Tom Slade with the Colors Part 8

It was now nearly dark, and Tom worked his way along slowly, hobbling where there were no trees, and grateful for their support when he found them bordering the trail. His foot pained him exquisitely and he still felt weak and dizzy.

At last, after almost superhuman efforts, he brought himself within sight of the dark outline of the shack, which seemed more lonesome and isolated than ever before. He saw that the light was from a fire in the clearing near by, and a smaller light was discernible in the window of the shack itself.

Tom had always stood rather in awe of Roscoe Bent, as one of humble origin and simple ways is apt to feel toward those who live in a different world. And even now, in this altogether strange situation and with all the advantages both of right and courage on his side, he could not repress something of the same feeling, as he approached the little camp.

He dragged himself to within a few feet of the fire and stood clutching a tree and leaning against it as Roscoe Bent, evidently startled, came out and faced him.

A pathetic and ghastly figure Tom must have looked to the fugitive, who stood staring at him, lantern in hand, as if Tom were some ghostly scarecrow dropped from the clouds.

"It's me--Tom Slade," Tom panted. "You--needn't be scared."

Roscoe looked suspiciously about him and peered down the dark trail behind Tom.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded roughly. "Is anybody with you?

Who'd you bring----"

"No, there ain't," said Tom, almost reeling. His weakness and the fear of collapsing before he could speak gave him courage, but he forgot the little speech which he had prepared, and poured out a torrent which completely swept away any little advantage of self-possession that Roscoe might have had.

"I didn't bring anybody!" he shouted weakly. "Do you think I'm a spy?

Did you ever know a scout that was a _sneak_? Me and you--are all alone here. I knew you was here. I _knew_ you'd come here, because you're _crazy_. I seen--saw--"

It was characteristic of Tom that on the infrequent occasions when he became angry, or his feelings got the better of him, he would fall into the old illiterate phraseology of Barrel Alley. He steadied himself against the tree now and tried to speak more calmly.

"D'you think just 'cause you jollied me and made a fool out of me in front of Miss Ellison that I wouldn't be a friend to you? Do you think"--he shouted, losing all control of himself--"that because I didn't know how to talk to you and--and--answer you--like--that I was a-scared of you? Did you think I couldn't find you easy enough? Maybe I'm--maybe I'm thick--but when I get on a trail--there's--there's nothin' can stop me. I got the strength ter strangle _you_--if I wanted to!" he fairly shrieked.

Then he subsided from sheer exhaustion.

Roscoe Bent had stood watching him as a man might watch a thunderstorm.

"You hurt yourself," he said irrelevantly.

"It says in a paper," panted Tom, "that--that a man that's afraid to die ain't--fit to live. D'you think I'd leave--I'd let you--stay away and have people callin' you a coward and a--a slacker--and then somebody--those secret service fellows--come and get you? I wouldn't let them get you," he shouted, clutching the tree to steady himself, "'cause I know the trail, I do--I'm a scout--and _I got here first_--I----"

His hand slipped from the tree, he reeled and fell to the ground too quick for Roscoe to catch him.

"It's--it's all right," he muttered, as Roscoe bent over him. "I ain't hurt.... Roll your coat up tight--you'd know, if you was a scout--and put it under my neck. I--want a drink--of water.... You got to begin right now to-night, Rossie, with the Colors; you got to begin--by--by bein' a Red Cross nurse.... I'm goin' to call you Rossie now--like the fellers in the bank," he ended weakly, "'cause we're friends to each other--kind of."

CHAPTER X

TOM AND ROSCOE COME TO KNOW EACH OTHER

"I don't know what I said," said Tom; "I was kind of crazy, I guess."

"I guess I'm the one that was crazy," said Roscoe. "Does your head hurt now?"

"Nope. It's a good thick head, that's one sure thing. Once Roy Blakeley dropped his belt-axe on it around camp-fire, and he thought he must have killed me. But it didn't hurt much. Look out the coffee don't boil over."

Roscoe Bent looked at him curiously for a few seconds. It was early the next morning, and Tom, after sleeping fairly well in the one rough bunk in the shack, was sitting up and directing Roscoe, who was preparing breakfast out of the stores which he had brought.

"I guess that's why I didn't get wise when you first asked me about this place--'cause my head's so thick. Roy claimed he got a splinter from my head. He's awful funny, Roy is.... If I'd 'a' known in time," he added impa.s.sively, "I could 'a' started earlier and headed you off. I wouldn't 'a' had to stop to chop down trees."

"Why didn't you swim across the brook?" Roscoe asked. "All scouts swim, don't they?"

"Sure, but that's where Temple Camp gets its drinking water--from that brook; and every scout promised he wouldn't ever swim in it. It wasn't hard, chopping down the tree."

Roscoe gazed into Tom's almost expressionless face with a kind of puzzled look.

"It don't make any difference now," said Tom, "which way I came. Anyway, you couldn't of got back yesterday--before the places closed up. Maybe we've got to kind of know each other, sort of, being here like this. You got to camp with a feller if you want to really know him."

Roscoe Bent said nothing.

"As long as you get back to-day and register, it's all right," said Tom.

"They'll let you.--It ain't none of my business what you tell 'em. You don't even have to tell me what you're going to tell 'em."

"I can't tell them I just ran away," said Roscoe dubiously.

"It's none of _my_ business what you tell 'em," repeated Tom, "so long as you go back _to-day_ and register. When you get it over with, it'll be all right," he added. "_I_ know how it was--you just got rattled....

The first time I got lost in the woods I felt that way. All you got to do is to go back and say you want to register."

"I said I would, didn't I?" said Roscoe.

"n.o.body'll ever know that I had anything to do with it," said Tom.

"Are you sure?" Roscoe asked doubtfully.

"They'd have to kill me before I'd tell," said Tom.

Roscoe looked at him again--at the frowning face and the big, tight-set mouth--and knew that this was true.

"How about _you_?" he asked. "What'll they think?"

"That don't make any difference," said Tom. "I ain't thinkin' of that.

If you always do what you know is right, you needn't worry. You won't get misjudged. I've read that somewhere."

Roscoe, who knew more about the ways of the world than poor Tom did, shook his head dubiously. He served the coffee and some crackers and dry breakfast food of which he had brought a number of packages, and they ate of this makeshift repast as they continued their talk.

"You ought to have brought bacon," said Tom. "You must never go camping without bacon--and egg powder. There's about twenty different things you can do with egg powder. If you'd brought flour, we could make some flapjacks."

"I'm a punk camper," admitted Roscoe.

"You can see for yourself," said Tom, with blunt frankness, "that you'd have been up against it here pretty soon. You'd have had to go to Leeds for stuff, and they'd ask you for your registration card, maybe."

"I don't see how I'm going to leave you here," Roscoe said doubtfully.

"I'll be all right," said Tom.