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TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE

If it were not for the very remarkable part played by the scouts in this strange business, perhaps it would have been just as well if the whole matter had been allowed to die when the newspaper excitement subsided. Singularly enough, that part of the curious drama which unfolded itself at Temple Camp is the very part which was never material for glaring headlines.

The main occurrence is familiar enough to the inhabitants of the neighborhood about the scout camp, but the sequel has never been told, for scouts do not seek notoriety, and the quiet woodland community in its sequestered hills is as remote from the turmoil and gossip of the world as if it were located at the North Pole.

But I know the story of Aaron Harlowe from beginning to end, and the part that Tom Slade played in it, and all the latter history of Goliath, as they called him. And I purpose to set all these matters down for your entertainment, for I think that first and last they make a pretty good camp-fire yarn.

For a week it had been raining at Temple Camp, and the ground was soggy from the continuous downpour. The thatched roofs of the more primitive type of cabins looked bedrabbled, like the hair of a bather emerging from the lake, and the more substantial shelters were crowded with the overflow from these and from tents deserted by troops and patrols that had been almost drowned out.

The grub boards out under the elm trees had been removed to the main pavilion. The diving springboard was submerged by the swollen lake, the rowboats rocked logily, half full of water, and the woods across the lake looked weird and dim through the incessant stream of rain, rain, rain.

The spring which supplied the camp and for years had been content to bubble in its modest abode among the rocks, burst forth from its shady and sequestered prison and came tumbling, roaring down out of the woods, like some boisterous marauder, and rushed headlong into the lake.

Being no respecter of persons, the invader swept straight through the cabin of the Silver Fox Patrol, and the Silver Fox Patrol took up their belongings and went over to the pavilion where they sat along the deep veranda with others, their chairs tilted back, watching the gloomy scene across the lake.

"This is good weather for the race," said Roy Blakeley.

"What race?" demanded Pee-wee Harris.

"The human race. No sooner said than stung. It's good weather to study monotony."

"All we can do is eat," said Pee-wee.

"Right the first time," Roy responded. "There's only one thing you don't like about meals and that's the time between them."

"What are we going to do for two hours, waiting for supper?" a scout asked.

"Search me," said Roy; "tell riddles, I guess. If we had some ham we'd have some ham and eggs, if we only had some eggs. We should worry. It's going to rain for forty-eight hours and three months more. That's what that scout from Walla-Walla told me."

"That's a dickens of a name for a city," said Westy Martin of Roy's patrol.

"It's a nice place, they liked it so much they named it twice," Roy said.

"There's a troop here all the way from Salt Lake," said Dorry Benton.

"They ought to have plenty of pep," said Roy.

"There's a troop came from Hoboken, too," Will Dawson observed.

"I don't blame them," Roy said. "There's a troop coming from Kingston next week. They've got an Eagle Scout, I understand."

"Don't you suppose I know that?" Pee-wee shouted. "Uncle Jeb had a letter from them yesterday; I saw it."

"Was it in their own handwriting?"

"What do you mean?" Pee-wee demanded disgustedly. "How can a troop have a handwriting?"

"They must be very ignorant," Roy said. "Can you send an animal by mail?"

"Sure you can't!" Pee-wee shouted.

"That's where you're wrong," said Roy. "I got a letter with a seal on it."

"Can you unscramble eggs?" Pee-wee demanded.

"There you go, talking about eats again. Can't you wait two hours?"

There was nothing to do but wait, and watch the drops as they pattered down on the lake.

"This is the longest rain in history except the reign of Queen Elizabeth," Roy said. "If I ever meet Saint Swithin——"

This sort of talk was a sample of life at Temple Camp for seven days past. Those who were not given to jollying and banter had fallen back on checkers and dominos and other wild sports. A few of the more adventurous and reckless made birchbark ornaments, while those who were in utter despair for something to do wrote letters home.

Several dauntless spirits had braved the rain to catch some fish, but the fish, themselves disgusted, stayed down at the bottom of the lake, out of the wet, as Roy said. It was so wet that even the turtles wouldn't come out without umbrellas.

Rain, rain, rain. It flowed off the pavilion roof like a waterfall. It shrunk tent canvas which pulled on the ropes and lifted the pegs out of the soggy ground. It buried the roads in mud. Hour in and hour out the scouts sat along the back of the deep veranda, beguiling their enforced leisure with banter and riddles and camp gossip.

On Friday afternoon a brisk wind arose and blew the rain sideways so that most of the scouts withdrew from their last entrenchment and went inside. You have to take off your hat to a rain which can drive a scout in out of the open.

It began blowing in across the veranda in fitful little gusts and within an hour the wind had lashed itself into a gale. A few of the hardier spirits, including Roy, held their ground on the veranda, squeezing back against the shingled side whenever an unusually severe gust assailed them.

There is no such thing as twilight in such weather, but the sodden sky grew darker, and the mountainside across the lake became gloomier and more forbidding as the night drew on apace.

The few remaining stragglers on the veranda watched this darkening scene with a kind of idle half interest, ducking the occasional gusts.

"How would you like to be out on the lake now?" one asked.

The question directed their gaze out upon the churning, black sheet of water before them. The lake, lying amid those frowning, wooded hills, was somber enough at all times, and a quiet gloom pervaded it which imparted a rare charm. But now, in the grip of the rain and wind, the enshrouding night made the lake seem like a place haunted, and the enclosing mountains desolate and forlorn.

"I'll swim across with anybody," said Hervey Willetts.

He belonged in a troop from western New York and reveled in stunts which bespoke a kind of blithe daring. No one took him up and silence reigned for a few minutes more.

"There's the little light on the top of the mountain," said Will Dawson of Roy's patrol. "If there's anybody up there, I hope he has an umbrella."

But of course there was no one up there. For weeks the tiny light away up on the summit of that mountain wilderness had puzzled the scouts of camp. They had not, indeed, been able to determine that it was a light; it seemed rather a tiny patch of brightness which was always brighter when the moon shone. This had led to the belief that it was caused by some kind of natural phenomena.

The scouts fixed their gaze upon it, watching it curiously for a few moments.

"It isn't a reflection, that's sure," said Roy, "or we wouldn't see it on a night like this."

"It's a phosphate," said Pee-wee.

"It's a chocolate soda," said Roy.

"You're crazy!" Pee-wee vociferated. "Phosphate is something that shines in the dark."

"You mean phosphorus," said Westy Martin.

That seemed a not unlikely explanation. But the consensus of opinion in camp was that the bright patch was the reflection of some powerful light in the low country on the opposite side of the mountain.

"It's a mystery," said Pee-wee, "that's what it is."

Suddenly, while they gazed, it went out. They watched but it did not come again. And the frowning, jungle-covered, storm beaten summit was enshrouded again in ghostly darkness. And the increasing gale beat the lake, and the driven rain assailed the few stragglers on the veranda with lashing fury. And across the black water, in that ghoul-haunted, trackless wilderness, could be heard the sound of timber being rent in splinters and of great trees crashing down the mountainside.

Suddenly a word from Westy Martin aroused them all like a cannon shot.

"Look!" he shouted, "Look! Look at the springboard!"

Every one of them looked, speechless, astonished, aghast, at the sight which they beheld before their very eyes.

There, just below them was the springboard an inch or two above the surface of the lake. Ordinarily it projected from the shore nearly a yard above the water, but lately the swollen lake had risen above it. Now, however, it was visible again just above the surface.

This meant that the water had receded more in an hour than it had risen in a whole week. The strong wind was blowing toward the pavilion and would naturally force the water up along that shore. But in spite of the wind the water in the lake was receding at an alarming rate. Something was wrong. The little trickle from the spring up behind the camp had grown into a torrent and was pouring into the lake. Yet the water in the lake was receding.

Down out of the mountain wilderness across the water came weird noises, caused no doubt by the tumult of the wind in the intricate fastnesses and by the falling of great trees, but the sounds struck upon the ears of the besieged listeners like voices wild and unearthly. The banging of the big shutters of the pavilion was heard in echo as the furious gale bore the sounds back from the mountain and the familiar, homely noise was conjured into a kind of ghostly clamor.

"There goes Pee-wee's signal tower," a scout remarked, and just as he spoke, the little rustic edifice which had been the handiwork and pride of the tenderfoots went crashing to the ground while out of the woods across the water came sounds as of merry laughter at its downfall.

"Something's wrong over on the other side," said Westy Martin of Roy's patrol; "the lake's breaking through over there."

Scarcely had he uttered the words when all the scouts of the little group were at the railing craning their necks and straining their eyes trying to see across the water. But the wind and rain beat in their faces and the driving downpour formed an impenetrable mist.

As they withdrew again into the comparative shelter of the porch they saw a young fellow standing with his bare arm upraised against the door-jam, watching and listening. This was the young camp assistant, Tom Slade. He had evidently come out to fasten the noisy shutters and had paused to contemplate the tempest.

"Some storm, hey, Tomasso?" said Roy.

"I think the water's going out through the cove," said Tom. "It must have washed away the land over there."

"Let it go, we can't stop it," said Roy.

"If it's running out into the valley, it's good-night to Berry's garage, and the bridge too," said Tom.

The young assistant was popular with the boys at camp, and struck by this suggestion of imminent catastrophe, they clustered about him, listening eagerly. So loud was the noise of the storm, so deafening the sound of rending timber on that gale-swept height before them, that Tom had to raise his voice to make himself heard. The danger to human life which he had been the first to think of, gave the storm new terror to these young watchers. It needed only this touch of mortal peril in that panorama of dreadfulness to arouse them, good scouts that they were, to the chances of adventure and the possibility of service.

"We can't do anything, can we?" one asked. "It's too late now, isn't it?"

"It's either too late or it isn't," said Tom Slade; "and it's for us to see. I was thinking of Berry's place, and I was thinking of the crowd that's coming up tonight on the bus. If the water has broken through across the lake and is pouring into the valley, it'll wash away the bridge. The bus ought to be here now. There are two troops from the four-twenty train at Catskill. Maybe the train is late on account of the weather. If the bridge is down...."

"Call up Berry's place and find out," said Westy Martin.

"That's just what has me worrying," said Tom; "Berry's doesn't answer."

Temple Camp was situated on a gentle slope close to the east shore of the lake. Save for this small area of habitable land the lake was entirely surrounded by mountains. And it was the inverted forms of these mountains reflected in the water which gave it the somber hue whence the lake derived its name. On sunless days and in the twilight, the water seemed as black as night.

Directly across the water from the camp, the most forbidding of those surrounding heights reared its deeply wooded summit three thousand feet above the sea level. A wilderness of tangled underbrush, like barbed wire entanglements, baffled the hardiest adventurer. No scout had penetrated those dismal fastnesses which the legend of camp reputed to be haunted.

Beside the rocky base of this mountain was a tiny cove, a dim, romantic little place, where the water was as still as in a pool. Its two sides were the lower reaches of the great mountain and its neighbor, and all that prevented the cove from being an outlet was a little hubble of land which separated this secluded nook from a narrow valley, or gully, beyond.

Sometimes, indeed, after a rainy spell the water in the cove overflowed this little hubble of land enough to trickle through into the gully, and then you could pick fish up with your hands where they flopped about marooned in the channel below. Probably this gully was an old dried-up stream bed.

About a mile from the lake it became wider and was intersected by a road. Here it was that the bridge spanned the hollow. And here it was, right in the hollow near the bridge, that Ebon Berry had his rural garage. Along this road the old bus lumbered daily, bringing new arrivals to camp and touching at villages beyond.

If, indeed, the swollen lake had washed away the inner shore of the cove, the sequel would be serious if not tragic at that quiet road crossing. The question was, had this happened, and if so, had the bus reached the fatal spot? All that the boys knew was that the bus was long overdue and that Berry's "did not answer." And that the fury of the storm was rising with every minute.

Tom Slade spoke calmly as was his wont. No storm could arouse him out of his stolid, thoughtful habit.

"A couple of scoutmasters have started along the road," he said, "to see what they can find out. How about you, Hervey? Are you game to skirt the lake? How about you, Roy? There may be danger over there."

"Believe me, I hope it'll wait till we get there," said Hervey Willetts.

"I'll go!" shouted Pee-wee.

"You'll go—in and get supper," said Tom. "I want just three fellows; I'm not going to overload a boat in this kind of weather. I'll take Roy and Hervey and Westy, if you fellows are game to go. You go in and get a lantern, Pee-wee."

"And don't forget to leave some pie for those two troops that are coming on the bus," added Roy.

Pee-wee did better than bring a lantern; he brought also three oilskin jackets and hats which the younger boys donned. He must also have advertised the adventurous expedition during his errand indoors, for a couple of dozen envious scouts followed him out and watched the little party depart.

The four made their way against a blown rain which all but blinded them and streamed from their hats and rendered their storm jackets quite useless. Tom wore khaki trousers and a pongee shirt which clung to him like wet tissue paper. If one cannot be thoroughly dry the next best thing is to be thoroughly wet.

They chose the widest and heaviest of the boats, a stout old tub with two pairs of oarlocks. Each of the four manned an oar and pulled with both hands. It was almost impossible to get started against the wind, and when at last their steady, even pulling overcame the deterring power of the gale they were able to move at but a snail's pace. They followed the shoreline, keeping as close in as they could, preferring the circuitous route to the more perilous row across the lake.

As their roundabout voyage brought them to the opposite shore, their progress became easier, for the mountain rising sheer above them protected them from the wind.

"Let her drift a minute," said Tom, panting; "lift your oars."

It was the first word that any of them had spoken, so intense had been their exertions.

"She's going straight ahead," said Westy.

"What's that?" said Roy suddenly. "Look out!"

He spoke just in time to enable them to get out of the path of a floating tree which was drifting rapidly in the same direction as the boat. Its great mass of muddy roots brushed against them.

"It's just as I thought," Tom said; "the water must be pouring out through the cove. We're caught in it. Let's try to get a little off shore; we'll have one of those trees come tumbling down on our heads the first thing we know."

"Not so easy," said Hervey, as they tried to backwater and at the same time get out from under the mountain.

"Put her in reverse," said Roy, who never failed to get the funny squint on a situation.

But there was no use, the rushing water had them in its grip and they were borne along pell-mell, with trees and broken limbs which had fallen down the mountainside.

They were directly opposite the camp now, and cheerful lights could be seen in the pavilion where the whole camp community was congregated, safe from the storm. The noises which had seemed weird enough at camp were appalling now, as out of that havoc far above them, great bowlders came tumbling down into the lake with loud splashes.

Tom realized, all too late, the cause of the dreadful peril they were in. Out on the body of the lake and toward the camp shore the wind was blowing a gale from the mountains and, as it were, forcing the water back. But directly under the mountain there was no wind, and their position was as that of a person who is under the curve of a waterfall. And here, because there was no wind to counteract it, the water was rushing toward what was left of the cove. It was like a rapid river flowing close to the shore and bearing upon its hurrying water the débris which had crashed down from that lonesome, storm-torn height.

The boat was caught in this rushing water and the danger was increased by its closeness to the shore where every missile of rock or tree, cast by that frowning monster, might at any minute dash the craft to splinters.

The little flickering lights which shone through the spray and fine blown rain across that black water seemed very cheerful and inviting now.

"We're in a bad fix," said Tom; "let's try to make a landing and see if we can scramble along shore to the cove."

It is doubtful whether they could have scrambled along that precipitous bank, but in any case, so great was the impetus of the rushing water that even making a landing was impossible. The boat was borne along with a force that all their exertions could not counteract, headlong for the cove.

"What can we do?" Roy asked.

"The only thing that I know of," said Tom, "is to get within reach of the shore in the cove. If we can do that we might get to safety even if we have to jump."

Presently the boat went careening into the cove; an appalling sound of scraping, then of tearing, was heard beneath it, it reared up forward, spilling its occupants into the whirling water and, settling sideways, remained stationary.

The boys found themselves clinging to the branches of a broken tree which was wedged crossways in the cove, its trunk entirely submerged. It formed a sort of makeshift dam and the boat, caught in its branches, added to the obstruction.

If it had not been for this tree the boat would have been borne upon the flood, with what tragic sequel who shall say?

"All right," said Tom, "we're lucky; keep hold of the branches, it's only a few feet to shore; careful how you step. If you let go it's all over. We could never swim in this torrent."

"Where do you suppose this tree came from?" Roy asked.

"From the top of the mountain for all I know," Tom answered. "Watch your step and follow me. We're in luck."

"You don't call this luck, do you?" Westy asked.

"Watch me, I can go scout-pace on the trunk," said Hervey, handing himself along.

"Never mind any of those stunts," said Tom; "you watch what you're doing and follow me."

"The pleasure is mine," said Hervey; "a scout is always—whoa! There's where I nearly dipped the dip. Watch me swing over this branch. I bet you can't hang by your knees—like this."

There are some people who think that trees were made to bear fruit and to afford shade, and to supply timber. But that is a mistake; they were made for Hervey Willetts. They were the scenes of his gayest stunts. He had even been known to dive under the water and shimmy up a tree that was reflected there. He even claimed that he got a splinter in his hand, so doing! Upside down or wedged across a channel under water, trees were all the same to Hervey Willetts. He lived in trees. He knew nothing whatever about the different kinds of trees and he could not tell spruce from walnut. But he could hang by one leg from a rotten branch, the while playing a harmonica. He was for the boy scout movement, because he was for movement generally. As long as the scouts kept moving, he was with them. He had a lot of merit badges but he did not know how many. "He should worry," as Roy said of him.

"Here's a good one—known as the jazzy-jump," he exclaimed. "Put your left foot...."

"You put your left foot on the trunk and don't let go the branches and follow me," said Tom, soberly. "Do you think this is a picnic we're on?"

"After you, my dear Tomasso," said Hervey, blithely. "I guess we're not going to be killed after all, hey?"

"I'm afraid not," said Tom.

"I wish I had an ice cream soda, I know that," said Roy.

"Careful how you step ashore now," Tom said.

"Terra cotta at last," said Roy; "I mean terra firma."

"Jump it," called Hervey, who was behind Roy.

Thus, emerging from a peril, which none but Tom had fully realized, they found themselves on the comparatively low shore of the cove. The tree, itself a victim of the storm, poked its branches up out of the black water like specters, which seemed the more grewsome as they swayed in the wind. These had guided the little party to shore.

So it was that that once stately denizen of the lofty forest had paused here to make a last stand against the storm which had uprooted it. So it was that this fallen monarch, friend of the scouts, had contrived to check somewhat the mad rush of water out of their beloved lake, and had guided four of them to safety.

The dying mission of that noble tree suggested a thought to Tom. The water from the lake was pouring over it, though checked somewhat by the tree and the boat. If this tree, firmly wedged in place, could be made the nucleus of a mass of wreckage, the flood might be effectually checked, temporarily, at least. One thing, a moment's glance at the condition of the cove showed all too certainly what must have happened at the road-crossing. That the little rustic bridge there could have withstood the first overwhelming rush of the flood was quite unthinkable. Berry's garage too, perched on the edge of the hollow, must have been swept away.

"There are two things that have to be done—quick," said Tom. "Somebody has got to pick his way down the west shore back to camp. It's through the mountains and maybe two of you had better go. Here, take my compass," he added, handing it to Westy. "Have you got some matches?"

"I've got my flashlight," said Roy.

So it fell out that Westy and Roy were the ones to make the journey back to camp.

"Keep as close to the shore as you can, it's easier going and shorter," Tom said. "Anyway, use the compass and keep going straight south till you see the lights at camp, then turn east. You ought to be able to do it in an hour. Tell everybody to get busy and throw everything in the water that'll help plug up the passage. Chuck in the logs from the woodshed."

"How about the remains of Pee-wee's signal tower?"

"Good, chuck that in. Throw in everything that can be spared. Most of it will drift over here and get caught in the rush. If the wind dies it will all come over. Hurry up! I'll stay here and try to get in place anything more that comes in in the meantime. There are a lot of broken limbs and things around here. Hurry up now, beat it! And don't stop till you get there.... Don't let anybody try to start over in a boat," he called after them.

Scarcely had they set off when he turned to Hervey Willetts, placing both his hands on the boy's shoulders. The rain was streaming down from Hervey's streaked hair. The funny little rimless hat cut full of holes which he wore on the side of his head and which was the pride of his life had collapsed by reason of being utterly soaked, for he had very early discarded the oilskin "roof" in preference for this old love. One of his stockings was falling down and he hoisted this up as Tom spoke to him.

"Hervey, I'm glad you're going alone, because you won't have to do any stunts for anybody's benefit. You're going to keep your mind on just one thing. Understand?"

"I can think of nine things at once," said Hervey, blithely, "and sing Over There and eat a banana at the same time. How's that?"

"That's fine. Now listen—just two seconds. You're to hit right straight up through this country—north. You notice I gave the compass to Roy? That's because I know you can't get rattled when you're alone and when you put your mind on a thing. You're to go straight north till you reach the road. I'll have to keep the lantern here, but you won't need it. You've got about a quarter of a mile of rough country and then easy going. Straight north beyond the road is Crows Nest Mountain. Turn around, that's right. Shut your eyes. One—two—three—four—five. Now open them suddenly. You see that black bulk. That's Crows Nest. Now you know how to see a dark thing in the dark...."

"Do you know how to tell time with a clothespin?"

"Never mind that. About every ten minutes stop and shut your eyes and old Crows Nest will guide you. Don't get rattled. When you get to the road wait for the bus and stop it. If it has passed by now, we can't help it. I'm afraid it has. But if it hasn't, there are two troops in it and their lives depend on you. Now get out of here—quick!"

"What was that?" Hervey said, pausing and clutching Tom's arm.

"What was what?"

"That sound—away off. Hear it?"

Amid the wild clamor of the tempest, the dashing of the impeded water close by, and the ghostly voices up in that mountain wilderness, there sounded, far off, subdued and steady, a low melodious call, spent and thin from the distance, and blended with the myriad sounds of the raging storm.

"It's the train," said Tom.

Still Hervey did not move, only clutched his companion's arm. One second—two seconds—three, four, five, six. The sound died away in the uproar of wind and rain.... Still the two paused for just a moment more, as if held by a spell.

"A mile and a half—four miles," said Tom. "Four miles of road. A mile and a half of hills and swamps. They're at the station now. You can't do it, kid. But you'd better fail trying than not try at all. What do you say?"

There was no answer, for Hervey Willetts had already plunged into the torrent, by which hazardous act ten minutes might be saved. Or everything lost. Tom caught a glimpse of that funny perforated hat bobbing in the rushing water of the cove, pulled tight down over its young owner's ears. Sober as his thoughts were in the face of harrowing peril, he could not repress a smile that Hervey should toss his life so blithely into the enterprise and yet be careful to save that precious hat. He was more proud of it than of all his deeds of reckless valor.

Tom knew there was no restraining him, or advising him. He knew no more of discipline than a skylark does. He was either the best scout in the world or no scout at all, as you choose to look at it. He was going upon this business in reckless haste, without forethought or caution. He would stake his life to save twenty yards of distance. There was no discretion in his valor. Blithe young gambler that he was, he would do the thing in his own way. No one could tell him. Tom knew the utter futility of shouting any last warnings or instructions to him.

For Hervey Willetts was like a shot out of a rifle. With him it was a case of hit or miss. He had no rules....