AN ACCIDENT
The latter part of the afternoon found Tom many miles from Bridgeboro,
and the trail which had passed through such sordid and pride-racking
surroundings back in his home town, now led up through a quiet woodland,
where there was no sound but the singing of the birds and an occasional
rustle or breaking of a twig as some startled wild creature hurried to
shelter.
Through the intertwined foliage overhead Tom could catch little glints
of the blue sky, and once, when he climbed a tree to get his bearings,
he could see, far in the distance, the lake and the clearing of Temple
Camp, and could even distinguish the flagpole.
But no flag flew from it, for the season had not yet begun; Jeb Rushmore
was on a visit to his former "pals" in the West, and the camp was
closed tight. Down there was where Tom had won the Gold Cross.
He would have liked to see a flag waving, for Bridgeboro, with all its
patriotic fervor and bustle, seemed very far away now, and though he was
in a country which he loved and which meant much to him, he would have
been glad of some tangible reminder that he was, as he had told himself,
_with the Colors_.
Tom had left the train at Catskill Landing and reached the hill by a
circuitous, unfrequented route, hoping to reach, before dark, the
clearer path which he himself had made and blazed from the vicinity of
Temple Camp to the little hunting shack upon the hill's summit. This, he
felt sure, was the path Roscoe would follow.
It was almost dark when, having picked his way through a very jungle
where there was no more sign of path than there is in the sky, he
emerged upon the familiar trail at a point about a mile below the shack.
He was breathless from his tussle with the tangled underbrush, his old
clothes had some fresh tears, and his hands were cut and bleeding.
For three solid hours he had worked his way up through the tangled
forest, and now, as he reached the little trail which was not without
its own obstacles, it seemed almost like a paved thoroughfare by
contrast.
"Thank goodness!" he breathed. "It's good _he_ didn't have to go that
way--I--could see _his_ finish!"
He was the scout now, the typical scout--determined, resourceful; and
his tattered khaki jacket, his slouched hat, his rolled-up sleeves, and
the belt axe which he carried in his hand, bespoke the rugged power and
strong will of this young fellow who had trembled when Miss Margaret
Ellison spoke pleasantly to him.
He sat down on a rock and poured some antiseptic over the scratches on
his hands and arms.
"I can fight the woods, all right," he muttered, "even if they won't let
me go off and fight the Germans."
After a few minutes' rest he hurried along the trail, pausing here and
there and searching for any trifling sign which might indicate that the
path had been recently traveled. Once his hopes of finding Roscoe were
dashed by the discovery of a cobweb across the trail, but when he felt
of it and found it sticky to the touch he knew that it had just been
made.
At last, hard though the ground was, he discovered a new footprint, and
presently its meaning was confirmed when he caught a glint of light far
ahead of him among the trees.
At the sight of it his heart gave a great bound. He knew now for a
certainty that he was right. He had known it all along, but he was
doubly assured of it now.
On the impulse he started to run, but his foot slipped upon an exposed
root, and as he fell sprawling on the ground his head struck with a
violent impact on a big stone.
After a few stunned seconds he dragged himself to a sitting posture; his
head throbbed cruelly, and when he put his hand to his forehead he found
that it was bleeding. He tried to stand, but when he placed his weight
upon his left foot it gave him excruciating pain.
He sat down on the rock, dizzy and faint, holding his throbbing head and
lifting his foot to ease, if possible, the agonizing pain.
"I'm all right," he muttered impatiently. "I was a fool to start
running; I might have known I was too tired."
That was indeed the plain truth of the matter; he was so weary and spent
that when, in the new assurance of success, he had begun to run, his
tired feet had dragged and tripped him.
"That's what--you--get for--hurrying," he breathed heavily; "like Roy
always said--more haste--less---- Ouch, my ankle!"
He tried again to stand, but the pain was too great, and his head swam
so that he fell back on the rock.
"I wish Doc--Carson--was here," he managed to say. Doc was the troop's
First-Aid Scout. "It--it was just--because I didn't--lift my feet--like
Roy's always telling me--so clumsy!"
He soaked his handkerchief in antiseptic and bound it about his
forehead, which was bleeding less profusely. After a few minutes,
feeling less dizzy, he stood upon his feet, with a stoical disregard of
the pain, determined to continue his journey if he possibly could.
The agony was excruciating, but he set his strong, thick lips tight,
and, passing from one tree to another, with the aid of his hands, he
managed to get along. More than once he stopped, clinging to a tree
trunk, and raised his foot to ease the anguish. His head throbbed with a
cruel, steady ache, and the faintness persisted so that often he felt
he was about to reel, and only kept his feet by clinging to the trees.
"This--this is just about--the time I'd be going to that--racket----" he
said. "Gee, but that foot hurts!"
He would have made a sorry figure on the platform. His old khaki jacket
and trousers were almost in shreds. Bloodstains were all over his shirt.
A great bloody scratch was visible upon his cheek. His hands were cut by
brambles. There was a grim look on his dirty, scarred face. I am not so
sure that he would have looked any nobler if he had been in the
first-line trenches, fighting for Uncle Sam....