Tom Slade at Temple Camp Part 21

"Except that the gold cross gives you four extra weeks," said Garry, "and, of course, the more risk a fellow takes, the greater the honor is." He picked up a pebble and threw it at a tree across the gully. "I'd rather have one of those medals," he said, "than anything in the world--and I want a wireless outfit pretty bad, too. But besides that"

(he kept throwing pebbles across the gully and spoke half absently), "besides that, it would be fine to have that extra time. Maybe we couldn't use it _all_ this season, but--look, I can hit that thin tree every time--but I'm thinking of the little codger mostly; you know the one I mean--with the light hair?"

"The little fellow that coughs?"

"He doesn't cough any more. He did before we came up here. His father died of consumption. No, he doesn't cough much now--guess it agrees with him up here. He's---- There, I hit it six times in succession."

For a few minutes Tom said nothing, but watched as Garry, time after time, hit the slender tree across the gully.

"I often dream about having an honor medal, too," he said, after a while. "We haven't got any in our troop. Roy'll be the one, I guess. I suppose the gold cross is the highest award they'll ever have, hey?"

"Guess so."

"There's nothing better than gold, is there?"

"It isn't because there's nothing better than gold," said Garry, still intent upon hitting his mark. "It's because there's nothing better than heroism--bravery--risking your life."

"Diamonds--they might have a diamond cross, hey?"

"What for?"

"In case they found anything that's better than heroism.[missing: "?]

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know. There might be."

Garry turned and laughingly clapped Tom on the back. "I might push you over this precipice and then jump down after you, hey?" he laughed.

"You'd be crushed to death yourself," said Tom.

"Well, stop talking nonsense or I'll do it. Come on, get your ch.o.r.es done and we'll go down and have a swim. What'd' you say?"

He ran his hand through Tom's thick shock of hair and laughed again.

"Come on, forget it," said he. "I've only got two days more here and I'm not going to miss a morning dip. Come on, I'll show you the double twist dive."

He put his arm through Tom's with the contagious gaiety that was his, and started down the hill with him toward the lake.

"Come on, wake up, you old grouch," he said.

CHAPTER XV

COWARD!

There were not many boys bathing at the time this thing happened. Roy and several of the Silver Foxes were at a little distance from the sh.o.r.e practising archery, and a number of scouts from other troops lolled about watching them. Three or four boys from a Pennsylvania troop were having an exciting time with the rowboat, diving from it out in the middle of the lake. Pee-wee Harris and Dory Bronson, of Tom's patrol, were taking turns diving from the spring-board. Tom and Garry joined them and, as usual, whenever Garry was diving, boys sauntered down to the sh.o.r.e and watched.

"Here goes the Temple Twist," said he, turning a complete somersault and then jerking himself sideways so as to strike the water crossways to the spring-board.

There was some applause as he came up spluttering. Tom tried it, but could not get the twist.

"Try this on your piano," said Garry, diving and striking the water flat.

"That's what you call the Bridgeboro Botch," he laughed, as Tom went sprawling into the water. "Hey, Blakeley," he shouted to Roy, "did you see the Bridgeboro Botch?"

"There's no use their trying _your_ tricks," Roy called in genuine admiration. "I'm coming in in a few minutes, myself."

But Tom dived very well for all that, and so did Pee-wee, but Dory Bronson was new at the game.

The thing which was destined to have such far-reaching consequences happened suddenly and there was some difference of opinion among the eye-witnesses as to just how it occurred, but all were agreed as to the main fact. Dory had just dived, it was Pee-wee's turn next, Tom would follow, and then Garry, who meanwhile had stepped up to where Roy and the others were shooting, and was chatting with them.

They had dived in this order like clockwork for some time, so that when Dory did not appear on the board the others looked about for him. Just at that moment a piercing cry arose, and a dozen pairs of eyes were turned out on the lake where the boy was seen struggling frantically.

It was evident that the boys in the boat were pulling to his a.s.sistance, but they were too far away and meanwhile he floundered and struggled like a madman, sending up cries that echoed from the hills. How he had gotten out so far no one knew, unless indeed he had tried to swim to the boat.

The sight of a human being struggling frantically in the water and lost to all sense of reason by panic fright is one to strike terror to a stout heart. Even the skilful swimmer whose courage is not of the stoutest may balk at the peril. That seemed to be the feeling which possessed Tom Slade as he stood upon the end of the spring-board and instead of diving cast a hurried look to where Garry Everson was talking with Roy.

It all happened in a moment, the cries from the lake, Tom's hesitation, his swift look toward Roy and Garry, and his evident relief as the latter rushed to the sh.o.r.e and plunged into the water. He stood there on the end of the high spring-board, conspicuous against the blue sky, with his eyes fixed upon the swimmer. He saw the struggle in the water, saw the frantic arms clutch at Garry, watched him as he extricated himself from that insane grasp, saw him catch the struggling figure with the "neck grip" as the only means of saving both lives, and watched him as he swam toward sh.o.r.e with his now almost unconscious burden. What he thought, how he felt, no human being knew. He stood motionless like a statue until the growing crowd below him set up a cheer. Then he went down and stood among them.

"Didn't you see him drowning there?" a fellow demanded of him.

"Yes, I did," said Tom.

The other stared at him for a moment with a peculiar expression, then swung on his heel and strode away.

Tom craned his neck to see and spoke to those nearest him, but they only answered perfunctorily or ignored him altogether. He moved around to where Roy stood, and Roy, without looking at him, pressed farther into the crowd.

"That's he," a boy near him whispered to his neighbor; "stood on the end of the board, watching. I didn't think we had any cowards here."

In every face and most of all in the faces of his own troop Tom saw contempt plainly written. He could not go away from them, for that might excite fresh comment; so he remained, trying to disregard the significant glances and swallowing hard to keep down the lump which kept rising in his throat.

Soon the doctor came, relieving Doc Carson of the Ravens, and the half-drowned boy was taken to his cabin.

"He--he's all right, isn't he?" Tom asked of the doctor.

"Yes," said the doctor, briefly. "He's one of your own patrol, isn't he?"

"Yes--sir."

The doctor looked at him for a moment and then turned away.

"h.e.l.lo, old man," said Garry, as he pa.s.sed him, hurrying to the pavilion. "Cold feet, eh? Guess you got a little rattled. Never mind."

The words stabbed Tom like a knife, but at least they were friendly and showed that Garry did not entirely condemn him.

He paused at the Elks cabin, the cabin of his own patrol, where most of the members of his troop were gathered. One or two made way for him in the doorway, but did not speak. Roy Blakeley was sitting on the edge of Dory's couch.