DURING NOON HOUR
One of the things that made me feel especially bad was that Wig Weigand
and Artie Van Arlen were there working, even after being nearly killed
the night before, and Artie was kind of lame, too, from straining his
ankle when he fell. Gee, I had to hand it to those fellows. And even
Pee-wee was working away with the rest of the Ravens and running to buy
nails and everything. Both of the other patrols were all there except
Tom Slade in the Elks, but they kept his place open for memory, sort of.
After a little while Mr. Ellsworth strolled over to where I was working
and said to me—gee, he was awful nice the way he said it—he said,
“Roy, if you want to follow up that trail you may as well go ahead and
come back after lunch. We’re going to hit the eats pretty soon now.”
That’s the way he always says it, “hit the eats.”
“I was expecting Westy to go with me,” I told him.
“Well, no matter,” he said; “go alone and don’t worry any more about
Westy. It wasn’t because Westy or any other single scout was needed here
for we have plenty of scouts on the job, but it was just that he didn’t
show up when we all planned to be here, that’s all. I don’t like to
think of any of my scouts falling down.”
“It’s the same about my patrol,” I said, “and I’m ashamed, that’s one
sure thing.”
He said I shouldn’t feel that way and that he guessed playing baseball
was good exercise anyway. But he only said that so I wouldn’t feel bad.
Anyway as long as they were going to eat I thought I might as well go
ahead and see if I could do that tracking if it didn’t take me too far.
On the way down to the other landing I thought what I’d say to Westy. I
knew he’d get a troop reprimand, but I decided he’d get a patrol
reprimand too, you bet. And I was feeling pretty bad about it too,
because none of the Silver Foxes ever got a troop reprimand. They got
patrol reprimands but not troop reprimands. And Westy had gone and
spoiled it all and, gee, that’s one word I don’t like—_slacker_.
When I got to the other landing I started following that trail. If you
think Westy had anything to do with it, you’re mighty mistaken, because
he didn’t. He always wore scout shoes, I knew that.
Well, believe me, that trail was a cinch and I could follow it as easy
as a clothes line. It went right up through River Lane where there isn’t
any pavement and every footprint was plain. I was afraid it would go
through Daws Place, because that’s the easiest way to get to Main
Street, and I’d lose it there on account of the pavement. But it didn’t,
and, oh, boy, wasn’t I glad!
Instead of going that way the tracks went right up across the ball
field, just as plain as print. That’s another way to get to Main Street,
and it brings you out at Harvey’s candy store, but don’t ever go there
for ice cream cones, because you get bigger ones down at Jack’s.
Then I lost the trail on account of the pavements. Gee, that’s one thing
I don’t like about pavements. So there’s where I did some deducing.
Maybe you don’t know what _bridging a trail-gap_ means. You have only
yourselves to blame for not being scouts. Bridging a trail-gap means
stopping to think when you lose a trail. You have to decide where it
most likely starts again. That’s what grown-up scouts call mental
tracking.
So I sat down on Ridgeway’s carriage step and thinked a couple of
thinks. That’s right on Main Street, you know, and I had to decide if
that person went up or down Main Street or across the street. Right
across the street is the big bank building. I’ve got forty-two dollars
and eighteen cents interest in that bank. Mr. Temple is the head of it,
and he’s awful rich—he owns railroads and things. He started Temple
Camp. He calls me “Curly” because my hair curls. I should worry.
Right down alongside of the bank runs Barrel Alley. It reminds you of
Fifth Avenue, it’s so different. That’s where Tom Slade was born, down
there. Most every day somebody dies down there, but anyway there are
paving-stones there now, that’s one good thing. Except for tracking. So
you see how it was; that person, who ever he was, could have gone up
Main Street or down Main Street, or over the stone crossing into Barrel
Alley.
I decided that he went across into Barrel Alley for several reasons. One
was that he went across the ball field, and that meant that he’d have to
get down and crawl under the fence, so I decided it was not a grown-up
person, because most of them have stiff backs and they’d rather walk a
mile than crawl under a fence. They’re all the time saying they’re not
as young as they used to be. And if it was a boy he’d be most likely to
go into Barrel Alley because, believe me, they have boys down there by
the dozens, especially the kind that wear worn-out shoes that rich
people give them. So that accounts for the good shoes all worn out.
Smart boy, hey?
So you see that’s the way I bridged that trail, though I couldn’t be
sure I was right, I have to admit that. Anyway I went across the street
and I saw by the clock in the bank that it was half past twelve. I knew
I couldn’t go much farther because I wanted to get back to the
house-boat by one.
I started down Barrel Alley, watching the mud along the edge of the
sidewalk, so I could tell if the fellow left the sidewalk to go into one
of the houses. Barrel Alley is a blind alley—that means it has an end
to it and you can’t go any further. It runs plunk into the end of Shad
Row. Norris Row is the right name, but old man Norris is named Shadley
Norris, so us fellows call it Shad Row. You can get through the end of
Barrel Alley if you climb over old man Norris’ back fence, so it isn’t
exactly a blind alley. It’s just a little near-sighted, kind of.
Anyway I started through it and I knew if my quarry (that means the
fellow you’re tracking) went down there, he most likely went into one of
the tenement houses and I’d see that footprint as soon as he turned off
from the sidewalk.
Well, pretty soon I did see it right alongside the sidewalk just where
he started to go into one of the houses. And oh, wasn’t I tickled! If it
hadn’t been for Westy Martin and the way he’d acted I would have felt as
grand as the Grand Central Station. But that was the thing I was
thinking most about and when you’re thinking about something like that,
you don’t have very much fun—I know I don’t anyway.
But as long as I was there, I might as well find out who it was I had
tracked and solve the mystery about the Indian head. That’s the way
Pee-wee would have said it, “_solve the mystery_.” He gets that kind of
talk out of books. The next chapter is going to be a dandy and I
promised to let him give it a name, so don’t blame me whatever it is.
So long.