. Only I had to be very careful. You can see yourselves it wasn’t a case for bandages and splints and things.”

“It would be pretty hard to give you too much credit,” Doc Carson said.

“The first thing I noticed,” Garry went on, “was the way Tom stared when he first saw him that night up in the woods. He was sure he’d seen him before. I didn’t think much about that though till afterwards when other little things set me thinking and then I remembered about it and I began to put two and two together. When Jeffrey told me where he belonged I remembered about the old gentleman in Vale Centre who came home one time with a young fellow he called his nephew and how all the people in the village wondered who the nephew was. They didn’t live near enough for me to know much about them and I don’t know as I ever saw Jeffrey until that night up on the mountain.

“Well, it was while we were bringing Mr. Waring down through the woods on the stretcher that Tom said something about the Stantons—he just mentioned the name sort of off-hand, and I noticed that Jeffrey stared at him and looked sort of worried or puzzled, kind of, and then started in again chattering in that way of his.

“Then it came jumping into my head all of a sudden that he was trying to think of something and couldn’t. And I was wondering if Tom really ever had seen him before, when I just happened to think—the idea came to me, sort of—that maybe it was his sister that Tom had seen. Of course, I didn’t think so but the idea wouldn’t go away and I decided that anyway I’d keep Jeffrey near me if I could and not let him get mixed up with the crowd where he’d be all the time getting excited, and see if I couldn’t find out something about him. And even as it was, that was some tall job, believe me.”

“You certainly kept by yourselves,” some one said.

“I knew the time was short and I wanted to see if maybe he wouldn’t get better by just being quiet. I knew a person could get to be—sort of—flighty, like, from an accident or something like that, and lose his memory, and be like a kid, and that sometimes, if he lives quiet and don’t get excited or see many people, he’ll begin to remember things——”

“Garry, we’ve got to hand it to you,” said Roy, earnestly. “You’ve spent your whole vacation buried alive.”

“Even still I didn’t exactly think he was Harry Stanton,” Garry went on, “but after, a while, just for experiment, kind of, I began springing words on him that I thought he might remember. I sprung Stanton and Nyack but there wasn’t any come-back until one day—it was the day Arnold dropped in to see me—I sprung the word Nymph as a good name for a boat and that seemed to kind of hit him. He just stared and stared and stared. After that I decided to take him down to Catskill Landing to look at that sumptuous yacht of his and then to show him the Good Turn. I knew that sometimes when a person sees the thing that caused his trouble or goes back to the same place, maybe, or something of that sort, his memory comes back to him all of a sudden and he wakes up as if he’d been dreaming, as you might say. There’s a long name they have for it, but I can’t seem to remember it. Anyway, it’s a blamed funny thing, but it’s true. If you want to know what happened when we trespassed on the Good Turn, you’d better let him tell you, hey, Jeff?”

The boy who had been the subject of Garry’s simple narrative was smiling, as every one turned toward him, and though the familiar trace of childishness was not entirely gone from his smile, there was a suggestion of mental poise or self-possession, even in the face of this public stare, which had not been there before. And though one or two noticed (for they were scouts and noticed things) that he twirled one finger nervously with his other hand, he at least did not begin to chatter with that distressing agitation and irrational boastfulness which the camp had known so well.

He had not changed his habit and demeanor as a lightning change performer will doff his costume, but there was a difference and everyone could see it. The woods and the quiet water and the sympathetic surroundings were to do much for him yet and it would be a long journey back to mental keenness and physical vigor. But he was different, and it seemed all very wonderful. It was a knockout blow to Doc Carson, proficient though he was in his chosen specialty, for not a word about this kind of business had he ever seen in his study of First-Aid.

“Hey, Stanton, you old Jekyll and Hyde,” Garry repeated, cheerily; “you came near getting me in Dutch with this bunch. Tell them about the Nymph.”

Harry Stanton smiled naturally and now Tom Slade, who was watching his every movement, realized how much like his young sister he looked. His nose wrinkled a little, just like hers, when he smiled. There was no doubt as to who he was.

“I knew it was my boat,” he said. “I thought it was the next morning. It seemed as if I was just waking up. I don’t mean it’s my boat, now, of course——”

“It sure is yours, all right,” said Roy.

“I’ve got my other one and I don’t want it. But it seemed as if I had fallen asleep on it and——”

“He thought I was Benty Willis for a minute,” said Garry.

“And then—then, sort of, I knew all about what happened. When I saw my—the—boat, I knew. I knew for sure.”

There were a few seconds of silence, broken by Mr. Ellsworth’s saying, “It’s wonderful, almost unbelievable.” And still no one else spoke, the company only gazing at Harry Stanton, as one might look at an apparition.

Then Doc Carson, Raven and First-Aid Scout, said, “Garry, you’re a wonder.”

“And all the thanks he got——” began Connie Bennet.

“Oh, I didn’t mind that,” laughed Garry; “I had my little trail to follow, and I followed it, that’s all. I just kept my eyes on the trail and not on you fellows—just as Jeb is all the time telling us. If he had seen that boat too soon, or been jollied or got too much excited or tired he might have gone nutty, for sure. Tell us a camp-fire yarn, Roy, I want Harry to see that we’ve got a real ‘nut’ in the camp.”

But Roy told no yarn, and still they were all silent. After a while, Tom spoke.

“I don’t want to make you talk about it, if you don’t feel like it,” he said, “or if you don’t remember, but I always thought that maybe you were alive because a board belonging to your launch’s skiff was in the launch when we got her.”

Garry laughed. “Tell him how it happened, Stanton,” said he.

“I remember all about it,” said Harry. “I was in the launch and Benty was in the tender, bailing it out. There was a long rope from the tender to the Nymph. He was singing and I was sitting in the cabin talking to him. We had a light on the launch. That’s the same way as I told it to you—isn’t it?” he questioned, turning to Garry.

“Sure—go on.”

“Then I heard a speed-boat coming—down?”

“That’s what you said,” Garry encouraged.

“Maybe it was up. Anyway I called, but I suppose they couldn’t hear me on account of their exhaust.”

“You see,” said Garry. “He wanted to warn them about the small boat which was about thirty feet away and had no light.”

“They crashed into it and Benty yelled that he was hurt and said he had hold of the rope. And then—and then—” Stanton broke off, looking frightened and perplexed, and rubbed his hands together distressingly.

“You let me finish it for you and see if I don’t get it right,” said Garry, soothingly. “Jeff pulled the rope so as to save Benty, who couldn’t swim very well. But Benty must have let go. That right, Jeff?”

“Yes, and—”

“Now wait a minute.” Garry looked across the fire at Tom. “And all there was at the end of the rope was a board from the skiff. The skiff must have been all smashed to pieces. It was the board that had the ring in it that the boat was tied to——”

“Yes?” said Tom.

“Well, that’s all there is to it. Stanton pulled it aboard thinking his friend was clinging to it. And when he saw how it was he dived for him——”

“I dived right away,” interrupted Harry Stanton, shuddering, “and I swam all around and I called—I swam way out and then there was a big light that dazzled me——”

“And that’s all,” concluded Garry. “He can’t tell you any more because he doesn’t remember any more till he was in Mr. Waring’s house. We’re going to try to find out about it, aren’t we. Stan?”

He moved closer to the boy and put his arm about his shoulder with a significant look at the others as if to ask them not to question him further.

“And he wants us all to go down to Nyack with him in his own boat which has the other one beat forty-’leven ways. He says he wouldn’t ride in that old tub now, hey, Stan? And you can keep it or sink it just as you please. And when we get to Nyack he wants a committee of three scouts to go home with him while the rest of us stay on the boat. And after that, if we can fix it up, we’re all going to take a cruise up the river and through the lakes for a little call on Uncle Sam at Plattsburg. Hey, Stan?”

“And the three scouts that he wants to go up home with him (he’s very particular about it) are Tom Slade and Roy and Pee-wee Harris, because they’re the ones who were there last year and they know his sister, so it’s up to them to take him back.”

“How about you?” Roy promptly demanded.

“Oh, I’m out of it,” said Garry.

Then, suddenly, such a shout as might have raised the dead resounded. It was Pee-wee Harris, flying off the handle, as he realized the meaning of Garry’s proposal.

“Oh, crinkums, won’t it be great!” he shouted. “And—and—I’ll think up a little kind of a speech to make to her—gee, it’s just like a story, with—with—yachts and long lost brothers and things——”

“Especially things,” said Roy.

CHAPTER XII
PEE-WEE TRIUMPHANT

It was toward the close of a beautiful summer afternoon that a trim Racine cruiser poked her nose around the boat club’s anchorage near Nyack on the Hudson, and brought up alongside one of the commercial wharves, which made an inharmonious background to the spotless white hull and shining mahogany cabin. She made no more noise than a canoe. The first rays of the declining sun fell upon her knife-like brass bow and reflected from her shining metal parts. As she touched the dock several scouts scrambled from her and made her fast.

“Jimin-ety! But she gets over the water!” remarked Connie Bennet. “We’d have been a couple of days or more coming down in the Good Turn.”

“And doesn’t she take the hills fine!” said Roy Blakeley.

“She’s a regular boat,” observed Garry.

“The Good Turn is all right only her bow’s too near the stern,” said Roy.

“Gee, everything looks the same, doesn’t it,” said Pee-wee, gazing about him. “This is just where we stood when it began to rain last year. Then we went up that road and that’s where we found the Good Turn.”

“The sun was going down just as it is now,” said Tom, climbing out over the combing. “I remember those hills over there looked just like they do now.”

“Sure, even the water’s wet, just the same as it was then. Don’t you remember how I spoke about the water being so wet?”

“This is just like a book,” said Pee-wee. “Gee, I never thought it would happen this way; I saw a movie play once where a feller—a long lost brother—came home, and oh, cracky, they fell all over him. They thought he was dead and his mother she was looking at his picture and crying—I mean weeping—when all of a sudden——”

“All of a sudden Pee-wee Harris will be left behind if he doesn’t get a hustle,” said Roy. “Come on, wash up and get your hair fixed if you expect to make that speech.”

“Do you know how I’m going to begin?”

“I know how you’re going to end, if you don’t get a hustle.”

The whole Bridgeboro troop with Garry and Raymond and Harry Stanton, had come down from Catskill Landing. Their stay at Temple Camp was ended and they had said good-bye to Harry Arnold and his young friend, whom they hoped to meet again next summer. Little they dreamed of the strange circumstances under which that meeting was to occur. They had left the Good Turn up the river for they hoped to cruise northward again in the larger boat.

In the cool of the evening the three scouts who had trod this same road a year before, accompanied by the boy who had trod it many times himself in days gone by, made their way through the beautiful hilly country for West Nyack. And, indeed, their errand seemed, as Pee-wee had suggested, like a chapter out of a book.

Garry had positively refused to go with them.

“It was you fellows that she gave the boat to and it’s for you to pay her back,” he had said.

“Do you remember how old—how Mr. Stanton laughed when I talked to him?” said Pee-wee as they tramped along the familiar road. “You can’t deny that I put it into his head to give us the boat. And I bet if I ask him to let Harry go on a cruise now, he’ll do it. You leave it to me—I know how to handle him.”

“All right, kiddo, we’ll leave it to you,” laughed Roy, “but I’ve got a sneaking idea that when they once get their fists on our long lost son and brother it’ll take a crow-bar to pry him loose again.”

“You leave it to me.”

It would be hard to say what Harry Stanton’s feelings were as he walked homeward with his three companions. He seemed nervous and anxious and said but little, but every object which met his gaze now was familiar to him and as he looked about upon the very fields where he had played and the houses which he knew he seemed to acquire poise and self-possession. An odd habit which he had shown to Garry and somewhat to the others of confusing his life at Mr. Waring’s with his old life at home, was fast disappearing and now each familiar sight seemed to act like a potent medicine to bring him to himself.

A man who passed them on the road turned and stared at him, then went on, turning again and again. He spoke to a man who was raking a lawn and who also stared after him. The boys paid no heed.

At last they reached the house. No one was about, and they took a short cut across the lawn, right under the big tree where Pee-wee had captured the fugitive bird. Here was a garden bench and leaving Harry Stanton seated upon it, they went up on the porch and rang the bell. Pee-wee was visibly nervous and even Roy showed repressed excitement, but Tom was stolid as he always was.

There was the calling of a voice within, the faint sound of footsteps on the stair, and young Ruth Stanton stood on the inner side of the screen door looking at them. For a moment she stared in amazement and in that momentary look Tom caught a glint of the same expression that had puzzled him in Jeffrey Waring in their first encounter on the lonely hill. Then suddenly her face lighted up with a merry smile of recognition.

“Oh, hello,” she said, opening the door and speaking in great surprise. “I didn’t know you——”