THE GOOD TURN
Ten minutes later the small building on the edge of the field was
thronged with joyous, excited boys in various stages of undress, who
celebrated the victory with shrill jubilations, snatches of song, or
exuberant outbursts of mere noise. The strain and tension of the
afternoon were forgotten; nobody remembered the nearness of defeat in the
recollection of that last splendid rally which had brought them all so
much closer together.
On every hand fellows were comparing notes and talking over details of
the struggle in eager fragments. "Remember the time--" "Say, how about
that gain through center when Ted--" "Some run, wasn't it?"
"Oh, you Tommy!" shrilled Court Parker, catching Dale's eye. "Awful punk
run that was--simply awful!"
Tompkins smiled back at him, but did not speak. He was luxuriating in
the restful peace which comes after strenuous physical action and the
consciousness of successful accomplishment. A feeling of intense pride in
the troop filled him. "They're a corking lot of fellows--corking!" he
said more than once under his breath as he looked around the room with
shining eyes. "How they did get after that bunch in the last quarter!
I--I wouldn't belong to any other troop for--for anything!"
Now and then, to be sure, his eyes strayed to the farther end of the
room, where Ranny Phelps was having his swollen ankle bandaged by two
of the most skilful exponents of first aid, and a faint touch of
questioning crept into them. Since that breathless moment on the
field when Ranny's efforts had left the way free for Dale, he had not
spoken to the tenderfoot nor by so much as a glance recognized his
existence. Dale wondered whether his mind was merely taken up with his
injury, or whether the change that had come over him in the heat of
the game had been only a temporary thawing.
As the days passed, the latter suspicion became a certainty. At their
very first meeting, in fact, the tenderfoot found Ranny as aloof as ever.
To be sure, Dale noticed that he no longer seemed to try to impress
his attitude on the others in his patrol. Apparently without rebuke,
stout Harry Vedder became quite friendly, and even Rex Slater and one or
two others in the clique treated him with a good deal more consideration
than they had before the game. But the leader himself made no effort to
disguise his coolness toward the new-comer, and Dale presently found it
hard to believe that the helping hand, the friendly voice, the touch
of that muscular shoulder as they fought side by side on the field in the
furious struggle against odds had been real.
He did not brood over it, because he was not of the brooding sort. More
than once he found himself regretting that impulsive action which had so
increased the other boy's antagonism, but for the most part he contented
himself with the unqualified friendship of most of the troop, and entered
with zest into the various scout activities.
Perhaps the most interesting of these were the long hikes and week-end
camping-trips. Mr. Curtis was a great advocate of the latter, and as
soon as the end of football made Saturdays free again, he announced his
intention of undertaking them as often as the weather permitted.
Unfortunately, there were not many sites around Hillsgrove which
combined the ideal qualifications for a camp--good drainage, wood, and
water. The latter was particularly scarce. There were one or two
brooks--small, miserable affairs with only a foot or two of depth, and a
muddy, half-stagnant mill-pond or so; but the single body of water
which would have been perfect for the purpose was definitely and
permanently barred to them.
It was a small lake, half a mile long and varying from two to four
hundred feet in width, that lay some four miles out of town. There was
a good bottom, depth in plenty even for diving, and the banks on one
side, at least, sloped back sharply and were covered with a fine growth
of pine and hemlock, interspersed with white birch and a good deal of
hard wood. The boys had often looked on it with longing eyes, but the
owner was a sour-faced, crotchety old man who was enraged by the mere
sight of a boy on his property. He had placarded his woods with warning
signs, kept several dogs, and was even reputed to have a gun loaded
with bird-shot ready for instant use on youthful trespassers.
Perhaps the latter was a slight exaggeration; certainly no one had ever
been actually peppered with it. But the fact remained that old Caleb
Grimstone, who lived alone and had a well-established reputation for
crankiness, had stubbornly refused all requests to be allowed to camp
or picnic on his property even when pay was offered, and at length all
such effort had been abandoned. As Court Parker remarked, no doubt with
a vivid recollection of sundry narrow escapes: "You can steal a swim on
the old codger if you keep a weather-eye peeled and don't mind doing
a Marathon through the brush; but when it comes to anything like pitching
a tent and settling down--_good_ night!"
Under such circumstances, it may be imagined that the announcement made
one morning to the group gathered about the school entrance that old
Grimstone had fallen through the hay-shoot and broken an arm did not
elicit any marked expressions of regret.
"Serves him right, the old skinflint, after the mean way he's kept us
away from the lake!" growled Bob Gibson.
"Yes, indeed!" sniffed Harry Vedder. "He's a regular dog in the manger.
It wouldn't hurt him to let us swim there in the summer, or camp once
in a while. He doesn't use it himself."
"Use it!" exclaimed Frank Sanson. "Why, they don't even cut ice off it."
"He's just downright mean, that's all!" put in Rex Slater. "Say, fellows,
what a chance this would be to get ahead of the old chap and camp out
Friday or Saturday--if Mr. Curtis would only let us."
"He won't," said Sherman Ward, decidedly. "Besides, it's a lot too cold
and looks like snow. How did he manage, Ted? Living alone with only those
dogs, it must have been some stunt to get word to anybody."
"He got out to the road and waited for the first team that came along,"
explained Ted. "The people took him into the house, and then sent Dr.
Maxwell out from town. He wanted somebody to come and look after him,
but old Grimey wouldn't hear of it. Said he couldn't stand the expense."
"The old miser! How does he manage to get his meals and look after the
stock?"
"Eats bread and milk and canned stuff, I guess. Bud Hinckley comes in
night and morning, I understand, to look after the horse and cow and wash
dishes and all that, but you know what Bud is."
"So lazy he'd like somebody else to draw his breath for him!" said
Court Parker, promptly. "Whew! What a lovely time the old man must be
having--and to-morrow Thanksgiving!"
As they trooped into school, the last words lingered in Dale Tompkins's
mind. To-morrow would, indeed, be Thanksgiving--the day of turkey, and
mince-pie, and good cheer generally. He had no more cause than the
others for sympathizing with Caleb Grimstone, but somehow the mental
picture of the soured old man sitting alone in his slovenly kitchen,
one arm in a sling, and eating bread and milk, with perhaps a can of
lukewarm tomatoes or corn, when every one else was feasting merrily
in company, made him vaguely uncomfortable.
He forgot it, however, in the excitement of a brisk game of land-hockey
up at Sherman's that afternoon, but after supper the picture returned
with renewed vividness, and with it something the scoutmaster had said
when he passed his second-class examinations a few days ago.
"Never forget the daily good turn, Dale, or let it slump into a
perfunctory sort of thing such as you would have to do anyway whether
you were a scout or not. A fellow can't always find big things, of
course; but when the opportunity comes, he isn't a true scout if he
cannot sacrifice his own comfort or pleasure or inclination to bring
help or happiness to some one who really needs it."
Dale squirmed a little at the recollection and tried to go on with the
book he was reading. But the tale had lost its savor, and presently he
raised his eyes from the printed page and frowned.
"Nobody else thought anything about it!" he muttered rebelliously.
"Besides, to-morrow's Thanksgiving; that's different from any other day."
A little later he put away the book, said good night, and went up to
his room. Having closed the door, he opened his closet and took out
his scout suit. It had come only the day before; already he had looked
at it more than twenty times, but the novelty had not yet worn off.
He wondered if fellows who had theirs merely for the asking felt half
as proud of it as he, who had worked for every penny of its cost. He
passed one hand caressingly over the smooth olive khaki, and then an odd
thought popped suddenly into his head.
He had tried it on, twice, but as yet he had not actually worn it.
Mightn't it mean even more to him if he wore it first in the performance
of a good turn that really counted?
Though the boy felt it only vaguely, and formulated it not at all even
in his mind, it was something of that spirit of consecration that of
old dominated the young candidates for knighthood, guarding their armor
through the long night-watches. Dale's face took on an expression of
determination, and as he put away his things his mind was oddly lightened.
Next morning he sallied forth, a trifle self-conscious in all the glory
of his new khaki, but warmed by the look in his mother's eyes as she
waved good-by from the door-step. Taking the shortest cut, he proceeded
to the rectory, and when Mr. Schofield appeared he saluted punctiliously.
"May I have one of the baskets, sir?" he asked.
The rector smiled. "Ah! You're going to take it to--" He paused
questioningly an instant; then his smile deepened. "Certainly," he said
cordially. "They're over in the parish-house. The ladies are packing
them now. Tell Mrs. Mason I said you were to have a good one."
Ten minutes later Dale was making his way briskly toward the Beldon
Turnpike, a large market-basket on one arm. The legs of a plump fowl
protruded from the covering; there were vegetables within, a can of soup,
celery, oranges, bananas, and a small pie. The weight was not a light
one, but Dale whistled cheerfully as he strode along.
He reached the turnpike without meeting any of the fellows, and after
ten or fifteen minutes' tramping along the straight, level road he paused
to shift the basket to the other arm. It was heavier than he thought.
Overhead the gray sky was a bit dispiriting, and the sharp, chill wind,
blowing across the open fields, made him glad he had buttoned his sweater
beneath the khaki coat.
Presently he began to speculate on what sort of reception he would
have, and for the first time the possibility occurred to him that his
welcome might not be altogether cordial. You never could tell what
point of view the cranky old man would take. He thought of the dogs,
too, especially after he had left the main road and turned into the less
frequented one leading past Grimstone's place. More than once people had
been chased by them, and it wasn't exactly pleasant to picture them
rushing out at him in a body the moment he set foot in the lane.
Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out
with a definite purpose, and he meant to carry it through. To be sure,
just before reaching the lane he cut himself a stout stick, and as
the old, weather-beaten frame house came in sight he unconsciously
made his approach as noiseless as possible. He was surprised and not
a little relieved to see no signs of the animals, but when he set down
his basket and knocked briskly on the back door, the snarling uproar
that instantly arose inside plainly advertised their whereabouts.
Dale tightened his grip on the stick and strained his ears for other
sounds. He had raised his hand for a second knock when the barking
suddenly lessened a little, and above the racket came a growling
admonition in Grimstone's harsh tones:
"Wal, come in, can't you? Are you deaf?"