Tom Slade on the River Part 11

But Mr. Ellsworth and Doc Carson and Westy and others of the Ravens and Silver Foxes, remembered, and they noticed how Roy Blakeley stepped forward now and put his arm over Tom's shoulder, just as he had then.

"_You_ should worry, Toma.s.so," they heard him say in an undertone.

CHAPTER VIII JEFFREY WARING

The scene just described was in the Pow-wow Circle, as they called the open s.p.a.ce where the camp fire burned by night at Temple Camp. After a difficult descent of the hill the boys had been met at the wood's edge by Jeb with more scouts, a couple of visiting scoutmasters and a physician from the not far distant village. To Jeffrey, whose poor efforts had been so futile and bewildering, this orderly sequel to Garry's smudge signal was nothing less than a miracle, and he gazed at the party from camp as if they had dropped from the clouds.

Despite their burden and the special caution which had been necessary in picking their way down, the descent had been easier than the laborious journey in the dark the night before, but it was long past noontime when they emerged at the edge of the woods.

Perhaps it was natural that Jeffrey, not knowing of that battle with the thicket and the darkness should have seen the signalling as the most astonishing feat, and since Doc had a.s.sumed responsibility for his injured uncle and in a way superintended the descent, perhaps it was natural too that the first-aid boy, who received a flattering comment from the real doctor, should come second to Garry in his estimation.

Whatever his peculiarities, he certainly did not stint his hero-worship.

But Tom he disregarded altogether.

"Do you know why that is?" said Gordon Lord, of the First Oakwood, N. J., Troop, talking the thing over with Honorable Pee-wee Harris, of Bridgeboro. "Do you know why that is?"

Pee-wee couldn't guess, but he hazarded the observation that Jeffrey was a kind of a _nut_.

"It's because Tom Slade doesn't wear any uniform," said Gordon. "It's the uniform that gets people-specially girls. Gee, they all fall for the uniform-everybody does. You wouldn't catch _me_ going without it."

"I don't know why Tom doesn't wear one," said Pee-wee. "But even if he did I don't think girls would notice him much-he isn't that kind. He's kind of clumsy, like. He worked after school all winter and he must have got a lot of money saved up, but when Roy asked him if he wasn't going to get a suit and things, he said he wasn't going to bother-he was more comfortable that way. We all got new outfits this year. Mr. Ellsworth says Tom's a kind of a law inside himself-or something like that."

It troubled Gordon that a boy who could do the things Tom had done should eschew the khaki regalia, the hanging jack knife, the belt axe and the scarf, and he spoke to Roy about it.

"Search me, kiddo," said Roy. "He ought to have forty-'leven dollars and some trading stamps saved up. He's a thrifty soul and he sold the _Friday Evening Pest_ all winter. It's got me guessing. Maybe he's sending it to Belgium-he's come out strong for the Allies now. He's a sketch."

The doctor had shaken his head when he looked at Mr. Waring, and said that his life was hanging on a thread, and that the thread was pretty sure to break. They took him to the little hospital in the village and from there telegraphed to his home.

On the doctor's suggestion, seconded by Jeb and the scoutmasters, the boy was kept at camp awaiting developments, and it was well toward evening of that first Sunday while they were waiting for supper, that the tension and suspense relaxed somewhat in this general talk which had ended in Jeffrey's impulsive and rather surprising act.

To the great delight of Raymond the strange boy was allowed to bunk in the little cabin with himself and Garry, where he spent practically the whole of the next day watching Garry unpack his luggage and reading the Scout Handbook, turning more than once to the chapter about signalling, which he seemed to regard as a sort of sleight-of-hand.

He made an aimless tour about the camp, pausing here and there before tent or cabin and chatting with the scouts who received him kindly enough, listening to his rather rambling talk and affecting an interest in the wealth and especially the boat, of which he was never weary of boasting. He seemed fascinated with this view of real camp life. What the boys really thought of him it would be hard to say, but they were for the most part indulgent and if there were a few who yielded to the temptation to jolly him, they were promptly discouraged by the others.

For Garry, however, there was less patience and Jeffrey more than once felt moved to defend his hero against the plainer sort of abuse. The sarcastic references to his chosen friend he did not quite appreciate.

Garry, indeed, was paying dearly (especially at the hands of the Bridgeboro Troop) for his act of walking away with Jeffrey to the humiliation and disappointment of Tom Slade.

"Well," said one scout, who was raising the patrol pennant outside his cabin as Jeffrey came along, "how do you think you like it?"

"Can you signal?" Jeffrey asked, as if that were really the important subject.

"I'm not so worse at it," the scout replied, "but I'm not much good as a kidnapper."

Jeffrey did not catch the sense of this. He looked at the boy for a moment and then strolled on, pausing in front of the Silver Fox's cabin, where Roy Blakeley, Pee-wee Harris, and others of that notoriously flippant patrol were building a couple of balsam beds outside, for the overflow.

"Good-morning glory," said Roy.

"How do you do drop-that's the way you should answer him," said Pee-wee; "come right back at him-don't let him get away with it."

Jeffrey stared. "That's a good thick one," he said, referring to a branch Roy was about to use.

"Sure, it was brought up on oatmeal," said Roy. "Stand from under!"

Jeffrey hastened to get out of the way.

"How long is it?" said he.

"'Bout as long as a short circuit," said Roy.

"What?"

"I said it's a beautiful afternoon this morning," said Roy. "Well, you got wished onto the large Edgevale Patrol, hey? Three members. _Some_ patrol!"

"Whose cabin is that next one?" Jeffrey asked irrelevantly.

"That? That's Mr. Rushmore's cabin. He has charge of the grounds-all of 'em, even the coffee grounds."

"What?" said Jeffrey.

"And the next cabin," said Roy, "belongs to the Elks-Tom Slade."

"I don't like him so much," said Jeffrey.

"You don't, hey? Well, you might have got into a _regular_ patrol," said Roy, busy with his work. "It was up to you."

Not having been of the party which rescued Jeffrey, and hence not having had the same opportunity to observe him, Roy was not as patient with him as some of the others.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded, wheeling about and becoming serious. "Don't you know who you've got to thank for getting you out of your sc.r.a.pe? Don't you know who saved you from starving up there? What's the matter with you, anyway? I know fellows who'd be glad of the chance to get into the Elk Patrol. They've got the gold cross in that patrol, let me tell you-and _sixteen merit badges_! And _you_, like a big chump, pa.s.s it up, and run after that pair that isn't any patrol at all! Let me tell you something, my fraptious boy, in case you should ever get to be a scout--"

"I _am_ a scout," said Jeffrey, and doubtless he thought he was.

"There's a little old book with a red cover you've got to take a squint into before you're a B. S., let me tell you. And it's got some good dope about making sacrifices and being generous and you can't be a good scout walking away with somebody else's prize-you can't! You tell your patrol leader, or whatever you call him, to look in that little old Handbook and see if he finds anything there that'll give him the right to put one over on the fellow that found you and brought you here; and the fellow that saved his own life, too! Hand me that other branch, Pee-wee."

Jeffrey could only stare.

"Is that cross solid gold?" he finally asked, weakly.

"Sure-14 carrots-a couple of turnips and a few potatoes. Stand out of the way, will you?"

Jeffrey made way for Westy Martin, who was tugging a balsam branch to Roy. Then he moved away together.

Outside the Elks' cabin was Dory Bronson, spearing papers, for the Elks were a tidy lot and took great pride in their surroundings.

"Is that a game?" Jeffrey asked.