NOBLE RAGS
“Good night!” I said to Pee-wee, “what kind of rags do you call those?”
“Didn’t you ever hear of noble rags?” he yelled; “that shows how much
you know about story writing.”
“Are they any relation to a dish rag?” I asked him.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you,” he said; “do you know what a hero
is—a ragged hero?”
“Sure, a hero is a male shero,” I told him; “you learn that in the third
grade. Just the same as a cowardice is a female coward.”
“You make me sick!” he yelled.
“I’ve heard of gasoline rags and dish rags and wash rags,” I kept up,
“but I never saw any noble ones. Have your own way. I should worry.”
“It’s a good name for a chapter,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know a noble rag if I met one in the street,” I told him.
So that’s how this chapter got its name, and I don’t know what it means
any more than you do. I suppose the next one will be called “Trash
Paper,” or something like that.
Well, anyway, I stood on that doorstep for a few minutes, because I
didn’t know what to do next. I was sure the fellow went in there, but I
didn’t know where he went and anyway, I didn’t have any excuse to hunt
him out because I was only tracking him for a stunt. Anyway I went in
and when I got upstairs one flight I saw just a sign of that print in
the hall just in front of a door. The hall was all dirty and greasy
like.
So by that I was pretty sure he had gone in there and you see how I
tracked him all the way from Marshtown landing. Then I made up my mind
that he sure wouldn’t be mad if he knew I did it just for a stunt and
I’d tell him I was scouting. For just a minute I was scared, then I gave
a rap on the door.
Oh, but it was dark and it smelled bad in that hall. I guess they ought
to tear down that row of tenements. Pretty soon I rapped again, and I
felt kind of funny, because I didn’t know what I ought to
say—especially if a woman opened it. All of a sudden it opened very
soft, and, good night! who should be standing there but—who do you
think?
Westy Martin.
Jiminety, but wasn’t I flabbergasted! Even as surprised as I was, I
looked down at his feet and sure enough he had on scout shoes, almost
new. Talk about plots growing thicker! This one was getting so thick you
couldn’t drive a nail into it.
“Well—what—are—you—doing—here?” I gasped out just like that.
“Shh,” he said, “keep quiet; come in, but keep quiet.”
So I went in, all flabbergasted and there was a room with the paper all
falling off the walls and no carpet on the floor, but anyway the windows
were wide open, that was one good thing. And over in the corner was an
old cot without any sheets or anything and, oh, gee, it looked bad
because I’ve got a dandy bed up in my den—all brass and filigree
work—you know.
But, crinkums, I didn’t notice the cot much because there was a fellow
on it and as soon as I looked at him I knew who it was, even though he
looked worse than he most always did. It was Skinny McCord.
“You waked him up by knocking,” Westy said.
“It isn’t the first knocking I did to-day,” I said, “but I guess I can
see how it is now—I guess I can.”
“It’s only a good turn,” he said; “he did you a good turn, and so I had
to do one for him, that’s all. It’s for the scouts too, and I don’t care
what they say.”
Then I happened to notice a catching mit and a baseball over on a table
near Skinny, where there was some medicine too. And then, all of a
sudden, everything seemed to glisten like, especially when I blinked my
eyes. Gee, I know how easy it is for girls to cry, but a
fellow—anyway—when I saw Westy sit down on the edge of that cot and
not pay any attention to me, only to Skinny, I couldn’t speak at all. I
only just happened to think to do something and I’m glad I thought about
it. I just raised my hand and made Westy Martin the full scout salute.
Patrol leaders don’t do that mostly to the fellows in their patrols, but
I should worry about rules and things like that.
“You’re taking care of him?” I said as soon as I could, and I felt all
foolish sort of. “I tracked him, but I never thought”—and I just
couldn’t say any more.
But even still Westy didn’t speak to me, only he said to Skinny, “Here’s
a real patrol leader come to see you—that’s a big honor, that is, and
he just made you the full salute. You remember it in the Scout
Handbook?”
“I made that salute to _you_,” I said to Westy, all choking, I have to
admit it, “and I meant it too.”
“You’re a great tracker,” he said; “wouldn’t you like to be as good a
tracker as he is, Skinny?” And I could see that all he cared about was
amusing Skinny.
“Don’t talk about _me_,” I said; “I’m a big fool, that’s what I am, but
tell me all about it.”
“There isn’t anything to tell,” said Westy, “except that Skinny always
wanted to be a scout, but he didn’t have any money and all like that.
But anyway, he got the Handbook and studied it all up and it got him.”
“Same as it gets any fellow that looks inside of it,” I said.
“And the part that interested him most of all was tracking and
signalling. You see how he carved the tracking emblem on one of his
shoes——”
“You needn’t show it to me,” I said, “I saw it.”
“Last night,” Westy said, “he read that smudge signal, because he
learned the Morse Code out of the Handbook, and he knew that somebody
might be coming up the river with the false report. He didn’t know just
what he ought to do and I guess he was scared to go up to your house
because he didn’t have any good clothes. So he ran down through the
marshes and waited at the landing, because he knew Jake Holden would be
coming up stream. Jake’s one good friend to him, and he often took him
out and he wasn’t afraid of Jake.
“Pretty soon he heard Jake’s boat coming up the river and saw the light
and he just waited there and when Jake come up alongside the float, the
first thing Skinny heard him say was, ‘_Roy Blakeley is dead_’—didn’t
you, Skinny?”
But I could see that Skinny’s eyes were shut now and he didn’t hear. “Go
on,” I said.
“So Skinny told him it wasn’t true, and told him about the signal. Jake
didn’t pay much attention because he thought Skinny was just a little
crazy on account of being so poor and hungry and all that and not having
a good home. So he was going up to your house anyway and Skinny cried
and hung onto him, and begged him not to. I guess he went on kind of
crazy, but he said he was sure because he knew the Morse Code. Anyway,
just to humor him, I guess, Jake promised him he’d wait till early in
the morning, and meanwhile you came home. Do you see?”
Honest, I couldn’t answer him.
“Skinny was the one who did it,” he said. “That accounts for his tracks,
don’t you see?”
I shook my head to show him I understood. But I couldn’t say it.
“And that’s how tracking and signalling have brought the three of us
together—see?” Westy said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how it brings the
three of us together here in this tenement house.”
“How did _you_ come here?” I said.
“I was just starting for the house-boat this morning early, when I met
Skinny’s mother. She was going to do her day’s washing. And she told me
how she had to leave him sick in bed, and she asked me if I’d go and
stay with him till she got back. I went back and got the ball and mit
because I thought maybe he’d like them. She said he got a bad cold in
the marshes and he was all excited and kind of crazy from the way he’d
hung onto Jake and begged him not to go up to your house—what did the
fellows think when I didn’t show up?”
“You—you should worry,” I just blurted out.
“Anyway I don’t care so much about the troop or Mr. Ellsworth either,”
he said, “and even if I cared about Skinny it wouldn’t do much good,
because he’s going to die—the doctor says so. But I care a lot about
you and he did you a good turn. I was afraid he might die before you had
a chance to pay him back. So I just sort of tried to pay him back for
you——”
All the while he was talking I could hardly hear what he was saying and
there was one word ringing through my head.
It was the word _slacker_.