TOM MEETS A STRANGER
Tom's ankle still pained him more than he had been willing to admit, but
the departure of Roscoe for home was a load off his mind, and he felt
that now his work was done. In four hours, at most, Roscoe would be back
in Bridgeboro, his name upon the rolls, his registration card in his
pocket. Tom envied him.
It was exactly like Tom not to worry about how the authorities would
receive Roscoe's excuses, or what people would think of his own absence.
His mind was a very simple one, and he believed, as he had told Roscoe,
that if one did what was right he would not be misjudged.
When the effects of Roscoe's "mistake" had blown over and his own
lameness subsided, he would go back to Bridgeboro, and he knew exactly
what he was going to say. He was going to say that he had been called
away unexpectedly about something very important. That was what business
men like Mr. Temple and Mr. Burton and Mr. Ellsworth were always
saying--that they were called away; and to be on the safe side, Tom
intended to use that very expression. There might be some curiosity and
annoyance, but a scout who held the Gold Cross (or at least _owned_ it)
would not be suspected of doing anything wrong. They would say, "He's an
odd number, Tom is," and he would not mind their saying that, for he had
heard it before.
During the morning he sat propped up in the bunk reading _Treasure
Island_, and in the afternoon he limped out to the brook and caught some
minnows, which he fried in cracker crumbs, and had a gala repast all by
himself.
While it was still light he decided that he would follow the familiar
trail down to Temple Camp and spend the night there. He had the key to
the main pavilion, and there he could enjoy the comfort of a couch and a
much-needed night's rest. He had left some clothing there, also, which
he meant to exchange for his tattered raiment.
He found the camp gloomy enough with all the cabins closed and barred,
the rowboats lying inverted on the shore of the lake, and not a soul to
welcome him in that beloved retreat which had been the scene of so much
fun and adventure. It made him think of Roy and the troop to limp about
and see the familiar places, and he sat down on the long rough seat at
the bleak-looking mess-board and thought of the past summer, of Jeb
Rushmore, of Pee-wee's curly hair and lively countenance, of the scouts
trooping from woods and cabin to the grateful evening meal which was
served there each night.
Soon, in a week or two perhaps, Jeb would return, and before long that
quiet grove would echo to the sound of merry voices. He sat gazing in
the twilight at the long, deserted mess-board. How well he remembered
the night when all the camp had assembled here in honor of the birthday
of the Elk Patrol--_his_ patrol!
"If it wasn't for me, this camp would never have been started," he mused
proudly; "Mr. Temple saw what scouting could do for a feller, and that's
why he started it.... I'm mighty glad I got to be a scout...."
It made him homesick to look about; homesick for the good old times, for
Jeb, and the stalking and tracking and swimming, and Roy's jollying of
Pee-wee at camp-fire, and the hikes he and Roy used to have together.
"Anyway, I'll see them all to-morrow night at troop meeting," he said to
himself, "and in August we'll all be up here again.--I bet they'll
laugh and say I was a queer duck to go away--that's what Roy's always
saying."
He found some ointment in the provision cabin and rubbed his ankle until
his arm was tired. Then he bandaged it and went to bed in one of the
comfortable cot-beds in the pavilion.
Early in the morning he was up and glad to find that he could stand upon
his injured foot without pain.
The sun was streaming in through the window which he had thrown open,
and its cheerful brightness drove away any lingering misgivings which he
might have had about Roscoe's or his own reception in Bridgeboro. He
donned an old suit of his own which, though faded, was free from tears.
"It's all right now; everything's all right now," he said; "he's
registered by now, and to-morrow night I'll show up at troop meeting and
they can kid me and say I was afraid to stay and go on the platform--I
don't care. I know I hit the right trail. Let 'em call me queer if they
want to."
He made breakfast for himself with a pocketful of loose coffee which he
had brought down from the mountain and some canned meat which he found
in the provision cabin.
Then he hit up through the grove for the road which would take him into
the village of Leeds, where he could catch the trolley line for Catskill
Landing.
"That was a good job, anyway," he said to himself, as he limped steadily
along; "I bet Mr. Bent was glad---- Gee, it must be fine to have a
father like that!..."
The birds were chattering in the trees along the roadside; hard by a
little herd of lazy cows stood in a swamp under a spreading willow like
statues of content; now and again an agile chipmunk ran along the stone
wall and disappeared into one of its little rocky caverns; in the fields
beyond farm hands with great straw hats could be seen at their labors,
reminding poor Tom of his own sorry bungling as a war farmer; and the
whole tranquil scene was filled with the breath of spring, which entered
the soul of Tom Slade as he limped steadily along, and made him feel
happy and satisfied.
"Anyway, this is just as good--just as good as being on a committee," he
told himself; "I always liked the country best of all, anyway--I always
said I did. The scout trail takes you to good places--that's one sure
thing."
Presently he passed a bend in the road and discovered some distance
ahead of him a figure--evidently that of a youth--trudging along under
the weight of a tremendous old-fashioned valise which he carried now in
one hand, now in the other, and now again on his shoulder.
In the intervals of changing he laid the valise on the ground, pausing
in evident relief. At length, he sat down on a rock, and as Tom
approached he screwed up his face in a rueful grin. It was an
extraordinary face and such a grin as Tom had never seen before--a grin
which made even the scout smile look like drooping despair by
comparison. And as for freckles, there were as many of them as there are
stars in the peaceful heaven.
"Too much for you?" asked Tom, as he paused by the rock.
The boy made no answer, but shook his head expressively and mopped his
forehead.
"I'll help you carry it," said Tom. "We can both get hold of the handle.
I got to do a good turn, anyway."
"Sit down and rest," said the stranger. "I got some apples inside, and
we'll dig into a couple of 'em. Like apples?"