Under Boy Scout Colors

CHAPTER IX
AN ODD THANKSGIVING

“Dinner!” snapped the old man. “What are you talkin’ about? I ain’t ordered nothin’ from town.”

“I know you haven’t. It’s one of the baskets from the church. I–I heard you’d had an accident and were all alone, so I–I thought I’d bring it out.”

For a moment the old man sat silent, his hard, glinting eyes, full of sour suspicion, fixed on the boy’s face. “What for?” he demanded suddenly.

“What for?” repeated Dale, puzzled.

“Yes; what for? What d’ you expect to git out of it? You ain’t toted a basketful o’ truck all the way out here jest out of regard for me, I reckon. Who sent ye?”

Dale flushed, and unconsciously drew himself up a little. “Nobody,” he returned briefly. “I’m a boy scout. We–we try to do a good turn for somebody every day.”

Old Grimstone bent slightly forward, staring in a puzzled fashion at the trim, khaki-clad figure before him. His right arm, bulky with bandages and splints, was strapped tightly to his body; the other hand, gnarled and brown, with blue veins showing here and there, gripped the arm of the rocker. There was suspicion still in his glance, but back of it was the look of one groping dimly for something he could not understand. Suddenly he straightened with a jerk.

“Wal, set it down somewheres, then!” he growled ungraciously. “I ain’t an object o’ charity yet, but if you’re bound to leave it, I s’pose I can use it somehow. You’d better be startin’ back right away or you’ll miss your dinner.”

Dale placed the basket on a table and commenced to remove the paper. “I’m not going back yet,” he explained cheerfully. “I’m going to stay and cook it for you.”

For a moment there was silence. Then the old man grunted inarticulately; it might have been with surprise, or incredulity, or almost any other emotion. Dale’s back was toward him, so he could not tell, but since there was no actual prohibition, he proceeded with the unpacking.

Somehow he was beginning to enter more into the spirit of the thing, beginning to feel an interest, almost an enjoyment, in doing it up thoroughly. Having taken off coat and sweater, his first act was to prepare the chicken for roasting. When it was safely placed in the oven he shook down the fire, added some more wood, and then turned his attention to a pile of unwashed dishes, which the indolent Hinckley was evidently accumulating until he considered it sizeable enough to be worth tackling. It was a task the boy ordinarily hated, but he meant to leave the room spick and span on his departure. So he rolled up his shirt-sleeves and plunged in, whistling softly as he worked.

Old Caleb Grimstone followed the boy’s movements almost in silence. He had gruffly told him where he could find a pan for the chicken, and once he snapped out at one of the dogs who had come forth from under the table and was sniffing at Dale’s legs. But for the most part he sat motionless beside the stove, his eyes, under their beetling brows, fixed intently on the busy figure with that same puzzled questioning in their depths.

At last, when Dale had pared the potatoes and put them on to boil, he suddenly growled, “Are you one of them boys that come sneakin’ around the lake last summer?”

Dale reddened a little, but did not hesitate. “I was out here two or three times, I guess,” he acknowledged.

The old man sniffed. “I s’pose you call that one o’ them ‘good turns’–trespassin’ on a person’s property, an’ payin’ no attention to signs, an’ all,” he remarked.

“I wasn’t a scout then,” said Dale. He got a broom from the corner, and on his way past the old man’s chair he paused, his eyes twinkling a bit. “Anyhow, on a roasting hot day you know a fellow’ll do ’most anything to get a swim. I expect you were that way yourself, Mr. Grimstone, when you were a boy.”

“Huh!” grunted the old man, disagreeably, but he made no further comment.

Once or twice, as he swept, Dale glanced curiously at the silent figure by the stove and wondered what the old fellow was thinking about. His eyes no longer followed the boy with sharp suspicion. His head was bent a little, and he stared blankly, unseeingly, at a knot in the board at his feet. For a long time he did not stir, save once to lift the thin, veined hand from the chair-arm, only to grip it again with a force that made the knuckles stand out white against the brown skin. At length, with a sigh, checked almost in its birth, he raised his head and frowned at Tompkins.

“Ain’t you goin’ to baste that fowl at all?” he inquired sharply.

Dale started guiltily at the reminder and hastened to the oven. The fowl was browning nicely, and as he spooned up the sizzling juices, he hoped his forgetfulness wasn’t going to make any difference in its flavor.

Apparently it hadn’t. After a number of anxious inspections, between which he set the table for two, put plates to heat, and arranged the remaining contents of the basket as temptingly as he could, he decided that the chicken was done, and Mr. Grimstone, peering doubtfully into the oven and even testing the fowl with a fork, grudgingly agreed. When the old man was served and his portion cut up so that he could manage it with a fork, Dale took his first taste with a little feeling of pride in his culinary achievement.

It was really a very appetizing meal, and the scout enjoyed it as only a healthy, hungry boy can. Mr. Grimstone made no comment one way or another. Once or twice he mumbled his annoyance at having to have his meat cut up for him by a boy, but the number of times that the process was repeated and the relish with which he consumed everything in sight was proof enough of his satisfaction in the unwonted fare.

As the curious meal proceeded to its conclusion he seemed almost to thaw a little. His manner was still crabbed and his voice sharp. He scowled a good deal, too, especially after some comment which might possibly be taken as approaching the amiable. But in one way or another, both at table and later while the dishes were being done up, he asked a good many questions in his short, snappy fashion.

Dale answered them readily, vaguely sensing, perhaps, that under the old man’s surface crustiness lay a certain awkwardness at handling so unaccustomed a situation. After all these years of bitter warfare against boys it must be rather embarrassing, he thought, to treat one of them with even an approach to civility. So when he had told his name, and the troop he belonged to, and one or two other details the old man asked about, Dale went on to explain a little about their scout work and play, their weekly meetings and drill and other duties, their hikes and week-end camping-trips.

The old man listened almost without comment. He seemed more curious about the principle of the daily good turn, to which he reverted several times, always with expressions of doubt and skepticism. The idea of mere boys giving time and labor and sacrificing inclination and pleasure without thought of reward was incredible to him.

“It ain’t natural!” he declared at last. “Mebbe one or two might, but not many. You can’t tell me any other o’ them young limbs in town would of give up their holiday to tote a basket o’ truck out here an’ cook it.”

“Oh, yes, they would!” protested the boy, loyally, “if they’d thought of it.”

“Humph!” grunted the old man. “They didn’t happen to, though.”

“One was enough, wasn’t it?” smiled the boy. “You wouldn’t have known what to do with two baskets.”

The old man snorted doubtfully and did not pursue the subject farther. A little later, Dale discovered, to his surprise, that it was after four. He had no idea the time had flown so. He would have to hustle to get back to town before dark. Fortunately, the kitchen was cleared up, so after stoking the fire he got into his sweater and coat. Then he picked up the wide-brimmed felt hat and carefully rearranged the depressions in its crown.

“Good-by, Mr. Grimstone,” he said, glancing over to where the latter had resumed his place by the stove. “I hope your arm won’t be long coming around.”

The old man frowned at him from under the bushy brows. His head was a little bent, and the long, bony fingers curved over the chair-arm. It was precisely the attitude with which he had greeted the boy’s arrival; yet the latter was conscious of a subtle, intangible difference, felt rather than perceived.

“Good-by,” he answered curtly. That was all until Dale reached the door and was turning the knob. Then, “Much obleeged,” came jerkily from the thin, straight lips.

“You needn’t be,” smiled the scout. “I–I’ve had a very good time.”

It was not exactly the polite fiction that perhaps it seemed. That was the odd part of it. As he went briskly down the lane the boy realized with surprise that not once had he thought regretfully of the rare turkey-dinner at home, or the fun with the fellows he had missed that afternoon. One of the dogs, still licking his chops from the dish of scraps that Dale had given them in the shed, trotted after him, and the boy bent to pat his head without a touch of nervousness.

“Your bark’s a lot worse than your bite, old fellow,” he said aloud.

He straightened up and glanced back at the rambling, weather-beaten house, whose roof lines seemed to merge into the cold gray of the sky, and something deeper than pity stirred him at the thought of the old man sitting alone there in the twilight.

“I shouldn’t wonder if he was a good deal like his dogs,” he murmured as he turned away. “I’m sort of glad–I found it out.”

It was quite dark before Dale reached home. The return trip had been much harder to make than the one that morning. The holiday was over and there was no spirit of adventure to buoy him up, no consciousness that he was going to be of use to some one who needed him. Also, there was plenty of time to think of the good cheer he had missed at home–that family feast to which, as long as he could remember, they had sat down at three o’clock on Thanksgiving afternoon. It had become so fixed and seemingly immovable that Dale had not even considered the possibility of changing it. And so it was with a tired and lagging step that he walked up from the gate and opened the front door.

Inside, he paused suddenly and sniffed. For an instant he stood stock-still, eyes wide, mouth half open. Then, with a sudden, incoherent exclamation, he tore down the hall, past the lighted dining-room, and through the open kitchen door. The room was warm and bright, and filled with the delicious odor of roasting turkey.

“Mother!” he cried, his face shining. “You didn’t have it– You–you–waited!”

His mother straightened from closing the oven door and smiled at him–that wonderful, indescribable smile that somehow belongs to mothers.

“Of course I waited!” she said quietly. Then, as he leaped forward and clutched her in a bear-hug, she laughed softly and asked, just a little tremulously, “Didn’t you think Father and I could do a good turn, too?”

CHAPTER X
THE SURPRISE

Court’s glance swept comprehensively over the snow-covered green and his eyes brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Now and then you do manage to hit the little black circle, Tommy. Let’s hunt up the bunch and see what they say.”

The crowd was presently gathered from several different parts of town, and the majority approved of Dale’s suggestion. Ranny Phelps and several of his clique had other plans for the afternoon, but Ranny had a habit of frequently failing to take part in the troop doings, unless these were official and gave him a chance to appear in uniform, girded with authority, so his absence was not unexpected.

Immediately after lunch the others betook themselves a mile outside of town, sides were chosen, and the “border” laid out. This consisted of about four hundred yards of a little-used road where the snow had not been much disturbed. This was patrolled by a portion of the “custom inspectors,” with a reserve posted farther inland. About half a mile back from the road a deserted barn did duty for the “town.”

The smugglers gathered about half a mile on the other side of the border and were allowed to cross it in any formation, singly, together, or scattered, and make for the town at any speed they chose. One only of their number was supposed to be smuggling, and he was equipped with tracking-irons. The moment a sentry patrolling the border caught sight of these tracks, his duty was to signal the fact to the reserve party of inspectors and at once follow the track himself. The reserves coöperated with him, trying by any means to catch the smuggler before he could reach the town. If they succeeded, the game was theirs; but if the smuggler eluded them and reached the barn safely, victory went to the other side.

It was a typical scout sport, and for three hours or more the fellows played it strenuously, varying it toward the end with one or two other stalking games. These all met with unanimous approval, even Bob Gibson, the habitual grumbler, admitting that it was more fun than he thought it would be.

“We’ll have to try some more of those in the book,” Ward remarked as they tramped back through the twilight. “That deer-hunt one sounds pretty good, if you fellows will only make bows and arrows enough. I vote we fix up a deer and go to it next Saturday.”

It happened, however, that the following Saturday was devoted to something even more interesting than deer-hunting. As Dale entered the parish-house on Monday evening he passed Mr. Curtis, just inside the door, talking earnestly with Wesley Becker.

“It was a big surprise to me, I can tell you,” he heard the scoutmaster say. “I can’t imagine what has brought about the transformation.”

“He doesn’t say, I suppose?” asked Becker.

“No; it’s just the curt invitation. He’s hedged it about with all sorts of prohibitions, but still it’s wonderful he should have come around at all.”

“It’ll be corking for the troop!” exclaimed Becker, enthusiastically. “That’s the one thing we’ve lacked, and if–”

At that point Tompkins passed beyond the range of their voices, but he had heard enough to rouse his curiosity. Fortunately this did not have to remain long unsatisfied. After the opening exercises the scoutmaster faced the three patrols, a small sheet of paper in one hand.

“Attention, scouts!” he said crisply. “The troop will be much pleased to learn, I’m sure, that Mr. Grimstone has given us permission to use the north side of his lake for camping purposes.”

For an instant there was amazed silence. Then a bedlam of surprised comment arose, mingled with a torrent of eager questions, which Mr. Curtis did not attempt to quell.

“Well, what do you know about that!” “Hurrah for old Grimey!” “Can we skate there, Mr. Curtis?” “Will he let us swim in the summer?” “Can’t we go out this Saturday?” “How did you work it, sir?”

“One at a time,” smiled the scoutmaster. “I’ll answer the last one first. I didn’t ‘work it,’ as you so pithily express it, Vedder, at all. I’ve failed several times to get this privilege from Mr. Grimstone, and his letter this morning was as much of a surprise to me as to any one. He doesn’t state the reason for his change of mind.”

A shock of sharp surprise sent the blood tingling into Dale Tompkins’s face and clenched his hands spasmodically. “Gee!” he muttered under his breath. “I wonder– Why, it must be! But I never thought of that–not for a minute!” He paused an instant, his gaze growing introspective. “He certainly is one good old scout,” he murmured to himself. “I said his bark was a lot worse than his bite.”

Then he realized that Mr. Curtis was speaking.

“We’re not to go beyond the dam at one end of the lake or the inlet at the other. In other words, there must be no trespassing on the side of the water where the buildings and orchard stand. He doesn’t wish any timber cut, and there are several other minor prohibitions. He says nothing against swimming or skating, so I imagine both will be allowed. As for camping there on Saturday, I’m afraid it will be too cold to stay overnight, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t hike out in the morning and make a day of it.”

So it was that the following Saturday morning found practically the entire troop hiking briskly along the Beldon Turnpike at an early hour. Ranny Phelps had complained that there wouldn’t be much fun in just a picnic affair, but he was there, nevertheless. The others had no such criticism to make. They fairly bubbled enthusiasm, and in their eagerness to reach the hitherto forbidden spot many of them would have willingly gone the entire distance at scout’s pace.

When they finally left the road and turned off into the woods along an overgrown lumber-track, it was like exploring an undiscovered country. Most of them had been there before, but with a difference. When one’s ears must be constantly open for the baying of dogs, with the necessity ever present of being ready for instant flight, there is little chance to appreciate the beauties of nature. Now, instead of having to creep along through trees and undergrowth, they could boldly follow the shore-line, investigate every little cove or promontory, discuss possible camping-sites, and even make definite plans with the assurance that these could be actually carried out in the spring.

At about eleven o’clock they reached the old swimming-place near the head of the lake and halted by general consent. Hitherto, they had considered the spot solely from the point of view of aquatic sport; now they realized that a more ideal spot for a camp could scarcely be imagined. A small, rocky point thrust its flat nose out into the lake. One side was sliced off as with a knife, and here the depth varied from six to eight feet; on the other it shelved more gradually. Back of it, the level open space, facing south and hedged in by a thick shelter of hemlock, would accommodate five or six shelter-tents with ease. Scarcely a dozen yards away, a clear spring bubbled into a mossy basin.

In an instant packs were laid aside, and under Becker’s direction one party foraged for wood while another brought stones for an oven and cut saplings for the crane or forked sticks to use in broiling meat. Sandwiches and other ready-to-eat provisions were not looked upon with favor. Every boy wanted something he could cook, and the variety of chops, small steaks, eggs, bacon, ham, and the like that swiftly appeared was endless. One enterprising scout had even brought a can of twist-dough and proceeded deftly to brown it on sticks held over the embers. On every hand were voiced regrets that they couldn’t have come prepared to stay overnight.

“I don’t believe it would have been too cold, with the fire and everything,” said Bennie Rhead, after they had finished luncheon and were sitting lazily around the blaze for a bit before tackling the job of cleaning up. “Why, it’s as warm as toast now.”

“Naturally, with the sun pouring in here all the morning,” smiled Mr. Curtis. “You’d find it rather different at night. If we all had sleeping-bags or tents that were really tight, we might undertake it. But our sort of equipment isn’t meant for winter, and there’s no use risking colds when you’ll have all the time you want next spring and summer. By the way, Sherman, did you send that letter to Mr. Grimstone?”

“Yes, sir. Ted and Ranny and I made it up, and all the fellows signed it. I posted it on Wednesday.”

“That’s good. I wrote him, myself, but I wanted him to see that you fellows, as well, appreciated what he’s done.” He rested his head against a tree-trunk and glanced appraisingly around the glade. “What a place this would be for a log-cabin!” he remarked.

“Immense!” exclaimed Court Parker, sitting suddenly upright. “With a big stone fireplace at one end.”

“And bunks!” added Sanson, enthusiastically. “And shelves where we could keep pans and things. And–”

“We could camp here any time of the year then, couldn’t we?”

“Sure! And think of coming in when your hands and feet are ’most frozen from skating, and thawing out before a roaring blaze, and making some cocoa,–oh, yum! Do you s’pose there’s any chance, Mr. Curtis, of his letting us–” Sherman broke off with a sigh. “I forgot. He doesn’t want any timber cut.”

“No; and I’d scarcely like to ask him, anyway, after he’s been so decent,” said the scoutmaster. “It would look as if we didn’t appreciate what he’s done already.” His glance swept thoughtfully around the open space again as if he were seeing in his mind’s eye the structure that had excited such instant enthusiasm. “Of course, it would be quite possible to cut enough timber for a cabin without in the least hurting the woods; in fact a little thinning would do them good.”

“Wouldn’t it be a corking place to feed the birds from in winter!” suddenly spoke up Paul Trexler, a silent, reserved sort of chap. “We started up three or four covies of quail between the road and here.”

“It certainly would!” The scoutmaster’s tone was emphatic. “You’ve hit the best argument in its favor yet, Paul. The woods are fairly teeming with birds of all sorts; I noticed it as we came along. The place has been barred to the public for so long that I dare say the wild creatures have come to feel more or less safe here. With a cabin right on this spot we could keep grain in fairly large quantities, and when the heavy snows come, it would be easy to establish regular feeding-stations at different points, and–”

A sudden yelping made him break off and turn quickly, to see a large dog burst from the thicket at one side of the glade. With hair bristling and teeth bared, the animal pulled up abruptly and started a furious barking.

The scouts leaped up and several snatched sticks from the woodpile. An instant later, however, the low, sweeping hemlock branches parted, and Caleb Grimstone himself stepped into the open. With a snarl he silenced the dog and sent him groveling to heel. Then he faced Mr. Curtis and the boys with an odd, embarrassed defiance that made the former suspect his appearance had not been intentional, but was rather the result of the dog’s outburst.

“This is mighty nice, Mr. Grimstone!” exclaimed the scoutmaster, advancing with outstretched hand. “You see we haven’t lost any time in taking advantage of your kindness.”

“Huh!” mumbled the old man. “I was jest takin’ a little walk, an’ heard voices–”

He paused awkwardly, glowering around the circle of wide-eyed boys.

“I had no idea you were able to walk so far,” put in Mr. Curtis, quickly, “or we’d certainly have invited you to eat lunch with us. Won’t you let the boys cook you something now? They’re mighty proud of the way they can–”

“I’ve had dinner,” interrupted the old man, hastily. He fumbled for a moment with the stout cane he carried; then his gaze returned to the scoutmaster. “I heard you sayin’ somethin’ about feedin’ birds,” he said curtly. “I didn’t know you– What was it you meant?”

Briefly Mr. Curtis explained their methods of establishing feeding-stations through the woods and caring for them. When he had finished, Mr. Grimstone nodded.

“Humph!” he commented grumpily, “I–I like the birds. One o’ the reasons I wouldn’t–” He paused again and glowered at the boys. “They couldn’t make a log-cabin,” he stated positively. “It would be too much like real work.”

A sudden stir went through the group. Mr. Curtis smiled. “I should hate to set them at it unless I really wanted it done,” he laughed.

“How’d they know what trees to cut an’ what to leave? They’d make a mess o’ the whole place.”

“Not with proper supervision,” argued Mr. Curtis.

“Would you look after it?” inquired the old man, sharply.

“Certainly! I’d gladly constitute myself general foreman.”

“Humph!” There was a momentary pause, tense with suspense. A battery of eyes, eager, expectant, pleading, was turned upon the old man, whose bent shoulders straightened a bit. “Wal, you can go ahead, then,” he agreed crustily. “But all I can say is–”

A quick exclamation from the scouts drowned the remainder of his words. “G–e–e!” came hissing from a score of lips in a long sigh of rapture. It was followed by a bedlam of excited chatter.

“The greatest thing I ever heard!” exploded Ted MacIlvaine, enthusiastically. “A log-cabin, fellows–think of it! A troop cabin!” With eyes shining, he stepped suddenly forward and faced the crowd. “Three cheers for Mr. Grimstone, fellows!” he cried; “and make ’em good ones!”

When the last echo had died away, a faint touch of pink tinged the old man’s leathery brown skin. But his frown abated nothing of its fierceness as he turned to the scoutmaster.

“Tut-tut–nonsense!” he grumbled. “I’ll leave it to you, then; you’ll be responsible, mind! I s’pose you know what trees to take out–or you ought to. Nothin’ over eight inches, remember, an’ not a scrap o’ rubbish left lyin’ around when you’re done.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned abruptly and stalked off, a lean, bent, shabby figure with a nose like an eagle’s beak and fiercely beetling brows. To the boys staring after him he was an angel in disguise.

CHAPTER XI
ELKHORN CABIN

“No, sir!” came in a swift, united chorus of protest. “We want to start now. We want to have it this winter.”

The scoutmaster smiled a little. “That’s the way I feel myself,” he said; “so we’ll consider that part settled. We’ll meet here, then, next Saturday morning at half past eight, prepared to put in a strenuous day. I’ll tell the different patrol-leaders what tools are needed, and they can look them up during the week. There’s another thing. We’ll have to buy considerable material, such as cement, boards for the floor and roof, window- and door-casings, and the like. That money should be earned by the troop, and I think it would be a good plan for Ward, MacIlvaine, and Phelps to meet at my house to-morrow afternoon or evening to discuss ways and means. Is that agreeable?”

It proved to be, when the question was put to vote and decided unanimously in the affirmative. The meeting ended with the enthusiasm over the project unchecked by this placing of it on a strictly methodical and businesslike basis.

That enthusiasm continued throughout the week, and when the crowd assembled on Saturday, Bennie Rhead, who was housed by a bad cold, was the only absentee. The others, laden with axes, saws, hatchets, an adz or two and some wide wood-chisels until they resembled a gang of pioneers, were in high spirits and eager to begin work. Their interest was heightened by the production of a plan Mr. Curtis had drawn up, showing a cabin twenty by sixteen feet, with a big stone fireplace opposite the door, two windows, and a double tier of bunks, one on each side of the entrance.

During the week the scoutmaster had gone over the ground with Mr. Grimstone and marked certain trees which were to be taken out, mainly white pines from six to eight inches in diameter that were too closely crowded to develop properly, so there was no delay in starting work. Immediately on reaching the point, the entire troop was divided into groups of three or four, each under the leadership of a boy who knew how to handle an ax. As soon as he felled a tree the others trimmed off the scanty limbs, sawed it into proper lengths, and stacked these up in piles on either side of the glade.

By noon the piles had assumed such proportions that after luncheon half of the wood-cutters were called off and set to notching the ends of the log, about eight inches from the end, and this was work in which everybody could take part. The notches were made on opposite sides of the log, about eight inches from the end, and were a quarter the thickness of the timber in depth. The logs averaged pretty much the same diameter, so that, when fitted together at right angles with the under notch on one side resting in the upper notch on the other, the whole length was snugly in contact, with scarcely any chinks to be filled in.

“That’s the great advantage of pine,” said Mr. Curtis, when he had explained the method to the boys. “Almost any hard wood will have bumps and twists in it, but the trunks of pines growing as thickly as these are practically straight from one end to the other.”

“Are we going to build up the four walls solid, and then cut holes for the door and windows and fireplace?” asked Paul Trexler, who had evidently been reading up on the construction of cabins.

The scoutmaster shook his head. “That’s the way many of them are made, but I could never quite see its advantage. It’s a mean job, sawing the openings, and the full-length logs are lots harder to handle than shorter ones, to say nothing of the waste of timber. Of course there’ll have to be full-length ones under and over the windows and over the door; but if we measure accurately, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t leave these openings as we go along, and so save time and labor. Spiking the door- and window-casings to the logs will hold them together firmly enough.”

The cabin had already been staked out, and when, presently, the lower logs were set in place it was amazing what a difference the sight of that simple rectangle made. Instantly the visualizing of their dream became nearer and more concrete to the boys, its possibilities more apparent. They could see at a glance its size and shape and spaciousness. Entering through the door space, one could say that here would be the bunks, there the windows, and that gap opposite, the fireplace. It stimulated every one to renewed efforts. Blisters and tired muscles were forgotten in the eager desire to get another tier of logs into position. When Mr. Grimstone stalked into view, toward the middle of the afternoon, he was greeted by urgent invitations to “Come ahead and see how the cabin’s going up!”

The old man responded stiffly, but it was impossible to maintain that attitude long in the face of the boisterous, whole-hearted enthusiasm of twenty boys. Inside of ten minutes he was chuckling over the awkward efforts of one scout to handle an adz and showing him the proper method. Within an hour, one would never have known him for the crusty, crabbed recluse who had been at odds with the Hillsgrove boys for more than a generation. He had shown the scouts a splendid place to get rocks for the fireplace, and told them how to make, with two poles and some cross saplings, a sort of litter for carrying the larger ones; he had made the rounds of the wood-choppers and watched them interestedly, criticizing, suggesting, and even cracking a dry joke or two at their expense. But his interest seemed to center in the building operations, to which he finally returned. When Mr. Curtis followed him a little later, he paused at the edge of the glade, a quiet smile curving his lips.

The old man stood amid a group of boys who were notching the logs. He had evidently been showing them some improvement on their methods, for as the scoutmaster stood there, he heard one of them say: “Is that right, Mr. Grimstone? Is that the way you mean?”

The old man nodded. “You’ve got it, son; you’ll find that’ll save you a lot of time.”

“Say, Mr. Grimstone,” piped up Harry Vedder, from the other side of the cabin, “won’t you come over here, please?”

“You wait a minute, Dumpling!” admonished Bob Gibson. “I’m next. He promised to give me some points about fitting ’em together.”

The scoutmaster’s smile deepened as he came forward. “I guess I’ll have to appoint you building foreman, Mr. Grimstone,” he said. “Looks as if you knew a lot more about log-cabins than I ever will.”

From force of habit the other frowned, but his eyes were twinkling. “I’d orter, I reckon,” he returned. “I built enough of ’em when I was loggin’ up state. If it wan’t for this pesky arm–”

“That needn’t interfere. You won’t have to lift a finger. The boys are only too ready to work when they know how. Seriously, if you could oversee the building part, it would help us a lot. Then I could give all my time to getting out the logs, cleaning up, and looking after the chimney.”

“I s’pose I can,” observed the old man, briefly. “I ain’t fit for much else jest now–an’ the sooner you’re done, the sooner the mess’ll be cleared up.”

So it was arranged, and the following Saturday found Mr. Grimstone promptly on the job. There was no question of his pleasure in the work, in spite of the occasional grumblings to which he gave vent in odd moments when he was not entirely lost in the novel occupation. To these the boys paid scant attention. They seemed to realize that they were merely superficial and really meant nothing, and from the first they got on admirably with the old man. They even joshed and joked with him, and before long he was retorting with sundry dry comments that sent them off into shouts of laughter.

Under his supervision the cabin grew apace. When the logs were all cut and carried in, Mr. Curtis devoted himself mainly to the stone chimney which, though necessarily slower and more difficult work, progressed very well. The opening was made to take four-foot logs, and the stone facing filled up more than half that end of the cabin. The boys could not wait for its completion to give it a baptism of fire. When the sides were up three feet or more, they kindled a blaze and cooked lunch there–the first meal to be prepared in the cabin.

Another celebration marked the setting of the ridge-pole; and when the roof was laid, it seemed as if the end was actually in sight. In the meantime, the important detail of earning money to pay for necessary materials had not been lost sight of. It had been decided that the scouts should go about this either singly or in groups, as they preferred. A number of suggestions were made by Mr. Curtis, but it was impressed upon the troop that there must be no appeal for either work or money in any way that would in the least savor of begging. Whatever they did must be real work, the sort that people wanted done whether or not a scout cabin was in process of erection; and they must always give value received.

The methods resorted to seemed endless. Three boys who were adept with saw, hammer, and plane undertook the building of bird-houses, and their products were so well made and attractive that they had a hard time filling orders. Others raked up lawns, tended furnaces, cleaned cellars, sawed wood, and did a score of other varied chores. One entire patrol took up the subscription proposition of a big publishing-house and devoted themselves to it with such ardor that they cleared up nearly as much as all the rest together.

It can safely be said that few members of the troop had many spare minutes in the month that followed the starting of the cabin. There was no time for sports or games or reading stories. The public library was deserted. Of course there were a few who tired of the constant pressure and managed to escape a Saturday’s labor by some flimsy pretext, but, on the whole, they stuck to it with remarkable perseverance. And when the last stone was in place on the chimney-top, the last chink filled, the last nail driven, there wasn’t a boy in all that twenty-five who didn’t feel a thrill of proud achievement at the result of their united efforts.

CHAPTER XII
A CRY IN THE NIGHT

They went with a rush and broke into eager loud-voiced admiration of their handiwork. They tried the bunks, stout frameworks of pine with lengths of heavy canvas stretched tightly over them, and pronounced them better than any mattress, clamorously upheld the merit of one piece of work over another, and discussed the need of a table, chairs, and various other conveniences. Of course a fire was started, and when the red blaze roared up the chimney they rejoiced at the perfection of the draught. Then began a strenuous altercation as to what the cabin should be called which bade fair to end in a deadlock, owing to the wide variety of suggestions.

Neither the scoutmaster nor Mr. Grimstone took part in this. The former believed in letting the boys settle such questions unaided, while the old man so unaffectedly enjoyed the boys’ delight that he simply sat in the background, silent, but with twinkling eyes. When a lull came in the dispute, however, he bethought himself of something.

“There’s a pair of elk horns down to the barn you boys may as well have,” he remarked. “You can hang ’em up over the fireplace for an ornament.”

“Elk horns!” exclaimed Dale Tompkins. “They’d be dandy! Say!” he went on eagerly, stirred by sudden inspiration, “what’s the matter with that for a name, fellows–Elkhorn Cabin?”

“Swell!” agreed two or three scouts at once. “That’s better than any we’ve had. Sounds like the real thing, doesn’t it?”

A vote was promptly taken, and though Ranny Phelps and a few others were against it, the majority approved. The horns, a fine pair of antlers, were fetched and hung in place, and the cabin formally christened.

“And next week,” said Frank Sanson, as they were packing up for their tramp home through the crisp twilight, “we can come out to camp, can’t we, Mr. Curtis?”

The scoutmaster nodded. “Provided the weather is decent and you all get your parents’ consent, I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t spent Friday night here. It may be a bit crowded, but we’ll manage some way.”

As a matter of fact they did not have to. Indeed, there came very near being no overnight hike at all. During the building of the cabin the weather had been singularly favorable. It was snapping cold much of the time but save for a flurry or two of snow, the days had been uniformly clear. Now, however, as if to make up for her smiles, Nature proceeded to frown. Wednesday was overcast, and all day Thursday a cold rain came down to damp the spirits of the would-be campers. It turned to snow during the night, and next morning found the country-side covered with a mantle of white. The temperature was well below freezing and dropping steadily, and Mr. Curtis, who had practically given up the idea of occupying the cabin that night, was surprised toward the middle of the afternoon by the appearance at his door of a group of white-flecked figures, very rosy of cheek and bright of eye, carrying blanket-rolls and hung about with cooking utensils and sundry parcels.

“We can go, can’t we, sir?” inquired Ted MacIlvaine, eagerly, as he dusted the snow off his coat. “You’re not going to give it up, are you?”

The scoutmaster’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you all got permission?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yes, sir. We can go if you go,” came in a prompt chorus.

For a moment Mr. Curtis hesitated. After all, there couldn’t be any risk about the trip even if the storm continued all night. The cabin was weather-proof, and enough fire-wood had been cut to last them a week. With plenty of food and good blankets they would be as snug as possible, and he knew from experience the charm of the woods in a snow-storm. Looking the bunch over appraisingly, he saw that there were only seven–MacIlvaine, Parker, Dale Tompkins, Frank Sanson, Bob Gibson, Turk Gardner and Pete Oliver, all self-reliant boys of the type who were willing to stand a little roughing it without complaint.

“Are you the only ones who want to go?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” returned MacIlvaine. “Sherman’s away, and Wes has a cold. The others all thought–”

“Cold feet!” stated Oliver, derisively, running his fingers through a thatch of bright, red hair. “They’re afraid they might get a chill.”

“Not much danger of that when you’re around, Pete,” laughed the scoutmaster. “Well, you boys had better come in and wait. It’ll take me ten or fifteen minutes to get ready.”

He appeared in rather less than that time, sweatered, mackinawed, with high, laced boots, woolen cap, and heavy gloves. Over one shoulder swung his blanket-roll, and strapped to his back was a good-sized haversack of provisions. He knew from experience that some one was sure to have forgotten something, so he always went prepared to supply deficiencies.

It was a joyous, hilarious bunch that made their way through the town and out along the Beldon Turnpike. Most of them had their staves, and two had brought snow-shoes along. Their attempts to use these unfamiliar articles occasioned much amusement among the others.

It took the better part of two hours to reach the cabin. The snow had drifted considerably, and the road was scarcely broken through. After they reached the woods the going was especially hard, and a general shout of rejoicing went up as the first sight of the sloping, snow-covered roof loomed up through the twilight. When the door was unlocked they entered with a rush, packs and blanket-rolls were dropped, and a fire started at once. When this was blazing merrily, Mr. Curtis divided the boys into two squads, one of which undertook preparations for supper and straightened up the cabin generally, while the others scraped a path through the snow down to the shore of the lake.

There were minor mishaps, of course, in the culinary department. A few chops were burned, and the baked potatoes resembled lumps of charcoal rather than things edible. But there was plenty for all, and nothing had ever tasted so good as the supper eaten there on the floor before the dancing flames. Afterward, when things were cleared away and the boys sprawled out on their blankets before the fireplace, the two lanterns were extinguished and only the red glow of the fire illumined the half-circle of eager young faces. The wailing of the wind in the pines and the soft, whispering beat of snow against the windows served only to intensify the cozy warmth and cheer of the cabin. Instinctively the boys drew closer together and, snuggling in their blankets, discussed for a space the unbelievable stupidity of any sane person preferring a humdrum evening at home to this. Then some one besought Mr. Curtis to tell a story.

“What kind of a story?” asked the scoutmaster, smiling.

“Oh, a ghost story, of course!” urged several voices at once.

Mr. Curtis laughed, stretched out his legs comfortably, thought for a minute or two, and then in a slow, sepulchral voice began a narrative which he called “The Headless Horseman of the Harlem.” It was a tale full of creeps and thrills, abounding in dank vaults, weird apparitions, wild storms, midnight encounters, and various other appropriate settings and incidents. The boys drew closer still, luxuriating in the “spookiness” of it all, and then, just as some of the more impressionable were beginning to cast nervous glances behind them, he ended with a ridiculous climax that brought forth a shout of laughter and turned the whole thing into a farce.

A “round-robin” followed, the scoutmaster starting a yarn and leaving it at an exciting and dramatic moment for the boy on his right to continue. The absurdity of these continuations kept the crowd in a constant gale of merriment, and when the round was made they clamored for another. But it was growing late, so Mr. Curtis substituted a brief anecdote of scout bravery which had a humorous twist. It was the story, so often repeated in scout annals, of a little fellow plunging unhesitatingly to the rescue of a bigger boy who had stumbled beyond his depth in a swimming-hole. The stronger lad seized his rescuer about the neck and forced his head below the water. The youngster was unable to free himself, but with head down and breath almost gone, he hit bottom, and then, calmly walking along it, he tugged along his struggling friend until the bank was reached.

“He simply kept his head, you see, and used his brain, which is one of the best things scouting teaches us,” concluded Mr. Curtis. He stood up, stretching. “Blankets out, fellows,” he went on, “and everybody in bed.”

Each bunk had been planned to accommodate two occupants, so there was no crowding or necessity for makeshifts. The fire was piled up with fresh logs, and though there was a good deal of preliminary laughter and chattering, the boys were too tired to stay awake long, even under the novel conditions. Bob Gibson was one of the last to close his eyes. He had the outside of one of the lower bunks with a full view of the fire, and though few would have suspected his gruff, matter-of-fact manner to overlay even a touch of poetry or imagination, he lay there watching it for a long time, fascinated by the leaping, dancing, crimson-yellow flames, until sleep at length overtook him.

How long he lay oblivious to sights and sounds he had no idea. But it must have been hours later when he found himself sitting bolt upright, every nerve tingling and in his ears the echo of that strange, horrible cry that had shocked him into complete wakefulness.

“What’s that?” came in a tense, frightened gasp from one of the boys across the room.

Bob did not answer. He sat there shaking nervously and straining his ears for a repetition of the ghastly sound. The fire had died down to a bed of dull red embers, and there was a noticeable chill over everything. He caught his breath as a dark shadow swiftly passed him and then realized, with a feeling of keen relief, that it was Mr. Curtis. A moment later the scoutmaster had thrown an armful of light wood on the embers and the fire blazed up, illumining the pale faces of the boys, strained, startled, but all tense with expectation.

Suddenly the cry came again, a piercing, strangled, high-pitched scream that turned the blood cold and brought out beads of perspiration on more than one forehead. It seemed to come from just outside the cabin door.

CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THEY FOUND

It had stopped snowing, and overhead a few stars gleamed coldly out of the blue-black sky. The wind had died down and the snow-clad woods stretched away before them, dim, white, oppressively silent, the tree-trunks black, the laden hemlocks distorted into queer shapes and shadows.

The bright gleam from the scoutmaster’s flash-light, sweeping the snow about the cabin door, showed it unbroken by a single footprint of man or animal. They pushed on through the group of hemlocks, showering themselves with icy particles, but still they neither saw nor heard anything unusual. Then, just as some of the sounder sleepers were beginning to wonder whether they might not have dreamed it all, there rang out suddenly from among the tall laurel-bushes to their left a piercing, gurgling scream.

The horrible sound, so much clearer and more blood-curdling in the open, seemed to paralyze them all. For a fraction of a second they stood motionless; then Mr. Curtis plunged forward through the snow, and the rest followed in a straggling group, eyes starting and hands spasmodically clenching their staves.

“It’s somebody being–murdered!” gasped Bob Gibson, huskily. “I knew the minute I heard it that something awful–”

He broke off with a queer, inarticulate murmur. Mr. Curtis had stopped so suddenly that the boy just behind narrowly escaped running into him. Throwing back his head, he sent peal after peal of laughter ringing through the silent woods. The scouts stared, dazed, as if they thought he had taken leave of his senses.

“What is it, sir?” begged two or three voices at once. “What–”

The scoutmaster choked and gurgled speechlessly, waving one arm helplessly toward the woods ahead. Several of the keenest-eyed thought they saw a vague, dark shadow moving silently across the snow; but it meant nothing to them, and they turned back to their leader, as bewildered as before.

“What a sell!” gasped the latter, striving to regain his self-control; “what an awful sell!” He succeeded in choking down his laughter, but there were tears of mirth in his eyes as they swept the staring circle. “It’s nothing but an owl, fellows,” he chuckled.

“An owl!” exclaimed Ted MacIlvaine, incredulously. “An owl–making a noise like that!”

The scoutmaster nodded and wiped his eyes. “An owl,” he repeated. “There! Listen!”

To-whoo-hoo-hoo, to-whoo-whoo. A full, deep-toned note, like the distant baying of a hound, was wafted back through the woods. The strained expression on several faces relaxed, but they still looked puzzled.

“That’s more familiar,” smiled Mr. Curtis. “It’s a great horned owl. You look as if you didn’t believe it yet, Bob,” he added, “but that’s what it is, all the same. I’ve never heard it give that other sound, but I ought to have known–” He broke off, chuckling. “He certainly gave us a shock! I suppose we’ll never hear the end of it. Let’s get back to the fire; it’s sort of chilly here.”

They lost no time in following the suggestion. Back in the cabin they fed the blaze with fresh wood, and, sleep being out of the question for a while, gathered close around it, giggling and chattering and laughingly comparing their emotions on awakening to that blood-curdling scream coming out of the night.

“I was scart stiff,” frankly confessed Court Parker.

“Same here,” echoed several voices.

But Bob Gibson declined to treat the incident with the careless levity of the others. “I’d like to shoot the beast!” he growled vindictively, thinking of the way his nerves and feelings had been played upon.

“It would be the best thing that could happen,” put in Mr. Curtis, decidedly. “We’ll have to see if we can’t manage it. Most owls are not only harmless, but a real benefit, living as they do mainly on rats and mice. But this creature can do more damage than any other bird except one or two species of hawks. A single one of them will destroy whole covies of quail, kill partridges, ducks, and song-birds, to say nothing of all sorts of domestic fowls. I’ll have to bring out a shotgun and see if I can’t pot him, or there won’t be any birds left for us to feed.”

He made several trips to the neighborhood of the cabin during the following ten days, but it was not until the week after Christmas that he got sight of the big marauder and with a fine shot brought him down from the top of a tall hemlock. Several of the scouts who were with him rushed forward to secure the bird, and were surprised at the size of the buff-and-white body, with its great spread of wing, fierce, hooked beak, and prominent ear-tufts.

“We ought to have him stuffed,” said Frank Sanson, holding it up at full length. “He’d certainly make a dandy trophy for the cabin.”

Mr. Curtis agreed to undertake it, and that night sent the bird to a taxidermist in the city. It came back several weeks later, mounted in the most lifelike manner, and became one of the principal decorations of the cabin. Court at once christened it “Bob’s alarm-clock,” much to the mystification of the fellows who had not been present on that memorable night. They knew that something unusual had happened, but were never able to find out just what, for the “advance-guard,” as the seven called themselves, kept the incident carefully to themselves, and Mr. Curtis never told.

Long before this an ample supply of grain had been taken out to their headquarters and several feeding-stations established in different parts of the woods. These consisted mainly of rough shelters made of saplings, hemlock boughs, or stacks of old corn-stalks, furnished by Mr. Grimstone, in which the grain was scattered. There could be no question of their value, for from the first the snow about them was covered with bird-tracks of every variety. Before long, too, scouts visiting these stations to replenish the supply reported that the birds were growing noticeably tamer. Instead of flying off at the first sight of the boys, they sat in the trees and bushes around the shelters with an air almost of expectancy. Later they took to swooping down on the grain the moment it was poured out, without waiting for the scouts to move away. The climax came when one day Dale Tompkins excitedly reported that: “A chickadee came and lit right on the bag to-day, sir. He didn’t seem a bit afraid, and only hopped off when I began to scatter the grain.”

“They’ll do more than that if you treat them right,” returned the scoutmaster. “I’ve known of several cases where not only chickadees, but wrens and juncos and snow-sparrows and even wilder birds have grown so fearless that they’ve fed readily from the hand. Why don’t you fellows try it? The main thing is to get them used to your bringing food to a certain place, and, when they’re about, not to make any sudden movement that might frighten them. It would be rather fun to see how many varieties you could tame.”

The idea met with general favor and when put into practice was remarkably successful. There also developed not a little good-natured rivalry among the boys as to which would first report the presence of a new bird at the feeding-stations; all of which helped to keep up the interest in the work and prevent it becoming monotonous and tiresome.