Beside the Camp Fire
The Cubs stared at the empty oven, uncertain whether or not Mr. Hatfield
and Red had played a trick upon them.
“Hey, where are they?” Midge demanded. “Who swiped the biscuits?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said Mr. Hatfield.
His grim tone left no doubt that the biscuits actually were missing.
Their disappearance was as mysterious to Mr. Hatfield and Red as to the
other boys.
“Why, they were here a few minutes ago!” Red exclaimed indignantly.
“Someone’s swiped ’em!”
Mr. Hatfield glanced quickly about the camp. No one however, was within
sight.
“Of all the dirty tricks!” Dan exploded. “Taking the food right out of
our mouths!”
“How about the bacon and eggs?” Fred demanded. “Have they walked off
too?”
A check disclosed that the other food remained untouched.
“Go ahead and fry your bacon and eggs,” Mr. Hatfield advised. “Brad and I
will take a quick look around.”
The pair circled the camp, even venturing a short distance into the
woods. Because the ground was firm and dry, they could find no telltale
footprints. Nor did they see anyone.
Giving up the search, they returned a few minutes later to share bacon
and eggs with the Cubs.
“This supper is ruined without the biscuits,” Red complained. “I made ’em
super! Honestly, I did.”
“I’ll bet they turned out so hard you were afraid to serve ’em,” Babe
joked. “So to fool us, you buried ’em.”
“That’s not so,” Red denied hotly. “The biscuits were perfect when Mr.
Hatfield and I went to gather wood. Someone stole ’em!”
“It may have been that tramp who hid out in the house,” Brad said
thoughtfully. “For all we know, he may still be around somewhere.”
“Just wait until I meet him again!” Midge declared, scraping the last bit
of egg from his tinfoil cup plate. “I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”
“Maybe it wasn’t the tramp,” speculated Chips. He poked the coals with a
stick, and having stirred the flames, tossed a crumpled ball of foil to
the fire.
“Who else could it have been?” demanded Fred. “We’ve seen no one on this
road. Only cars that whiz past at twenty-five miles an hour.”
Chips had fastened his gaze upon the unpainted dwelling owned by the
Widow Jones. The old house was some distance away, but visible through
the trees.
“Remember that runaway boy?” he reminded the Cubs. “He was taken back to
Mrs. Jones’ House, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Hatfield. Squatting beside the fire, he had
listened with interest to the speculation of the Cubs.
“Well, I’ll bet a cent he went off with our food!” Chips announced.
“Let’s go to the house and find out!”
“Yeah!” cried Midge. “We aren’t going to let him get by with it, are we?”
“Just a minute, boys,” interposed Mr. Hatfield. “You’re leaping to pretty
fast conclusions, in my opinion. It would be a mistake—one of the worst
kind—to go to Mrs. Jones and complain about the boy. We might be doing
him a rank injustice.”
“Don’t forget the tramp,” added Brad significantly. “A second ago, you
fellows were equally sure he was the culprit.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to go to the house and inquire,” Chips
insisted. “We could be sort of—” he groped for a word.
“Discreet?” asked Mr. Hatfield, smiling.
“That’s what I mean!”
“I had intended to stop at the Jones’ house anyway,” Mr. Hatfield
admitted, starting to stamp out the dying coals. “But my purpose is
entirely friendly. I’m curious to learn how Jack is getting along.”
“Let’s all go,” Chips urged. “We want to see if he’s well fed—especially
on biscuits!”
“Chips, I’m a bit uncertain—”
“Oh, I’ll watch myself,” the boy assured him quickly. “You can do most of
the talking. We’ll just listen and keep our eyes open.”
“I’m sure I can depend on you,” the Cub leader nodded. “Well, let’s clean
camp. It’s getting on toward dark.”
The Cubs put out the fire, covering the smoking coals with loose dirt.
Their knapsacks loaded, they soon were ready to hit the trail.
“Now remember, boys,” Mr. Hatfield warned as the group approached the
Jones dwelling, “even if you are suspicious, don’t make any accusations.
Jack already is in a bad spot.”
“If we complain that he stole our food, Mrs. Jones might send him
straight back to the Institute,” added Brad. “We ought to be dead sure of
our ground before we open our lips.”
Smoke curled from the chimney of the widow’s house, so the Cubs knew
someone was at home. The yard remained untidy, reminding them that they
still had a Saturday task before them.
However, there was evidence that someone had been doing considerable
work. Kindling wood had been cut and cord wood neatly sawed and stacked
by the sagging porch.
Mr. Hatfield rapped on the door. In a moment, Mrs. Jones appeared in her
kitchen apron, smiling as she saw the Cubs.
The Cub leader politely told her he had come to inquire how Jack Phillips
was getting along.
Immediately Mrs. Jones looked troubled. “That boy!” she exclaimed. “If I
haven’t had a handful!”
“I hope he hasn’t been giving you a bad time,” Mr. Hatfield returned.
“Well, yes, and no. There’s good stuff in the lad, but he’s a problem.”
“Keeping him at home is one of them, I judge.”
Mrs. Jones drew a deep sigh. “Jack is off somewhere this very minute.
Early this morning I told him to cut the wood. He went through the job
like a house afire, and then before I knew it, he was gone.”
“Wandering the woods perhaps?”
“Yes, that boy is like a wild things with his love of the outdoors. He
went off for three hours yesterday and I gave him a switching when he
came back. But it didn’t prevent him from trying the same trick today.”
Mr. Hatfield smiled as the widow mentioned the switching. She was a frail
little woman, weighing a scant one hundred pounds. Jack, by contrast, was
built like a football player and heavy for his age.
“I don’t think the switching hurt him any,” Mrs. Jones said. “The scamp
sort of laughed while I was doing it. I’m right provoked at him today
though. He took the rifle when he left.”
“Why, that’s rather dangerous.”
“Oh, Jack’s a good shot,” Mrs. Jones informed him. “I wouldn’t mind him
using the gun, if he’d ask me for it. It’s those sneaking ways of his
that annoy me.”
“I know what you mean,” nodded Mr. Hatfield, reflecting upon the missing
biscuits. “Well, be patient with the lad. He may develop. And if there’s
anything I can do, call on me.”
“If you could round that boy up and send him home, I’d appreciate it,”
the widow sighed. “There’s no telling where he is, or when he’ll come
dragging in—if at all.”
“You haven’t had any serious trouble with him?”
The widow hesitated. “I haven’t wanted to report his behavior to the
Court officials, because if I do, I know they’ll pack him off to the
industrial school. I’m trying to give him a chance.”
“But he has caused you worry? There’s more to it than restlessness and
running away?”
“Well, a few things have disappeared,” Mrs. Jones admitted reluctantly.
“Nothing of much value, but it bothers me.”
“What are some of the things that have been taken?”
“Jack always is sneaking into the ice box. He’ll pack himself a lunch and
disappear for hours.”
“A typical boy’s trick.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining about the food. Though it plagues me that he
doesn’t come right out honest like and ask for it.”
“The boy takes other things?”
“One of my black silk dresses disappeared. I’d dry cleaned it with
gasoline and hung it up in the shed to air out. To tell you the truth, I
forgot about it for several days. When I went to get it, well it was
gone.”
“What would Jack want with a black silk dress?” Mr. Hatfield questioned
dubiously.
“You tell!” Mrs. Jones made a despairing gesture. “He chops wood and then
half of it disappears before I can pop it into the stove. I think he
carries it off to build fires in the woods and marsh.”
“It’s curious that he would take a dress,” said the Cub leader with a
puzzled shake of his head. “The other things more or less fit in with his
overpowering desire to lead an outdoor life. But a woman’s dress!”
“It was an old one without much value,” Mrs. Jones admitted. “I liked it
though, on account of the pretty jet buttons.”
At mention of jet buttons, Dan shot Mr. Hatfield a quick glance. He saw
that the Cub leader likewise was startled by the possibility which
presented itself.
“What kind of buttons, were they?” the boy asked.
“Just tiny jet buttons, diamond in shape.”
“If we find the boy, we’ll send him home,” Mr. Hatfield said hastily.
He was afraid that Dan or one of the other Cubs might say something which
would further disturb the widow.
Herding the boys together, he led them away from the house. Once beyond
hearing of the widow, they all had plenty to say.
“Jack swiped our biscuits all right!” Red said indignantly. “We’re saps
to let him get by with it too!”
“We ought to have him sent back to the Child Study Institute!” added
Midge. “Who does that kid think he is? We ought to clip his comb!”
Mr. Hatfield had not given much thought to the stolen food. However, he
was gravely troubled by Mrs. Jones’ reference to the jet buttons.
“Do you suppose Jack was the one who came to your house that morning?”
Dan asked, falling into step with the Cub leader.
“Naturally, it raises a question in one’s mind, Dan. But for the life of
me, I can’t understand how he would know about the tin box.”
“Furthermore, he didn’t live here at the time the money disappeared from
your house, Mr. Hatfield.”
“That’s so, Dan!” the Cub leader exclaimed, obviously relieved. “For a
minute I was afraid of the worst. It only goes to prove one shouldn’t
jump to conclusions. Guess I’ve said that a dozen times.”
As the Cubs reached the main road, Chips called attention to a curl of
smoke rising lazily from the woods.
“Someone must have a camp fire back in there,” he remarked.
“It’s a rather dangerous place to start a fire,” Mr. Hatfield said.
“Suppose we investigate.”
Turning aside from the road, the Cubs climbed a rail fence and made their
way through the thickets. Picking a trail carefully, Mr. Hatfield led
them single file.
“Quiet, boys,” he advised as Babe kept shuffling his feet through the dry
leaves. “No use advertising ourselves.”
Before the Cubs had gone far into the woods, they could smell the aroma
of food cooking.
Mr. Hatfield signaled for the boys to slow their pace. Treading
noiselessly, they approached with caution.
At the edge of a small clearing the Cub leader abruptly halted.
Eager to see what it was that had drawn and held their leaders attention,
the boys closed in about him.
“Can you beat that!” Dan whispered.
Directly ahead was a wind-sheltered hollow, framed by bare trees. A camp
fire had been built close to the banks of a winding stream. On a crudely
constructed spit, a dressed rabbit slowly broiled over the coals.
The one who turned the spit had his back to the Cubs. He was wrapped
deeply in a heavy coat many sizes too large for his lean frame. Beside
him lay a rifle.
But even though the Cubs could not see the lad’s face, they recognized
him instantly. The one who sat so contentedly by his fire, gazing off
into space, was Jack Phillips.