OMINOUS
“Well, that’s a pretty good joke,” said Mr. Walton at the breakfast
table. “You take my advice and save it for next summer up at camp,
Herve. I think after this we’ll call you the missionary, eh mother?
Shall we call him the missionary? The scout worker! Toiler in the scout
vineyard!” Contrary to his custom, Mr. Walton leaned back and laughed.
“The boy who brought the letter,” said Mrs. Walton, “told me Mr. Talbot
thought it was fine that Hervey went to the police and saved an innocent
boy from being punished. Poor little Chesty McCullen----”
“I can only hope he proves worthy of the young missionary who converted
him,” Mr. Walton interrupted.
So that was the sense in which those appalling words, overheard by
Hervey, had been used.
“I was going to take him and give him a good time,” said Hervey.
“I think you’re giving him the time of his life,” said his stepfather.
When Hervey went forth after breakfast the world looked bright. A few
days were still to elapse before the opening of school and he was never
at a loss for something to do. He did not keenly feel Chesty McCullen’s
desertion to the enemy’s camp. And I am sorry to say that he was not
deeply touched by the receipt of the much needed five dollars from the
Scouts. Hervey could never be won by sentiment. He said he was lucky and
there was an end of it as far as he was concerned. Here he had
recognition for doing a clean, straightforward thing (for he had not one
streak of yellow in him), but he took no pride in it. And when they were
thrilled at his essential honor, he was not even grateful. He went upon
his way rejoicing. He did not know anything about honor because he never
did anything with deliberation and purpose. He had the much needed five
dollars and that was all he thought about.
He went to Farrelton Junction that morning and paid his fine, and on the
way back he drove a frightened cat up a tree and climbed up after it. It
may be observed in passing that he was the sworn enemy of cats. To get
one at bay and poke his stick at it and observe its thickened tail and
mountainous back was his idea of high adventure. The frantic hissing was
like music to his ears. He might have had the stalker’s badge, the
pathfinder’s badge, and half a dozen other badges for the mileage and
ingenuity wasted on cats.
On that very day he made a discovery which was to keep him right side up
for several days. During that time Farrelton and his home saw but little
of him. It was the calm preceding the storm. He discovered along the
railroad tracks near Clover Valley, a crew of workers engaged in
lengthening a siding. They had been brought from distant parts and made
their home in a freight car which was converted into a rolling camp. It
had a kitchen with an old-fashioned stove in it and pots and pans
hanging all about. Partitioned off from this was a compartment with
delightfully primitive bunks. The workers hung out their washing on the
roof of the car.
Best of all there was a little handcar at their disposal, which was
worked by pumping a handle up and down. By this means they could move
back and forth from the village of Clover Valley, about two miles up the
line. Between two o’clock and five-nineteen each day, this little car
was safe on the line and they used it to get provisions from the
village. Hervey loved this handcar as no mortal ever before loved an
inanimate thing. To propel it by its creaky pump handle was a delight.
And the old freight car in which those half-dozen men fried bacon and
played cards approximated nearer than anything he had ever seen to his
idea of heaven.
[Illustration: IT WAS HERVEY’S DELIGHT TO HELP PROPEL THE LITTLE
HANDCAR.]
These rough, burly men accepted him as they would have accepted a stray
dog and called him a mascot. He hiked to their camp each day and stayed
among them till sunset. He wandered about and climbed trees and ate with
them and fetched saw or sledge-hammer, and was always on the handcar
when it went down the line to Clover Valley for provisions. When he told
the men his name was Hervey, they dubbed him Nervy and he was fated to
deserve the name. Of course, they liked him. He was serviceable when he
wanted to be and it was all right when he elected to beguile himself in
the dense woods that bordered the tracks.
It was unfortunate that Hervey could not have continued this harmless
pastime which was interrupted by Harlem Hinkey. On a certain fateful
evening he went to the second show with this young magnate who treated
him to ice cream soda on the way home. This delayed his arrival till
about eleven o’clock, and Mr. Walton was greatly annoyed. He had an
old-fashioned idea that a boy should be home early at night, though
occasionally he relaxed in this respect provided Hervey asked
permission. But asking permission was a thing that Hervey did not know
how to do. He breezed into the living room on this particular night
presenting an amusing contrast to the ominous deliberation of his
stepfather who leisurely folded his paper, laid it down precisely and
addressed him.
“Where have you been, Hervey?”
“I went to the second show with a feller--_some_ picture! Bimbo, all
about ranches. That’s where I’d like to go--out west.”
“I wish you wouldn’t throw your cap in a chair, Hervey, dear,” said Mrs.
Walton. “Can’t you hang it in the hall as you come in?”
He disappeared into the hall, and as he did go, Mr. Walton with a
quietly determined look said, “I want to talk to Hervey alone a few
minutes.” Mrs. Walton, with a gentle show of apprehension, went
upstairs.