Tom Slade at Black Lake Part 14

And now, as Tom looked into that jagged hollow, his thoughts went even further back, and he thought how it was in some such earthen dungeon as this that he and Barnard had first seen each other--or rather, met.

Barnard had thoughtfully refrained from talking of those things which were still so agitating and disturbing to poor Tom, but Tom thought of it now, because his stolid nature was pierced at last, and his heart was overflowing with grat.i.tude to this new friend, who twice had come to his rescue--here on the isolated hillside on the edge of the beloved camp, and over there, in war torn France.

"You bet _I_ understand him all right," said Tom. "Even if he talks a lot of crazy nonsense, he can't fool me. You bet _I_ know what he is, all right. He can make believe, sort of, that he doesn't care much about anything. But he can't fool me--he can't."

CHAPTER XXV

TWO LETTERS

The trail wound its way through a pleasant stretch of woodland where the birds sang cheerily, and occasionally a squirrel paused and c.o.c.ked its head in pert amazement at this rude intrusion into its domain. It crossed a little brook where Tom and Roy had fished many times, and groped for pollywogs and crawfish when Tom was a tenderfoot at Temple Camp. Those were happy days.

Where the trail came out into the state road there was a rough board across two little pedestals of logs, which the scouts of camp had put there, as a seat on which to wait for the ever welcome mail stage. The board was thick with carved initials, the handiwork of scouts who had come and gone, and among these Tom picked out R. B. and W. H. (which stood for Walter Harris for Peewee did not acknowledge officially his famous nickname). As Tom glanced at these crude reminders of his troop and former comrades, he noted wistfully how Peewee's initials were always cut unusually large and imposing, standing out boldly among others, as if to inform the observer that a giant had been at work.

Everything about Peewee was tremendous--except his size.

Tom sat on this bench and waited. It reminded him of old times to be there. But he was not unhappy. He had followed the long trail, the trail which to his simple nature had seemed the right one, he had done the job which he had set out to do, they were going to have their three familiar cabins on the hill, and he was happy. He had renewed that strange, brief acquaintanceship in France, and found in his war-time friend, a new comrade. He felt better, his nerves were steady. The time had been well spent and he was happy. Perhaps it was only a stubborn whim, this going away now, but that was his nature and he could not change it.

When the mail wagon came along, its driver greeted him cheerily, for he remembered him well.

"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.

"I came instead, to-day," Tom said.

"That chap is a sketch, ain't he?" the man commented. "He ain't gone home, has he?"

"He's going to stay through August," Tom said; "his troop's coming Sat.u.r.day."

"Purty lively young feller," the man said.

"He's happy-go-lucky," said Tom.

The man handed him a dozen or so letters and cards and a batch of papers, and drove on. Tom resumed his seat on the bench and looked them over. There was no doubt that Roy and the troop were coming; apparently they were coming in their usual manner, for there was a card from Roy to Uncle Jeb which said,

Coming Sat.u.r.day on afternoon train. Hope you can give us a tent away from the crowd. Tell Chocolate Drop to have wheat cakes Sunday morning. Peewee's appet.i.te being sent ahead by express. Pay charges.

So long, see you later.

P.S. Have hot biscuits, too. ROY.

There were a couple of letters to Uncle Jeb from the camp office, and the rest were to scouts in camp whom Tom did not know, for he had made no acquaintances. There was one letter for Tom, bearing the postmark of Dansburg, Ohio, which he opened with curiosity and read with increasing consternation. It ran:

DEAR TOM SLADE:

I didn't get there after all, but now we're coming, the whole outfit, bag and baggage. I suppose you think I'm among the missing, not hearing from me all this time. But on Sat.u.r.day I'll show you the finest troop of scouts this side of Mars. So kill the fatted calf for we're coming.

Slade, as sure as I'm writing you this letter, I started east, sumpty-sump days ago and was going to drop in on you and have a little visit, just we two, before this noisy bunch got a chance to interfere. We'll just have to sneak away from them and get off in the woods alone and talk about old times in France.

Maybe you won't believe it, but I got as far as Columbus and there was a telegram from my boss, "Come in, come in, wherever you are."

Can you beat that? So back I went on the next train. You'll have to take the will for the deed, old man.

Don't you care; now I'm coming with my expeditionary forces, and you and I'll foil them yet. One of our office men was taken sick, that was the trouble. And I've been so busy doing his work and my own, and getting this crew of wild Indians ready to invade Temple Camp, that I haven't had time to write a letter, that's a fact. Even at this very minute, one young tenderfoot is shouting in my ear that he's crazy to see that fellow I bunked into in France. He says he thinks the troop you're mixed up with must think you're a great hero.

So bye bye, till I see you,

W. BARNARD.

Twice, three times, Tom read this letter through, in utter dismay. What did it mean? He squinted his eyes and scrutinized the signature, as if to make sure that he read it aright. There was the name, W. Barnard. The handwriting was Barnard's, too. And the envelope had been postmarked in Dansburg, Ohio, two days prior to the day of its arrival.

How could this be? What did it mean?

CHAPTER XXVI

LUCKY LUKE'S FRIEND

Tom returned through the woods in a kind of trance, pausing once to glance through the letter again and to scrutinize the signature. He found the patient up and about, with no reminder of his mishap save the cut on his forehead. He was plainly agitated and expectant as he looked through the woods and saw Tom coming. It was clear that he was in some suspense, but Tom, who would have noticed the smallest insect or most indistinct footprint in the path, did not observe this.

"H'lo, Slady," he said with a fine show of unconcern; "out for the early worm?" He did not fail to give a sidelong glance at Tom's pocket.

"Is your headache all gone?" Tom asked.

"Sneaked off just like you," he said; "I was wondering where you were.

I see you were down for the mail. Anything doing?" he asked with ill-concealed curiosity.

"They're coming," Tom said.

"Who's coming?"

"Roy and the troop," Tom answered.

"Oh. Nothing important, huh?"

"I got some mail for camp; I'm going down to Uncle Jeb's cabin; I'll be right back," Tom said.

His friend looked at him curiously, anxiously, as Tom started down the hill.

"I won't make any breaks," Tom said simply, leaving his friend to make what he would of this remark. The other watched him for a moment and seemed satisfied.

Having delivered the mail without the smallest sign of discomposure, he tramped up the hill again in his customary plodding manner. His friend was sitting on the door sill of one of the new cabins, whittling a stick. He looked as if he might have been reflecting, as one is apt to do when whittling a stick.

"You got to tell me who you are?" Tom said, standing directly in front of him.

"You got a letter? I thought so," his friend said, quietly. "Sit down, Slady."