Tom Slade on the River Part 12

"h.e.l.lo, Sister Anne," said Dory. "What's going to be the name of your patrol?"

"Do we have to have a name?" asked Jeffrey.

"You sure do. I was thinking 'magpie' would be a good one. They usually get everything in sight."

Jeffrey was not good at repartee; he did not understand these boys and he could not cope with them. Much less did he understand the wholesome spirit of rivalry and of loyalty which now made Garry an outsider-ostracized for what the whole camp regarded as a piece of selfishness and unfairness. His winking at Mr. Ellsworth as he walked away with his new recruit was taken as a deliberate attempt to flaunt his triumph.

Some said he had changed since the previous summer. There were a few who said it was natural, perhaps, that he should have taken the strange boy under his wing so promptly, seeing that their homes were not far apart.

But everyone agreed that by all the rules of the game Jeffrey should have gone with Tom.

"We asked Garry to go up the hill with us that night," said Connie Bennet, "even though he isn't in our troop, just because we liked him."

"And we stopped at Edgevale and brought him along in the _Good Turn_,"

said Will Bronson, "even though we were crowded already. And now he puts one over on us like that! _He's_ a fine scout!"

"Only you have to say it quick to keep from choking!" added Roy, who had stopped before the Elks cabin.

"He sure got away with it," added Connie. "He's got this Jeffrey, or whatever his name is, eating out of his hand."

"You should worry," said Roy, as he strolled on.

The next day two men arrived in an automobile, bringing with them the news that Jeffrey's benefactor was dead. It cast a shadow over the camp even among the many who had not seen the injured man. The boy himself was greatly distressed, wringing his hands like a child, and clinging to Garry.

One of these gentlemen was Mr. Waring's executor, the other a friend, and since both of them lived in Poughkeepsie, which was the nearest city to Edgevale, neither knew much about Mr. Waring's home life. They agreed with Mr. Ellsworth that it would be in all ways best for this unfortunate nephew, who seemed to be Mr. Waring's only survivor, to remain where he was, and accept the hospitality of the camp until his uncle's affairs could be settled.

"Can I stay with Garry and Raymond and be in their club and take them out in my boat?" Jeffrey asked, excitedly; "it's mine now, isn't it?"

"I suppose you boys will have to settle that among yourselves," said the executor; "but I don't know about the boat," he added. "Undoubtedly it will be yours, but you mustn't try to run it by yourself. It would be all right to use it if these gentlemen (turning to Mr. Ellsworth and one of the camp trustees) will take charge of it."

"Garry understands marine engines," Raymond ventured timidly to the visitors, whom the boys had just been showing about the camp.

"Gee, is he after the boat, too?" sneered Connie.

"No, he isn't after the boat!" Raymond flared back; "and he's got a uniform and that's more than _your_ patrol leader has!" he added irrelevantly.

Garry quieted Raymond and the others laughed. No one had any resentment against _him_, nor much against Jeffrey, for whom they made full allowance, but Garry was ignored, and this was the unhappy sequel of his friendship with the Bridgeboro boys and of the expedition which he had made with three of them up the wooded hill.

It was not the policy of Jeb Rushmore nor of the scoutmasters and trustees to seek to adjust differences between the scouts and so the golden days (which were all too fleeting for quarrels and bad-feeling) were clouded by this estrangement.

At last, one day, Harry Arnold took it upon himself to go to Garry's cabin and talk with him. He, at least, had not altogether shunned Garry and he felt free to approach him. He found him teaching Jeffrey to carve designs on a willow stick by artistic removal of the bark. Raymond was making birchbark ornaments.

"h.e.l.lo," said Garry; "want to join the kindergarten cla.s.s?"

"h.e.l.lo, Jeff, old scout!" said Arnold, slapping him on the shoulder.

"h.e.l.lo, Raymond, how's the giant of the Hudson Highlands? I thought I'd drop around and see if you were still alive-you stay by yourselves so much."

"We're not exactly what you'd call popular," said Garry, smiling a little. "How's the birthday celebration coming on?"

"Swell. I understand Slade's own patrol is going to give him one of those bugles that's advertised in _Scouting_-so he can blow himself, Blakeley says-with a fancy cord and ta.s.sels and the names of all his patrol engraved on it. Too bad he hasn't got a full patrol. Just one more name and--"

"What's the camp going to give him?" interrupted Garry.

"The camp is going to give him a wireless set."

"Gee!"

"It's a peach, too! Did you hear what Jeb's going to give him? An elk's head-gee, you ought to see the antlers on it. He wrote to some ranch or other away out in Montana to send it. He shot the elk himself. Roosevelt told him it was one of the finest he ever saw."

"He ought to know," said Garry.

"There's where you said something! It'll be appropriate, hey-Elk Patrol.

And, let's see, the Bridgeboro Troop's going to give him a high grade searchlight for tracking. Jeb nearly fell off his grocery box when he heard that! He thinks you ought to go blindfold when you're tracking.

Then there's a lot of crazy stuff-that fellow Blakeley hasn't had any sleep the last week thinking up fool things. He's going to give Tom a cat's collar to use for a belt."

"That's a good one," laughed Raymond.

"And-oh, I don't know what all. Pee-wee Harris is going to give him _Boy's Life_ for a year--"

"Next Sat.u.r.day, isn't it?" asked Garry, indifferently.

"Yes-Elks will be two years old. Blakeley was telling me their whole history. You don't mind if I sit down on these bricks, do you. It's kind of damp on the ground. Do all your own cooking here?"

"Yes, most of it. Make yourself at home."

"Make yourself homely, as Blakeley would say," laughed Arnold, changing his seat.

"Suppose you fellows go and get some more willow," said Garry. "Go ahead with what you were saying," he added, as Raymond and Jeffrey obediently started off toward the lake. "I was afraid you might say something that I wouldn't want Jeff to hear. I have to be awful careful with him."

"Queer duck, isn't he!"

"Not when you know how to handle him. My father was a doctor and I've often heard him tell about people like that. I think he's got what they call amnesia or something like that. I've a kind of a hunch that his-er, this Mr. Waring took him up there in that woods so's he could just live quiet and natural like and maybe get better. I've often heard my father talk about the woods being a medicine for the mind. Don't you remember there was some old duffer of a king who was cured that way-in some forest or other? I guess Jeff's a whole lot better than he was when he first came up here in the woods. From little things he says sometimes, I guess he was pretty bad at first. Ever take a flyer at carving birchbark? Look here, what Jeff and the kid have done. They're fiends at it."

Arnold looked at Garry curiously.

"I want to talk to you about this Tom Slade-this patrol business."

"I thought you did."

"Of course, I'm kind of an outsider-it's none of my business-except that I happened to be the one to get your smudge signal. But, of course, I've heard all about you and the Bridgeboro fellows last year-what good friends you were and all, and how Tom Slade went up through that fire to your shack up there, and it seems a blamed shame that you're not good friends now. We're all here such a short time anyway--"

"Next Monday for us," said Garry, ruefully.

"That's just what I was thinking. The birthday dinner, then Sunday and then--"

"There'll be others here to take our places though," finished Garry.

"And I was wondering," continued Arnold, "if we couldn't kind of straighten things up before that. You know, ever since that first night I've sort of hung out with the Bridgeboro fellows. Gordon and I are here on our own hook and he sort of stands in with Pee-wee-and, oh, I don't know, Tom and Blakeley sort of got me. That first night when you fellows were up the hill Blakeley spieled off a lot of stuff at campfire. He told us all about their trip up in the motor-boat last year and about the fellow that used to own it-how he lost his life. Funny though, how that part of the rowboat got back to the launch, wasn't it? I guess Tom's notion doesn't amount to much, though. Anyway, that's what 'our beloved scoutmaster' as Roy calls him, seems to think."

"Mr. Ellsworth?"