“Well, it might be a wildcat or something like that. I only saw its eyes, but I tell you they held me up, all right. About three hundred feet from where I fell in there was another kind of a shaft thing, only not so big, sort of off to one side. It wasn’t very deep, either, for when I looked down I saw those two big yellow eyes that didn’t seem more than eight or ten feet down. Gee whiz! I was scared. I must have got turned around, too; because, when I came to, I found I was legging it away from the big hole instead of back toward it.”
He paused and drew a long breath; his fascinated hearers sighed in sympathy. “Did you go back then?” one of them asked eagerly.
“I was thinking about it,” resumed Court, “when my thumb slipped off the flash-key, and ahead of me, not so very far away, was a little spot of light–daylight, you know. You’d better believe I hustled for it. The tunnel had been going up hill quite some, and now it began to get narrower and lower. Before very long I had to get down and crawl, and then I found the light was coming between two rocks through a crack that didn’t look more than a foot or so wide. The bottom was pounded down hard in a regular path; I s’pose that was the way the bear got in to its den. Anyhow, there was just room for me to squeeze out, and even then I cut my face and tore these holes in my suit.”
“Kind of small, then, for a full-grown bear, I should think,” commented Ranny.
Court looked a trifle foolish. “I never thought of that,” he confessed. “Still, I bet a wildcat could do it.”
“It might–only I haven’t heard of any wild-cats being around here.”
“What’s the matter with our taking a look?” suggested Dale Tompkins.
“Going through the hole Court came out of?” asked Ranny, glancing at him.
“Sure! We’ve got some flash-lights, and very likely the beast is stuck down that shaft and can’t get out. I vote we try it.”
Two or three fellows backed him up, but the others showed no great enthusiasm in the venture. They were quite willing, however, to go as far as the outside of the hole, and started off without delay, only to meet Mr. Reed with Mr. Curtis and several scouts coming up at a brisk trot.
When Court’s story had been told over again the scoutmasters decided that the investigation had better be made from the end that Court had stumbled into. They had brought the rope with them, and when one end of this was firmly fastened, Mr. Reed slid down into the old mine. He spent some time inspecting the ancient timbering, but finally decided that it was safe enough for those who wished to follow him. This meant the entire assembled crowd, and when all were gathered at the bottom, Court led the way.
The tunnel was fairly wide and over six feet high. It sloped gently upward and was quite dry, thus accounting for the preservation of the massive oak beams that acted as supports. Here and there along the sides were the marks of tools, but scarcely a vestige of ore remained.
“Vein petered out, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Curtis. “That’s why it was abandoned, of course.”
The interest of the scouts, however, was less on the mine than on Court’s “wildcat.” As they approached the shaft some hurried forward while others kept prudently in the rear.
“He’s there yet!” announced Parker, peering over the edge. “See his eyes! I wonder if–”
He did not finish. Mr. Reed flashed the light from his battery into the hole, and Trexler, close beside him, gave an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, it’s a coon!”
And so it was; an uncommonly large specimen, to be sure, but still exceedingly harmless and inoffensive. In fact, at the flashes of light and the sight of so many faces peering down on it, the frightened creature shrank close to the side of the pit as if trying to escape.
“It’s fallen down and can’t get out!” exclaimed Trexler. “Can’t I go down and get it, Mr. Reed?”
The hole was barely four feet across and not more than twice as deep–a trial shaft, Mr. Curtis suggested, probably sunk in the search for another vein. Receiving permission, Paul simply hung by his hands and dropped, and the interested spectators saw him lift up the coon.
“The poor thing’s half starved,” he said. “Let down a couple of coats, fellows, and pull him up. He’ll make a dandy camp mascot.”
The idea was hailed with delight. There was little trouble in hoisting the creature to the surface and pulling Trexler after him. Then the entire crowd turned back to the entrance shaft, their interest diverted to this new pet.
Back on the surface the assembly whistle was blown, and the two scoutmasters made themselves comfortable while waiting the arrival of the throng they knew would be eager to inspect the mine. The members of Tent Three, however, did not linger. Obtaining permission to return at once to camp, they hustled off, carrying the coon with them, and for the brief remainder of the day they were exceedingly busy.
Pete, as the mascot was christened, had to be fed and housed and cared for, and it took some time to build a crate strong enough to keep him from escaping. At first he threatened to be killed by kindness, but finally Trexler was voted his special guardian, and in a surprisingly short time the animal became noticeably docile and friendly. He had an inordinate curiosity and was as full of mischief as any monkey. But though the cook frowned on him, his popularity with the scouts increased with every day.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE WISH OF HIS HEART
And how swiftly those remaining days passed with their mingling of work and play! There were more fishing excursions and athletic meets. One afternoon was devoted to an exciting treasure-hunt; another saw a sham battle in which part of the boys in boats attacked one of the islands defended by the remainder. At regular intervals, too, Captain Chalmers gave scout examinations in headquarters tent, and an encouraging number of fellows increased their standing or obtained merit badges.
Dale Tompkins thoroughly enjoyed each minute of his stay. He entered with keen zest into every game and competition, and took his share of the various chores–even the hated dish-washing–without a grumble. It was all so fresh and wonderful that the simplicity and freedom of the life, with the nightly council-fire under the stars and the intimate companionship with so many “dandy” fellows, appealed to him intensely even without considering the added interest of each day’s activities.
Best of all, perhaps, was his feeling of growing comfort in the attitude of Ranny Phelps. There had been nothing in the nature of a formal reconciliation. On the contrary, the blond lad’s manner toward Tompkins still showed traces of embarrassment. But one does not always need the spoken word to realize the truth, and deep down in his heart Dale knew that, though they might not yet be close friends, at least no shadow of coldness or enmity remained between them.
When the last day came, as last days have an unpleasant way of doing, Dale tried to think of the wonderful time he had had instead of regretting that it was almost over. More than once, too, his mind dwelt with gratitude on the unknown customer whose need for bird-houses had made it all possible.
“Maybe some day I’ll find out who it was and be able to thank him,” he said to himself during the course of the morning.
A final trip in the motor-boat had been planned for the afternoon, but after dinner Captain Chalmers announced that Mr. Thornton would inspect the camp at about five o’clock, and stay for supper and the council-fire afterward.
“So I think we’d better put in a few hours making things spick and span and working up a specially good program for to-night,” he concluded. “You fellows all know how keen I am to give him an extra good impression of scouting, and you’ve kept things in corking good shape these two weeks. But let’s see if we can’t give him a regular knock-out blow when he comes.”
One and all the scouts took up the idea enthusiastically and worked to such purpose that when the banker appeared he found a camp which would have done credit to the West Point cadets. He was a little stiff at first, but during supper in the big tent he thawed considerably, and later, at the council-fire, he applauded the various stunts with the enjoyment and simple abandon, almost, of a boy. When these were over he rose to his feet, and the firelight gleaming on his face showed it softened into lines of genial good-fellowship.
“I’ve had a mighty good time to-night, boys,” he said, glancing around the circle of eager, young faces. “I just want to thank you for it and tell you frankly that what I’ve seen of Hillsgrove Boy Scouts has changed my mind completely about the whole proposition. If you fellows are a fair sample of scouting generally,–as I begin to suspect you are,–I see no reason why you should not consider this camp a permanent thing, to come back to every year and be responsible for and do with as you like. I should very much–”
The wild yell of delight which went up drowned the remainder of his remarks. Leaping to his feet, MacIlvaine called for a cheer, and the three times three, with a tiger at the end, was given with a vigor that left no doubt of the boys’ feelings. When comparative quiet was restored Mr. Thornton thanked them briefly and said he would like to shake hands with every one of the scouts present.
Laughing and jostling, the boys formed in line, and as each paused before the banker, Captain Chalmers introduced him. Tompkins was just behind Ranny, and he could not fail to notice the extra vigor Mr. Thornton put into his handshake.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Phelps,” he said genially. “Your father and I are old friends. In fact, I dined with him at Hillsgrove only a few days ago. And by the way, I was immensely taken with those bird-houses on the place and want some like them for my own. He told me you had put them around just before you came down here. Did you make them yourself?”
The usually self-contained Ranleigh turned crimson and dropped his eyes. “N-no, sir,” he stammered. “They were made by–by–another–I’ll write the address down, and–and give it to you afterward.”
He passed on, and the boy behind him took his place. In a daze Dale felt his hand shaken and heard the sound of Mr. Thornton’s pleasant voice, but the words were as meaningless as if they had been spoken in another tongue. Muttering some vague reply, he dropped the other’s hand and was swept on by the crowd behind.
Out of the whirling turmoil of his mind one thing alone stood forth sharply. Those were his bird-houses; they could not possibly be any other. It was Ranny who had given him these wonderful two weeks–Ranny, whom he thought–
His head went up suddenly and, glancing around, he caught sight of the blond chap disappearing toward the beach. In a few moments he was at his side.
“Ranny!” he exclaimed impulsively. “You–you–”
Something gripped his throat, making further speech impossible. Phelps stirred uneasily.
“Well,” he said with a touch of defiance, “I wanted them, and–and I couldn’t make them myself. I–I’m a perfect dub with tools.”
“You–you did it to–give me a chance at camp.”
Dale’s voice was strained and uneven. His hand still rested on the other’s arm, and in the brief silence that followed he felt Ranny stiffen a little.
“If I did, it was only fair,” the older chap said suddenly, in low, abrupt tones. “I–I’ve been a beastly cad, Dale. I’ve worked against you every way I could.” His voice grew sharp and self-reproachful. “I kept it up like a stubborn mule even when I began to see– Why, look at the rotten, conceited way I kept you out of baseball. After that it was only–decent to do what I could to–make up.”
They stood in the moonlight, the water at their feet, while back among the trees the fire blazed up, sending a shower of sparks drifting across the spangled heavens. The talk and laughter of the crowd gathered there seemed to come from very far away.
“You did it to–to square up, then?” Dale asked presently in a low tone.
There was another pause. Suddenly an arm slid about his shoulders, and for the first time Ranny turned and looked him squarely in the eyes.
“No,” he answered quietly. “It was because I wanted us to be in camp–together.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SURPRISE
The last barrier of reserve between the two had fallen. From that moment they were friends of the sort Dale had sometimes dreamed of, but only lately dared to hope for. And as the weeks lengthened into months, as summer sped along to fall, the bond grew closer, until they became well-nigh inseparable. In school and out, on the football field, at scout meetings, on hikes, they were always together, until at last those early days of clash and bitterness seemed as unreal as the figments of a dream.
Troop Five held well together during the following winter. Inevitably, two or three boys dropped out and new ones took their places. But the majority stayed on and had better times than ever on the lake and in their cabin. After Christmas they began work in earnest on their share of the big scout rally, which was to be given in the spring to illustrate for the towns-people the aims and purposes of scouting, and also as a means of gaining new recruits. Every troop was to take part, and not a little good-natured rivalry developed between them.
Troop Five was to illustrate the various uses of the scout staff in a number of drills and formations, the most effective and also the most difficult of which was one that Mr. Curtis called the riot wedge. Though necessitating a good deal of hard work, most of the boys were keen about it, for they were determined to excel the work of the other troops. Perhaps the only fellow who complained was only Bob Gibson, and he wouldn’t have seemed himself at all without finding something to grumble about.
“Gee! but I’m sick of this silly drill!” he growled under his breath one night when they had been practising steadily for an hour. He slumped his shoulders a bit and his staff tilted to a slovenly angle. “What’s the sense of it, anyhow?”
“’Tention!” rang out the quick, decisive voice of Scoutmaster Curtis, standing slim and erect before the line of scouts. “We’ll try that once more, fellows, and get a little snap into it this time. Bob, if you could manage to support your staff in an upright position, it would improve the looks of the line.”
There was no sting in his tone, and Bob, grinning sheepishly, straightened his shoulders and brought his staff to the same angle as the others.
“Prepare to form riot wedge!” ordered the scoutmaster, crisply. “One!”
There was a rapid thud of feet and a swift, scurrying movement which might have seemed to the uninitiated meaningless and without purpose. But when the stir had ceased and silence fell, each of the three patrols had formed itself into a regular wedge with one of the largest, strongest boys at the apex and the patrol-leader standing in the middle of the base. Their staves were upright, but at the sharp command of “Two!” these swung into a horizontal position, the ends crossing and the whole becoming a continuous barrier with the boys behind it.
“Fine and dandy!” approved Mr. Curtis. “That’s more the way it ought to go. Now, let’s try the double wedge I showed you last week. Eagle patrol, dress a little to the left; Beavers to the right. Ready? One!”
This time there was a little more confusion, for the movement was newer and more complicated than the other. Raven patrol took position as before, though spreading out a bit and gathering in a boy from each of the other patrols to form the ends of the larger wedge. The Eagle and Beaver patrols then swung around against either side of the wedge, each boy covering the space between the two lads behind him. The final manœuver thus presented a double row of scouts linked together by their lowered staves into a formation that would be equally effective in pushing through a dense crowd or withstanding the pressure of their assaults.
“Good!” smiled Mr. Curtis. “A bit slow, of course, but we’ll get it all right. Now, fellows, I’d like to have a full attendance next week. Captain Chalmers will address the troop on a special matter, and I think by that time I’ll have a rather pleasant surprise for you. Has any one any questions to ask before we break up?”
Court Parker saluted, his face serious save for an irrepressible twinkle in his eyes. “Couldn’t you–er–tell us about the surprise to-night, sir?” he asked. “Next week’s an awful long time off, you know.”
The scoutmaster smiled. “You’ll enjoy it all the more when it comes,” he returned. “Besides, it isn’t quite ready to be told yet. I think that’s all to-night, fellows. Patrol-leaders dismiss their patrols.”
As the crowd poured out of the building a chorus of eager speculation arose.
“Wonder if it’s anything to do with camp,” suggested Frank Sanson.
“How could it be?” objected Dale Tompkins, his arm across Ranny Phelps’s shoulder. “Camp couldn’t be much better than it was last summer; and if he’s had word we can’t use the place–well, that wouldn’t be exactly pleasant.”
“Right, old scout!” approved Ranny. Then his face grew suddenly serious. “Do you suppose it could be about–the war?” he ventured.
There was a momentary silence. In Hillsgrove, as in most other parts of the country, war and rumors of war had been plentiful of late. The ruthless German submarine campaign had been on for weeks. Only a few days before, the severing of diplomatic relations with that government had made a great stir. Everywhere people were wondering what would be the next step, and, according to temperament or conviction, were complaining of governmental sloth or praising the President’s diplomacy. In all of this the boys had naturally taken more or less part, wondering, speculating, planning–a little spectacularly, perhaps–what they would do if war actually came.
Suddenly Bob Gibson sniffed. “Shucks!” he commented dogmatically. “Of course it isn’t. I don’t believe in this war business. I’ll bet that old surprise is some silly thing not worth mentioning. I’ll bet it’s as foolish as the riot wedge. If anybody can tell me what good that is or ever would be, I’ll give him an ice-cream soda. When would there ever be a riot in this one-horse burg? I’d like to know. And if there was one, what would a bunch of fellows like us be able to do against–”
“Oh, cut it out!” begged Ranny Phelps. “You know you’re just talking to hear the sound of your own voice.”
“Am not!” growled Gibson, stubbornly. “Here we’ve wasted over an hour on the blooming thing, and it’s not the first time, either, he’s kept us late. It’s getting to be nothing but drill, drill, drill, and it makes me sick.”
“Don’t be an idiot just because you happen to know how,” urged Ranny, a touch of earnestness beneath his banter. “You know perfectly well it isn’t all drill, or anything like it. Maybe there’s been more of it just lately, but I don’t see any sense in taking up a thing unless you do it right. Trouble with you, Bob, you’re so set and stubborn that you’ve got to find something to kick about or argue against or you wouldn’t be happy. I’ll bet if Dan Beard himself came out for a talk, you’d want to give him points on camping, or forestry, or something like that.”
There was a shout of laughter from the others that brought a touch of color to Gibson’s cheeks. He growled out an emphatic denial, but Ranny had hit the mark so accurately that Bob dropped the subject for the time.
There was not a vacant place in the line the next Monday, and when the scout commissioner stepped forward to speak he was greeted with flattering attention. Some of this was due to his position in the movement; but a great deal more, it must be confessed arose from the fact that he was an exceedingly active and competent officer in the national guard, and as such was regarded by the boys as a rather superior being.
“I’ve only a few words to say, fellows,” Captain Chalmers began. “From now on I want you all to work extra hard on your signaling and first aid. These are the two features of scouting which, in the near future, may be particularly valuable. Keep up your practice for the rally, but give all the rest of your spare time to these two things. There’s one more point. How many of you would like to learn something of the regular military drill? Those interested, step forward one pace.”
With a swift movement the whole line swayed forward. Captain Chalmers nodded approvingly.
“Fine!” he said. “I want to make this another feature of the rally. With your permission, Mr. Curtis, I’ll start them in on the rudiments to-night. The staves, of course, will take the place of arms.”
The hour which followed seemed one of the briefest the boys had ever known. The captain was no easy taskmaster, but not even Bob Gibson grumbled. There was something inspiring in those snappy, authoritative orders, in the rhythmic tramp of marching feet, in the growing sense of efficiency and pride with each movement understood and properly executed. Every one of the twenty-four scouts put his whole being into the work, and in the end they were rewarded by Captain Chalmers’s pleased approval.
“That’s great!” he said when at length they stood at ease. “I didn’t think you’d do so well. Keep it up in that spirit, and we’ll all be proud of you. After this, Mr. Curtis will do the drilling. Besides practising what you’ve already learned, one new evolution thoroughly mastered at each meeting will be about all you ought to undertake.”
He stepped back, and Mr. Curtis took his place. At the sight of the folded paper in his hand a sudden ripple of interest ran down the line.
“Gee!” muttered Frank Sanson. “I’d forgotten all about the surprise!”
“I have a letter here from Mr. Thornton, fellows,” said the scoutmaster, unfolding the paper. Smiling a little, his glance ranged over the long line of eager, inquiring faces; then it dropped to the sheet before him, and he read aloud slowly:
“My dear Curtis:
“As you know from my note of ten days or more ago, I have amused myself during the past few months by having a permanent mess-shack and recreation-room built on the site of the big dining-tent. The finishing touches will be put to this within a few days, and I think something in the nature of a housewarming is in order. It will give me great pleasure if your troop can be my guests down at the camp during their Easter vacation, which begins, I understand, toward the last of the month. By that time the weather ought to be mild enough for a week of tent life–at least for Boy Scouts; and there will always be the new building to fall back on. I will see to the transportation back and forth, and I hope every one of your boys will be able to come.
“Sincerely yours,
“John Thornton.”
For an instant there was a dazed silence throughout the room. Then a yell broke forth which could have been heard–and was–as far as the green. Breaking ranks, boys clutched one another in exuberant embraces and pranced madly about the hall. Then there was more shouting, and throwing-up of hats, and general disorder, which Mr. Curtis made no attempt to check. When failing breath brought comparative quiet, he raised his hand for silence.
“I gather that the invitation meets with your approval,” he remarked with a smile. “Shall I send Mr. Thornton the grateful acceptance of the whole troop?”
“You bet!” came back promptly and emphatically from a dozen voices. “Wough! He’s some good sport!” “Think of it, fellows! A new mess-shack! A whole week in camp in April!” “Pinch me, somebody; I don’t believe I’m awake at all!”
The last speaker was promptly accommodated, and after a little additional skylarking, things quieted down. Before the meeting broke up, Mr. Curtis wrote a letter of sincere thanks and acceptance to John Thornton, which each one of the scouts signed with a flourish. After that, with youthful inconsequence, they hustled home to obtain parental sanction.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WAR!
In some miraculous fashion the necessary permission was obtained by each and every one of the boys of Troop Five, and bright and early on the morning after school closed the whole crowd was packed into the motor-truck, jouncing southward over roads very much the worse for spring thaws. It was, in fact, a vastly more uncomfortable trip than the one last summer. But overhead the skies were cloudless; warm breezes, faintly odorous of spring and growing things, caressed their cheeks, and youth was in their hearts. What cared they for hard seats, for jolts and jounces, for mud-holes, delays, and the growing certainty of a late arrival? A thrilling week, golden with possibilities, lay before them, and nothing else mattered. They chattered and sang and ate, and stopped by wayside springs, and ate again. The sun was setting when they lumbered into Clam Cove and tumbled out of the truck to find the old Aquita waiting at the landing. Then came the chugging passage of the bay, and the landing at the new dock they had not even heard of, but where they did not pause long, so eager were they all to inspect the mess-shack, bulking large and unfamiliar through the gathering dusk.
It wasn’t really a shack at all, but a commodious log structure some forty feet by twenty–big, airy, and spacious. There were benches and tables of rough yet solid construction, bracket-lamps, many windows, and a cavernous stone fireplace in which a roaring blaze of logs leaped and crackled. The size and scale of it all fairly awed the boys, and they stared eagerly around for Mr. Thornton. To their disappointment the banker was not to be seen.
“He had to go to Washington unexpected,” explained the man in charge to Mr. Curtis. “But he sent word you was to make yourselves at home, and he’d be back just as soon as he could.”
This put a momentary damper on the affair, but it was not of long duration. There was too much to see and do in the short time at their disposal for regrets of any sort. There was little accomplished that night, however. After a hearty supper, beds were made up on the floor and every one was glad to turn in early.
They were up with the sun, and then began a strenuous period of mingled work and play which filled to overflowing each waking hour of the three days that followed. They got out the tents and erected them in the old places. They took hikes and motor-boat trips; they fished and explored, talked to each other with signal-flags, and put in a commendable amount of time on their drill. They were so constantly employed extracting the last atom of enjoyment from the brief vacation that they quite failed to notice the slight abstraction of their scoutmaster, or the manner in which he watched the mails and fairly devoured the daily paper. Not one of them found time even to glance at that paper himself, much less think of, or discuss the affairs of the nation and the world. Then, suddenly, came the awakening.
It was toward noon on the fourth day of their stay–a Tuesday; they remembered that afterward. The crowd had been for a hike to Lost Mine, and, returning, had dawdled lazily, for the air was almost oppressively balmy. Dale, Ranny, and Court Parker were considerably ahead of the others, and as they reached the parade-ground they came suddenly upon Harry Vedder, whose turn it had been to fetch the mail and paper. The plump boy’s face was flushed and moist; his expression fairly exuded importance.
“Well!” he stated, without waiting for them to speak. “It’s come.”
Ranny stared. “Come?” he repeated. “What are you talking about, Dumpling? What’s come?”
Vedder puffed out his fat cheeks. “War!” he said solemnly.
For an instant no one spoke. Dale felt a queer, tingling thrill go through him. The thing seemed unreal, impossible. Somehow these past few weeks of delay and hesitation had thrust the idea farther and farther into the background of his mind. He caught a glimpse of Parker’s face, dazed and incredulous.
“What!” gasped Ranny. “You mean with–”
“Yep,” nodded Vedder. “The President made a fine speech last night to Congress, or something. I heard ’em talking about it at the post-office. Everybody’s as excited as the dickens. I guess it’s in all the papers, too, only Mr. Curtis’s wasn’t open.”
Dale’s eyes sought headquarters tent. Under the rolled-up flap he could see the scoutmaster sitting on his cot, his head bent intently over an outspread paper. Again that curious tingling went through the boy. Behind him the shouts and laughter of the approaching crowd seemed suddenly incongruous and out of place. He glanced again at Vedder, whose round face still radiated self-importance, and wondered how the boy could look so smug and complacent.
“Did Congress declare war?” asked Ranny, abruptly.
“I dunno; I guess so. They’re going to raise a whopping army. I heard one man say everybody from nineteen to twenty-five would have to go.”
“Have to go!” shrilled Court Parker. “Why, they’ll want to go, won’t they? I wish I was more than sixteen.”
Unconsciously the four were moving toward the scoutmaster’s tent. Others, hearing a word or two, caught up with them, and the news was passed quickly along. The throng paused at the tent entrance. Dale caught a glimpse of the newspaper across the top of which flared in black capitals:
PRESIDENT CALLS FOR WAR DECLARATION
“It’s true, then, Mr. Curtis!” Ranny Phelps exclaimed. “I thought it was coming. When are they going to–”
“Hold your horses, Ranny,” interrupted the scoutmaster. He stood up and came toward them, his face curiously elated. “There’s no time to answer a lot of questions now. Mess-call will sound any time. Hustle and wash up, fellows, and after dinner we’ll talk this over.”
Curious and excited as they were, no one protested. They scattered to their tents, chattering volubly, and the mess-call found them still speculating and asking questions of one another. During the meal the discussion continued but in a slightly more subdued key. A state of things which at first had seemed merely exciting and soul-stirring was coming home more keenly. They were beginning to make individual applications. Captain Chalmers would be called out, of course. Though over thirty, Mr. Curtis himself might enlist. Then some one thought suddenly of Wesley Becker, who was just nineteen. That seemed the strangest thing of all, for Wes, despite his semi-leadership, was merely one of themselves. But of course it was all the merest speculation; they didn’t really know anything yet. So when the meal was over and Mr. Curtis rose slowly in his place, there was a long, concerted sigh of relaxing tension.
“Fellows,” began the scoutmaster, quietly, “I want to read you the President’s message delivered to Congress last night. You won’t find it dull. On the contrary it’s about the most vivid, vital piece of writing I have ever read. It puts clearly before us the situation we are facing. It will make you prouder than ever of your country and its head.”
And without further preamble he began to read that wonderful document which has stirred the world and has taken its place among the immortal utterances of men. And as he read, eyes brightened, boyish faces flushed, brown hands gripped the rough edges of bench or table, or strained tightly over clasped knees. He finished, and there came a brief, eloquent moment of utter silence, followed by a swift outburst of wild applause.
The scoutmaster’s face lit up with a smile. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he said. “Makes you feel mighty proud to have a man like that at the helm.” He folded the paper and laid it on the table before him. “And now,” he went on, his shoulders squaring a bit, “I want to say a few words myself. A state of war exists, for Congress cannot help but back up the man who wrote that message. It’s been coming for a long time. Many of us have felt it and tried to plan a little in advance. Your signaling and first aid and drilling have all been with that idea in view. What I want now is that you shall give more time than ever to those things–practically all the rest of your time in camp here. Remember George Lancaster, that English chap who was in Troop One several years ago. To-day he’s one of the best signalers in the British army. It will mean hard work, but, unless I’m far wrong, work will swiftly come to be the great slogan throughout the country. Will you do this, fellows? Stand up, every one who’s willing.”
There was a rush, a clatter–a bench was overturned–in ten seconds not a boy remained seated.
“Fine!” smiled Mr. Curtis. “I thought I could count on you. When Mr. Thornton comes on Friday we’ll show him something that will surprise him. And we’ll give those folks at the rally something to think about, too.”
“But are we still going to have the rally, sir?” asked Bob Gibson.
Mr. Curtis laughed. “Of course we are,” he said emphatically. “You mustn’t think, Bob, that a state of war is going to disrupt the entire country. That would be hysterical. There’ll be unusual doings, of course. Things will be a bit different in many ways. But school and chores and all the ordinary routine of your daily lives must go on as they always have. Suppose we get out now and work up a little program for Mr. Thornton’s benefit.”
The days that followed, so radically different from anything the boys had planned, showed up their spirit admirably. Of course there were grumblers; those develop in any situation where discipline is involved. There were many moments of weariness and discouragement, too, when it seemed as if proficiency could never be attained. But underneath it all, stirring, invigorating, that wonderful sense of service–service to another, service to their country, perhaps, upheld and strengthened them. What they were doing was not merely play. Some day or other, far away or near, it would be of value; and the measure of that value no man could tell.
Mr. Thornton was due to reach camp Friday afternoon. The Aquita, in charge of Wesley Becker and another scout, went over to meet him, and as soon as the motor-boat was seen returning, a bugle blast summoned the others hastily from their tents.
“Fall in!” ordered Mr. Curtis, crisply. “Phelps will take charge while I go down to the dock.”
Only their eyes moved, but these followed him to the landing and they saw Mr. Thornton step ashore and pause for a moment or two of conversation before heading for the parade-ground. The banker’s face looked tired and his shoulders drooped a little. But as he caught sight of the scouts drawn up in a straight, soldierly line behind the colors his head went up and his eyes brightened with surprise and interest.
“’Tention, troop!” called Mr, Curtis, sharply. “Right dress!–Front!–Present arms!”
The “arms” were, of course, their staves, but the manœuver was executed with a snap and precision which many a company of militia might have envied. Then came the command, “Count off!” followed by, “Fours left–march!” and the squad swung smartly down the parade-ground.
In the half-hour of manœuvering which followed–and this included some fairly difficult formations for new recruits–every boy gave the best that was in him. And when it was all over, the expression on Mr. Thornton’s face was quite reward enough. At the command, “Fall out!” they surged around him, shaking him by the hand, thanking him exuberantly, and all trying at once to tell him how much more wonderful everything was than they had expected.
The council-fire that night was built out on the point instead of in the great stone fireplace. Because of Mr. Thornton’s presence, a special program had been arranged. There were scout games and stunts in abundance, songs galore, and a number of other features which had proved effective last summer. But it wasn’t quite all gaiety and careless amusement. Mingling with the joking and laughter and occasional bit of skylarking was a touch of sober seriousness. It was their last night in camp together. Moreover, from that momentous Tuesday things had never been really quite the same. Their daily drills and practice were rousing in them a sense of responsibility. They knew that all over the country preparations for war were being pushed energetically. There had been time also, to hear from home–of how this brother talked of enlisting in the marines, or that cousin, a member of Captain Chalmers’s own regiment, who had been ordered to hold himself in readiness to join the colors. And so at the end, standing shoulder to shoulder around the blaze, their young voices ringing out in the stirring strains of “America,” more than one throat tightened, and there were few who did not feel a tingling thrill beyond the thrill those verses usually evoked.
There came a pause. Then slowly John Thornton rose and stood for a moment facing them in silence.
“I want to thank you, boys,” he said at length, in tones which emotion had rendered brusk and almost harsh. “It–it has been a privilege and more than pleasure to see your surprising work this afternoon and to be with you in this way to-night. I am proud of you–prouder than you can ever know. I can say nothing more than this,” and his voice rang out suddenly with a note that stirred them inexplicably: “If only the youth of our country will measure up to your standards in the crisis that is before us, we need fear nothing for the future.”
CHAPTER XXIX
“EVERY SCOUT TO FEED A SOLDIER”
The returning scouts found Hillsgrove buzzing with preparation. In fact, so changed was the atmosphere of the town that it was hard to believe they had been away for little more than a week. Several of the young men had already enlisted in army or navy. The post-office, courthouse, and many of the stores displayed inspiring posters urging others to do the same. A home guard was being organized for the purpose of dealing effectually with any sort of disturbance from resident foreigners, while a number of men, both young and middle-aged, talked of forming a regular military troop to be drilled twice weekly on the green by army officers or men who had been at Plattsburg.
It was all stirring and inspiring, and there is no telling to what extent the members of Troop Five might have become involved had not Mr. Curtis given them a serious talk at the first meeting after their return from camp. Captain Chalmers had departed with his regiment to take up guard duty along the line in one of the important railroads of the State, leaving Mr. Curtis in general charge of the scout situation at Hillsgrove; so that this talk was later repeated in substance at meetings of the other troops.
“I know you’re all very keen to get into things and do your bit,” he said, when the boys gathered around him in the parish-house. “The only question, of course, is how you can be most useful without frittering away your time. I’ve taken the matter up with headquarters, and talked it over with the mayor and several other men, and have come to this conclusion: first of all, we’ll go ahead with our preparations for the rally, but instead of having it a free exhibition, as we planned, we’ll charge admission and turn over the proceeds to the Red Cross. Next, I’m going to organize a signaling corps and a first-aid division formed of the real experts in each troop. There may be no immediate use for either of these, but you’ll be ready when the time comes. Then there is the detail of helping to keep public order, in which the Boy Scouts have always been especially useful. There is no telling when or where you may be called upon, but your training and discipline helps you to quick thinking and action.”
He paused an instant, and then his voice took on a deeper, more earnest note. “But more important than anything else just now is the need for each one of you to do everything in his power to help conserve and increase the food supply. All over the world this supply is low. The whole of Europe looks to us for a goodly proportion of its daily bread, and we’ve got to meet that expectation. We’ve got to make this a year of bumper crops, even at a time when labor will naturally be scarcer than ever. And to help out in this crisis the men at the head of the Boy Scout movement have adopted a motto–a slogan–which should be first and foremost in every scout’s mind until the war is over. ‘Every Scout to Feed a Soldier!’ Isn’t that fine? A scout with a hoe may equal a man with a gun. The President himself has stated more than once that a man may serve his country as effectually in the corn-field as at the front. And how much more is this the duty of a boy whose age makes it impossible for him to reach the firing-line. I’ve known you fellows too long and too intimately to have any doubts as to your responses to this appeal. Those of you who have home gardens that will take all your time must look after them, releasing, if possible, some man for other work. The others, I hope, will volunteer their services to any one needing them, and I expect very soon to have an organized clearing-house for farmers in the neighborhood needing help and boys willing to furnish it. I may say that any one going into this will be allowed to absent himself from the afternoon school session and all day on Wednesdays. Later, the schools may be closed entirely for workers. Now, I know this doesn’t sound nearly so stirring and patriotic as joining a military company and drilling and all that; but this isn’t a moment in which to pick and choose. The duty of each one of us is to give himself where he is most needed. And, believe me, fellows, by helping to plant and harvest you will be performing the highest sort of service to your country and humanity. I want you to think this over to-night, and from to-morrow on I’ll be ready to take the names of volunteers.”
It was a rather silent crowd that filed out of the meeting-room a little later. To the great majority Mr. Curtis’s proposition certainly didn’t sound in the least interesting or alluring. On the contrary it had a decidedly depressing effect, and several openly declared that they’d be hanged if they’d spend the entire summer in that kind of drudgery. But second thought, aided, perhaps, by a little solid advice at home, wrought a change. The next afternoon the fellows held a private meeting of their own at which the few persistent objectors were crushed by bodily force, when necessary, and which ended in the whole troop volunteering as a body.
It wasn’t at all an easy thing for some of them to do. In boys like Ranny Phelps, who loathed “grubbing with a hoe” and had never had the slightest experience in farming, it was something almost akin to heroism. But not one of them shirked or backed down. Within a week they were all placed, and, from that time on, blistered hands, weary backs, and aching muscles were the order of the day. As Ranny once expressed it,–airily, but with an underlying touch of seriousness,–the only bright spots in the week were Sunday, when they could sleep late, and the two afternoons they were let off at four o’clock to practise for the rally.
They made the most of those brief hours. In good weather the drill took place in a pasture belonging to old Mr. Grimstone, after which they enjoyed a refreshing plunge in the lake, and generally ended up with supper in the cabin. When he had time, which wasn’t often, Mr. Curtis joined them. Usually Ranny Phelps was in charge, and whenever they could they carried off Mr. Grimstone for supper.
It was on one of these latter occasions, as they sat out on the bank of the lake after supper, that Frank Sanson suddenly voiced a feeling which was present, more or less often, in the breast of every scout in the troop.
“Mr. Grimstone,” he said abruptly, “I don’t suppose you realize what a dandy thing you did when you gave us this place. I don’t know what we’d do without it now; do you, fellows?”
There was an emphatic chorus of agreement which brought a touch of color into the old man’s leathery, tanned face and made him shuffle his feet uneasily. Then suddenly he raised his eyes and there was a twinkle in them.
“It ain’t me you ought to thank,” he said abruptly. “It’s that Dale boy there; he’s to blame.”
“Dale Tompkins!” exclaimed several surprised voices at once. “Why, what’s he got to do with it?”
“Most everything,” returned Grimstone, briefly. “It was him that brought out my dinner last Thanksgivin’, an cooked it, an’ et it with me. That’s what give me a new idea of you boys, an’ nothin’ else.”
An astonished silence followed, broken presently by a low whistle from Mr. Curtis. “Well, what do you know about that,” he murmured. “A good turn come home to roost!”
But no one heard him, for the whole crowd, as one boy, had pounced on Tompkins and was pummeling him and rolling him about over the ground to the accompaniment of shouts and laughter and jocular, approving comment.
Glancing sidewise at Caleb Grimstone, the scoutmaster’s eyes widened with surprise and sudden comprehension. The old man’s gaze was fixed on the flushed, laughing face of the kicking, protesting victim. His own brown face glowed; his stern, tight lips were relaxed in a smile which was almost tender.
CHAPTER XXX
THE SILVER CROSS
In spite of their long and careful preparation, the members of Troop Five were not a little keyed up and excited when the night of the big scout rally finally arrived. Each boy dressed with unusual care, and the majority reached the parish-house some time before the hour named for assembling. From here they marched in good order to the old-fashioned frame building, whose entire third floor constituted the masonic hall, where the performance was to come off. Another troop was close on their heels, and, in their hurry to get there first, the boys pushed and jostled one another on the narrow, twisting stairs. But in the hallway above they paused to fall in, and at the word of command from Mr. Curtis they marched through the double doors into the brightly lighted assembly-room, wheeled smartly to the right, and took up their position at one side of the doorway.
The hall was already well filled and resounded with the buzz of conversation. Pretty girls in Red Cross costumes flitted among the audience seeking contributions and memberships. By eight o’clock the rows of chairs that packed over half the big room were occupied, and there were people standing. When the doors were finally closed and the entertainment began, the place was almost uncomfortably jammed by a throng of proud mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters of the performers, to say nothing of a great many other members of the community who were interested in the movement or curious to see the result of the past year’s work.
The first thing on the program was a review and inspection of the entire scout body by Captain Chalmers, who had unexpectedly obtained leave of absence for the occasion. When this was over, there followed a brief pause, during which the captain, standing before the long, double row of boyish figures, in their trim, immaculate uniforms, conferred in whispers with Scoutmaster Curtis, whom he had summoned from the line. Instantly a faint, scarcely perceptible stir swept down the lines of waiting scouts. What was coming? they asked themselves eagerly. Dale Tompkins caught the captain’s glance fixed on him for a moment, and wondered uneasily whether anything was the matter with his equipment. He had no time to grow seriously disturbed, however, before Mr. Curtis returned to the head of the troop and the captain faced the audience.
“I dare say you have all heard more or less about our scout law and the high principles it inculcates in every boy who promises to obey it,” he said in his pleasant, easy manner. “I’d like to tell you briefly about the way two scouts right here in our own town applied some of the most vital of these principles. The first incident happened late last fall, when a powerfully charged electric wire was blown down in a storm and dangled in the street. A small boy saw it, and, without realizing the danger, grasped it in both hands. Instantly the current, passing into his body, made him helpless. He screamed with pain and struggled to tear himself loose, but in the throng that quickly gathered no one dared to touch him. No one, that is, until one of the scouts I speak of appeared. He had been a tenderfoot only a few days, but he was a true scout at heart. Without hesitation he gripped the child by one shoulder and was instantly flung the width of the street. Recovering, he remembered something he had read about electricity and insulation, remembered that paper was a good non-conductor and rubber even better. In a flash he had wrapped about his hands some of the newspapers he carried, flung down his waterproof delivery-bag to stand on, and went again to the aid of the child, this time successfully. It was not only a brave deed, but he kept his head; and when the danger was over he slipped quietly away without waiting for either praise or thanks.”
A burst of applause and hand-clapping came from the audience, and while waiting for it to subside the captain glanced again toward Dale Tompkins. This time he did not meet the boy’s questioning glance, but saw only drooping lids and a face flushed crimson. His smile deepened a little as he raised one hand for silence.
“A few months later the other scout was skating with a companion on Crystal Lake. He could swim only a few strokes, but when the second boy broke through the ice he did not hesitate an instant in going to his rescue. He was dragged into the water and nearly drowned, but he, too, kept his head and held up his friend until help came.
“I like to think that the actions of those two boys was typical rather than exceptional. I don’t believe there is a scout here,” his glance swept the line of khaki-clad figures for an instant, “who, given the chance to risk his life for another, would not respond exactly as these boys did. When I heard of what they had done I applied to our national council for honor medals such as are awarded to scouts for the saving of life. They arrived some time ago, but I awaited this occasion to present them. Scouts Dale Tompkins and Frank Sanson will please step forward.”
Amid the thunder of applause that followed, Captain Chalmers turned and faced the line of scouts again, two small square boxes in his hand. Dazed, bewildered, and blushing furiously, Dale stood as if rooted to the spot until Harry Vedder gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. Then he stumbled forward a few steps, realized that another halting figure was beside him, and, recovering a little, but with face still flushing, he crossed the interminable space to where the captain stood.
One thing only was he thankful for at that moment–the heartening touch of Sanson’s shoulder against his own. To have faced the ordeal alone would have been almost intolerable. He did not raise his eyes above the third button on the captain’s coat, and so he missed the look of pride and approval the man bent on him as he pinned the silver cross upon the boy’s left breast.
“It is a great pleasure for me to give you this,” he said, “and to thank you in the name of the national council for having proved so great a credit to the scouts.”
Dale’s hand went up, and he saluted. “Thank you, sir,” he said in a low tone.
“And remember, both of you,” went on the captain, when he had placed the second cross on Sanson’s coat, “that it isn’t the medal that counts, but the deed which has earned it.”
As the boys turned and marched back to their places the applause burst out again with renewed vigor until it seemed as if it would never cease. But at length it died away and the entertainment proceeded. Troop Three started off with an exhibition of signaling which was swift, snappy, and on the minute. Then came some tent-erecting, and, following that, two troops combined to give an elaborate and graphic exhibition of their expertness in first aid, which met with much favor. When this was over, the troops who had finished lined up and stood at ease on either side of the center to give Troop Five room for their evolutions.
Bob Gibson’s position was directly in front of the closed double doors leading into the hall. He had scarcely taken it before he became conscious of a distinct odor of something burning. For a moment he was uneasy; then he remembered that there was a register just behind him, and decided that the janitor had probably chosen this auspicious moment to consume in the furnace the rubbishy accumulation of several offices on the lower floors.
When the applause that greeted their appearance had subsided, Mr. Curtis stepped forward to explain briefly the purpose of their drill. He had scarcely spoken more than a sentence or two when Gibson became aware of a slight stir among some of the audience and noticed that a number of those in the front row seemed to be staring fixedly at his feet.
A flush mounted to Bob’s forehead. He was quite sure his shoes were immaculately polished. He also realized perfectly that he ought not notice the audience, but remain rigidly at attention. But presently curiosity got the better of discipline. He shot a furtive glance at his feet–a glance that flashed sidewise beyond the trim shoes and well-fitting leggings to rest in dumb, horrified amazement on the crack extending below the double doors, through which a thin line of smoke was slowly trickling.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE RIOT WEDGE
For a long moment Bob Gibson stood like one petrified. He thought of the crowd, of the narrow, twisted stairs, of panic. What ought he do? What was there possible for him to do? He tried to remember what the scout book said about fires and panics, but his brain seemed numb. Before it had cleared there came a choking cry from the other side, and Bennie Rhead, the youngest scout in the troop, slipped out of the line, and before any one could stop him, had jerked open the door to let in a rolling cloud of dense black smoke.
Like a flash Wesley Becker leaped after him, dragged him back, and slammed the door; but the damage was done. There was a long, gasping, concerted sigh, as of hundreds of people catching their breath in unison; in a second more the hall resounded with that cry which chills the blood and sends shivers chasing down the spine. To Gibson, standing pale and frightened, it seemed as if that whole close-packed assemblage surged up like some awful monster and rushed toward him, a bedlam of shrill sound; while out of doors the wild clamor of the fire-alarm suddenly burst forth to add horror to the scene.
Shaking and terrified, Bob nevertheless stood motionless, partly because he did not know what else to do, but mainly because the fellows on either side of him had not stirred. He dug his teeth into his under lip to keep back a frightened whimper, and then of a sudden the clear, high voice of Mr. Curtis rang out above the deafening din and turmoil:
“Troop Five prepare to form double riot wedge! One!”
Instinctively Bob leaped two paces forward and a little to the right. In like fashion the others darted to their positions with the swift precision of machines. Not a scout failed. Even Bennie Rhead, frightened as he was, made no mistake, and in a trice the wedge was complete.
“Two!” shouted the scoutmaster.
Down swung the staves, interlocking in a double barrier of stout hickory backed by equally sturdy muscle. The scoutmaster had barely time to place himself at the apex of the wedge before the mob struck it.
“Hold fast, boys!” he cried. “Brace your feet and don’t let them break the line!” He flung up both arms in the faces of the maddened throng. “Stop!” he shouted. “You can’t get out this way. The stairs are impassable. Stop crowding! There’s no danger if you keep your heads. The fire-escapes are in good order. The windows–”
The rest was choked off by the crushing weight of the mob dashing against the barrier. Even in the second row Bob felt the double line shake and give under the strain, and instinctively he dropped a shoulder against the pressure and spread out his legs to brace himself. MacIlvaine noticed what he was doing, and shouted to the others to follow Bob’s example; and presently the line steadied and held. Then a shrill whistle cut through the clamor, stilling it a little and making it possible to hear the stentorian voice of Captain Chalmers from somewhere in the rear of the crowd.
“You can’t get out by the stairs! There are fire-escapes at both front and rear. Ladders will soon be raised to the other windows. There’s no danger if you only keep your heads. Stop crowding and form in line at the windows. Scouts will see that these lines are kept and that the women and children are taken out first.”