Boy Scouts on the Trail

CHAPTER IX

THROUGH STORM AND DARKNESS The rest was inaudible, scattered by the storm, which broke out again with a fresh strength. But Steve had heard enough. Fire, then, was to be their weapon, and not explosives. The tins must contain gasoline, or some even more powerful inflammable. But it made little difference in the result, for the destruction would be as great or greater. With sudden decision the boy made up his mind to delay no longer. His every muscle tense, he waited impatiently for the next flash. The instant it had come and gone, he began to edge backward, slowly, silently, with infinite care, over the wet, yielding sand. It took a long time to worm past the length of the canoe, but after that he made better progress. At length, a hundred feet or more from the end of the point and on the opposite side, he rose to his feet and hurried along the beach toward the mainland. Anyone who has tried walking in the dark will realize something of his difficulties. Actually Steve could not see his hand before his face, and he had not gone twenty feet before he found himself splashing in the water. He edged away from that and presently tripped and almost fell over a hummock of beach grass. Then, very swiftly, all sense of direction left him. His only guidance was the splash of waves about his ankles and the tingle of salt spray against his face. It was a nightmare, that blind struggle through the storm; a nightmare of pelting, lashing rain, of stumbling, falling, wading through surf, of pounding over hard sand. And like a nightmare little things grew big and big things little; time seemed to stand still or stretch out into infinity. Worst of all was the blackness, thick and suffocating, that pressed upon his eyeballs and tangled about his feet. And behind that blackness there was fear. Not fear for self so much; he was past that now. The thing that dominated and urged him on, that kept him going in spite of weariness and doubt and panting breath, was fear lest he should be too late to reach his goal before the others. And in the end he was too late! His first inkling of it was the sight of those three spots of light twinkling low over to the left. At first they meant nothing to his weary brain. Then, watching them dazedly, he realized all at once that they were electric flashlights, and with a sudden, bitter pang he understood. The men were almost opposite him, moving rapidly along the other side of Cobb’s Point, which here was some two hundred yards across. Unhampered by the darkness, they had caught up to him, were really ahead of him, in fact, for Steve had to cross the base of the point to reach the shipyard a mile or more to the westward. With a discouraged droop to his shoulders, the boy plodded on mechanically for a little way and then halted. The spots of light had suddenly shifted. He could still make out a faint, luminous glow, but it was obscured by moving shadows. And then it came to him that for some minutes past he had felt no water sloshing around his feet. “It’s the mainland,” he muttered. “They’ve left the point and turned up the other shore.” It was no time for caution and delay, and Steve went after them at once. Though his attempt to reach the shipyard first had failed, there was still a chance, though not nearly so sure, of gaining his end by following close behind the plotters and giving the alarm before they had time to carry out the details of their plan. In the brief interval of waiting a number of other possibilities had flashed through his mind, only to be discarded. He might make his way back to Shelbourne and get help. There was a good road leading through the woods from the village which was used by workmen going to and from their quarters; a motor car could make the distance in five minutes. But Shelbourne was quite as far from Cobb’s Point as the shipyard, and there were sure to be delays in rousing people and getting out a car. He thought, too, of pushing straight through the woods from where he was and trying to hit that road, but the chances of getting lost in even that short stretch of scrub and tangled undergrowth were too great to be risked. The open beach was really the only sure way, and Steve took it without hesitation. With stumbling, uncertain steps he felt his way across the point and gained the other shore. Far, far ahead of him, it seemed, wavered the faint glow of the flashlights, and their apparent distance startled him. He had planned to follow as close behind the plotters as he dared; it had not occurred to him that they might outdistance him altogether. With a sharp catching of his breath, he plunged forward and began to run. A moment later the lights blinked out abruptly. CHAPTER IX THROUGH STORM AND DARKNESS Steve fell twice and a thorny branch lashed him across the face with painful force before he got the better of that panicky dash. One of two things must have happened. Either the flashlights had been extinguished, or else the men had passed around a bend which hid the sight of them from view. The latter was perhaps the more likely; but it was the possibility that they had heard him and were lurking ahead in the darkness, awaiting his approach, that turned him cold. It was the first time his nerve had been really shaken, but it was shaken now. The darkness or the plotters, taken separately, he could face without tremors. It was the combination of the two, the combination of the unknown, the unseen, the suspense of uncertainty, which made him shiver and brought out a clammy perspiration on his forehead. It set him to thinking, also, of the camp and wishing with a desperate sort of longing for the presence of some of the fellows to back him up. If only Cavvy were here, with his cool head and ready wit; his sturdy fearlessness would be a tower of strength. Why, even little Shrimp Willett would be a comfort. But they were all back there in camp with lights and warmth and cheerfulness about them, while he was here—alone. And he must go forward alone, too, no matter what that beastly blackness held in store for him. He dug his teeth into his under lip. Then his chin went up abruptly. What had got into him? What was he thinking of? Why, at this very instant men were facing with a smile things a thousand times worse than this. Black wastes of shell-torn barrenness, tangled with barbed wire, littered with unknown pitfalls, loomed into his imagination. There were shadows brightened ominously by the flare of signal rockets or the flash of hand grenades; silences shattered by the thunder of big guns or the whining ping of sharpshooters’ bullets. And in imagination that worst horror of all—the deadly poison gas—caught him for an instant by the throat and choked him. Yet over there men looked hourly into the face of such a death and laughed, while he was afraid to take a little risk—for them! A burning flush flamed into the boy’s face and he clenched his hands spasmodically. From his lips came a sound of mingled shame and fury and determination. “What a cur I am!” he grated scornfully. “What a beastly coward to be downed by a little dark and wet! And I won’t be!” Doubt and hesitation thrown aside, he sped on along the beach. Once or twice the thought of what might be waiting for him slipped past that mental barrier of resolution, but he flung it fiercely back. And when he had gone two hundred yards or so he began to breathe more easily. They could scarcely have been much further off than this when the lights vanished. Another hundred yards and he was quite certain. It was impossible in the darkness to tell where the shoreline curved, but he had a feeling that it must be about this point. A few minutes later the faint, distant gleam of light ahead confirmed his guess. “All that stupid fuss about nothing,” he growled. “Now it’s up to me to catch up with them.” But though he did his best, he was still a hundred yards behind when, as nearly as he could guess, they reached the wide estuary of the shipyard. There was a dock here where supplies and materials were landed, and from it a well-used road led through the regular lines of store houses, machine shops and countless other buildings. Almost at the edge of this road the lights winked out again, but this time Haddon felt no uneasiness. Though it was still blowing hard, the rain had lessened noticeably. Some of the guards, more zealous than the rest, might venture forth, and the twinkle of strange lights would inevitably raise an alarm. Steve paused for an instant and stared ahead, trying to penetrate the darkness. To his right, among the buildings, a few scattered electric lights shone obscurely, but they did little toward relieving the general gloom. Slipping along from shadow to shadow, the plotters would have no difficulty in gaining any part of the yard they chose for their incendiary purpose. But this same condition was a corresponding aid to him. Having visited the yard, he knew the general direction of the guard house. Now, when the men ahead vanished into the gloom, Steve turned abruptly to his right across an open space of recently cleared land. He found it far from easy going. There were stumps and roots to trip him up; hollows and other pitfalls to avoid. With the spies so near, a fall or even a noisy stumble might ruin everything. But the boy crept on, feeling his way forward, chafing at the sense of precious minutes flying, until the dark bulk of the first building loomed before him. Speeding a little, he passed along the rear of it, crossed a slightly brighter space, and gained the shadow of the next one. But as he reached the further corner a sound, slight yet unmistakeable, brought him to a sudden halt, breathless and tingling. The sound was the faint splintering of wood, and close upon its heels came the noise of a window being slowly lifted. With nerves like taut-strung wires, Steve crept forward and peered around the corner. In front of the third building in the row hung one of the temporary electric globes that were dotted sparsely over the shipyard. At this distance it served merely to lighten the gloom a trifle. But Haddon, staring intently into the shadows, presently made out one which seemed darker than the rest—a shadow that moved slightly, to merge a moment later into the blacker darkness of an open window. Just a second the boy stood petrified. From the first it had been his plan not alone to prevent the catastrophe, but to try and bring about a capture of the plotters. But the sight of one of them actually entering the building shocked him to a realizing sense of how much more vital it was to prevent the fire from getting headway. In a flash he had left his hiding and headed for the guard house on the run. Racing across the open space between the two buildings he sped through the shadows back of the third one, circled it, and gained the open road. Instinctively he kept to the darker side of this. The padding of his sodden shoes made scarcely any sound on the hard dirt, and there was a chance that he might escape detection. Presently the lighted windows of the guards’ bunk house loomed ahead like a beacon. There was a swift, final spurt along the silent, deserted road, a nervous, backward glance which revealed only the placid darkness unlighted by the sinister glare he feared. Then he gained the steps, stumbled up them, and flung open the door which yielded to his touch. CHAPTER X HIS BIT For a moment Steve leaned panting against the door, blinking in the glare of the long, brightly lighted room. He was conscious of dozen faces turning toward him, and of a man in khaki rising swiftly from a table close at hand. In that first instant he could not seem to find his voice, but his sodden, dripping, mud-caked figure, his white face, streaked across one cheek with red, his wide, dilated eyes, evidently were eloquent, almost, as speech. “What is it?” snapped the man, moving quickly toward him. “What’s the matter?” “Fire!” gulped Haddon thickly. “Six men—out there—” he waved one arm. “They’ve got cans of gasoline—or something. I followed them—from Loon Island. They’re spies. I—heard them plotting to—burn the yard.—” A babel of exclamations drowned his voice. There was a noisy scrape of many chair-legs. As the men leaped up, cards dropped from laxed fingers and fluttered to the floor. A chair fell backwards with a crash. “A plot to burn the yard!” gasped the man before him. His face paled beneath the tan; then flushed. Across one temple a tiny vein began to throb. “That can’t be so! Why—” “It’s true, I tell you!” cried the boy desperately. “I heard them planning it. The leader’s a German spy. I saw him with von Bernstorff in Washington a year ago. One of them’s already broken into a building down the road. Unless you hurry it will be too late. You must believe me!” The man stared silently at him for an instant, one hand mechanically gripping the butt of a Colt that swung at his hip. Then he whirled around. “Get busy, fellows,” he ordered with crisp decisiveness. “It may be a false alarm, but the kid seems pretty sure of his facts.” He turned to Steve again. “Which building is it? Third from the dock on the left? Good. The rest of ’em may be anywhere. Charley, take eight men and slip along by the dry docks. Look into every shop, but don’t waste time. The rest of you come with me. Switch on the search lights, Dick. Hold up, though. Wait about three minutes and then throw the switch. That’ll give us time to spread around. Hustle, boys!” The admonition seemed scarcely necessary. Before he had ceased speaking each man had seized a rifle, buckled on a revolver and stood ready. Except for that first moment of startled surprise, there had been no stir or tumult. They were well disciplined and apparently realized the need for speed and caution, for when the leader issued forth, they followed him silently and swiftly. Like twin lines of phantoms, the two squads glided into the open and sped away to their positions. It was as if they meant to make up now for the relaxed vigilance which had made this danger possible. Without a word the smaller body disappeared into the darkness toward the water front, and at a whispered command two men hurried off to take their stand at the limits of the yard nearest the village. The remainder, under the leader whose name was Kelly, scattered among the buildings to the left of the road. Steve went with this party and presently found himself with Kelly and another man speeding toward the building near the end of the row which he had seen the spy enter. From a broken sentence or two he learned that the system of search lights had just been installed, but not formally received from the contractor, and hence had not been turned on. That explained the first darkness of the yard. But there was little time for conversation and there was to be even less. For as they dashed up to the front of the building, the windows which before had been mere patches of blackness were sharply outlined now with the lurid, flickering glow of fire. A savage snarl came from Kelly’s throat and he leaped for the door, master key in hand. The other man ran past him, pulled up at the corner, and yanked out his gun. Twice it spat fire, the echoes of the shots crashing through the silent yard with sharp distinctness. “Get him?” snapped Kelly, flinging open the door. “I did,” was the grim reply. But it passed unheeded. Steve himself only recalled it afterward; for as the door swung open a cloud of smoke belched forth and behind it they could see a leaping, quivering wall of flame. At almost the same instant there came a blinding flash and the whole yard was bathed suddenly in a flood of clear, white light. “The extinguisher, Joe—quick!” grated Kelly. “We’ve got to stop it before this wind takes hold.” He whirled on Steve. “Chase back to the bunkhouse, kid, and tell Dick to start the pumps and sound the alarm. Run!” Steve ran, and long afterwards he had only to close his eyes to bring back every detail of that strange scene—for it was strange beyond description. The search lights had come on, and the wide road flanked with buildings was as brilliant as the busy street of any city, but as silent as the grave and as empty of any signs of life. And yet, to the boy, that surface emptiness and silence fairly pulsed with life—vivid, vital, elemental life, which might flame up, white hot, at any instant like the fire of a volcano bursting its thin crust of ashes. And as he ran Steve waited tingling, almost breathless, for that outbreak. It came just as he reached the bunkhouse steps—a pistol shot, sharp and snapping. There was another and another still, and out of the tail of his eye he glimpsed indistinctly the swift dash of some figures past the rear of a building across the road. Racing up the steps, Steve panted out his message. In a moment more the piercing wail of a siren screamed shrilly through the night, followed quickly by the dull throbbing of machinery. Back in the road again, the boy paused for an instant, his heart beating fast with excitement. The sense of empty quiet had vanished utterly. Above him, from the engine-house stack, the high, piercing note of the siren rose and fell shrieking a clamorous warning. From somewhere in the yard a rifle shot came sharply to his ears. Ahead of him several guards were thudding down the road towards the clouds of red-tinged smoke which poured from the burning building with increasing volume. He ran a few steps in that direction, slowed down for a lagging second or two, spurted again, and ducked around the corner of a big machine shop on the left of the road a little below the guard house. Back of this ran the completed portion of a high board fence topped with barbed wire which would ultimately encircle the entire yard. A moment before he had glimpsed, slipping along that fence, the figure of a man whose furtive movements roused instant suspicion. He might just possibly be one of the guards, but to Steve, remembering the three he had seen running that same way a little while before, it seemed much more likely that he was one of the spies heading for the end of the fence and freedom. There was little time to think or plan or be afraid. It was pure instinct which sent him flying to cut the creature off—instinct, and a consuming fury against the treachery of these villains. He reached the rear of the building at almost the same instant of his quarry. There was no pause, no word; only a sob of exulting recognition jolted from Steve’s lips as the whole weight of his solid bone and muscle struck the fellow and they went down together. In falling, he gripped the man about the body. Almost instantly he realized that his hands were more than full. The play of steel muscles beneath his fingers told him that much, even before those furious writhings began, or the fierce blows which fell upon his head and shoulders. Twice his hoarse cry for help rang out before he ducked his head defensively under the other’s arm, and tightened the clutch of interlacing fingers against the hollow of the fellow’s back. Blows began to fall upon his neck and shoulders, fierce, heavy blows that shook his whole body and jolted the wind in gasps through his clenched teeth. The man heaved up almost to his full height, dragging the boy by sheer strength over yards of roughstones and stubble, but still he failed to loose that grip. Something sharp like the upturned spike in a forgotten piece of planking tore through Steve’s clothes and bit deeply into his thigh; his face, scraped by the rough pressure against the man’s coat, burned like fire. But he hung on doggedly in spite of pain and weariness and failing breath. Then came a blow upon his neck, a cruel, dazing blow which made his senses reel and brought tears of pain into his eyes. Would they never come? he wondered dully. He could not strike back without loosening his hold. He tried to move his head a little to protect his neck, but again that iron fist beat down on his quivering flesh and wrenched from him a moan of agony. His senses swam; he felt his muscles laxing. Now searching fingers slid across his shrinking neck and clutched his throat. Before the choking grip had tightened a muffled cry of pain and dull fury burst from him—a cry which, even to his dazed brain, seemed strangely echoed and prolonged. Then came an instant winking out of everything. When consciousness returned he could breathe again, but persistent hands were busy prying loose the grip of his cramped fingers. “You can’t do it!” he panted stubbornly. “I won’t—” “Easy, boy, easy!” said a roughly soothing voice. “Let go, son; it’s all right now. We’ve got him.” Steve’s muscles relaxed instinctively, and as the spy’s body was drawn from his grasp, his bruised shoulders dropped back wearily against a supporting knee. Blinking, he stared upward at a vaguely familiar face bending over him. It was a moment or two before he recognized it as the face of the guard called Dick. Two others stood nearby and between them sagged the body of the prisoner, whose limpness proclaimed no gentle handling. “Don’t let him—get away,” murmured Steve. “He’s—he’s the leader of the bunch.” “No fear, son,” Dick assured him grimly. Then his face changed. “Are you hurt bad?” he asked anxiously. A crooked smile twisted the boy’s lips, and he shook his head. “Not—much,” he said slowly. “I—I’ll get up—in a second. Did—did the fire get away from them?” “Not yet,” answered the big guard. “They’re fighting it hard. At the worst it’ll take only the two buildings to windward.” He slid an arm around Haddon and lifted him to his feet, supporting him carefully as they moved slowly back to the road. “Pure grit,” he remarked over one shoulder. “The beast had him near murdered.” A faint flush crept up into Steve’s face, but he was not thinking of the praise, though this meant much to him. His mind had leaped a gap of many thousand miles; and in imagination he saw a battered band of men in khaki returning from a foray. Again that twisted smile curved his dry lips. He was not one of them—might never be. But he had done his best for them, and in his heart there glowed a sudden sense of humble comradeship which was its own reward. CHAPTER XI THE LAST NIGHT Back on the main thoroughfare of the shipyard, Steve stared about him with widening eyes. How could he ever have thought the place quiet or empty he wondered? The siren still wailed shrilly from the engine stack. But added to it now was the dull, hoarse clamor of many voices rising and falling, the roar and clatter of arriving motor cars, the thud of hurrying feet. Along the road as far as he could see ranged a long line of empty automobiles, and fresh ones were constantly arriving. Workmen and mechanics belonging to the yard, fishermen from Shelbourne, farmers from the surrounding country who had heard and answered the alarm, poured from the cars and were marshalled into line and sent to the danger points by a file of soldiers. “Where on earth did they come from?” the boy asked, staring at the latter. “It’s Major Whitcomb’s bunch,” explained Dick. “He got here about five minutes ago and took charge. Come ahead in; he’ll want to see you.” Steve was about to protest, but remembering that he would probably have to tell his story sometime, he gave way with a shrug. Dick pushed through the throng, followed by the two guards with their prisoner. A moment later the group halted before a big table in the bunk house behind which sat the officer who had charge of constructing the shipyard. He answered Dick’s salute smartly; then Steve caught the gimlet stare from a pair of cool gray eyes. “Two more?” the officer questioned curtly. “No, sir; only one,” returned Dick. “This is the lad who brought us warning of the plot He’s just caught the fellow, here, who he says is leader of the whole gang.” Major Whitcomb’s face changed abruptly. The gray eyes softened a bit, and under the crisp mustache his lips laxed something of their sternness. “You’re just the one I want to see, then,” he said in a friendly voice. “You look done up, too. Bring a chair and sit down here. Sergeant, take this man in charge and don’t let him out of your sight. Now,” he added when Steve had brought over a chair, and dropped down in it, “tell me all about it. Who are you? and how did you get mixed up in this business?” Steve obeyed, telling his story as briefly and as clearly as he could. The officer listened intently, making an occasional note and asking many questions. When Haddon had finished, the man bent forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “That was splendidly done, and I congratulate you,” he said warmly. “You’ve rendered a great service to the country. I needn’t tell you what an enormous amount of damage and delay would have resulted if the fire had gotten a start; you seem to have realized that perfectly. You’re quite certain of your identification of the man you saw in Washington?” “Quite, sir. I’d be willing to swear to it.” “You may have to later when the secret service men take hold,” said Major Whitcomb. “It’s a fine bag,” he added grimly, his glance sweeping the further end of the room where several sullen-faced men stood guarded by half a dozen soldiers and two lay helpless on mattresses with doctors bending over them. “We’ve got all six, thanks to you. Well, you’ll be wanting to get back to your friends; they’ll be anxious about you. I’ll send you over in my car at once.” He called the sergeant and gave a crisp order. Then, with a cordial word or two of farewell, he dismissed the boy and Steve left the building. Five minutes later he was leaning back in the officer’s car speeding toward Shelbourne. Now that there was nothing more for him to do, the inevitable reaction had come, and he could scarcely hold his head up. Every muscle ached; the cut in his thigh and that other lesser one across his face, burned and stung. With head back and eyes half closed, he listened vaguely to the remarks of the soldier at the wheel, but the mere answering of the man’s occasional question seemed like the most tremendous effort. They had reached the outskirts of the village, and the car was just turning into the lighted main street, when a sudden shout halted the chauffeur, who slowed down and stopped. A moment later the car was surrounded by a mob of excited boys and before Steve realized what was happening, he was dragged from his seat by a dozen hands, while a score of voices poured question after question into his dazed ears. It was Mr. Wendell who came to his rescue and to whom he conveyed the information that the fire was under control and everything practically all right. Seeing the boy’s state of exhaustion, the scoutmaster did not press him further, and the whole crowd turned back to the docks, with Haddon in the center. It was not human nature to refrain from asking questions, and little by little during their trip back to camp the essential incidents of Steve’s adventures were extracted in scraps and disjointed sentences. The details followed next morning. A night’s rest put new life into the boy and though he hated talking about himself, he very soon found that he would have no peace until he had answered every question. It was Cavanaugh, in fact, who suggested to Mr. Wendell soon after breakfast that Haddon might as well tell his story to the assembled crowd and get it over with. “I guess you’re right, Jim,” agreed the scoutmaster. “We really ought to save the yarn for the council fire to-night, but I don’t suppose the fellows can wait that long. As a matter of fact I feel a sort of hankering myself to know just how it all came about.” And so, in the shade of the mess tent, with the scouts gathered about him in a close circle, Steve told his tale. He was stammering and embarrassed at first, but gradually he warmed to the narration, losing his self consciousness in the interest of recalling the strenuous hours on Loon Island and in the pursuit along the beach through the storm. To be sure, he quite failed to do himself justice and only persistent questioning brought out the details he slurred over. But Cavvy, who sat beside him, saw to it that those questions were asked and answered, and when it was over the two strolled off together. “And to think that we laughed that night you told us about the man in the dory,” remarked the blond fellow whimsically after a brief silence. “I suppose it sounded awfully silly the way I put it,” said Steve quickly. “ We were the silly ones—regular nuts, in fact.” Cavvy sighed. “I wish to thunder I’d been with you, old kid.” Steve laughed a little. “I wish you had. I never wanted anything more in my life when I was stumbling along that beach through the dark. I was scared then, all right. Now, if you’d only been along—” “We’d have been scared together, I guess,” chuckled Cavvy. “Well, I wasn’t, and that’s an end to it. How does it feel to be a celebrity? You’ll have your name in the paper, and be thanked by the Government, and—” “Slush!” Steve pounded his friend on the back and when the brief tussle subsided, he hastened to change the subject. This was not difficult, for there were plenty of other topics to occupy them. With two weeks of camp gone, the third and last one seemed crowded with various contests and scout activities for which there had not been time before. That very afternoon an aquatic meet was scheduled, and to-morrow would be taken up by the track events which would go far toward deciding who was going to win the coveted camp emblem for the year. An all day picnic to Loon Island was also being considered, and after that the day of departure loomed disagreeably near. It came all too soon for everyone—the end of those three golden weeks which, at the beginning, had seemed almost as if they were going to last all summer. Scarcely a boy in the crowd but longed to stretch them into six, and it was no small tribute to their new-found sense of responsibility and willingness to serve, that not one of them even made the suggestion. They had their work to do at home—on farms, in gardens, in the woods and along the country roads searching out black walnut trees for the Government. There were War Saving stamps to sell, and all those other duties which the war had brought home to them. It had been understood in the beginning that three weeks was the utmost which could be taken from those tasks, and even around the council fire on that last evening there were no complaints. “But just think of the years when we had a whole three months’ vacation,” sighed Cavvy whimsically, after the last song had been sung and they were moving slowly tentwards. “Those were the good old days, all right. You never appreciate what you’ve got—till you haven’t got it.” He sighed. “I s’pose you couldn’t change your mind, old man, and stay a couple of weeks with me before you go home?” he added, to Steve Haddon. “I’m afraid not,” the big chap said regretfully. “Dad hasn’t been away from Washington even over a Sunday. He says he’s nearly driven to death and is counting on me to help him out with clerical work. I wish I could, though.” “You don’t wish it any more than I do. But if you can’t, you can’t. Lord knows we’re doing little enough to help. Gee! but I wish I was old enough to enlist.” “I’m going into the Navy if this war lasts two years more,” volunteered Haddon. “You are? Same here. That’s funny, isn’t it? I hope— Well, no I don’t, either. Nobody wants it to last any longer than it has to, but I would like to get into it some way besides grubbing with a hoe and selling Liberty Bonds. See here; if you can’t come now, will you promise to visit me during Christmas vacation?” “Sure—if you’ll spend part of it with me.” “That’s a bargain.” In front of the tent their hands met in a firm clasp. Then Cavvy groaned. “Reveille at four—and two hours’ hard work striking tents!” he murmured. “Guess we’d better hit the hay.” CHAPTER XII “WHAT IS SCOUTING FOR?” A week later the camp on Long Point was only a memory—something to discuss pleasantly, perhaps, at odd moments, but of little real importance compared with the ordinary work and play of the crowd who had been there. Work decidedly predominated with most of them. Back at Wharton, where the majority lived, they took up their self imposed duties with conscientious vigor, if not with complete enthusiasm. For it must be confessed that the average youngster hates work. There are those who believe, or imagine they do, that there is nothing a boy loves more than to be out in the dewy freshness of a summer morning, turning the “fragrant earth,” or leading an enthusiastic attack on the enemy weed. Let such persons inform themselves from life. Early rising is only popular amongst the young when an adventure is on foot. Nine-tenths of our youthful population detest weeding, and to them the hoe is an implement of torture strangely and inexplicably neglected by the Inquisition. It was to their credit, therefore, that the scouts of Wharton devoted themselves so conscientiously to the tasks at hand, which happened to be mainly rural. The town itself lived principally by, and for, the great mines. But in the surrounding country were many and excellent farms, and the fact that the great bulk of unenlisted men were working in shaft and smelter made the services of boys on the land more than usually welcome. Even Harry Ritter did his part, though with a good deal of surface grumbling and complaint. And Cavvy, out on his grandfather’s farm, resolutely took his share of work as it came, finding some additional comfort in the realization that the hardening muscles and increasing girth of chest would be of no small benefit to him on the football field that fall. Of course it wasn’t all unadulterated slavery. On the contrary there were a good many relaxations. They had the weekly scout meetings to look forward to, and Mr. Wendell worked hard to make these especially attractive. Now and again they took a day off to hike through the woods in search of walnut trees. And through it all there was undoubtedly a strong feeling of satisfaction that, with the whole world working earnestly toward a single great end, they were doing something concrete to help in its attainment. In this wise came September and the opening of school. Most of the troop attended the Wharton High School, or were in the eighth grade, and saw each other every day. Cavanaugh greatly missed Steve Haddon, who had long ago returned to his home in Washington, but he found compensation in the companionship of Bill McBride, who was a near neighbor, and had many similar tastes. Besides, between lessons, football and duties connected with the troop, he had little time to waste in lamenting the absence of even so good a friend as Haddon had come to be. Cavvy, as senior patrol leader, was very keenly interested in the welfare and development of the troop. His ambition was to make it the best and biggest in the county, and to this end he worked hard and constantly, and was of no little aid to Mr. Wendell. There were times, however, when their ideas were very much at variance. Had anyone asked Cavvy what he considered the qualifications of a good scout, he would probably have enumerated “pep,” keenness to get on, interest in the troop and the work generally, and the like. But back in his mind, unvoiced perhaps even to himself, he held something of the standard by which men are picked for college fraternities. He preferred the members of the troop to be more or less of good family, to be prominent in school or athletics, to be good fellows, quick, amusing, capable, and of his own class. Perhaps the scoutmaster sensed something of this. He had a quiet way of sizing up one’s mental processes which was sometimes rather disconcerting. At all events at a meeting of the troop leaders, he brought the discussion around to that very point and ended with a little lecture on the subject. The meeting was held as usual in the scout master’s study, a room of comfortable chairs, book-lined walls, and interesting souvenirs and relics of many sorts. There were swords and daggers from the East, old flint-locks, Indian pottery, old bronzes and a multitude of other curious things which the boys were never tired of looking over. In cold weather a fire always glimmered on the broad hearth, and to-day, though this was empty, they had from force of habit gathered around it. “One of the things I’ve noticed about a good many troops,” said Mr. Wendell, leaning back in his chair, “is a tendency to be just a little clannish. It’s perfectly natural, of course. A fellow wants his own particular friends in the troop and in proposing a member he naturally picks a boy he knows, who’s in his class, or on his team or lives next door. That’s human nature, but the result is narrowing and to my mind it defeats one of the great fundamental objects of Scouting—democracy. Take our own troop, for instance. We’ve got a corking bunch of fellows who work well and play well together. But there’s a whole great class in Wharton that we haven’t even touched.”

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