A CRY IN THE NIGHT
Very seldom does reality come up to expectation, but this was one of
the rare exceptions. It was the very cabin of their dreams that rose,
a concrete fact, before their admiring gaze. As they stood off surveying
the walls of neatly fitting logs, the sloping roof where a covering of
split saplings concealed the useful, waterproof tar-paper, the square,
workmanlike chimney rising beyond, there was a moment of almost awed
silence, broken presently by Court Parker.
"Some cabin!" he exclaimed, voicing the feeling of them all. "It doesn't
seem as if we could have built that ourselves, fellows."
"We did, though--we and Mr. Curtis and Mr. Grimstone!" jubilated Ted
MacIlvaine. "Gee! Think of its being finished, and think of its being
ours! Come on inside."
They went with a rush and broke into eager loud-voiced admiration of
their handiwork. They tried the bunks, stout frameworks of pine with
lengths of heavy canvas stretched tightly over them, and pronounced
them better than any mattress, clamorously upheld the merit of one piece
of work over another, and discussed the need of a table, chairs, and
various other conveniences. Of course a fire was started, and when the
red blaze roared up the chimney they rejoiced at the perfection of
the draught. Then began a strenuous altercation as to what the cabin
should be called which bade fair to end in a deadlock, owing to the
wide variety of suggestions.
Neither the scoutmaster nor Mr. Grimstone took part in this. The former
believed in letting the boys settle such questions unaided, while the
old man so unaffectedly enjoyed the boys' delight that he simply sat in
the background, silent, but with twinkling eyes. When a lull came in the
dispute, however, he bethought himself of something.
"There's a pair of elk horns down to the barn you boys may as well have,"
he remarked. "You can hang 'em up over the fireplace for an ornament."
"Elk horns!" exclaimed Dale Tompkins. "They'd be dandy! Say!" he went on
eagerly, stirred by sudden inspiration, "what's the matter with that for
a name, fellows--Elkhorn Cabin?"
"Swell!" agreed two or three scouts at once. "That's better than any
we've had. Sounds like the real thing, doesn't it?"
A vote was promptly taken, and though Ranny Phelps and a few others were
against it, the majority approved. The horns, a fine pair of antlers,
were fetched and hung in place, and the cabin formally christened.
"And next week," said Frank Sanson, as they were packing up for their
tramp home through the crisp twilight, "we can come out to camp, can't
we, Mr. Curtis?"
The scoutmaster nodded. "Provided the weather is decent and you all get
your parents' consent, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't spent
Friday night here. It may be a bit crowded, but we'll manage some way."
As a matter of fact they did not have to. Indeed, there came very near
being no overnight hike at all. During the building of the cabin the
weather had been singularly favorable. It was snapping cold much of the
time but save for a flurry or two of snow, the days had been uniformly
clear. Now, however, as if to make up for her smiles, Nature proceeded to
frown. Wednesday was overcast, and all day Thursday a cold rain came
down to damp the spirits of the would-be campers. It turned to snow
during the night, and next morning found the country-side covered with a
mantle of white. The temperature was well below freezing and dropping
steadily, and Mr. Curtis, who had practically given up the idea of
occupying the cabin that night, was surprised toward the middle of the
afternoon by the appearance at his door of a group of white-flecked
figures, very rosy of cheek and bright of eye, carrying blanket-rolls
and hung about with cooking utensils and sundry parcels.
"We can go, can't we, sir?" inquired Ted MacIlvaine, eagerly, as he
dusted the snow off his coat. "You're not going to give it up, are you?"
The scoutmaster's eyebrows lifted. "Have you all got permission?" he
asked doubtfully.
"Yes, sir. We can go if you go," came in a prompt chorus.
For a moment Mr. Curtis hesitated. After all, there couldn't be any
risk about the trip even if the storm continued all night. The cabin
was weather-proof, and enough fire-wood had been cut to last them a
week. With plenty of food and good blankets they would be as snug as
possible, and he knew from experience the charm of the woods in a
snow-storm. Looking the bunch over appraisingly, he saw that there
were only seven--MacIlvaine, Parker, Dale Tompkins, Frank Sanson, Bob
Gibson, Turk Gardner and Pete Oliver, all self-reliant boys of the type
who were willing to stand a little roughing it without complaint.
"Are you the only ones who want to go?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," returned MacIlvaine. "Sherman's away, and Wes has a cold. The
others all thought--"
"Cold feet!" stated Oliver, derisively, running his fingers through a
thatch of bright, red hair. "They're afraid they might get a chill."
"Not much danger of that when you're around, Pete," laughed the
scoutmaster. "Well, you boys had better come in and wait. It'll take me
ten or fifteen minutes to get ready."
He appeared in rather less than that time, sweatered, mackinawed, with
high, laced boots, woolen cap, and heavy gloves. Over one shoulder swung
his blanket-roll, and strapped to his back was a good-sized haversack
of provisions. He knew from experience that some one was sure to have
forgotten something, so he always went prepared to supply deficiencies.
It was a joyous, hilarious bunch that made their way through the town
and out along the Beldon Turnpike. Most of them had their staves, and
two had brought snow-shoes along. Their attempts to use these unfamiliar
articles occasioned much amusement among the others.
It took the better part of two hours to reach the cabin. The snow had
drifted considerably, and the road was scarcely broken through. After
they reached the woods the going was especially hard, and a general shout
of rejoicing went up as the first sight of the sloping, snow-covered roof
loomed up through the twilight. When the door was unlocked they entered
with a rush, packs and blanket-rolls were dropped, and a fire started
at once. When this was blazing merrily, Mr. Curtis divided the boys
into two squads, one of which undertook preparations for supper and
straightened up the cabin generally, while the others scraped a path
through the snow down to the shore of the lake.
There were minor mishaps, of course, in the culinary department. A
few chops were burned, and the baked potatoes resembled lumps of
charcoal rather than things edible. But there was plenty for all, and
nothing had ever tasted so good as the supper eaten there on the
floor before the dancing flames. Afterward, when things were cleared
away and the boys sprawled out on their blankets before the fireplace,
the two lanterns were extinguished and only the red glow of the fire
illumined the half-circle of eager young faces. The wailing of the wind
in the pines and the soft, whispering beat of snow against the windows
served only to intensify the cozy warmth and cheer of the cabin.
Instinctively the boys drew closer together and, snuggling in their
blankets, discussed for a space the unbelievable stupidity of any
sane person preferring a humdrum evening at home to this. Then some one
besought Mr. Curtis to tell a story.
"What kind of a story?" asked the scoutmaster, smiling.
"Oh, a ghost story, of course!" urged several voices at once.
Mr. Curtis laughed, stretched out his legs comfortably, thought for a
minute or two, and then in a slow, sepulchral voice began a narrative
which he called "The Headless Horseman of the Harlem." It was a tale
full of creeps and thrills, abounding in dank vaults, weird apparitions,
wild storms, midnight encounters, and various other appropriate
settings and incidents. The boys drew closer still, luxuriating in the
"spookiness" of it all, and then, just as some of the more impressionable
were beginning to cast nervous glances behind them, he ended with a
ridiculous climax that brought forth a shout of laughter and turned
the whole thing into a farce.
A "round-robin" followed, the scoutmaster starting a yarn and leaving it
at an exciting and dramatic moment for the boy on his right to continue.
The absurdity of these continuations kept the crowd in a constant gale
of merriment, and when the round was made they clamored for another.
But it was growing late, so Mr. Curtis substituted a brief anecdote
of scout bravery which had a humorous twist. It was the story, so often
repeated in scout annals, of a little fellow plunging unhesitatingly to
the rescue of a bigger boy who had stumbled beyond his depth in a
swimming-hole. The stronger lad seized his rescuer about the neck and
forced his head below the water. The youngster was unable to free
himself, but with head down and breath almost gone, he hit bottom,
and then, calmly walking along it, he tugged along his struggling
friend until the bank was reached.
"He simply kept his head, you see, and used his brain, which is one of
the best things scouting teaches us," concluded Mr. Curtis. He stood up,
stretching. "Blankets out, fellows," he went on, "and everybody in bed."
Each bunk had been planned to accommodate two occupants, so there was
no crowding or necessity for makeshifts. The fire was piled up with
fresh logs, and though there was a good deal of preliminary laughter and
chattering, the boys were too tired to stay awake long, even under the
novel conditions. Bob Gibson was one of the last to close his eyes. He
had the outside of one of the lower bunks with a full view of the fire,
and though few would have suspected his gruff, matter-of-fact manner to
overlay even a touch of poetry or imagination, he lay there watching
it for a long time, fascinated by the leaping, dancing, crimson-yellow
flames, until sleep at length overtook him.
How long he lay oblivious to sights and sounds he had no idea. But it
must have been hours later when he found himself sitting bolt upright,
every nerve tingling and in his ears the echo of that strange, horrible
cry that had shocked him into complete wakefulness.
"What's that?" came in a tense, frightened gasp from one of the boys
across the room.
Bob did not answer. He sat there shaking nervously and straining his
ears for a repetition of the ghastly sound. The fire had died down
to a bed of dull red embers, and there was a noticeable chill over
everything. He caught his breath as a dark shadow swiftly passed him and
then realized, with a feeling of keen relief, that it was Mr. Curtis. A
moment later the scoutmaster had thrown an armful of light wood on
the embers and the fire blazed up, illumining the pale faces of the
boys, strained, startled, but all tense with expectation.
Suddenly the cry came again, a piercing, strangled, high-pitched scream
that turned the blood cold and brought out beads of perspiration on more
than one forehead. It seemed to come from just outside the cabin door.