THE SLACKER
One thing, I wished Tom Slade was there, because he was the best tracker
we ever had. He could track an airplane—that’s what the fellows used to
say. But he was over in France and the only other fellow in our troop
who is a cracker-jack at tracking, is Westy Martin. I don’t say that
just because he’s a Silver Fox, because I have to admit that Artie Van
Arlen and Wig Weigand are heroes, and they’re not Silver Foxes. But,
honest, Westy is a winner when it comes to tracking, and you’ve got to
remember that, because now I’m going to tell you some other things about
him and maybe you won’t know just what to think. But I’m going to tell
you straight just what happened.
Well, I decided that I’d rather have another fellow with me, because
that’s a good rule in tracking and anyway two fellows are better than
one. And anyway, I knew he could hold a track longer than I could. He
got the pathfinder’s badge for one of the best tracking stunts that was
ever done up at Temple Camp and he’s done enough tracking stunts to win
it two or three times over. He’s a fiend on tracking.
By now I knew that the fellows would all be coming down to the boat club
landing to work on the houseboat, because we had it fixed that they
would all be there by nine o’clock. I wasn’t going to flunk on that, you
can bet, but I thought if I told them about the footprint they’d let
Westy and me off for a little while, because if a scout is after a merit
badge he can usually get leave all right. Anyway, that’s the way it is
in our troop. And all the fellows knew I had the tracking bee, all
right.
Gee, I hate to tell you about this, but I have to. Now, the way you get
from Marshtown landing up to the boat club landing is to follow the
shore and its only about a quarter of a mile. After I’d hiked it a
little way, I could hear the fellows talking and sawing and hammering,
and I knew they were all busy working.
When I got there they were all over the houseboat like flies, painting
and varnishing and fixing up the flagpole, and I could hear Pee-wee as
usual, shouting away. Jiminy, but it sounded good. Then I could hear
somebody say, “Well, well, better late than never,” and I saw it was our
scoutmaster, Mr. Ellsworth. He took a day off to help the fellows.
“I’m only six minutes late,” I said; “Silver Foxes always show up.”
“Well, let us hope so,” Mr. Ellsworth said. And I kind of saw that
something was wrong. “Westy isn’t here,” somebody shouted.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” I said; “get to work; you should worry
about Westy.”
But just the same I felt sort of uncomfortable because one thing Mr.
Ellsworth is a stickler about is us being on time. Whenever a scout
comes late for campfire up at Temple Camp or at a troop meeting either,
he always gets a look from T. E. At camp we have breakfast at 7:42 and
lunch at 1:23 and supper at 7:13, just to teach the fellows to go by
minutes.
Anyway, I started working with my patrol, who were painting the deck. I
stuck right to it, but all the time I was wishing that Westy would show
up. Every time I heard a sound I looked up. Because maybe you don’t know
that a patrol leader is responsible for his patrol and if one of them
falls down, it’s just the same as if _he_ fell down. First the fellows
kidded us about it, especially me, and spoke about the Tardy Foxes, and
the Sleepy Foxes, but pretty soon Mr. Ellsworth came to me and said he
guessed I’d better go into the club house and telephone to Westy and
find out what was the matter.
“Find out if he’s awake yet,” somebody said.
“Maybe we’d better send a taxi for him,” another fellow shouted.
“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?” I said, “Maybe you raving
Ravens won’t rave so much when you find out he’s sick in bed.”
So I went in and telephoned, and oh, jiminy, that was the first time in
my life that I ever really wished a fellow was sick. But his mother told
me he hadn’t been home since about half-past seven and that when he went
out he had a catching-mit and a baseball with him.
Jiminies, I don’t often get scared, but I could feel my heart up in my
mouth, kind of, and I didn’t know what to tell the fellows and Mr.
Ellsworth. It was like a disgrace to my patrol and it disgraced me, too,
you can bet. He would go off and play ball and let us fellows do all the
work on the boat and then he’d go in it up to Temple Camp. Gee, that’s
one thing a scout never is—mean. We had it all fixed up to work and
then he flunked and let us do it all.
First I thought maybe I’d kind of not tell Mr. Ellsworth all about that
’phone call and say I couldn’t hear very plain, and all like that. But I
saw if I did that, I’d be worse than Westy. It was bad enough having a
slacker in my patrol without having a liar.
No, siree!
So I just went up to him and I said, “Mr. Ellsworth, he’s out playing
ball somewheres and I guess he didn’t intend to come. I admit it
disgraces my patrol and it disgraces the whole troop. I was going to ask
you if you thought maybe I could go away for an hour or so to follow a
track I found, but I won’t now; I’ll just stay here and work twice as
hard so as to make up for him. And the other fellows in my patrol will
too. Maybe that will make it seem not quite so bad.”