THE ACCIDENT
It was on Thursday morning that Mr. Curtis sent for Dale, and in
spite of his suspicions the boy brightened a little as he entered
the scoutmaster's study and noticed the smile on the latter's face.
"Well, Dale," began Mr. Curtis, cheerily, "I've been puzzling my brains
over that problem of yours ever since Monday night, and yesterday the
answer was fairly thrust on me."
The boy pricked up his ears doubtfully. "What is it, sir?" he asked
quickly.
"Bird-houses. You're our prize carpenter, and I know you made a number of
them in the spring. Now--"
"Bird-houses!" interrupted the boy, incredulously. "Bird-houses at the
end of June! Why, who--I'll bet you're making--"
He broke off abruptly, biting his lips. Mr. Curtis did not seem offended.
In fact, he merely chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.
"No, it's not that," he said quickly. "I've nothing at all to do with
it. I had an inquiry this morning from some one who--a--probably knows
it's a scout specialty for a quotation on a number of rather elaborate
houses that are wanted at once. There's the list."
Dazedly Dale took the paper and stared at it. It was a type-written
list describing, with some detail, the eight bird-houses desired. Two
of them, for martin colonies, called for something large and rather
elaborate. All were distinctly of a more expensive class than was usually
in demand. Even without figuring, he could see that his time alone,
were it possible to finish the work inside of two weeks, would be worth
over ten dollars. In spite of his doubts, his eyes brightened as he
looked up at the scoutmaster.
"It's a corking order!" he exclaimed. "It would put me all to the good.
But I can't understand why anybody would want bird-houses after the birds
have all nested for the season. Who are they for, sir?"
"That I can't tell you," returned Mr. Curtis. "Now don't go off at
half-cock," he added quickly, as Dale's lips parted impulsively. "I've
told you I had nothing to do with it in any way. The inquiry this morning
was as much of a surprise to me as it is to you, but just because the
person doesn't wish to be known is no reason why you should balk at
the offer. There may be any number of reasons. At least there's no touch
of charity about it. You'll be giving full value received, won't you?
And you certainly build better houses than any other boy in the troop."
For a second Dale hesitated, torn between a last lingering doubt and a
natural eagerness to snatch at this wonderful opportunity. "You mean
you--advise me to accept?" he asked slowly.
"I do. I see no reason why you shouldn't treat it as a regular business
proposition and make out your estimate at once."
Dale hesitated no longer. The whole thing still seemed odd, but after
all, as Mr. Curtis had said, he had nothing to do with that. He was still
further reassured when he went over the specifications again, seated at
a corner of the scoutmaster's writing-table. The very detail with which
these had been made out pointed to a distinct and definite want, not to
a charity meant to give work to an unknown scout.
For two hours the boy sat making rough plans, measuring, figuring, and
calculating with the utmost care. He conscientiously put his estimate
as low as he possibly could, and when word came next day to go ahead he
plunged into the work blithely, determined to give the unknown good value
for his money.
Fortunately, school was over and Dale could give practically all his
time to the undertaking. He took a chance and registered for the first
two weeks at camp, but it was a close call, and the houses were delivered
to Mr. Curtis only the very morning before the party was scheduled to
start. That afternoon he had the money, and there was no happier boy
in Hillsgrove as he hastily sought the scout store at the Y. M. C. A.
and made his necessary purchases.
It was at the same place that the crowd gathered with bag and baggage
next morning at six o'clock. Early as it was, the majority were on hand
before the appointed hour, so there was no delay in getting off. Seats
had been built along each side of the big motor-truck, and the moment
suitcases and duffle-bags were stowed away beneath them, there was a
scramble to get aboard.
Tompkins found himself presently squeezed in near the rear, next to
Court Parker, with Sanson, Bob Gibson, and Paul Trexler near by. Most
of the older fellows were farther front, and Mr. Curtis sat next to
the driver. It was a perfect day, clear, sparkling, cloudless, and as
the truck rumbled out of Hillsgrove and started southward along the
fine state road the boys were in high spirits. Soon some one started
up a song, and from one familiar air they passed to another, letting
off a good deal of steam in that fashion. A lot more was got rid of by
practising troop yells, and when the truck began to pass between fields
of waving yellow grain, they found amusement in seeing how many of the
laboring farmers would answer their shouts and hand-wavings.
But it wasn't possible, of course, to keep up this sort of thing for
the entire journey, and after a couple of hours they settled down to a
quieter key. Naturally, the most interesting subject of discussion was
the camp, and presently, in response to a number of requests, Mr. Curtis
moved back to the middle of the truck to tell the crowd, that included
many boys from other troops, all he knew about it. When he had described
in detail the situation and its advantages and explained the arrangement
of the camp which three other scoutmasters and a number of the other boys
had gone down ahead to lay out, he paused for a moment or two.
"There's just one thing, fellows," he went on presently "that we've got
to be mighty careful about. The land is owned by John Thornton, the
banker, whose wonderful country-place, twenty miles this side of Clam
Cove, you may have heard about. It seems that he's had a great deal of
trouble with boys trespassing, starting fires in the woods, injuring
the shrubbery and rare trees, and even trapping game. It's possible, of
course, though I should hate to believe it, that some of this damage
has been done by scouts, as he seems to think. At all events, he is
very much opposed to the movement, which he contends merely gives boys
a certain freedom and authority to roam the woods,--building fires,
cutting trees, and having a thoughtless good time generally,--without
teaching them anything of real value."
"Humph!" sniffed Sherman Ward, indignantly. "Then why has he offered us
this camping-site?"
"He hasn't offered it to us as scouts. He's loaned it to Captain
Chalmers, who is a very close friend, and he as much as says that our
behavior there will merely prove his point about the uselessness of
scouting. Of course, he's dead wrong, but he's a mighty hard man to
convince, and we'll have to toe the mark all the time. I don't mean
it's going to interfere with our having all the fun that's going, but
we'll have to take a little more pains than usual to have a model camp.
There mustn't be any careless throwing about of rubbish. In getting
fire-wood we'll have to put into practice all we've learned about
the right sort of forestry. When away from camp on hikes or for any other
purpose, we must always conduct ourselves as good scouts and remember
that it's not only our own reputation we're upholding, but that of
the whole order."
When he had gone back to his place in front there were a few indignant
comments on Mr. Thornton and his point of view, but for the most part
the boys took it sensibly, with many a determined tightening of the lips.
"I guess he won't get anything on us," commented Ted MacIlvaine,
decidedly. "It'll be rather fun, fellows, making him back down."
There was an emphatic chorus of agreement, but little further discussion,
for the question of lunch was beginning to be pressing. Though barely
eleven, boxes and haversacks were produced and the next half-hour
enlivened with one of the most satisfying of occupations. Toward noon
they stopped at a small town for "gas." When the car started on again,
there was a pleasant sense of excitement in the realization that another
couple of hours ought to bring them to Clam Cove.
The country had changed greatly from that around Hillsgrove. It looked
wilder, more unsettled. Instead of fields of ripening grain, orchards, or
acres of truck-gardens, the road was bordered by long stretches of
woods and tangled undergrowth. The farm-houses were farther apart and
less pretentious. There was even a faint tang of salt in the air. At
length, from the summit of an elevation, Mr. Curtis pointed out a distant
hill showing hazily blue on the horizon.
[Illustration: The car crashed into the weather-worn railing of the
bridge]
"That's Lost Mine Hill, fellows!" he said. "From there, it's not more
than three miles to our stopping-place."
Eagerly they stared and speculated as the truck clattered down the
incline, its horn sounding raucously. At the bottom there was a straight
level stretch of a thousand feet or so, with a bridge midway along
it. It was sandy here in the hollow, and the truck had made little more
than half the distance to the bridge when all at once, with a weird
wailing of the siren, a great gray car shot into sight around a curve
beyond.
It was going very fast. Dale and Court, hanging over the side of the
truck together, had barely time to note the trim chauffeur behind the
wheel and a man and woman in the luxurious tonneau when the explosion of
a blow-out, sharp as a pistol-shot, smote on their startled senses.
The car leaped, quivered, skidded in the loose sand, crashed into the
weather-worn railing of the bridge, hung suspended for an instant
above the stream, and then toppled over and out of sight. There was a
tremendous splash, a great spurt of flying water, and then--silence!