The Wolf Patrol Part 1

The Wolf Patrol.

by John Finnemore.

PREFACE

No movement of recent years has so swiftly and so completely won the love of boys as the Boy-Scout movement founded by Lieutenant-General Baden-Powell. It has done so because it touches at once both heart and imagination. In its dress, its drill, its games, its objects, it jumps perfectly with the feelings of the boy who adores Robinson Crusoe, Chingachcook the Last of the Mohicans, Jim Hawkins, who sailed to Treasure Island, buccaneers, trappers of the backwoods, and all who sit about camp fires in lonely places of the earth. It is a movement which aims at making all boys brothers and friends, and its end is good citizenship; it is a foe to none save the sn.o.b, the sneak, and the toady.

Amid the general chorus of congratulation on the success of the movement, only one dissentient whisper has been heard, and that has gathered about the word 'militarism.' But the Boy-Scout movement is no friend of militarism in any shape or form, and the murmur is only heard on the lips of people who have never looked into the matter, and never read the Scout Law. The movement is a peace movement pure and simple, and its only object is to make a boy hardy and strong, honest and brave, a better man, and a better citizen of a great Empire.

Of this story it is perhaps permissible to say that it has been read by General Baden-Powell, who has been so kind as to express his warm approval. Writing to the author, the founder of the movement says: 'Wishing you all success for this so excellent a work.'

CHAPTER I

THE 'SLUG'

'Now for the Quay Flat!' said Arthur Graydon. 'I say, d.i.c.k Elliott, you cut ahead, and see if that crew out of Skinner's Hole are anywhere about! You other fellows, get some stones and keep 'em handy!'

A dozen day-boys from Bardon Grammar School were going home one Sat.u.r.day midday after morning school.

All of them lived in a suburb which lay beyond the shipping quarter of the river-port of Bardon, and their way to and from school ran across a wide open s.p.a.ce beside the river known as Quay Flat.

Below Quay Flat, and packed closely along the edge of the river, was a huddle of small houses and cottages, where lived the poorer sort of riverside workers, a squalid, dirty region known as Skinner's Hole. It was so called because it lay very low, and because hides from abroad were landed there, and dealt with by three or four large tanneries.

Between the Grammar School boys who crossed Quay Flat and the boys of Skinner's Hole there was a constant feud. At times this bickering took the form of pitched battles fought out with sticks and stones. The boys of Bardon always called these encounters 'slugs,' and, if the truth be told, they were, one and all, very fond of a 'slug.' To carefully search the hedges for a handy stick, and then cut a ferocious k.n.o.b out of the root end with your pocket-knife; above all, to cast leaden bullets and march forth with them and a catapult--these things were dear to the heart of a Bardon boy.

There were now threats of another 'slug' in the air, and the boys who had to cross Quay Flat had gathered to march home in a body. At the head of a lane running down to the open s.p.a.ce, they had paused to make preparations for any enemy that might lie in their path, and d.i.c.k Elliott, as we have seen, was despatched ahead as a scout, to report signs of danger.

But there was already a scout at work on behalf of the enemy. Half-way down the lane a narrow alley ran in from the riverside, and in this alley one of the 'wharf-rats,' as the schoolboys called the lads of Skinner's Hole, was on the watch.

The wharf-rat was a short, skinny boy, very ragged and tattered, whom his friends called Chippy; and he was their captain and leader. At the corner of the alley was a small greengrocer's shop, and Chippy, lying flat along the stones on his stomach, had thrust his head round a box full of onions which had been set outside the door.

From this cover he was keeping watch for the foe.

He saw them come into sight, saw them pause, and knew that they scented trouble ahead; for they began to search about for loose stones, and to kick shaky ones out of the road. Then he saw d.i.c.k Elliott sent ahead to reconnoitre.

Chippy looked over his shoulder, and measured the distance he would have to run down the alley before he could find cover. No go. If he ran, the scout of the other side would see him scuttling, and suspect something.

Besides, Chippy was well known. He was a famous leader in this kind of warfare. So he curled himself up as round as a hedgehog, and lay hidden behind the box, with his eye at a crack.

He gave a little grunt to himself as he saw d.i.c.k Elliott look carefully along the alley before he went on down the lane. Chippy was glad he hadn't run; he would certainly have been seen. But as soon as d.i.c.k had pa.s.sed, he was up and away down the alley at full speed. He made a couple of turns along side-streets, and then Quay Flat lay before him. He put his fingers into his mouth and gave a long, shrill whistle. There was no answer, but Chippy was quite satisfied. He knew that his warriors would understand. From another carefully chosen spot he watched d.i.c.k Elliott come out on Quay Flat and look all about. But the braves of Skinner's Hole had caught their chief's whistle, and were lying hidden among piles of old cordage and rusty anchors which were heaped in one corner of the Flat. d.i.c.k ran back up the lane.

'I can't see anyone about,' he reported. 'The Flat looks as quiet as can be.'

'Come on!' said Arthur Graydon to the other boys.

'Keep together; and if the wharf-rats come out, we'll give 'em beans!'

The band of Grammar School boys gained the Flat, and struck out for the bridge which crossed the river and led to the suburb in which lay their homes.

All went quietly till they were well out in the open s.p.a.ce, and then the wharf-rats set up a tremendous yell and darted from their ambush. A furious battle was started at once on the Flat. Stones flew like hail on both sides, and then the combatants came to close quarters, and the fray developed into a series of stand-up fights, with every boy yelling like mad.

'Slug 'em! slug 'em, Skinner's 'Ole!' howled the wharf-rats.

'Out 'em! Down 'em, Skinner's 'Ole!'

'Rally, School!' shouted d.i.c.k Elliott.

'Drive 'em into the river!' bellowed Arthur Graydon.

The latter was fighting with a couple of heavy books buckled tightly into a long, stout strap, and he fetched a couple of his opponents down with swinging blows.

Suddenly he was confronted with the rival chieftain, the redoubtable Chippy. Arthur swung his books at Chippy's head, but the latter was far too quick for so slowly delivered a stroke, and was inside his opponent's guard in a flash. Chippy's dirty fist was planted with stinging force in Arthur's right eye, and Arthur went over like a ninepin.

At the next instant Chippy and d.i.c.k Elliott were face to face, and Chippy, who was very handy with his fists found, for the first time, a foeman to be reckoned with.

They had a sharp rally; then they closed, and d.i.c.k, who was a capital wrestler, threw his man with ease. Down went Chippy, and saw ten thousand and one stars, for the back of his head was brought up hard against the flags of the quay.

But while he was all abroad, half a dozen of his followers swarmed over d.i.c.k Elliott, and made the latter prisoner.

The rest of the Grammar School boys had been driven off, but d.i.c.k was a captive.

'We've copped one!' roared a big red-haired lad. 'I'll tell yer what we'll do wi' him. Let's roll him i' the sludge!'

His comrades shouted joyful a.s.sent, and d.i.c.k, fighting like a tiger, but helpless in the hands of the wharf-rats, was dragged towards the river, where his captors intended to roll him in the deep mud left by the ebbing tide.

The band, with their struggling victim in their midst, were close upon the river before Chippy got to his feet, his head still singing from that shrewd crack.

'Wot's the game?' said Chippy in a husky whisper to himself. 'I see. I heerd Carrots say it 'ud be a good game to roll one on 'em in the sludge. But that's seven on 'em to one. That ain't good enough!' And he began to hurry after them.

'Wot cheer, mates!' he shouted in his hoa.r.s.e tones.

''Old 'ard a bit! Lemme come up!'

But the victorious band were deaf to the calls of their leader, and at this instant they disappeared at a point where a sloping wharf ran from the quay edge into the river.

'Bring 'im along to the other end o' the wharf!'

commanded the red-haired boy; 'then we'll chuck 'im bang into the mud, an' see 'im scrabble 'is way out!'

'Lemme go, you fellows!' yelled d.i.c.k, fighting with tooth and nail to wrench himself free; but there were too many for him, and Chippy, who loved fair play, and practised it, was too far behind. But, luckily for d.i.c.k, other help was at hand, or he would a.s.suredly have been pitched straight into eighteen inches of foul black mud.

A boat had been pulled from a ship in mid-stream to the wharf, and a tall gentleman landed from it as d.i.c.k was dragged past the spot.

'What! you, d.i.c.k?' shouted the new-comer. 'What does this mean?' and, followed by the boatman, he made a dash at the group.

The wharf-rats threw down their captive and fled, and the gentleman picked d.i.c.k up.

'Thanks, Uncle Jim,' said d.i.c.k, puffing like a grampus.

'If you hadn't lent a hand, those wharf-rats would have tipped me over into the mud.'

'How did you fall into their hands?' asked his uncle.

'They've been a-sluggin', I shouldn't wonder,'

remarked the boatman.