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[Illustration]
AMERICA FIRST
[Illustration: "I wouldn't go when you dared me to," said the
tenderfoot, "but this is--different." And he added in his heart: "This
is for _my country_." [_Page 23._]]
AMERICA FIRST
BY
FRANCES NIMMO GREENE
ILLUSTRATED BY
T. DE THULSTRUP
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
TO MY MOTHER'S NAMESAKE
AND MY OWN
VIRGINIA OWEN GREENE AND
FRANCES NIMMO GREENE
CONTENTS
PAGE
CALLED TO THE COLORS 1
UNDER THE FLAG 53
AMERICA FIRST 89
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I wouldn't go when you dared me to," said the tenderfoot,
"but this is--different." And he added
in his heart: "This is for _my country_" _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
A man was sitting over some sort of instrument 36
"You can't touch Rudolph!" she cried. "He's under
the flag!" 86
"Riego Yanez," he said, "I am proud to shake hands
with an American hero!" 120
CALLED TO THE COLORS
This is the story of a "tenderfoot"--of a pink-cheeked, petted lad,
and of his first service as a Boy Scout.
Danny Harding was what his mother's friends termed "wonderfully
fortunate," but Danny himself took quite another view of his life's
circumstances as he hurried home from school one afternoon, an hour
before the regular time for dismissal.
The day was golden with sunshine, but the boy's spirit was dark. There
was singing in the air and singing in the tree tops, but in the heart
which pounded against his immaculate jacket were silent rage and
despair.
The Whippoorwill Patrol had been called to the colors, and he the
untried, the untested tenderfoot would have to remain at home in
luxurious security, while the huskier, browner, less-sheltered lads
answered their country's call. It was beyond the power of a boy's
heart to endure--the mortification--the wild despair of it! They would
call him a slacker, a _coward_! But, worse still, his country needed
him, and he could not answer!
Danny brushed away the tears which threatened to blind him, and
stumbled on.
The call had come through a telegram from the Scout Master to the boys
while they were yet at school, and the teacher had promptly dismissed
them to service. The Whippoorwills were to leave immediately upon an
expedition to the mountains, but just what duty they were called to
perform was not stated in the brief message. All they knew was that
they were to leave at once for a certain distant mountain-top, there
pitch tents and await orders for serious service.
On receipt of the news the other boys had rushed off noisily with
eager joy to don their khaki uniforms and make ready, but Danny had
slipped down a by-street--a wounded, a hurt thing, trying to hide his
anguish away from mortal sight. He would not be allowed to go--he
knew it--for he was the only son of a widowed mother who loved him all
too well. He was her all, her idol, and her days had been spent in
pampering and shielding him.
Only a week before, the scouts had gone on a hike together and she had
refused absolutely to allow Danny to accompany them--the sun would be
too hot, he might get poisoned with wild ivy, he would be sure to
imbibe fever germs from the mountain spring!
No, thought the miserable boy, she would be doubly fearful, doubly
unwilling, now that the Whippoorwills were to do serious scout duty on
Death Head Mountain.
Danny's soul raged against his soft fate as he stumbled up the side
steps of his handsome home and entered his mother's presence.
He did not fly to her arms as he was wont to do, but, instead, flung
himself into the first convenient chair with a frown. He could not
trust himself to speak.
But even in that moment of stress Danny realized that his mother had
not hurried to him for the usual kiss. She was struggling with some
sort of bundle, and she only looked up with a quick smile.
The next instant, however, the smile of welcome died out of her face,
and she stopped suddenly and regarded him with a startled question in
her eyes.
Danny frowned more darkly, and moved uneasily under her searching
gaze. He looked away in a vain attempt to hide the tears which had
sprung to his eyes.
And then came the unexpected:
"Danny," said his mother, in a voice that sounded new to him, "I
received a long-distance phone message from the Scout Master, and--he
said he had wired to the school----"
She paused a moment, and then asked: "Didn't you get the message?"
"Yes," said the boy doggedly.
There was a pause, and then his mother deliberately put down the
bundle she had been working with, and approached. She came and stood
before him, with her back to the table as if for support. Danny did
not look up into her face, though he saw her white, jewelled hands
grasping the edge of the table, and they were strained and tense.
"My son," she said, "what is the matter with you?"
He was too full to answer.
"Danny," she began again presently and in that new voice, "you won't
_do_ this way--you _will not_!" And then suddenly a white, jewelled
hand was struck fiercely upon the table, and the new voice exclaimed
passionately:
"Daniel Harding, if you sit around and cry like a baby when you are
called to the service of your country, I'll--I'll _disown_ you, sir!"
"Mother!" And Danny sprang to her arms.
There were a few moments of sobbing, laughing confession from Danny,
and then his mother explained to him her unexpected change of attitude
toward scouting. Danger?--yes, of course she knew that this might
involve danger to him, but this call was for no frolic--it was to the
service of his country! He _was_ her all, everything in the world to
her, but the one thing which she could not, would not bear would be to
see him turn "slacker" and coward when other mothers' boys--not ten
years older than Danny--were already on the firing-line in France!
"Our part in this war is the old fight of '76, Danny"--she said to
him--"_nothing less than that_! The Colonists fought to win
independence for America. We are fighting now to save that
independence won. And if it takes every man in America--every boy in
America--if it takes _you_, Danny--there is just one answer for an
American to give."
And then the two of them hurriedly finished tying up the bundle she
had put aside. It was his kit for the expedition!
It was a newer, bigger ideal of patriotism which Danny Harding took
with him into his service on Death Head Mountain. His mother, who
loved him all too well, had yet sent him from her with nothing short
of her positive orders to do his duty like a man.
* * * * *
The Whippoorwill Patrol had answered the call to service, and the
growing dusk found its members arranging their camp for a night's
bivouac in a lonely stretch of woods "somewhere" on the crest of the
Blue Ridge Mountains.
The Scout Master had not come, but his orders had, and the
Whippoorwills were busily engaged in executing them.
"Camp in Mica Cove, conceal your fires, and wait for me," the Scout
Master had telegraphed. "You are called to service."
So here they were in Mica Cove, hardily preparing for whatever service
to their country it might be theirs to perform, and excitedly guessing
at what ominous circumstance had necessitated their sudden calling out.
Of course, everybody knew that old "Death Head" must have come into
some added evil repute, and would have to be taken in hand. And that
they would shortly be scouting over all its lonely trails nobody had
any doubt whatever.
There were eight of them, for the whole patrol was present. Youngest
and happiest of them all was the pink-cheeked, petted tenderfoot,
Danny Harding. He was no "slacker," no "coward"! He was here with the
others to play a manly part in serving his country, and his mother had
sent him from her with a smile!
Besides Danny, there were in the ranks L. C. Whitman, nicknamed "Elsie,"
Ham and Roger Gayle, Alex Batre, Ed Rowell, and Biddie Burton--as husky
and jolly a bunch as could well be got together. All these were older
than Danny, and, as all were more or less seasoned to scouting, they
were quite disposed to have their fun out of the new recruit.
Danny took their teasing in good spirit, however, for he felt that it
was part of his initiation into their envied circle. They were big
boys--brown like the woods of which they had become a part,
panther-footed, eagle-eyed, efficient. Danny felt that he would be
willing to suffer much to become as they.
The tenderfoot watched them all to see just how a scout was supposed
to act, but it was to Willard McKenzie, the resourceful leader of the
patrol, that his eyes turned oftenest in frank admiration.
McKenzie was the oldest of the bunch--quite seventeen--and five years
of scouting had stamped him a man as Nature meant him to be. He knew
and could answer every bird-call, could follow a wood-trail
unerringly, could find himself in any emergency by the chart of the
stars above him. He was the trusted friend of every wild thing about
him, and brother to every wind that blew. The tenderfoot watched the
graceful movements of the leader's Indianlike figure, studied his
genius for quiet command, and decided promptly to be, one day, a
second Willard McKenzie.
In obedience to McKenzie's orders, the boys built their camp-fire
within the cove, where it would be hidden on three sides by peaks
which towered above, and on the fourth by a dense thicket.
Mr. Gordon, the Scout Master, had not come, nor did they know when to
expect him. But they knew enough to obey their leader, and this they
were proceeding to do.
It was a simple matter--getting the camp ready--and the boys
thoroughly enjoyed it. As they were to sleep on the ground, rolled in
their blankets, they had merely to clear the space about them of
underbrush and fallen timber, and build the fire for cooking.
Of course they talked of war as they worked, for they were scouts in
khaki, preparing for action.
Ed Rowell claimed for cousin one of the American engineers who fought
their way out of German captivity with their bare fists. Batre's older
brother was right then cleaving his winged way through clouds of
battle in the service of the La Fayette Escadrille. Whitman knew a man
who knew a man who was in the 167th Infantry Regiment when it made
with others that now historic march, knee-deep in French snows.
Danny said nothing, for he was a quiet, thoughtful lad. But he had
vividly in mind a handsome fellow of only eighteen who, until
America's declaration of war, had Sunday after Sunday carried the
golden cross up the aisle of the little Church of the Holy Innocents
to "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Danny had heard his mother say that
it was that song which had sent the young crucifer bearing the Red
Cross of Mercy right up to the German guns.
But their talk was not all serious. They were brimming over with life,
and they laughed and scrapped and worked together with a zest which
made even bramble-cutting enjoyable.
It was when the big fire was glowing red and they set about preparing
their evening meal that the best part of the fun began. Whoever has
not broiled great slices of bacon or toasted cold biscuits on
sharpened sticks before a cheery camp-fire, who has not roasted sweet
potatoes and green corn in glowing ashes, who has not inhaled the
aroma from an old tin coffee-pot, spitting and sputtering on a hot
rock, should join the Boy Scouts and hike back to the heart of nature.
Oh, but it was fun! All except the holding in check of savage
appetites till the mess should be cooked. Ed Rowell had been detailed
to toast the biscuits, and repeatedly threatened to "eat 'em alive" if
they didn't brown faster.
Danny, who, with Alex Batre, had been directed to broil the bacon,
couldn't for the life of him keep from pinching off a crisp edge now
and then to nibble. And yet only yesterday Danny Harding would have
turned up his nose at bacon. The stimulating fresh air and the hard
work of camp life had begun to get in their good work on him.
On the other side of the fire from Danny, Ham and Roger Gayle were
roasting corn and sweet potatoes in the ashes, and a little beyond,
Elsie Whitman was filling the water-cans from a trickling mountain
spring--while Biddie Burton was busily engaged in getting under
everybody else's feet and teasing whomever he could.
McKenzie, their leader, was momentarily absent, having gone down to
the road below the cliff on which they were encamped to see if their
fire could be sighted from that point through the screening thicket.
The boys had from the first been instructed by McKenzie to keep their
voices lowered. They were there for serious service, he had told them.
And the necessity for stealth and the promise of adventure had for a
time keyed them up to the highest pitch of excitement.
But when the interest of cooking supper became uppermost--especially
when the scent of the bacon and coffee began to fill the air--thoughts
of adventure withdrew a little to a distance and whispered merriment
became the order of the hour.
As was natural, they turned on the tenderfoot their battery of
teasing, and the tenderfoot bore it as best he could.
"Its mother washes 'em," averred Biddie Burton, coming up behind Danny
and carefully examining his ears as he knelt at his work.
"Sure she does," laughed Ham across the fire, "and they say that a sore
tooth in its little mouth aches everybody in the family connection."
"Look out there, something's burning!" broke in Ed Rowell suddenly.
And the next moment Ham and Roger were busy rescuing from the fire the
scorching potatoes.
"I declare," scolded Biddie, lounging up, "I could beat you fellows
cooking, with both hands tied behind me."
"Why haven't you ever done it, then?" snapped the elder Gayle, sore
over his partial failure.
"Why, nobody has ever tied my hands behind me," came in seemingly hurt
explanation from Biddie, and the crowd laughed.
McKenzie had directed them not to wait for him, and they did not.
Another five minutes found them eating like young wolves around a
languishing fire.
Later, when the fire winked lower, and the meal was finished--when the
screech-owls began to send their blood-chilling, shivering screams
through the forest--they drew closer together and began to talk of
weird and haunting things.
"Over yonder, on the real 'Death Head,'" began Roger, bringing the
interest down to the spot, "is the haunted tree where----"
"Look out," broke in young Rowell, "a little more of that and friend
Danny over here will cut for home and mother."
"I'll do nothing of the kind; I'm not a baby!" exclaimed Danny
indignantly. But all the same, his heart was already in his mouth, for
Danny had never been distinguished for signal bravery.
"No, you are not 'a baby,'" put in the unquenchable Biddie, "but
before we get out of these woods you are going to wish you _were_ a
baby, and a _girl_ baby at that!"
Danny did not reply to this. He only sat very still, wishing that
Willard McKenzie would return from his prolonged trip, and thinking
of the mother who was looking to him to play the man.
The scene lost its glow. The surrounding forest grew darker, taller,
and began stealing up closer about them.
"If you cry like a baby--!" Danny's mother was whispering to his
sinking heart.
The others had fallen into an argument about the exact location of the
haunted tree, but presently Ed Rowell asked impatiently:
"Well, what is it about the place, anyway?"
"Haunted!" exclaimed Ham. "A murderer, hunted with dogs through the
mountains, hanged himself on----"
"And the old tree died in the night," assisted his brother. "And it
stands there now, naked and stark and dead. At night----"
Danny's heart stood still to hear.
"At night," broke in Whitman, "if you creep up close, you can see the
dead man swinging in the wind!"
"_Listen!_" exclaimed Biddie under his breath.
It will have to be recorded that they all jumped violently at the
exclamation.
"What?" demanded L. C.
"And hear old Danny being quiet!" finished the teasing scamp.
"You bet you, and he'd better be quiet--" began Roger.
But Whitman interrupted:
"Danny's afraid of ghosts, anyway," he declared, "I tried to leave him
in the graveyard once, but he was home in his mama's lap before I
started running."
"I'm not any more afraid of ghosts than you are," Danny protested hotly.
"Oh, _aren't_ you?"
"No, I'm not!"
"All right, then," the big boy taunted; "I've been to the haunted tree
by myself at night--these fellows all know I have--now suppose _you_ go."
"Sure, tenderfoot," put in young Rowell; "here's a perfectly good
chance to show your nerve."
"He hasn't any," sneered Alex Batre.
But Danny drew back, aghast at the proposition--go alone to a spot
like that, and at night!
"Go to it, kid," was suddenly spoken quietly in his ear.
Danny turned to see whose was the kindly voice that advised, and
looked into Biddie Burton's eyes.
"Don't let 'em make you take a dare," came in another whisper. "_Go._"
Biddie was not smiling now, and there was a note of serious
friendliness in his voice.
It suddenly came to Danny that he would give more to merit that new
confidence on Biddie's part than to break down the taunts of the others.
And yet he could not. He could no more command his shaking nerves to
carry him to that unhallowed, ghostly spot than he could command the
unwilling nerves of another. His will-power had deserted him.
"I _dare_ you to go!" badgered L. C.
Danny's spirit flamed for one brief moment. But in the very next his
head dropped, and he turned away.
"This is going too far," the wretched little fellow heard Biddie
Burton exclaim sharply.
"What is 'going too far'?" a new voice asked out of the darkness, and
Willard McKenzie advanced into the group. "What is 'going too far'?" he
repeated, glancing from one to another. No answer being volunteered, his
keen glance quickly singled out the shamed tenderfoot.
"What have they been up to, Danny?" he asked.
Danny turned and faced him.
"Nothing that makes any difference," he said.
It was generous in him not to "peach," and so Biddie Burton's friendly
glance assured him.
The incident passed with that, for McKenzie was full of something
repressed, and, seeing it, the boys gathered close about him in eager
questioning--all except Danny.
All except Danny! His brief career--his career that only an hour ago
had promised so much--had ended, and in disgrace. He had taken a
dare! Nothing would ever matter to him again--Danny told his aching
heart--the boys despised him, all except Biddie Burton, and, somehow,
Biddie's pity was harder to bear than despite.
"I went to the gap and wired Mr. Gordon," McKenzie was saying now,
"and he told me I could put you to it at once. He's had an accident to
his car and may not get here for some time."
"What's up?" It was Roger who asked the question.
"Something serious," answered McKenzie, "but Mr. Gordon didn't say
what. Have you had supper?"
They replied in concert, eager to receive orders.
"Well," continued McKenzie, "we've got to cover the mountain here, for
signs of--anything unusual. You'll have to be careful not to run into
trouble yourselves, but you must know your ground. There'll be a good
moon if the clouds break."
"Glory be!" Danny heard Elsie Whitman breathe in expectant ecstasy,
and he would have given the world to have felt with him that eager
joy. But Danny had taken a dare!
The others were chattering now, as eager as Whitman to be off on the
trail of adventure.
McKenzie was giving orders:
"Whitman, you can take the north trail, and bear down over the
mountain. Ham will strike out down the creek to the left there, and
work around to your territory. There's an old cabin hidden by
scrub-oaks and rocks about a quarter below the bridge there, Ham. Know
it for what it is, but don't you run your long neck into danger."
In spite of his hurt Danny was getting interested. He crept up on the
outer edge of the group and listened, wide-eyed, as the other boys
eagerly accepted their several commissions.
"Roger and Ed," their leader was continuing, "bear south till you get
below the drop of the cliff, and then separate and work that
territory between you"--with a sweeping gesture. "Alex and Biddie--let
me see--you two go over the mountain to the right of Elsie--No,
there's the Death Head trail--" He paused a moment in thoughtful
survey of them, and the boys looked at each other apprehensively. Not
one of them was anxious to work the trail of evil name. Suddenly,
however, McKenzie's eyes lighted on Danny Harding, and an inspiration
seemed to come to him.
"Say," he exclaimed, "I'll give the new recruit a chance at that. Come
here, scout." And he laid a kind hand on Danny's shoulder and drew him
into the circle.
Somebody on the outskirts of the group laughed.
"Now you are going to do your first service for your country,"
McKenzie said to the tenderfoot; "but whatever you do, be wary,
because----"
Somebody else laughed, and McKenzie looked about sharply. "What's the
joke?" he asked.
"Danny's afraid," the mocker explained; "that's where the dead man
swings."
Biddie strolled forward. "Alex will be enough to work Elsie's right,"
he said to McKenzie. "Give me the Death Head trail. You'll need Dan
here about the camp."
But Danny raised his head quickly. It is true that his face was
dead-white, but his head was up.
"I'll go to the Death Head," he said to McKenzie.
The crowd was dumb-struck.
"But you got white-livered and backed down--" L. C. began, after the
first shock of his surprise.
"I wouldn't go when you dared me to," said the tenderfoot, "but this
is--different." And he added in his heart: "This is for _my country_."
"But he _is_ afraid," put in Roger. "Look at him!"
McKenzie took a long, straight look into Danny's white face and
determined eyes, and then turned to Roger.
"All the gamer of him," he said, "to go in spite of being
afraid--that's the stuff that Pershing is looking for. And Mr. Gordon
says that a boy who 'isn't afraid of anything' hasn't sense enough to
be trusted with a commission. "Kid," he continued, turning to Danny,
"you find out all that there is to be known about the Death Head
vicinity before you show up in camp again."
"All right," said Danny.
There was a gasp of surprise among them at the tenderfoot's final
acceptance of the commission, but not one of them--not even
Biddie--believed that he would be able to carry it through. And the
sensitive, high-strung Danny went out from among them burdened with
the feeling that they did not look for him to succeed.
McKenzie walked a little way with him--big-brother fashion, with an
arm over his shoulder--and gave him careful directions as to how to
proceed. There would be a moon if the clouds broke, his leader warned
him, and he was to keep to the shadows.
"I'll be leaving camp myself," said McKenzie, "and will not show up
again for a couple of hours. You will probably get back before the
rest of us, so just roll up in your blanket and lie close under that
ledge yonder--you will be perfectly safe there." A little farther up
the mountain trail and McKenzie paused.
"Never mind about the dead man, scout," he admonished finally, "but
keep your eye peeled for the live one, and--'the best of luck!'"
"'The best of luck!'" That was what the men at the front said to a
fellow when he was going over the top of the shielding trench into the
dangerous unknown.
At the familiar phrase in parting, Danny drew a quick, deep breath.
Yes, he was going "over the top"--and he was going _alone_!
Then McKenzie slipped quietly back, and Danny started forward up the
long, dark trail alone. The ghost of a moon showed dimly through the
black cloud-rack, now and again, and fitfully relieved the enveloping
darkness.
Only once did Danny look back. That was when he came to the first turn
in the mountain trail which his leader had carefully explained to him.
Beyond that turn, and it would be good-by to the last cheering,
reassuring gleam of their camp-fire, to the last faint sound of
comforting voices.
Danny paused and looked back. Only two remained in the bright circle
toward which his rapidly chilling spirit was reaching back. He
recognized at once the tall, slim form of McKenzie, but---- Yes, that
chunky one was Biddie Burton. The two of them were standing close
together, talking earnestly. And now Danny caught, by a sudden leap of
the firelight, the fact that they were looking toward him. Biddie was
nodding.
It was so bright, so safe back there where they had laughed and
feasted and wrangled together. Then suddenly Danny thought of the
young crucifer in the little Church of the Holy Innocents.
"Onward, Christian Soldiers!"
The next moment Danny was groping, feeling his trembling way, but that
way was _onward_. The heart in his breast beat an alarm to every nerve
in his body, but he kept his face toward the dim, dark trail. A lump
rose in his throat and threatened to choke him. He gulped it down, and
crept forward.
McKenzie had told him that a scout must keep his head. That was the
hardest part. A fellow could force himself to go blindly to a haunted
spot at night, but to think, to plan, to watch as he went----!
But he was a scout, and a scout must "be prepared." Danny forced
himself to think as he went. He was not following that gruesome trail
in response to Whitman's dare--he was scouting old Death Head in the
service of his country.
Danny found that he could follow McKenzie's directions better than he
had hoped. Now that his eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the dark,
he could descry the blacker landmarks for which his leader had
prepared him. After the turn in the mountain trail, an abrupt and
jagged cliff ahead beckoned the way. The shadow of the cliff won,
Danny waited for another appearance of the pale, cold moon by the help
of whose light he hoped to locate the three giant pines--his next
objective. From the pines, McKenzie had told him, old Death Head could
be sighted plainly enough, for from that point it was silhouetted,
black and unmistakable, against the sky, and its summit was marked by
the stark, white, blasted tree of evil fame.
"That's where the dead man swings!" echoed in Danny's memory. And for
a moment it seemed that he _must_ give up and fly back to safety. But
something said: "I'll disown you, sir!" And Danny again turned his
face in the direction of his duty.
The moon looked out of the drifting clouds. Danny located the three
giant pines in the distance, and for one blessed moment saw a
reasonably clear path, skirting along the mountainside.
Darkness again! But Danny took the skirting path to the pine giants.
Once he nearly lost his nerve altogether, for suddenly there was
behind him a sound as if some human foot had stumbled. The tenderfoot
dropped warily to the long grass at one side of the path, and
listened. A long, long time he listened, but not another sound did he
hear. At length he told himself that the step was that of some wild
creature which he had disturbed.
Then forward again! Creeping, panther-footed.
Danny reached the pines at last--and sure enough, old Death Head rose
all too plainly before him. He saw, or thought he saw, a tall white
something on its summit.
In thinking it over afterward, Danny was never quite sure just what
happened between the pines and the haunted tree. He had a vague
recollection of imagining that step behind again, and he recalled at
one point the almost welcome pain of a stubbed toe. But for the rest,
he was too frightened to take it all in.
By the time the tenderfoot reached the summit of old Death Head and
stood within fifty feet of the haunted tree, he was too frightened to
move, and he almost _expected_ to see the thing which he most feared.
The sky was overcast again, but a dim white something towered before
him--the haunted tree--and--and----!
But just at that moment the clouds broke, and the full moon, now all
unveiled, flooded the scene with light.
Naked, stark, ghostly, the blasted pine-tree rose before him. With a
sudden spasm at his heart Danny looked for the swinging dead man. But
if anything unearthly hung from those bare white branches, his mortal
eyes were spared the vision. And presently his awakening reason began
to urge: "There are no such things as 'ghosts.'"
The next moment the young scout came fully to himself, and withdrew
quickly from the all-revealing flood of moonlight to the friendly
shadow of a low shrub. He began to peer sharply about. The growth
around was ragged, with great spaces between. If there was anything
here that a scout ought to note, the opportunity was ideal.
He must perform the duty for which he was here! His leader had told
him to know the spot before he showed up in camp again.
Danny began skirting about in the shadows, getting every angle he
could on the scene, and exploring adjacent wood lanes. It is true that
he kept well away from the haunted tree, but he came back to its
vicinity every now and then. And each time as he came he managed to
force himself to approach it closer.
Nearer and nearer he got to it, and then, suddenly, he heard issue
from somewhere in its branches a low, sighing moan. Danny thought he
would drop in his tracks, but he did not. Instead, he stood as still
as death and listened.
That moan again! Every time a gust of wind came, the dim, weird sound
trembled along the night.
The moon was shining brilliantly now. Danny stood staring at the
haunted tree.
All at once he crept forward, sharply intent on something.
What was that straight black line against the sky? Where did it come
from?--that haunted tree?
Another moment and Danny was at the foot of the ghostly pine-tree,
staring upward at the crisscross of its naked branches.
There was no swinging dead man there, but there was _something_--at
the top!
Danny dropped to the ground and retreated a little on all fours for a
better view-point. 'Way up, two parallel black bars rose against the sky.
A scout must keep his head!
Now, no boughs of a tree ever grew that straight! And what were those
orderly black lines which extended from one bar to the other?
That moan again!--or--or was it the sound of a wire, played upon by
the wind?
Danny shifted his position again.
Yes, that black line across the sky connected directly with the queer
something in the tree top.
"_Wireless!_" said the scout's head to him.
Danny stood up. All childish fear of a swinging ghost had dropped away
from him. He had not the slightest inclination now to cry like a baby
about anything.
He was a scout on duty!
Another moment and he was creeping, velvet-footed, through the woods,
following that black line as it led away from the haunted tree. At the
other end of it must be a receiving-station!
And it was no easy task which his duty set him. Over sharp rocks and
through tangled briers that black line led him on. Sometimes the moon
would desert him and he would lose the clue for a while. Sometimes he
would be forced to abandon his clue to skirt around an insuperable
barrier. But he always came back to it, always pressed on.
On and on! And then, suddenly, the line disappeared. It ended, or
seemed to end in a large pile of boulders which clung to the
mountainside. The undergrowth was dense here.
Danny circled about the spot. Yes, the wire stopped here. He began
creeping through the underbrush--feeling his way along the side of a
great boulder.
Suddenly his hand touched--_nothing_!
The scout stopped and thought. There was some sort of break in the
rock here.
Danny had a flashlight in his pocket which he had been too cautious to
use. He thought of it now, and hesitated. Then he slipped it out and
pressed the spring.
Before him was what seemed the door of a cave. He looked closer. Yes,
the wire led into the cave. Darkness, again, for he was afraid to use
his light any longer.
Danny dropped to his all-fours and crept into the black hole. A floor
of soft sand helped him to advance noiselessly. After a few yards the
scout reached a turn in the rocky passageway, and----
His eye caught a big, black-hooded shadow humped over a point of light!
Danny withdrew quickly behind the sheltering turn in the wall, and
crouched in the sand, dead-still. But his blood was up. He took a
second look.
A man was sitting over some sort of instrument, and over his ears were
cups, something like Danny had seen worn by the girl at the telephone
central station. The one point of light in the big dark recess was
turned on a note-book under the man's hand.
The young scout drew back, and crept silently out of the cavern.
Out under the stars again, and this time with his blood on fire! A
spy, a German spy sat in that cave and sent messages----!
Only yesterday a fleet of transports had slipped out of the harbor,
with thousands of American soldiers on board--submarines--sea-raiders!
But a scout must keep his head.
Help? Which way could help be found? The boys were scattered, McKenzie
would not be in camp. Nobody knew when to expect Mr. Gordon.
Which way? Which way? Oh, yes, down over the drop of the cliff to the
south yonder was the mountain wagon road by which their scouting party
had ascended that afternoon. If he could get to the road he could find
somebody somewhere--surely, there were a few inhabitants hereabouts!
That German was sending wireless messages right this minute---- Yes,
the shortest way to the road was the only way for a fellow to take
now! And Danny took it.
When he reached the cliff, spent and sore, a new difficulty presented
itself. A sheer fifty-foot drop still separated him from the road. He
crept along the edge searching for a footing by which to descend, and
presently found one that looked possible. There were broken, shelving
places here, and tufts of growing things down the face of the dizzy wall.
Danny began to climb down. But he found it harder than he had thought,
and at times he was a mere human fly clinging to a rock wall.
[Illustration: A man was sitting over some sort of instrument.]
Nearly down--only about fifteen feet more! But at that moment the
human fly's hold crumbled under his clinging fingers, and he dropped.
It ought not to have been a bad fall, but the trouble was a loosened
rock followed, and came down on one arm as its owner lay prostrate on
the ground.
Danny lay very still for a few moments, looking at the stars and
thinking of--nothing!
Then presently the sound of human voices came to him from somewhere
out of the night. With an effort he raised up a little to push off the
stone from his arm, but he dropped back again.
The stars began to swim at that, and the voices to grow fantastic.
But a scout--must--keep--his head!
Those voices sounded familiar! Danny summoned all his strength, and
sent the wavering call of a wounded whippoorwill along the night.
Silence, and then a whippoorwill answered sharply from out the forest.
Danny called again.
Shortly after that came low voices and the sound of hurrying feet.
Then Mr. Gordon, the Scout Master, McKenzie, their leader, and jolly
old Biddie Burton were hovering over him.
"Are you hurt?" they asked in one breath.
But Danny cried out feverishly: "There's a German spy sending wireless
messages from old Death Head, and our transports have put to sea!" And
he told them, brokenly, the story of his find.
There was consternation among them for one brief moment, and then
everybody woke to action.
They must get the man at once--but _which way_ to go?
Mr. Gordon spoke quickly:
"You stay with Danny, Burton; McKenzie and I will go back to the Death
Head and follow the clue from there." And even as he spoke he and
McKenzie were hurriedly, but tenderly, binding up the wounded arm,
while Biddie improvised a comforting sling for it.
But Danny knew that the route by way of old Death Head was long and
circuitous. And he knew also that the shortest way is the only way to
take when one's duty to one's country calls.
He got to his feet.
"I'll show you the shortest way," he said.
* * * * *
How they found means of scaling the cliff, how they accomplished their
stealthy journey back to the hidden wireless station, piloted by the
wounded tenderfoot whom they supported at every step, is too long a
story to tell.
But they reached the mouth of the dark cave. The two boys were left
outside, and very shortly thereafter Mr. Gordon and McKenzie brought
out between them a big shadowy figure with its hands bound together.
* * * * *
That night, the east-bound passenger was flagged at the little station
in the valley, and there boarded it a squad of boy scouts with their
leaders, who guarded between them a captured German spy.
"Gordon, how did you manage it?" called a voice, from some distance
down the long coach as they entered.
For answer, Mr. Gordon took hold of a little boy who wore his left arm
in a sling and, pushing him gently forward, said before that whole car
full of curious, excited people:
"We had an American on guard to-night."
* * * * *
The Probate Judge's office in the old courthouse on the square was,
the next morning, the scene of a most unusual gathering.
Danny and his mother had been asked by the Scout Master to meet him
there at ten o'clock. Mr. Gordon had sent his request in the form of a
brief note which explained that the Boy Scout Court of Honor was to be
in session that morning, and said that he wished his youngest scout to
be present.
Danny's mother was strangely elated over the request, but Danny did
not know why. He was so young in the business of scouting that some
details of the system had not yet become definitely his.
He ventured one surmise when the note was read--something in
connection with the taking of that German spy, of course. Maybe the
Whippoorwills were to be commended for delivering the goods. And
Danny's mind's eye recalled again the stirring scene--McKenzie and Mr.
Gordon marshalling to the station between them the big German whom
they had captured and bound, and he and the other scouts trudging
along in excited escort. It was a wonderful thing to be a man, Danny
thought wistfully--to be big and strong enough to lay a compelling
hand on the enemy in our midst and say:
"I want you!"
But it will have to be recorded that Danny's mother acted a little
queerly on receipt of the note. When Danny said that perhaps the
Whippoorwills were to be commended for "delivering the goods," his
mother looked up at him quickly, as if in surprise. Then she laughed a
little and cried a little, and then she dashed off for her hat and
wraps like a girl.
At ten o'clock sharp, Danny and his mother presented themselves at
Judge Sledge's door. As they paused to knock, a voice came to them
through the closed door--a familiar voice, and it sounded very
earnest. Then the door was opened in response to their knock.
They hesitated a moment while they took in the quiet, dignified scene
within. Portly old Judge Sledge was sitting well forward in his office
chair with his spectacles pushed back upon his bald head, while Doctor
Cranfield and several gentlemen whom Danny knew only by sight were
grouped about him. All were in the attitude of listening intently to a
man who stood before them--Mr. Gordon.
Danny's quick glance took in all this, including the background of
khaki-clad Whippoorwills, plastered against the wall beyond.
The gentlemen rose, on the entrance of Mrs. Harding, and the scouts
crowded forward to whisper excitedly to Danny.
But Danny did not have time to listen to them, for Doctor
Cranfield--taking him by his good arm--turned him about, and said to
the company:
"This is the boy."
There was an agonizing moment to Danny in which he realized that
everybody in the room was looking at him. Then he had to be
introduced. It was very, very trying, for each man to whom Danny gave
his hand in greeting looked him over from head to foot, and made
embarrassingly personal, if kindly, remarks about him.
"He was a small chap for the job."
"He ought to be _red-headed_."
"He was his mother's son."
Danny looked across the group into his mother's eyes and caught there
an expression which he was never to forget. And she was smiling--in
spite of the tear-mist over her beautiful eyes--she was smiling.
When they resumed their seats, there returned upon the group the touch
of ceremonial quiet and earnestness which the entrance of the
newcomers had for the moment dispelled.
Mr. Gordon took a chair behind Mrs. Harding and explained to her and
Danny in a low tone that the session was nearly over. Judge Sledge had
been compelled to convene the court earlier than the appointed hour.
The other men were talking apart. Presently, one of them turned to the
Scout Master and said:
"Following what you have just related, Mr. Gordon--do you think that
it was quite wise in your patrol leader to send out a mere tenderfoot
on a really dangerous commission?"
Mr. Gordon was about to reply, when McKenzie stepped forward and
saluted. "May I answer that?" he asked.
The court assented, and all turned to hear.
"Our private advices had been," began McKenzie, with his Indianlike
figure drawn up to its full height, "that it was Camelback Mountain
which was under suspicion. We located our camp on a parallel range,
and miles from the suspected vicinity. Mr. Gordon and I and several of
the older boys were later to take in hand the serious work of
Camelback, but we thought it well to give the others a little
experience. I had not intended to employ the tenderfoot till I
overheard the boys teasing him. I sent him to the Death Head to redeem
himself in his own eyes and in theirs."
"Please, may I speak?" Biddie Burton had come forward eagerly.
With the permission of the judge, Biddie hurried on:
"Without letting the other boys know, McKenzie told me to follow Danny
in case his courage should give out completely. But he gave me my
orders to keep well in the rear. He wanted Dan to go to the haunted
tree by himself, if he would--to win his spurs, you see."
"Did you follow Harding all the way?" someone interrupted.
"All the way to the haunted tree? Yes, sir, and he _did_ go! He went
right up to it and circled all about it. Then the earth seemed to open
and swallow him up. I looked and looked for him. Then I ran back for
help. I found McKenzie and Mr. Gordon, and we all three started out
after Dan. You have heard the rest."
This seemed satisfactory, and the judge turned to Danny.
"Come here, Daniel," he said, "and tell the court now how you captured
your wireless operator."
Danny started.
"I didn't do it, sir," he said in embarrassment. "Mr. Gordon and
Willard McKenzie captured the man. I only showed them where he was."
The men exchanged glances.
"Well," said the judge, again, "come here and tell us what you _did do_."
Danny came forward.
"Salute!" he heard Biddie whisper.
Danny saluted.
"Now," said the judge, "tell these gentlemen here what--what you told
_your mother_ when you got back from the mountains last night."
Danny looked at his mother. Her eyes were misty again, but she was
nodding to him to do as the judge directed.
The tenderfoot stood embarrassed before them and told the story
exactly as he had related it to his mother. He didn't like to do this,
for he was very much ashamed of having to tell how frightened he had
been, and how he had had to force himself to go forward.
The men listened intently. Once in a while one would interrupt to ask
a question.
When Danny got to the point in his story of his acceptance of
McKenzie's commission to cover old Death Head, a dark-eyed, quiet man
on the judge's right leaned forward.
"One moment, Harding," he said. "McKenzie told us before you entered
that you were afraid to go when the boys dared you, but that when he
told you to go on the scouting trip, you said, 'this is different.'
What did you mean by its being 'different'?"
Danny looked up from his nervous fingering of the judge's
paper-weight.
"I meant that it was for my country," he answered simply.
The dark-eyed man glanced at the others.
"_Beat that_," he said in a low tone to them.
Judge Sledge took down his spectacles from his bald head, adjusted
them on his nose, and looked hard at the boy.
"Proceed," he commanded, after a moment.
Danny proceeded.
"Weren't you afraid to crawl into that cave?" one of them asked in the
course of the story.
"Yes, sir," said Danny.
Later, another interrupted with:
"But if your arm was broken and paining you, why didn't you stay with
Burton, there, and let the others go by the way of Death Head, and
take up the clue you had followed?"
"Why, you see," answered Danny, "we had to get to the man quickly to
stop his telegraphing. I knew a short route to him."
"Exactly," said the judge, nodding, then he turned to the men about him.
"All right, gentlemen?" he asked.
There was a whispered conference of a few moments, and then, to
Danny's surprise, they all turned to him.
"Daniel," said the judge, "do you know why this Court of Honor has
been called into session?"
Danny's glance swept the khaki-clad figures against the wall--he
looked at Mr. Gordon.
"I hope," he answered to the judge, "that you like what we did."
"Yes," said the judge, smiling this time, "yes, the Whippoorwills are
quite in our good graces, and we commend the promptness and efficiency
of Mr. Gordon and your leader, McKenzie. However, this court has been
called together to sit in judgment on _your_ part in last night's
performance. Daniel, do you realize that you have done bravely and
well?"
Danny stood for one moment, stunned by the dawning realization of
what this meant. Then he looked across at his mother. Life holds for a
boy no higher, happier moment than that in which he realizes he has
made his mother proud of him.
Without waiting for him to reply, the judge was continuing:
"This court finds, Danny, that in spite of very human, very natural
fears, and at the cost of suffering to yourself, you performed a
service to your country which may be more far-reaching than any of us
dream. And if there is anything braver than the conquering of fear,
anything more manly than the voluntary endurance of pain for a high
cause, or any earthly motive of action higher than one's duty to one's
country, we have never found it.
"Now, Son, it is not within the power of this, our local court, to
confer upon you what we think you deserve. It is ours, however, to
recommend to the Boy Scout National Court of Honor that you be awarded
the Honor Medal. This we are going to do because we believe you have
saved more than life by your prompt action, and we know that you did it
at the cost of suffering to yourself and at the risk of your own life."
* * * * *
When, a few weeks later, the Honor Medal did arrive and was pinned
upon Danny's breast, the young scout found it necessary to take his
little mother in hand.
"'If you cry like a baby,'" he whispered laughingly but with his arms
about her, "'I'll _disown_ you!'"
UNDER THE FLAG
"_Louise!_"
The little girl came to a halt suddenly and nearly dropped her
book-satchel. Somebody had called her name--some startling, mysterious
voice had called her!
She looked hurriedly about, but there was nobody in sight--nobody but
a saucy squirrel perched upon a park bench, and a redbird flitting
along the open between the enclosing hawthorns.
Which one had called?
"_Louise!_"
The little girl started back, too frightened to scream--it was the
hawthorn!
But the next moment a boyish bullet-head appeared between parted boughs.
"Come here!" exclaimed its owner in suppressed excitement. "We've got
something to tell you!"
Down went the book-satchel, but not in fear this time. Billy Hastings
had called--called excitedly--and Billy was known to furnish nearly
all the third-grade thrills there were. So the next moment Louise was
stooping her way under the hawthorn boughs in answer to her
playfellow's summons.
Billy was not alone in the green grotto in which Louise presently
found herself, for nearly half the third-grade members were there.
There was wide-eyed Tinsie Willis, with her little frilly skirts
bristling with excitement, with Mamie Moore swallowing to keep back
hysterical tears, and Sadie and Lallie Raiford, with their backs to
each other for safe-keeping. And there were boys, a whole mob of boys!
The children were huddled together in suppressed excitement, and were
whispering all at the same time. It was plain that something terrible,
something menacing, had happened.
"You know that new boy that came to school this morning--?" began one.
"That 'Rudolph Kreisler'?" put in another.
"Sh-h-h!" interrupted a third wildly.
But Billy Hastings thrust his red, round face close to Louise's and
announced in a blood-curdling whisper:
"_Rudolph Kreisler is a German spy!_"
Louise's legs crumpled under her, and she sat down in a heap.