THE TRAIL RUNS THROUGH A PESTILENT PLACE
If Tom had entertained any lingering misgivings as to his path of duty,
he cast them from him now. If he had harbored any doubts as to his
success, he banished them. Uncle Sam, poor bleeding, gallant France, and
the voice of the scout, had all spoken to him out of the face of the
wonderful Gold Cross, and he wanted no better authority than this for
something which he must do in order to be off on his errand.
Cheerfully removing his holiday regalia, he donned a faded and mended
khaki suit and a pair of worn trousers, and as he did so he gave a
little rueful chuckle at the thought of poor Roscoe struggling with the
tangled thicket in a regular suit of clothes and without any of the
facilities that a scout would be sure to take.
He slipped on an old coat, into the pocket of which he put his
flashlight, some matches in an airtight box, his scout knife and a
little bottle of antiseptic. Thus equipped, he felt natural and at
home, and he looked as if he meant business.
Putting the plush box into his pocket, he descended the stairs quietly
and slipped into the street. He hurried now, for he wished to get into
the city in time to catch the noon train for Catskill.
At the end of Culver Street he turned into Williams Avenue and hurried
along through its din and turmoil, and past its tawdry shops until he
came to one which he had not seen in many a day. The sight of its dirty
window, filled with a disorderly assortment of familiar articles, took
him back to the old life in Barrel Alley and the days when his
good-for-nothing father had sent him down here with odds and ends of
clothing to be turned into money for supper or breakfast.
It spoke well for the self-respect which Tom had gained that he walked
past this place several times before he could muster the courage to
enter. When he did enter, the old familiar, musty smell and the sordid
litter of the shelves renewed his unhappy memories.
"I have to get some money," he said, laying the plush case on the
counter. "I have to get five dollars."
He knew from rueful experience that one can seldom get as much as he
wants in such a place, and five dollars would at least get him to his
destination. Surely, he thought, Roscoe would have some money.
There were a few seconds of dreadful suspense while the man took the
precious Gold Cross over to the window and scrutinized it.
"Three," he said, coming back to the counter.
"I _got_ to have five," said Tom.
The man shook his head. "Three," he repeated.
"I got to have five," Tom insisted. "I'm going to get it back soon."
The man hesitated, and looked at him keenly. "All right, five," he said
reluctantly.
Tom's hand almost trembled as he emerged into the bright sunlight,
thrusting the ticket into a pocket which he seldom used. He had not
examined it, and he did not wish to read it or be reminded of it. He
felt ashamed, almost degraded; but he was satisfied that he had done the
right thing.
"I thought that trail made a bee-line for the platform in the Lyceum,"
he said to himself, as he folded his five-dollar bill. "Gee, it's a
funny thing; you never know where it's going to take you!"
And you never know who or what is going to cross your trail, either, for
scarcely had he descended the steps of that stuffy den when whom should
he see staring at him from directly across the street but Worry Benson
and Will McAdam, of the other local scout troop.
They were evidently bent on some patriotic duty when they paused in
surprise at seeing him, for they had with them a big flag pole and
several bundles which looked as if they might contain printed matter.
Tom thought that perhaps these were a rush order of programs for the
patriotic rally, and he wondered if they might possibly contain his
name--printed in type.
But he thrust the thought away from him and, clutching his five dollars
in his pocket, he turned down the street and started along the good
scout trail.