"Got the linen thread?"
"Right here in the tin cup."
"All right, put the tin cup in the pint measure and the pint measure inthe coffee-pot; now put the coffee-put in the kettle and the kettle inthe duffel-bag. Then put the duffel-bag in the corner."
"Where'll I put the corner?" laughed Tom.
"There we are," said Roy, "all ready before the Ravens have started topack. They ought to be called the 'Snails.'"
They were up at Camp Solitaire, the whole patrol, and the standing ofthe duffel-bag in the corner of the tent was the last act of a busyday.
"I'll be sorry to see Camp Solitaire break up," said Tom. "We've hadsome good sport up here."
"There hasn't been much 'solitaire' to it lately," said Eddie Ingram.
"Well, down it comes in the morning," said Roy. "What are we going tocatch, the three-thirty?"
"I bet the Ravens won't be ready," said one of the boys.
"It would be just like them," observed an-other.
"And we'll have to wait for the five-fifteen."
Just then Esther Blakeley came running out from the house.
"I saw Walter Harris," said she, panting from running and excitement,"and he told me to tell you that if the Ravens aren't at the stationnot to wait for them but go right along on the three-thirty and they'llsee you later at Salmon River Grove."
"What did I tell you!" laughed Roy. "Can you beat the Snail Patrol?"
"Hurrah for the Turtles!" shouted Westy.
"I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't show up till the next day."
"Or next week," said Tom.
The Ravens were not on hand for the three-thirty next day and theSilver Foxes went without them, bag and baggage.
"They're some rear guard, all right," said Roy.
"Bet they're still buying fishing-tackle," said Westy.
"The Also Ran Patrol," commented Dorry Benton.
"The Last Gasp Patrol," said another boy.
"The Tardy Turtles," ventured Tom.
"We'll have our tent up before they leave Bridgeboro--you see," saidRoy. "Somebody ought to set a fire-cracker off underneath thatpatrol--they're hopeless."
Salmon River Grove was about an hour out on the train. Some of thewealthier of the Bridge-boro people had cottages there. The Bennettshad a pretty bungalow in the village and here, in a hammock on the wideveranda, Connover was wont to loll away the idle summer hours incushioned ease, reading books about boys who dwelt in the heavens aboveand in the earth beneath and in the waters under the earth. They wentdown in submarines, these boys, and up in airships, and to the NorthPole and the South Pole and the Desert of Sahara. They were all BoyScouts and it was from these books that Mrs. Bennett gleaned hernotions of scouting.
It was a dangerous season for Connover, for in the spring his fancysoftly turned to thoughts of scouting, but Mrs. Bennett stood guardagainst these perils with a tennis racquet and a bottle of cod liveroil and a backgammon board and an automatic piano. And so by hook orcrook Connover was tided over the dangerous season, and allowed to readthe _Dan Dreadnought Series_ as a sort of compromise.
But the show place at Salmon River Grove was Five Oaks, the magnificentnew estate of John Temple with its palatial rubble-stone residence, itsgarage and hot-houses and "No Trespassing" signs, of which latter hehad the finest collection of any man in the state. The latest editionof these did not say "No Trespassing" at all, but simply, "Keep out."These signs stood about the newly graded lawns seeming to shake theirfists at the curious who peered at the great tur-retted structure.
Mr. Blakeley, Roy's father, also owned an extensive tract of woods alittle way from the village and here the First Bridgeboro Troop wasmonarch of all it surveyed from the day school closed until almost theday it opened; and here Mr. Ellsworth spent the happy days of a well-earnedvacation, going into town occasionally as business demanded.
From Salmon River Grove Station the Silver Fox Patrol had to hike itout for about three miles, and when they hit Camp Ellsworth (as theboys insisted upon calling it) there was the Ravens' tent pitched underthe trees, and the Ravens' flag flying, and the Ravens' fire cracklingaway, and the Ravens themselves gathered about it. On a tree wasdisplayed a glaring sign done in charcoal, which read,
The Follow-Afters are cordially invited to dine with the Rapid Ravens.Supper is ready and
WAITING.
When Mr. Ellsworth came out from Bridgeboro at seven o'clpck, hedeclined to be interviewed as to what he might know of this affair. Butwhatever he knew, it was evident that the whole plan was known inanother quarter, for the very next day the "mail-hiker" (who was DorryBenton) brought up from Salmon River Village a post card addressed toRoy, which read,
"MR. SMARTY:
"Perhaps you know by this time the cause of my 'scout smile.' Do youstill think Walter Harris is a turtle?
ESTHER."
Scout-Pace Pee-wee got possession of this card, made an elaboratebirch, bark frame for it, and hung it up in the Ravens' tent, where itremained ostentatiously displayed until the bitter day of reckoning,which came not long after.
To Tom Slade the wretched, slum-stained boy whose whole poor programhad been to call names and throw stones, the camp routine, the patrolrivalries and reprisals, the hikes, the stunts, the camp-fire yarns,the stalking and tracking, were like the designs in a kaleidoscope.
Observant persons noticed how he began to say "I saw" instead of "Iseen"; "those" instead of "them," and how his speech improved in manyother ways. This was largely in the interest of the signalling, aboutwhich he had come to be a perfect fiend. It sent him to the dictionaryto find out how to spell words which were to be flashed or wigwagged;and from spelling them properly he came to pronounce them properly.
When he found that it was possible to tell a piece of oak from a pieceof ash by smelling it, if the sense of smell were good, why, that was aknock-out blow for cigarettes. He wasn't going to let the Ravens getaway with that species of scouting proficiency.
Next to signalling work the thing that engrossed Tom's thoughts wastracking, which he was forever practicing and which he now looked to asthe one remaining accomplishment which would advance him to the SecondClass.
More than a month of scout life had passed for him and he was eligiblein that particular; he was ready, though a trifle shaky, on the "firstaid" business; as for signalling, he had but one rival and that wasRoy; and he could jog along at scout pace with anyone except Pee-wee.He was prepared to chop his way into the Second Class with knife orhatchet, as per requirements; he could kindle a fire in the open andcook you a passable meal, though he would never be the equal of Roy asa chef.
He knew the points of the compass also, and there were but two thingsabout which he was still in doubt. These were the tracking and thefinancial business. He felt that if he could do a good tracking stuntit might compensate for his lack in cooking proficiency and for hisomission in another particular.
It was now the ambition of his life to be a Second Class Scout; hethought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, and he wrestled with adogged persistence with those things in which he was not skillfulbecause they were not in his line.
It was in the interest of this ambition that he joined Mr. Ellsworthone morning as the latter was starting out from camp on one of his"auto confabs," as the boys called his strolls, for on these he waswont to formulate new policies and schemes and, as a rule, he wentalone.
"Come along, Tommy boy," said he cheerily. "Got something you want tosay?"
"Yes, sir. I think I can do that tracking stunt in Paragraph Four an'if I do an' make it a good one, I was wondering if--I s'pose--wouldyou--would you think those potatoes I cooked yesterday were allright?"
"Very fair, Tommy."
"Would it pass for Test Eight?"
"Oh, I think maybe so; we all have our specialties, Tom."
"I'm a little shaky on first aid."
"I guess you can get away with that all right."
"Well then," said Tom, "th
ere's only one thing to prevent--that is, ifI do the tracking stunt."
"Yes? What's that?"
"It's about the money."
"So?"
"Yes, sir; I've got that five dollars Mr. Schmitt gave me for the extrawork when he opened the branch store."
"Where've you got that, Tom?"
"I've got it 'round my neck on a strong cord. I made a bow line knot.It's in my membership book to keep it clean."
It was a new bill and he had always kept it clean.
"The rule says it must be in the bank--one dollar anyway. But I don'twant to break it. One day I was going to ask Roy to give me five onesfor it and then I decided not to. I like one bill better, don't you?"
"Yes, I don't know but what I do, Tom," said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling.
"Did I tell you it was a new one?"
"No."
"Well, 'tis."
"All right, Tommy. Don't you worry about that. Just keep the bow lineknot good and tight and think of potatoes and bandages and if you canmake that tracking stunt something special so as to just knock theCommissioner off his feet, I guess it'll land you in the Second Class.One thing has to make up for another, you know. I've got to stand guardbecause if I didn't you fellows would be all waltzing scout-pace intothe Second Class. But don't worry about financial matters--that'swhat's turning Mr. Temple's hair gray. When I go into town I'll putthat five-spot in the bank for you, hey?"
"Then if I took it out of the bank would it be the same bill?"
"No, it would be a different one."
"But would it be a new one?"
"If you wanted a new one they'd give you a new one. Now you hike itback to camp and tell Worry there are to be no leaves of absence to-nighton account of camp-fire yarns, and to post a notice. Tell him tomake duplicate prints of the chipmunk Eddie stalked and paste one inthe Troop Book. I've got a call to make up toward the village."
Tom made him the full salute and started back. That night he dreamedthat the "Be Prepared" scroll was pinned upon him and that he was aSilver Fox Scout of the Second Class, having passed with muchdistinction.
Mr. Ellsworth had designs on the Bennett bungalow and he blew into theporch like a refreshing breeze that sultry morning.
"Hello, Connie, old boy," he called to the youth in the hammock. "How'sthe state of your constitution?"
"I've got a little touch of rheumatism," said Connover.
"Yes?" said the scoutmaster. "What right have _you_ got to haverheumatism? I thought John Temple had a controlling interest in all therheumatism around here."
"It gets me in the arm," said Connover.
"So? That's too bad. May I lift these books off the chair, Connie?"
"Surely--sit down. Just push them on the floor."
"Regular Carnegie Library, eh? What are they all about, Con?"
Connover quite welcomed the interruption for Mr. Ellsworth's offhandcordiality was nothing less than contagious. He fell immediately andcompletely into the spirit of whatever was on the boards.
"'Bout the Boy Scouts."
"No--really?" said Mr. Ellsworth, running through one of the volumesamusedly. "Who's this fellow, Dan Dreadnought?"
"He's lieutenant of the Eureka Patrol."
"So? I thought maybe he was a battleship from his name. And what doesDan do to pass the time?"
"This one I'm reading now," said Connover, "is the _Eureka Patrol inthe Fiji Islands; Dan stabs two natives._"
"Get out! Does he really?"
"And the captain of the squad--"
"What squad?"
"Of Boy Scouts-the captain is taken prisoner by the cannibals--"
"You don't say! How many of these books are there, Connie?"
"Twenty-seven--all one series."
"Well, Dan's some boy, isn't he? How would you like to be a scout,Connie?"
"My mother wouldn't let me have a musket."
"They all have muskets, do they?"
At this point Mrs. Bennett appeared and greeted the scoutmastercordially. She could never find it in her heart to dislike Mr.Ellsworth.
"How'd do, Mrs. Bennett."
"Good morning, Mr. Ellsworth," she said, and added smilingly, "I hopeyou are not trying to contaminate Connover again."
"Me? Oh, dear, no! A fellow who can witness the murder of two innocentSouth Sea natives isn't in much danger from me!"
But Mrs. Bennett failed to see the point.
"I tell Connover," said Mrs. Bennett, "that if it must be'scouts' and'wild west' it is better in the books than in real life."
"Well, that's a matter of taste, Mrs. Bennett. You can have DanWhat's-his-name up here, if you want to, but I wouldn't allow him near mycamp. No siree!"
"Yet he's a scout boy," said Mrs. Bennett triumphantly.
"From all I can see he's a silly blackguard. Why, Mrs. Bennett," addedthe scoutmaster pleasantly, "you've hit the wrong trail--"
"I've what?"
"Hit the wrong trail. We don't have 'Eureka' Patrols or captains orlieutenants or squads or muskets. This book has got no more to do withreal scouting than it has with a Sunday School picnic. I tell you what,Mrs. Bennett, I just came up out of the woods, and I tell you it's ashame that good trees should be cut down to get wood-pulp to make paperon which to print such stuff as this! It's a waste of good trees!"
"I have always done everything for Connover--" began Mrs. Bennett.
"Well, do one thing more for him and let him come and join the scouts-thereal scouts. That's what I wanted to see you about. I'm going towork up a new patrol, the Elks. Like that name, Connie?"
"Yes, sir."
"And I want Connie in the Elks."
"It's quite out of the question, Mr. Ellsworth. I am willing that heshould read about them, but there it must end. We have always doneeverything for Connover. I have never stinted him in the matter ofwholesome pleasure of any kind."
"You don't call murder wholesome pleasure, do you?"
"Here he is under my eye. There is no use arguing the matter. I have nothought but of Connie's welfare and happiness, but I am not willingthat he should dress up like Mrs. Blakeley's boy--a perfect_sight_--his clothes _redolent_ of smoke-and play with fireand sleep in a draught."
MRS. TEMPLE WAS TOO WEAK TO WALK AND THE BOYS IMPROVISEDA LITTER FOR HER.]
"There aren't any draughts outdoors, Mrs. Bennett."
"There's the damp air. Oh, it's quite out of the question!"
"Don't you think those O'Connor boys would be better out here?"
"I think a boy is better in his home, where his mother is. I have doneeverything for Connover--everything, and he is ready to do this muchfor me. Aren't you, dearie?"
As Mr. Ellsworth walked back to camp through the silent woods, he waspuzzled at the reasoning of the fond mother who thought that _DanDreadnought_ was a better companion for her son than Roy Blakeley.
CHAPTER IX
"BURGLARS"