Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures Part 12

"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 station not to wait for them but go right along on the three-thirty and they'll see 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 the Silver 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," said Roy. "Somebody ought to set a fire-cracker off underneath that patrol--they're hopeless."

Salmon River Grove was about an hour out on the train. Some of the wealthier of the Bridge-boro people had cottages there. The Bennetts had a pretty bungalow in the village and here, in a hammock on the wide veranda, Connover was wont to loll away the idle summer hours in cushioned ease, reading books about boys who dwelt in the heavens above and in the earth beneath and in the waters under the earth. They went down in submarines, these boys, and up in airships, and to the North Pole and the South Pole and the Desert of Sahara. They were all Boy Scouts and it was from these books that Mrs. Bennett gleaned her notions of scouting.

It was a dangerous season for Connover, for in the spring his fancy softly turned to thoughts of scouting, but Mrs. Bennett stood guard against these perils with a tennis racquet and a bottle of cod liver oil and a backgammon board and an automatic piano. And so by hook or crook Connover was tided over the dangerous season, and allowed to read the _Dan Dreadnought Series_ as a sort of compromise.

But the show place at Salmon River Grove was Five Oaks, the magnificent new estate of John Temple with its palatial rubble-stone residence, its garage and hot-houses and "No Trespa.s.sing" signs, of which latter he had the finest collection of any man in the state. The latest edition of these did not say "No Trespa.s.sing" at all, but simply, "Keep out."

These signs stood about the newly graded lawns seeming to shake their fists at the curious who peered at the great tur-retted structure.

Mr. Blakeley, Roy's father, also owned an extensive tract of woods a little way from the village and here the First Bridgeboro Troop was monarch of all it surveyed from the day school closed until almost the day it opened; and here Mr. Ellsworth spent the happy days of a well-earned vacation, going into town occasionally as business demanded.

From Salmon River Grove Station the Silver Fox Patrol had to hike it out for about three miles, and when they hit Camp Ellsworth (as the boys insisted upon calling it) there was the Ravens' tent pitched under the trees, and the Ravens' flag flying, and the Ravens' fire crackling away, and the Ravens themselves gathered about it. On a tree was displayed 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, he declined to be interviewed as to what he might know of this affair. But whatever he knew, it was evident that the whole plan was known in another quarter, for the very next day the "mail-hiker" (who was Dorry Benton) brought up from Salmon River Village a post card addressed to Roy, which read,

"MR. SMARTY:

"Perhaps you know by this time the cause of my 'scout smile.' Do you still think Walter Harris is a turtle?

ESTHER."

Scout-Pace Pee-wee got possession of this card, made an elaborate birch, bark frame for it, and hung it up in the Ravens' tent, where it remained ostentatiously displayed until the bitter day of reckoning, which came not long after.

To Tom Slade the wretched, slum-stained boy whose whole poor program had been to call names and throw stones, the camp routine, the patrol rivalries 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 "I seen"; "those" instead of "them," and how his speech improved in many other ways. This was largely in the interest of the signalling, about which he had come to be a perfect fiend. It sent him to the dictionary to find out how to spell words which were to be flashed or wigwagged; and from spelling them properly he came to p.r.o.nounce them properly.

When he found that it was possible to tell a piece of oak from a piece of ash by smelling it, if the sense of smell were good, why, that was a knock-out blow for cigarettes. He wasn't going to let the Ravens get away with that species of scouting proficiency.

Next to signalling work the thing that engrossed Tom's thoughts was tracking, which he was forever practicing and which he now looked to as the one remaining accomplishment which would advance him to the Second Cla.s.s.

More than a month of scout life had pa.s.sed for him and he was eligible in that particular; he was ready, though a trifle shaky, on the "first aid" business; as for signalling, he had but one rival and that was Roy; and he could jog along at scout pace with anyone except Pee-wee.

He was prepared to chop his way into the Second Cla.s.s with knife or hatchet, as per requirements; he could kindle a fire in the open and cook you a pa.s.sable meal, though he would never be the equal of Roy as a chef.

He knew the points of the compa.s.s also, and there were but two things about which he was still in doubt. These were the tracking and the financial business. He felt that if he could do a good tracking stunt it might compensate for his lack in cooking proficiency and for his omission in another particular.

It was now the ambition of his life to be a Second Cla.s.s Scout; he thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, and he wrestled with a dogged persistence with those things in which he was not skillful because they were not in his line.

It was in the interest of this ambition that he joined Mr. Ellsworth one 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 was wont to formulate new policies and schemes and, as a rule, he went alone.

"Come along, Tommy boy," said he cheerily. "Got something you want to say?"

"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--would you--would you think those potatoes I cooked yesterday were all right?"

"Very fair, Tommy."

"Would it pa.s.s 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, "there's only one thing to prevent--that is, if I 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 extra work when he opened the branch store."

"Where've you got that, Tom?"