Under Boy Scout Colors

CHAPTER XIV
THE BOY WHO COULDN’T SWIM

Nor were they all members of Troop Five by any means. Mr. Grimstone had needed very little persuasion to grant the privileges of the lake to Hillsgrove scouts generally, and many were the exciting games of hockey that enlivened the winter afternoons. More often than not the clear, cold ring of steel on ice, the grate of swiftly turning runners, the sharp crack of wood against wood, the excited shouts and yells of shrill young voices, resounded on the lake until the gathering twilight made it difficult to distinguish one swiftly moving figure from another.

From its rocky elevation the log-cabin overlooked the active scene, smoke rising from its hospitable chimney and the red glow of a blazing fire gleaming in the windows and winking through the often opened door. Here congregated those who were too indifferent or unskilful to indulge in hockey, while every now and then a player would dash in to thaw out. On Fridays there was pretty sure to be a crowd spending the night there, and then the odor of crisping bacon or broiling chops mingled with the fragrance of the pines; the laughter and joshing kept up throughout the evening, and from the gray farmhouse across the lake an old man, glimpsing the cheery yellow gleam, would chuckle to himself and rub his knotted hands softly together.

“Them boys are havin’ a good time ag’in to-night,” he would murmur. “Reckon I’ll hev’ to step over an’ see ’em in the mornin’.”

Whenever he appeared he was sure of a hearty welcome, for underneath that crustiness, caused by years of loneliness and narrow living, the scouts had found a spirit as young and simple and likable, almost, as a boy’s. And the old man, reveling in this novel, pleasant intercourse, felt sometimes as if he were beginning life all over again.

In this wise the winter passed with its usual mingling of work and play. Coasting, hockey, snow hikes, and the like mixed healthfully with regular lessons, the bird-feeding, studying up for merit badges or first- or second-class tests, and other scout duties and activities. The skating, particularly, was unusually prolonged, and the first signs of March thaws met with general regret.

“Well, we can have one more good game, anyhow,” remarked Frank Sanson, as they came out of school at noon. “Maybe it will be a little soft, but it will bear all right. Who’s going out?”

There were a number of affirmative replies, though the general opinion seemed to be that the ice would be too sloppy to have much fun.

“I’m going to try it, anyhow,” Frank declared, as he got on his wheel. “See you fellows out there.”

“Don’t take any chances before we come,” Sherman Ward called after him. “Remember you can’t swim.”

Sanson sniffed and shouted back a hasty denial of the charge. Nevertheless, as he rode home for dinner he was glad the time was coming when no one would be able even to hint at his deficiencies in that line. When it came to taking care of themselves in the water the boys of Hillsgrove had been more or less handicapped in the past, and like a number of others, Frank could swim only a few strokes. This spring, however, with the lake at his disposal, he meant to devote every spare minute to gaining proficiency in the art, so that when the time came for their summer camp he need ask no odds from anybody.

He finished dinner early and, with skates and hockey-stick, rode briskly out to the lake. He expected to be the first one there, but on the wood-road he noticed the fresh tracks of another bicycle, and, reaching the cabin, he found Paul Trexler standing before the fireplace, in which a lively blaze was going.

“Gee! You couldn’t have had much dinner,” he remarked.

“I brought it with me,” exclaimed the boy, who was a rather silent lad with an unusual capacity for enjoying his own company. “Anybody else coming out?”

“Sure; quite a bunch. Tried the ice yet?”

“No; I was just going to.”

“Come ahead, then,” urged Sanson, briskly. “It’ll be about our last chance, and I don’t want to lose any time.”

They put on their skates at the edge of the lake and then tested the ice. It was noticeably soft, especially near the shore, but seemed firm enough. Farther out it was better, and as they skated up and down together Frank decided that they would have their game even if they did get pretty wet before it was over.

“Guess I’ll go up a ways and sort of explore a little,” said Trexler, presently. It was almost his first remark since leaving the cabin, and his tone did not indicate any special desire for company.

“All right,” nodded Sanson. “Go ahead, only be careful about the ice. Mr. Grimstone says there are springs up there, and you know this is just the weather to make them dangerous.” For a moment or two he stood watching the thin, stooping figure sweeping up the lake; then he smiled. “He’s a queer duck,” he murmured. “I should think he’d get awful tired of just playing around with himself that way. Wish the others would hurry up.”

There were no signs of them, however, so he set himself to master an intricate figure he had been trying for several days past. Though there were no swimming facilities about the village, the annual flooding and freezing over of a flat meadow on the outskirts gave the fellows a very decent chance for skating, of which most of them had availed themselves. Sanson was one of the most proficient in the sport and enjoyed it thoroughly, especially now that the spacious lake gave them so much greater scope. His runners cut the ice in sweeping, graceful curves, and each time the momentum carried him nearer to the completion of the figure. Once or twice he noticed Trexler up toward the outlet, but it was in a vague sort of way, with a mind concentrated on his own evolutions.

“It’s coming all right,” he said aloud, pausing for a second to get his breath. “I’ve got the hang of it now. One more try and I can make it.”

But Fate willed otherwise. As a matter of fact, Frank did not make that final effort which was to bring him success. He skated over to a clear spot on the ice and was swinging along to get up speed when a sudden panicky cry from up the lake made him stop and whirl around with a grind of steel runners that threw up a shower of icy particles.

Trexler was nowhere to be seen! For a fraction of a second Frank stared open-mouthed at the bare expanse of ice narrowing to the outlet, spanned by the old stone bridge. Then his sweeping glance paused at a dark, irregular patch in the glistening surface where something seemed to move feebly, and with a smothered cry he dug his skates into the ice and sped up the lake.

The distance was not really great, but to the frightened boy it seemed interminable. Almost at once he recognized the spot as open water in the midst of which Trexler’s white face and clawing hands striving frantically for a hold on the treacherous, splintering edges stood out with horrible distinctness–Trexler, who could not swim a stroke!

Frank shuddered and dug his teeth into his under lip. For the matter of that, he himself was almost as helpless. With a sick, sinking pang it was borne in on him that the few halting strokes he had learned to take in smooth water last summer would be next to useless in an emergency like this. But he did not pause nor lessen his speed. He only knew that he could not hesitate, with that anguished face and those clutching hands to spur him on.

“Hold on a minute longer, Paul!” he cried, when he was within twenty feet of the hole. “Don’t let go. I–I’ll–get you out!”

Jerking at the lever of his skates, he kicked them off. The hockey-stick was still in his grasp, and, with this outstretched, he flung himself flat on the ice and wriggled forward. He paid no heed to the ominous cracking beneath him; there was no time for caution. Trexler had lost the slight grip he had had on the crumbling edges of the hole and was beating the water madly with his hands. His eyes, wild with despairing horror, were fixed on Frank with a desperate pleading that made the boy oblivious to everything save the vital need of haste.

With a sharp thrust of both feet, he pushed himself forward. The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole and straight into the groping hands that closed over and hung upon it with the tenacious grip that knows no reason.

“Don’t jerk it!” cried Sanson, sharply, as the ice creaked and cracked beneath him. “Just hold tight and let me draw you in.”

But Trexler was too far gone to heed. There came another crack more ominous than the others. Even now, by letting go the stick, Frank could have escaped by rolling swiftly to one side or the other. He wanted to–desperately; but something within him stronger even than his fear clenched his fingers around the tape-wound hickory.

In another second the ice on which he lay gave with a crash and plunged him into the icy water.

CHAPTER XV
THE RESCUE

That there were approved methods of releasing such grips Frank knew from repeated perusals of the scout handbook, but not a vestige of them stuck in his mind now. Full of wild panic, he struck out blindly with all his power. Trexler’s head went back under the impact; his grasp slackened. Sanson had a momentary glimpse of the white face with half-closed eyes and twisted lips all a-swirl with water, and again that impulse that was stronger than panic made him reach out and catch hold of the boy’s shoulder. At almost the same instant something hard grazed his cheek, and he realized that the force of his blow had sent him against one side of the hole. With a grasp of thankfulness, he caught at it, finding the ice here fairly substantial. He drew Trexler’s body closer to him, and for the first time since the plunge he had a moment in which to think.

“I mustn’t try and climb out or it’ll break,” he muttered. “Why don’t the fellows come? They must have got out by now.” He quite failed to realize how short a space of time it was since he had first started to Trexler’s aid. “I can’t hold on here much longer. I’m freezing now, and–”

His voice broke a little, but he bit his lip and choked back the sob in his throat. Then, summoning all his strength, he tried to shout for help, but the result was a hoarse croak that could not have been heard a hundred feet away. To his utter astonishment it was answered from close at hand.

“Hold tight, Frank; we’re coming!”

It was Sherman Ward’s voice. Sanson could scarcely believe his senses, even though a moment later he heard the scrape of skates and the grating of a sudden stopping. It took him a moment or two to realize that he had become turned around and was facing the inlet and the bridge, so that the fellows had been able to approach from down the lake without his seeing them.

“Get that branch there,” he heard Sherman order crisply. “Hustle! Can you keep up a bit longer, Frank?”

“S-s-sure!” answered Sanson, through chattering teeth. “Only be as qu-quick as you c-c-can. P-P-Paul–”

“We’ll be there in half a shake. That’s it, Dale. Shove it across. Now, you fellows hold fast to that end while I go out.”

There was a scraping sound and the end of a stout branch appeared in front of Sanson. Then, more slowly, Sherman’s head and shoulders came in sight as he crept cautiously out along it.

“I’ll take him first,” he said. “Can you raise him up a little?”

“I’m afraid not. My arm’s all numb, and–”

“All right,” interrupted the patrol-leader. “I’ll manage. Hold fast back there.”

He wriggled forward a bit more and, reaching down, managed to catch Trexler under the arms. To draw him out of the water was a more difficult business, but Sherman had good muscles and accomplished it without accident. The ice creaked and groaned, but evidently had not been much weakened by the treacherous spring, and it held. The arm with which Frank had been supporting the boy had absolutely no feeling in it, and the strain of gripping the slippery ice was growing unendurable. He shifted his hold to the stick, however, and a moment later he was half lifted, half helped out on the solid ice.

“Yours for the cabin, quick!” said Ward, tersely. “Here, Ted, give us a hand.”

MacIlvaine stepped quickly forward, and together they hustled Sanson across the ice. At first, Frank could scarcely move his feet and had to be practically carried along. But gradually the rapid motion, the stumbling, recovering, and general jolting-up began to send the blood tingling back into his chilled body. Ahead of them he could see Ranleigh and Dale Tompkins supporting Trexler, and making even better speed than his own conductors. The sight of that limp body, with one hand dangling helplessly, brought to Frank a sudden stinging pang of remorse and apprehension as he remembered the frenzied blow he had struck the fellow.

“Paul–” he gasped; “is he–”

“It’s the cold and shock mostly, I think,” answered Sherman. “He’s all in, but not really unconscious. Did he go down?”

“I don’t think so. Not more than once, anyway.”

There was no more conversation until after they reached the cabin. Frank was able to stumble up the rocky slope unaided, and, once inside, his clothes were stripped off and he was rolled in blankets that had been heated before the roaring blaze. Muffled in these, with some of the boys deftly rubbing his legs and arms, it wasn’t long before a delicious languor crept over him and he actually felt like dozing off to sleep.

He might have yielded to the impulse but for his anxiety about Trexler. Paul lay in the opposite bunk and was being subjected to the same treatment as Frank, but he did not seem to be responding as readily as the more robust fellow. Of course, he had been longer exposed to the cold and shock, but Sanson did not think of that. He was still worrying over the ruthless manner in which he had struck the boy, and fearful that in some way the blow might be responsible for Trexler’s condition. When Mr. Curtis and the doctor appeared, summoned by one of the fellows who had ridden hastily back to town on his wheel, Frank watched them apprehensively. When the scoutmaster at length came over to his bunk he sat up abruptly and poured forth his doubts and fears before the older man had time to say a word.

Mr. Curtis listened quietly, and when the boy had finished he smiled reassuringly and shook his head. “You needn’t worry about that, Frank,” he said. “The doctor says he’ll come around all right. He’s pretty well done up from the exposure and shock, and you know he’s never been so very strong. I don’t think your hitting him has had much to do with it, but even if it had, no one could blame you. It was a question of that, or of both of you going down, and in such an emergency almost any methods are right. How are you feeling yourself?”

“Oh, I’m all right now, sir. There’s nothing at all the matter with me. I don’t see why I can’t get up.”

“Better not just yet. There’s nothing special you can do. I have a car over by the bridge, and when Paul is fit to be moved, we’ll all go back together.”

“But I’ve got my wheel here,” protested Frank.

“Let somebody else ride it in,” returned Mr. Curtis. “After such a dousing there’s no use taking chances.” He paused a moment, his eyes fixed quizzically on the boy’s face. “You can’t swim, can you, Frank?” he went on presently.

“Oh, yes, sir!” the boy said hastily.

A faint smile curved the man’s lips. “How much?” he asked quietly. “About six strokes?”

Sanson flushed, and a guilty grin overspread his face. “Make it eight, sir,” he chuckled. “A fellow can’t seem to fool you at all.”

“And yet you went in after–”

“But I didn’t!” interrupted Frank, earnestly. “I was reaching out with my hockey-stick, and the ice broke and dropped me in. I didn’t mean to at all.”

“Broke without any warning, I suppose,” murmured Mr. Curtis. “You couldn’t possibly have escaped–even by letting go your stick.”

The boy’s flush deepened, and he wriggled uncomfortably. “I–I–” he stammered, and then was silent.

The scoutmaster gave a low, contented laugh, and something in his glance sent an odd thrill through Sanson. He didn’t analyze it. He only knew that all at once he had ceased to feel embarrassed and was happy and comfortable, and back of it all not a little proud of the thing which had won his scoutmaster’s commendation.

“I won’t bother you any more,” smiled Mr. Curtis, as he turned away. “I had an idea that was about how it happened, though.”

A pleasant glow crept over the boy, continuing even after he had got into his clothes and was making his way along the shore toward the bridge. It was still present to a certain extent next day, and, combined with a touch of remorse that lingered in the back of his mind, brought him in the afternoon to the Trexler house to inquire for Paul, who had not appeared at school. He did not expect to see the boy, and when Mrs. Trexler asked him to come in, he was seized with a mild sort of panic.

“I was afraid of a cold, so I kept him home to-day. I know he’ll want to see you,” she said as Frank stepped into the hall and closed the door reluctantly behind him. “I want to–”

She broke off abruptly, and Frank, flashing a single startled glance at her, saw that her eyes were full of tears. Instantly he dropped his own and stood awkwardly twisting his cap and wishing he hadn’t come.

“I know boys hate being thanked,” Mrs. Trexler went on presently in a voice which wasn’t quite steady, “so I won’t pester you with–with a mother’s gratitude. I just want you to let me–”

She bent over suddenly and kissed him on the forehead. The boy flushed crimson and mumbled something about its being only what any fellow would have done. Would Paul go on this way, too, he wondered apprehensively as he followed her down the hall. He supposed it was natural for a woman to get all worked up, but if a fellow–

“Some one to see you, Paul,” said Mrs. Trexler, cheerfully, pausing beside an open doorway.

She motioned for Frank to enter and then, to his relief, departed, leaving the two boys alone. Paul had been reading beside a window, but as Sanson appeared he stood up slowly. Though looking much better than he had the afternoon before, his face was still a little pale, and the visitor perceived, with a sudden sense of returning composure, that he, too, was overcome with embarrassment. Somehow the discovery made things a lot easier.

“I–I’m awfully glad you came in,” Trexler stammered. He put out his hand awkwardly, but there was a vigor in his lingering grip that told something of the feelings words refused to express.

“You–weren’t in school, so I thought maybe you were–sick, or something,” Sanson returned. “Gee! What a dandy room!”

Now that the worst was over he began to be rather glad he had come, and stared about him with eager interest. Certainly it was a room to excite any boy’s enthusiasm. Long and rather narrow, there were two windows on one side through which the winter sun poured cheerfully. Against the opposite wall, and filling almost the entire space, was a large glass-fronted case, containing the most amazingly realistic reproduction of woodland life the boy had ever seen.

Fastened in one corner was the gnarled crotch of a tree with a great, roughly built nest of twigs and leaves from which two baby hawks, their down just giving place to feathers, thrust up inquiring heads. At the other end of the case stood a section of a silvery white oak, with one long branch extending along the back. An owl perched here, teased by a blackbird with outstretched wings and open beak, and there were several birds’-nests among the branches. The lower part of the case was filled with small bushes, clumps of grass, and reeds, among which Frank noted quantities of other nests, some with eggs and some without, more mounted birds of various sorts, and several animals, such as a mink, two squirrels, and a skunk, all in the most lifelike attitudes. Turning from an eager inspection of the case, he stared at Trexler in amazement.

“It’s the greatest thing I ever saw!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say you did it all yourself?”

Paul nodded, his pale face tinged with color, his eyes sparkling. “It isn’t hard when you know how to stuff things,” he said. “I took lessons in the city before we came out here last year. It’s been lots of fun fixing them up.”

“But how the deuce did you get ’em all?” Frank turned quickly back to the case again. “You must be a dandy shot.”

“But I’m not! I hate to kill things–especially birds. You see, I go off for long tramps a lot, and in the winter especially you often find birds that have been frozen, or killed by flying into things. Some of them people gave me. A farmer that I know out near Alton shot that skunk and the mink in his chicken-yard. The quail and that woodcock came from down South. A cousin of mine sent them up, and I got Mother to let me take the skins off before she cooked them.”

“How about the hawks–those are hawks, aren’t they?”

“Sure. Red-shouldered hawks. I s’pose I oughtn’t to have taken them, but I wanted to try taming some. I knew where there was a nest, and last spring I got up the tree with climbers and took two. They were awful funny the way they’d sit up and cry whenever they saw me coming. I guess I must have fed ’em too much, or something, for they died in about a week. I won’t try it again, you bet!”

Paul looked rather sheepish as he made this confession, and hurried on to another subject. “It’s the same way about the eggs. I used to take only one out of a nest, but Mr. Curtis said even that was pretty hard on the birds, so I stopped. I haven’t taken any since I’ve been a scout. It’s more fun, really, taking pictures.”

“Pictures of birds’ eggs?”

“Oh, eggs and nests and birds–anything wild. It’s dandy sport. I’ve got quite a lot of good ones if you’d like to see them.”

Frank quickly acquiesced, and as Paul went over to a desk for the photograph book, his eyes followed the boy with an odd expression in them. Hitherto he had regarded Trexler with a certain measure of tolerance as a queer, unsociable sort of fellow, who seldom took part in the sports and pastimes of the troop, but preferred moping by himself. It had never occurred to him that the solitary rambles could be productive of anything like the results he saw about him. As he glanced again at the case, a dawning respect began to fill him for the boy who could do all this and yet remain so modest that not a whisper of it leaked out among his companions.

That respect deepened as Frank turned the pages of the album and examined scores of photographs of feathered wild things. There were not alone pictures of the commoner birds, but many of the shyer sort, like the cardinal, the oven-bird, and several varieties of thrush which rarely emerge from the deep woodland, and they had been taken in all sorts of positions. Trexler had even succeeded in getting a very good photograph of the great blue heron, and his account of the difficulties of that enterprise filled Sanson with enthusiasm.

“It must be great!” he exclaimed eagerly. “I wish I could go along with you some time and see how you do it.”

“Why don’t you? I’d like to have you–awfully.”

There could be no mistaking the earnestness of the invitation, and Frank took it up promptly.

“All right; that’s a go. You let me know the next time you go out, and I’ll be there like a runaway freight-train.” He rose to go, for to his surprise it was growing dark; he had no idea he had stayed so long. “You’ve certainly got a corking place here,” he said, glancing around for the last time. “Why, you ought to be able to rake in a whole lot of merit badges. There’s taxidermy and bird study and–”

“I’m only a second-class scout,” interrupted Trexler, briefly. He flushed a little and twisted his fingers together. “You see, I–can’t swim. But I’m going to learn,” he added determinedly. “I’m going to start in the minute the water’s warm enough and keep it up till I get the hang of it, even if it takes all summer.”

“Same here,” laughed Frank, as they reached the front door. “We’ll be two dubs together, won’t we? Good-by, and thanks for showing me all the stuff.”

Out in the street he thrust both hands deep in his pockets and started briskly homeward, whistling. Presently he stopped and laughed rather sheepishly.

“Gee!” he muttered. “It’s funny how you can get a fellow’s number wrong–it sure is!”

CHAPTER XVI
TREXLER’S TRANSFORMATION

He came to know the boys better, to find pleasure in their companionship. He no longer went off on those solitary tramps, for there was always some one ready and eager to accompany him. And little by little even these excursions began to grow slightly less frequent as he discovered, with a mild surprise, that there was a good deal of fun to be extracted from the regular sports and games and doings of the crowd.

Frank Sanson was mainly responsible for this. Keen, eager, full of enthusiasm about everything, he flung himself into all the school and troop activities with a zest which made him one of the livest boys in Hillsgrove. He could enjoy an occasional tramp in the woods with Trexler because of the novelty and interest of their search; but he could not understand any one wanting to devote himself exclusively to such an occupation.

“You miss half your life in not going more with the fellows, Paul,” he remarked one day in early April. “Why don’t you leave the old camera at home and come on up to the ball-field with me? We’re going to have a great old practice to-day.”

“But I can’t play baseball,” protested Trexler.

“Shucks! How do you know? Did you ever try?”

“N-o, but–”

“It’s time you started in, then,” interrupted Sanson. “Of course you can’t expect to make the team this year, but you’ll have a lot of fun playing with the scrub. Hustle up or we’ll be late.”

So Trexler went, mainly because he didn’t exactly know how to refuse the boy he had come to like so much. But it was with a good deal of inward trepidation that he trailed after Frank to where Ranny Phelps, who captained the team, was chatting with Mr. Curtis’s younger brother, just home for the Easter holidays. He had a feeling that he was going to make an awful exhibition of himself, and that conviction was not lessened by the slight lifting of the eyebrows with which Ranny greeted Frank’s request that his friend be allowed to practise with the others.

But out in the field, nervously adjusting a borrowed glove, Paul was conscious of an odd, tingling sensation altogether different from apprehension. The day was typically April and fairly breathed of spring. Birds darted hither and thither, singing joyously. Beyond the low stone wall at one side the feathery outlines of a wild cherry, pale green, with touches of white blossoms just bursting into bloom, was etched against the sky in delicate tracery. Farther still, a man was plowing, and from the long straight furrows came that moist, fresh, homely smell of newly turned earth that one gets only in springtime. Out of the deep blue sky, flecked with fluffy, idly drifting clouds, the sun shone warm and caressing. From all about came the sound of quick, clear, eager voices, to which was presently added the crack of leather meeting wood, the thud of feet drumming the turf, and the duller sound of leather pounding against leather.

There was something about it all that stirred the boy and sent the blood running like quick-silver through his veins, yet which made him feel curiously alone and out of it. Other springs had meant to him the beautiful awakening of nature, the return of the birds he loved, the charm of wood and stream and open country-side at its best. But somehow that failed to satisfy him as it had in the past. Vaguely he felt that something was missing, he could not say just what. A feeling of emulation stirred him, a desire to take his part in the clash and struggle and ceaseless competition from which, till now, he had held aloof. Admiringly, with a faint touch of envy, he watched Frank Sanson make a difficult one-hand stop with seeming ease. Why hadn’t he come out before and learned the game and how to uphold his end with the others? Was it too late even now? he wondered.

“Hi, Paul! Get under this one!”

The shout from Sanson roused Trexler to the realization that a fly was coming in his direction. He ran back a little, then forward. The ball seemed to be dropping with the speed of a cannon-shot, but he forced himself to meet it without shrinking. Thrusting up his hands awkwardly, he staggered a bit under its momentum, as he caught at it, and a burning sting tingled in the bare palm which had taken most of the impact. The ball, bouncing off, rolled to one side, and a laugh went round the field as he chased after it and threw it in. When he returned to his place Paul’s face was crimson, but his lips were set in a stubborn line and he scarcely noticed the pain in his hand.

“I will get the hang of it!” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll learn to do it right if–if it takes all season!”

He stuck to his position as long as any of the others, and on the way home, with some embarrassment, he spoke to Frank of his determination. The latter was delighted and offered to help him in any way he could. As a result, from that time forth the two rarely went anywhere without a baseball. Whenever there were a few minutes to spare they used them for throwing and catching. On the field, before and after the regular work, Frank knocked out flies or grounders, and in many other ways did his best to give his friend as much as possible of the practice he needed.

A baseball player isn’t easily made to order. The normal boy seems almost to absorb his knowledge of the game through the pores of his skin, gaining proficiency by constant, never-ending practice that usually begins as soon as he is big enough to throw a ball. But much can be done by dogged persistence, and Paul Trexler had that quality to a marked degree. As the days passed, dust began to gather on his camera and on the cover of his book of bird photographs. In this new and strenuous occupation he found little time for the things which had formally absorbed him. He regretted the many long tramps he had planned, but somehow he failed to miss them as much as he expected. Each noticeable improvement in his game filled him with a deep, abiding satisfaction, surpassing even the delight which he used to feel on securing a fine photograph. The climax came that afternoon when he was allowed to play on the scrub in place of one of the fielders who had not shown up. Not only did he fail to make any mirth-provoking blunders, but he even put through one play that brought forth a surprised, approving comment from Ranny Phelps himself.

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing to him, Frank,” the latter said to Sanson, who passed on the remark afterward. “I’ve never seen anybody improve the way he has. That catch wasn’t anything wonderful, of course, but when he threw to third he used his head, which is more than a lot of fellows right here on the field ever think of doing.”

The latter part of the speech, especially, was typical of the handsome Ranleigh. He ran the ball-team as he did a good many other things, reaching decisions more often through impulse and prejudice than from a mature judgment. There could be no question of his knowledge of the game or his ability as a pitcher. The latter was really extraordinary for a fellow of his age and experience, and this, perhaps, was what made him so intolerant of less gifted players. At all events, he had a little trick of sarcasm which did not endear him to those on whom it was exercised. Most fellows take the ordinary sort of “calling down,” especially if it has been earned, with a fair amount of grace, but it rarely does any good to rub it in, as Ranny so often did.

“You’d think he was a little tin god on wheels the way he struts up and down, digging into the fellows in that uppish, sneering way,” Court Parker heatedly remarked one afternoon late in the season. “You might think he never made any errors himself.”

“I don’t suppose he really means anything by it,” returned Dale Tompkins, rather deprecatingly. For some time that day he had been watching Phelps and wondering rather wistfully whether Ranny was ever going to entirely forget that impulsive flare-up of his so many months ago. For a long time, to be sure, there had been few signs of active animosity from the blond chap. It would be well-nigh impossible for any boy to long maintain that excessive coldness toward a fellow with whom he was so often and so intimately thrown. Especially since the beginning of baseball practice there had been a good deal of intercourse between them, but always Dale was conscious of a deep reserve looming up between them like some invisible, insurmountable barrier. And there were times when he would have given the world to break that barrier down.

Parker sniffed. “Then why does he do it? It only gets the fellows raw without doing a scrap of good. You’re a great one to stand up for him, Tommy! He’s treated you mean as dirt. Didn’t he promise to let you pitch in some of the games?”

“Why, n-o; it wasn’t exactly a promise.”

“It was the same thing. He made you think he was going to put you in, and all spring you’ve worked your arm nearly off, pitching to the bunch. Then when a regular game came along he stepped into the box himself and hogged the whole thing nine innings. It’s been the same ever since, except last week when you went in for one miserable inning after we’d won the game. I call that a–a–an insult. It looked as if he thought you weren’t any good.”

Dale shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe he does,” he returned quietly. “He’s a lot better pitcher than I am.”

“Is he? Humph! He’s nowhere near as steady, let me tell you. Wait till he gets up against a real team, and I shouldn’t wonder a bit if he blew up. He did last year, and we mighty near lost the series. He can’t stand being joshed, and Troop One is just the bunch to do it.”

Dale laughed a little and set down his companion’s disparaging remarks to temper rather than to any real belief in what he was saying. He had never seen Ranny pitch before this season, but he could not imagine him losing his superb control and “blowing up.” He would have given anything for a chance to pitch against Troop One, but he had long ago given up hoping, Ranny made it only too clear that he meant to keep that honor for himself, just as he had monopolized the pitching in all the other games. Dale couldn’t quite make up his mind whether this was from a deliberate desire to shut him out, or because the team captain really lacked faith in his ability and was afraid to trust him. Feeling as he did toward the other–liking, admiring him still, almost in spite of himself, Tompkins rather hoped it was the latter case. In either event, however, he was obliged to content himself with the cold comfort that with Ranleigh Phelps pitching his best Troop Five was practically certain to win.

The inter-troop baseball series had been arranged so that the two strongest teams were matched together on the concluding day. Both had won every game they had played so far, and the result this Saturday afternoon would decide the championship.

Naturally there was a big crowd of spectators. Practically every boy in town was present, ready to root for his favorite team, and the grand stand was well filled with older enthusiasts.

When Troop Five won the toss and spread out on the field, Dale Tompkins, with a faint sigh, dropped down on the bench he had ornamented for most of the season. Watching Ranny Phelps walking out to the mound, a wave of envy, pure and simple, swept over him. He wanted to pitch–desperately. At that moment he would have welcomed almost any contingency–even the unthinkable “blowing up” that Court had predicted–that would give him his chance. He had done practically nothing all the season, and it seemed unfair that the last game should come without giving him a single opportunity of showing his mettle.

“What’s the use of trying at all if you never get a show?” he thought disconsolately.

But the mood did not last long. Dale was too keen a baseball fan not to become swiftly absorbed in the game which meant so much to himself and his brother scouts. There could be no question of Ranny’s fine form. For the first five innings not a hit was scored against him. To be sure, several players made first on various errors, but none got beyond third, and in the meantime Troop Five had scored two runs.

“He’s certainly some pitcher!” Tompkins remarked rather wistfully to Paul Trexler, who had taken a seat beside him. “Looks as if we had the game cinched.”

“I hope so. If only he don’t–er–blow up–”

“Blow up!” interrupted Tompkins, sharply. “Does he act like it? You’ve been listening to Court Parker’s rubbish, Paul. I never saw any fellow pitch a steadier game.”

But though he had been swift to deny the possibility, Trexler’s remark lingered in Dale’s mind, and almost unconsciously he began to watch for signs which might confirm it. The fellows that composed the rival team were rather older than the average scout and of a certain rough-and-ready type which made their joshing apt to carry more sting than that sort of thing usually does. So far, however, there had been little in the pitcher’s manner or behavior for them to take hold of, and the stream of commonplace chatter and joking seemed to affect Ranny as little as water does a duck. He took it carelessly, with now and then an apt retort which turned the laugh against the other fellows, and throughout the sixth and seventh innings his work continued to show much of the smooth perfection it had displayed from the first.

It was in the beginning of the eighth that Tompkins’s face began to grow a little troubled. Ranny had several rather noticeable mannerisms, which were especially apt to appear on the flood-tide of success. Whether deliberately or not, he had hitherto suppressed them, but now he seemed momentarily to relax his vigilance.

He had struck out the first batter, and as the second stepped up to face him the pitcher paused, swept the grand stand with a leisurely glance, and then tossed back his head in an odd, rather affected gesture before starting to wind up. The gesture had probably originated on the gridiron, where hair is worn rather long and is apt to trail into one’s eyes; here it looked a bit foolish, and instantly one of the opposition, who was coaching at first base, a red-headed fellow named Conners, seized upon it.

“See him shake his mane, fellows!” he yelled in a shrill falsetto. “Don’t let him scare you, Blakie; he’s tame!”

“He’ll be the goat, all right, before we get done with him,” chimed in another.

Ranny hesitated an instant in his swing, bit his lips, and then put the ball over. It was wide, and, as he caught the return, there was an angry flush on his handsome face.

“Don’t he blush sweetly?” shrilled Conners, dancing about off first. “He’d make a peach of a girl!”

Ranny wound up hastily and pitched again. It was a straight, speedy ball, but in his annoyance he must have forgotten that this was just the sort Blake liked. The latter met it squarely with a clean crack that brought Dale’s heart into his mouth and jerked him to his feet to watch with tight lips and despairing eyes the soaring flight of the white sphere over the diamond and on–on–seemingly to the very limits of the outfield!

CHAPTER XVII
DALE’S CHANCE

His team-mates added their jubilations to his, and a bedlam of shrill advice, mingled with fresh joshing, ensued. Ranny’s eyes flashed with ill-concealed anger, and he gripped his under lip tight between his teeth. His first ball was good, but the batter fell on the second with all his might. Crack! A gasp went up from the watchers on the bench. Smack! The gasp merged into a yell of delight as the ball landed squarely in Frank Sanson’s mitt and stuck there. The force of the impact nearly upset the short-stop, but he recovered swiftly and lined the horsehide straight into the outstretched hands of Court Parker, astride of third. There was a flashing downward motion of those hands, and the sliding runner was tagged, his fingers not six inches from the sack.

To the shout of delight that went up, Dale Tompkins contributed rather more than his share. Leaping and capering in front of the bench, it seemed as if he couldn’t express his overwhelming relief at the unexpected ending of the inning and their escape from a dangerous situation. He thumped Sanson on the back and poked Court in the ribs joyously. But when the first excited enthusiasm had passed he began to think of the inning yet to be played and to wonder how Ranny would get through it. Surely there was time to pull himself together, the boy thought. He hadn’t really lost control of himself except for a moment.

With the opening of the ninth it looked as if Tompkins was right. Troop Five had failed to score further, but Ranny entered the box apparently as cool and self-contained as he had been at the beginning of the game. Quietly and efficiently he took the first batter in hand, and in spite of the joshing that at once began on the other side, he lured the boy into popping up a little infield fly that was easily smothered by the second baseman.

The next fellow up, however, sent out a long fly to right-field which Blair unaccountably muffed. Instantly the shrill, nagging voice of “Red” Conners pierced the din.

“Up in a balloon!” he yelled. “Little Lambie’s ready for the stable. He’s done. I knew he couldn’t stand up before a regular team once we got his number.”

Irritating as a mosquito’s buzz, the strident voice rasped Dale Tompkins’s spirit like a file, and a rush of sympathy for the pitcher swept over him. He knew how annoying it is to be blamed for another’s fault, and the error was distinctly Blair’s for muffing that fly. If only Phelps wouldn’t pay any attention to the nagging! He had only to put out two more men and win the game. Surely he must realize that the fellows didn’t mean anything they said; that they were only trying–

He caught his breath with a swift, anxious intake as the ball left Ranny’s fingers and an instant later went sailing over the infield. It was a clean hit and brought forth a roar of delight from Troop One’s adherents, who at once redoubled their efforts to tease the angry pitcher. It wasn’t baseball, in its better sense, nor did it show the real scout spirit, but it was human nature. Seeing the game slipping from them, they took the only way they had been able to discover to turn the tables. Ranny, plainly furious, pitched hastily to the next batter and hit him in the arm. The bases were filled, with only one out.

“They’ve rattled him, all right,” said the regretful voice of Paul Trexler at Tompkins’s elbow. “Great Scott! He can’t be going to stick it out!”

For a moment it looked that way. Flushed and furious, his snapping eyes sweeping the circle of grinning faces, Ranny stood motionless for a moment or two in the middle of the diamond. He even toed the slab and took a signal from Ted MacIlvaine. Then, of a sudden, his arm dropped to his side, and he stalked across the infield toward the bench. By the time he reached it his face was white, save where the grip of teeth had left little crimson dents in his under lip. His level, almost hostile, glance fixed Dale Tompkins coldly.

“Go in, Tompkins,” he said curtly, and tossed him the ball.

Dale caught it instinctively, and, scrambling to his feet, pulled off his sweater mechanically. His chance had come, but somehow he did not want it now. He would infinitely rather have had Ranny keep his head and his control and finish the game he had started off so well. The hurt and shame in that white face smote on him with a sense of physical pain, made him feel in a curious, involved fashion as if he were in some manner responsible for the humiliation of his hero.

A moment later all this vanished from his mind as he crossed the diamond, his heart beating unevenly, every sense concentrated in the task before him. He was greeted by a burst of joshing from Conners and the others, but he scarcely heard it. Quite without self-consciousness as he was, the remarks of the crowd, with most of whom he was on friendly terms, meant nothing to him. It was merely an obvious attempt to rattle him to which he paid no heed, so intent was he on gaging the boy who stood, bat in hand, a little to one side of the plate.

Tompkins had warmed up a little before the game, and now, after throwing a few to MacIlvaine, he found the plate and nodded to the batter to resume his place. All the afternoon he had been sizing up the different batters, noting as well as he could the strength and weakness of each one. He thought he knew the sort of ball Jack Dillon could not hit safely, and promptly he proceeded to send it up.

In that very instant something in the fellow’s face told him that he had blundered. His heart leaped with the crack of leather meeting wood; he caught his breath almost with a sob as the ball whizzed past his vainly reaching arm. There was no answering thud behind him. Bob Gibson had missed! Heartsick, he saw the runner shoot down from third and cross the plate. Close at his heels, it seemed, the fellow behind him rounded the sack and started home. Suddenly he doubled back, and Dale realized with a gasp of thankfulness that Gardner had nipped that second run with a fine throw to the plate from center-field.

He was trembling a bit as he caught the ball from MacIlvaine and moved slowly backward, turning it nervously in his hands. There was a sick, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. All about him the opposition were yelling joyously as if it were only a question of minutes before the game could be counted theirs.

“Another easy mark!” shrilled Conners. “We’ve got him going, too. One good single, Irish, and we take the lead. Come over here, Blakie, and coach. I’m up next.”

Dale brought his teeth down hard and his jaw squared. He’d show Red Conners who was easy. Stepping into the box, he met the confident grin of Roddy Thorpe. This time there could be no mistake. He knew Roddy’s game through and through. His eyes dropped to where MacIlvaine crouched, giving a signal from behind his mitt. He shook his head slightly, and Bob, with some reluctance, changed the signal for another. Dale pitched suddenly, and Thorpe, swinging with all his strength to meet the sort of ball he thought was coming, missed, with ludicrous dismay.

He fouled the second one, and then let two go by. Finally he missed again, fooled by a sudden change of pace and a slow ball when he had expected speed. A cheer went up from his team-mates that still further heartened Tompkins.

“Who’s an easy mark now, Red?” taunted Frank Sanson, pounding his glove delightedly. “Here’s where you get yours, too.”

“I should worry!” retorted Conners, dancing to the plate with every sign of confidence. “That was only a fluke; it won’t last.”

Dale’s eyes narrowed a bit as he surveyed the grinning, freckled face before him. Ordinarily, he and Red were on good enough terms, but at this moment he felt a slow, smoldering anger against the fellow who, he felt, had been the main cause of forcing Ranny out of the box. “Here’s where I even up,” he muttered.

He took Bob’s signal, and promptly, yet without apparent haste, he pitched. The ball left his fingers and whistled over with a slight inswerve. Conners swung his bat fiercely, but encountered nothing but empty air.

“One!” muttered Tompkins, under his breath. “Two more, now–just two more!”

The next was a ball, and Conners let it pass. Then came a slow one delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into striking before it was well within his reach. As he regained his balance he scowled slightly and shook his head. The grin still stretched his lips, but it had turned into a grimace.

Dale’s heart began to pound. Over and over again he was saying to himself: “One more! Only one more! I must get him–I’ve got to!”

Silence had fallen on the field. The batter’s team-mates had left off their gibing. It seemed as if every fellow gathered about the edges of the diamond was holding his breath.

Dale’s right hand drew back slowly, and for an instant he cuddled the ball under his chin. Then, like a flash, his arm shot forward and a gray shadow whizzed through the air.

The ball was high–too high, many a breathless onlooker thought at first. But suddenly it flashed downward across Conner’s shoulders. Too late the batter saw it drop and brought his bat around. There was a swish, a thud–and the umpire’s voice was drowned in the shrill yell of relaxing tension that split the throats of the victorious team as they made a rush for Tompkins, standing in the middle of the diamond.

Sanson and Bob Gibson reached him first, but the others were not far behind. Thumping, pounding, poking him in the ribs and executing around him an impromptu war-dance, they swept Dale toward the bench, jabbering excitedly the while. In a happy sort of daze the boy heard the hearty congratulations of Mr. Curtis. Then, when the throng had spread out a little, he suddenly found himself face to face with Ranleigh Phelps.

For a second there was an embarrassed silence; then the blond chap put out his hand.

“You did mighty well, Tompkins,” he said, with a touch of constraint in his manner. “I wish–” He paused an instant, and a faint color crept into his face. “I’d just like you to know,” he went on rapidly, “that I haven’t kept you out of the box all season because–because of–wanting to take all the pitching myself. I–I–didn’t think you’d make good. I was wrong, of course. I–I’m sorry it’s too late to–prove it to you.”

That was all. Without waiting for a reply, he turned away. But Dale’s face glowed. Somehow those brief words from Ranleigh meant more to him than the exuberant congratulations of all the others.

CHAPTER XVIII
A QUESTION OF MONEY

Frank Sanson naturally made much quicker progress. Knowing the rudiments, he did not, like Paul, have to start at the very beginning. His strength and endurance, too, were greater than his friend’s, and he had practically none of Trexler’s nervous timidity to combat. All he needed was practise, and he was not long graduating from the novice class.

The latter was uncommonly large this year. It was the first time the boys had had the freedom of Crystal Lake, and practically every scout who did not know how to swim seemed bent on learning before the summer camp started. Many of the enthusiasts went out there every afternoon, while Saturdays always saw a big crowd, most of whom brought their lunch and made a day of it.

As a matter of course, since swimming could not very well be indulged in all the time, there developed a great variety of scout sports and activities. Often a scoutmaster or two showed up, and by dint of a little suggestion would introduce among the purely entertaining games one designed to test the boys’ ability at signaling or first aid, or his knowledge of tracking and trailing and woodcraft generally.

The system was entirely successful. Fellows who lacked the ambition or push to acquire these important details of scouting–and there are always such in every troop–found themselves, to their surprise, absorbing the knowledge through the medium of a game or competition. More often than not they discovered that it wasn’t so hard or uninteresting as they supposed, and in many cases real enthusiasm developed. Moreover, members of the different troops came to know and understand each other in a way which would have been impossible without this close and constant companionship. Hitherto they had kept pretty much to themselves, each boy traveling mainly with his own crowd and generally meeting the others as opponents on gridiron or diamond.

Now unexpected friendships developed. Paul Trexler, who had revived much of his interest in bird study, was amazed to find a kindred spirit in Jim Crancher of Troop One. This big, rather rough-and-ready, chap of whom Paul had always stood somewhat in awe, proved to be quite as keen as himself about birds and nature generally, and the two had many a pleasant and profitable tramp through the woods together. There were many other similar cases, and before long it was no uncommon thing to see boys who had hitherto been rivals eating their lunch together and chatting intimately about what they would do at camp.

The latter subject became more and more a topic of interest and discussion. For the first time the various troops were planning to join forces in a common camp, and for months a committee of scoutmasters had been at work on the details. Funds for equipment had been secured by the local council, but the question of a proper location threatened to prove a serious difficulty. Dozens of sites had been investigated and found lacking in some important particular, either in quantity or quality of water, in woods not extensive enough for hiking, and the like. Most of the really attractive lakes in that part of the State were lined with summer cottages and bungalows, while the wilder, mountainous sections were too inaccessible to be wisely considered in a camp of this nature.

The boys were beginning to grow seriously worried when suddenly the rumor swept through town that a novel and totally unexpected solution of the difficulty had presented itself. It was said that the committee had been offered the use of a large tract of land in the southern part of the State bordering on the ocean. Such a situation had never been even remotely considered, and the excitement of the boys, many of whom had never seen the ocean, rose to fever-heat at the enthralling possibility.

At the earliest possible moment Troop Five in a body hurried around to obtain further details from Mr. Curtis, only to discover that he had gone with other members of the committee to look the ground over. He was away for three days, returning the afternoon of the troop meeting, from which, it is perhaps needless to say, not a scout was absent.

“You’ve heard about it, I see,” the scoutmaster remarked as he surveyed the line of eager, bright-eyed boys before him. “Well, I don’t know that we can employ our time better to-night than in going over the camp proposition thoroughly and finding out what you fellows think of the situation.”

“Is it going to be at–at that place on the ocean, sir?” put in one of the boys.

“Yes; we’ve practically decided to accept Mr. Thornton’s offer. The distance was the only drawback; it’s almost a hundred miles from here, but I think we can get around that. Everything else is ideal. The land is a wooded point of six or seven hundred acres. One side faces the ocean, the other a wide, sheltered bay that runs inland several miles, joining finally with a small river. The whole point is rather high ground, with stretches of sand-dunes on the ocean side, and wooded with scrub-oak and stunted pines. Back of that, the land is mostly covered with second-growth timber, and rises gradually to an elevation called Lost Mine Hill–”

“What’s that, sir?” interrupted Court Parker, eagerly.

The scoutmaster smiled. “At the time of the Revolution there was said to be a copper-mine located thereabouts, the entrance to which has since been lost track of. At least, that’s what one of the old residents told us.”

More than one boy’s eyes sparkled. There was a fascination in the mere name.

“Whether it’s true or not, I have no idea,” continued Mr. Curtis. “To return to the camp. This would be located on the bay side of the point, facing the village, which is over a mile distant and practically the only settlement around. The beach shelves gradually here, making an ideal place for swimming, and there are three or four small islands about a quarter of a mile from shore. The fishing in the bay is fine, and there are lots of crabs and eels in the coves and inlets farther up. We should have to do a lot of clearing out, of course, for the undergrowth is pretty thick, but that would be more fun than otherwise.”

A long, concerted sigh went up from the listening scouts. Ocean and islands and a lost copper-mine seemed too entrancing a combination to be possible. Several boys began to ask questions at once, but stopped at a gesture from Mr. Curtis.

“One at a time, fellows,” he reminded them. “The only practicable way of getting there, Bob, is to hire an auto-truck and motor down to Clam Cove, crossing over in a motor-boat. We haven’t enough tents or equipment to accommodate all the fellows at once, so we’ve decided to divide in two or three relays of say thirty-five boys to a group, each crowd to stay two weeks. The truck could make the trip in seven or eight hours, and by starting early could take one bunch down and bring another back the same day, thus considerably lessening the expense.”

“How much do you think that will be, sir?” asked Dale Tompkins, quickly, an anxious wrinkle in his forehead.

“About five dollars a week for board and a dollar extra for transportation.”

The troubled expression deepened in Dale’s face, and he scarcely heard the various other questions and answers that followed. Six dollars a week–twelve in all! There would be other necessities, too, in the way of clothes fit for camp. He had no shorts, for instance, or decent sneakers. Fifteen dollars would barely cover the outlay; and though he had worked hard for two months at least, he had little more than half of the amount saved. Where was the rest to come from?

When Mr. Curtis, with pencil and paper in hand, started at the head of the line to note down what boys were going, Tompkins roused himself and listened with a touch of envy to the ready answers: “Yes, sir!” “You can count me in every time, sir!” “Can’t a fellow stay longer than two weeks?” or, from Larry Wilks, “No, sir; I’m going up to Maine as soon as school is over.” Not one of them seemed troubled by the problem which worried him.

“How about you, Dale?” asked the scoutmaster, after jotting down Vedder’s prompt acquiescence.

“I–don’t know, sir.”

“What’s the trouble? Want to talk it over at home?” said the scoutmaster, dropping his voice.

“N-o, sir. They’ll let me go all right,” answered Dale, adding, in a still lower tone, “only I–I’m not sure about the–money.”

Mr. Curtis nodded understandingly. “I see. Well, there will be at least two weeks before even the first crowd goes. We’ll have to get together and think up ways and means.”

He passed on, leaving Dale not very greatly encouraged. It would be like Mr. Curtis to invent some work about his place whereby the scout might earn the required amount, but Dale was determined to stay at home rather than take advantage of the scoutmaster in that way.

“He’s done enough for me already,” the boy said to himself with a stubborn squaring of the jaws. “If I can’t raise the funds some other way, I’ll just have to go without camp.”

That night he lay long awake, trying to think of some possible method, but his efforts were not very successful. He still had his paper-route, but the money from that went mostly into the family treasury. He might, and probably would, get some odd jobs during the next two weeks, but there was only grass cutting, now, or weeding gardens, and neither of these chores was particularly well paid in Hillsgrove.

On the whole the outlook was distinctly discouraging, and for the next few days Dale had a struggle to maintain his usual cheerfulness. For months he had looked forward to camp as the supreme culmination of a more than usually happy year.

“It doesn’t seem as if I could give it up!” he muttered rebelliously at the end of a day which had brought him just twenty cents for a laborious weeding job. “Oh, gee! If I’d only started to save for it sooner, I–” He broke off and bit his lips. Presently a crooked smile struggled defiantly through the gloom. “Oh, thunder!” he exclaimed whimsically. “Quit your grouching, Dale Tompkins. If you’re going to let a little matter like earning ten dollars stand between you and a corking good time, you’re no kind of a scout at all.”