WAR!
In some miraculous fashion the necessary permission was obtained by
each and every one of the boys of Troop Five, and bright and early on
the morning after school closed the whole crowd was packed into the
motor-truck, jouncing southward over roads very much the worse for
spring thaws. It was, in fact, a vastly more uncomfortable trip than the
one last summer. But overhead the skies were cloudless; warm breezes,
faintly odorous of spring and growing things, caressed their cheeks,
and youth was in their hearts. What cared they for hard seats, for
jolts and jounces, for mud-holes, delays, and the growing certainty of a
late arrival? A thrilling week, golden with possibilities, lay before
them, and nothing else mattered. They chattered and sang and ate, and
stopped by wayside springs, and ate again. The sun was setting when
they lumbered into Clam Cove and tumbled out of the truck to find the old
_Aquita_ waiting at the landing. Then came the chugging passage of
the bay, and the landing at the new dock they had not even heard of, but
where they did not pause long, so eager were they all to inspect the
mess-shack, bulking large and unfamiliar through the gathering dusk.
It wasn't really a shack at all, but a commodious log structure some
forty feet by twenty--big, airy, and spacious. There were benches and
tables of rough yet solid construction, bracket-lamps, many windows,
and a cavernous stone fireplace in which a roaring blaze of logs leaped
and crackled. The size and scale of it all fairly awed the boys, and
they stared eagerly around for Mr. Thornton. To their disappointment the
banker was not to be seen.
"He had to go to Washington unexpected," explained the man in charge to
Mr. Curtis. "But he sent word you was to make yourselves at home, and
he'd be back just as soon as he could."
This put a momentary damper on the affair, but it was not of long
duration. There was too much to see and do in the short time at their
disposal for regrets of any sort. There was little accomplished that
night, however. After a hearty supper, beds were made up on the floor
and every one was glad to turn in early.
They were up with the sun, and then began a strenuous period of mingled
work and play which filled to overflowing each waking hour of the
three days that followed. They got out the tents and erected them in
the old places. They took hikes and motor-boat trips; they fished
and explored, talked to each other with signal-flags, and put in a
commendable amount of time on their drill. They were so constantly
employed extracting the last atom of enjoyment from the brief vacation
that they quite failed to notice the slight abstraction of their
scoutmaster, or the manner in which he watched the mails and fairly
devoured the daily paper. Not one of them found time even to glance at
that paper himself, much less think of, or discuss the affairs of the
nation and the world. Then, suddenly, came the awakening.
It was toward noon on the fourth day of their stay--a Tuesday; they
remembered that afterward. The crowd had been for a hike to Lost Mine,
and, returning, had dawdled lazily, for the air was almost oppressively
balmy. Dale, Ranny, and Court Parker were considerably ahead of the
others, and as they reached the parade-ground they came suddenly upon
Harry Vedder, whose turn it had been to fetch the mail and paper. The
plump boy's face was flushed and moist; his expression fairly exuded
importance.
"Well!" he stated, without waiting for them to speak. "It's come."
Ranny stared. "Come?" he repeated. "What are you talking about, Dumpling?
What's come?"
Vedder puffed out his fat cheeks. "War!" he said solemnly.
For an instant no one spoke. Dale felt a queer, tingling thrill go
through him. The thing seemed unreal, impossible. Somehow these past
few weeks of delay and hesitation had thrust the idea farther and farther
into the background of his mind. He caught a glimpse of Parker's face,
dazed and incredulous.
"What!" gasped Ranny. "You mean with--"
"Yep," nodded Vedder. "The President made a fine speech last night to
Congress, or something. I heard 'em talking about it at the post-office.
Everybody's as excited as the dickens. I guess it's in all the papers,
too, only Mr. Curtis's wasn't open."
Dale's eyes sought headquarters tent. Under the rolled-up flap he could
see the scoutmaster sitting on his cot, his head bent intently over an
outspread paper. Again that curious tingling went through the boy. Behind
him the shouts and laughter of the approaching crowd seemed suddenly
incongruous and out of place. He glanced again at Vedder, whose round
face still radiated self-importance, and wondered how the boy could look
so smug and complacent.
"Did Congress declare war?" asked Ranny, abruptly.
"I dunno; I guess so. They're going to raise a whopping army. I heard
one man say everybody from nineteen to twenty-five would have to go."
"_Have_ to go!" shrilled Court Parker. "Why, they'll _want_ to go, won't
they? I wish I was more than sixteen."
Unconsciously the four were moving toward the scoutmaster's tent. Others,
hearing a word or two, caught up with them, and the news was passed
quickly along. The throng paused at the tent entrance. Dale caught a
glimpse of the newspaper across the top of which flared in black capitals:
PRESIDENT CALLS FOR WAR DECLARATION
"It's true, then, Mr. Curtis!" Ranny Phelps exclaimed. "I thought it was
coming. When are they going to--"
"Hold your horses, Ranny," interrupted the scoutmaster. He stood up and
came toward them, his face curiously elated. "There's no time to answer a
lot of questions now. Mess-call will sound any time. Hustle and wash up,
fellows, and after dinner we'll talk this over."
Curious and excited as they were, no one protested. They scattered to
their tents, chattering volubly, and the mess-call found them still
speculating and asking questions of one another. During the meal the
discussion continued but in a slightly more subdued key. A state of
things which at first had seemed merely exciting and soul-stirring
was coming home more keenly. They were beginning to make individual
applications. Captain Chalmers would be called out, of course. Though
over thirty, Mr. Curtis himself might enlist. Then some one thought
suddenly of Wesley Becker, who was just nineteen. That seemed the
strangest thing of all, for Wes, despite his semi-leadership, was merely
one of themselves. But of course it was all the merest speculation;
they didn't really know anything yet. So when the meal was over and
Mr. Curtis rose slowly in his place, there was a long, concerted sigh
of relaxing tension.
"Fellows," began the scoutmaster, quietly, "I want to read you the
President's message delivered to Congress last night. You won't find
it dull. On the contrary it's about the most vivid, vital piece of
writing I have ever read. It puts clearly before us the situation we
are facing. It will make you prouder than ever of your country and its
head."
And without further preamble he began to read that wonderful document
which has stirred the world and has taken its place among the immortal
utterances of men. And as he read, eyes brightened, boyish faces flushed,
brown hands gripped the rough edges of bench or table, or strained
tightly over clasped knees. He finished, and there came a brief,
eloquent moment of utter silence, followed by a swift outburst of wild
applause.
The scoutmaster's face lit up with a smile. "It's great, isn't it?"
he said. "Makes you feel mighty proud to have a man like that at the
helm." He folded the paper and laid it on the table before him. "And
now," he went on, his shoulders squaring a bit, "I want to say a few
words myself. A state of war exists, for Congress cannot help but back
up the man who wrote that message. It's been coming for a long time.
Many of us have felt it and tried to plan a little in advance. Your
signaling and first aid and drilling have all been with that idea in
view. What I want now is that you shall give more time than ever to
those things--practically all the rest of your time in camp here.
Remember George Lancaster, that English chap who was in Troop One
several years ago. To-day he's one of the best signalers in the British
army. It will mean hard work, but, unless I'm far wrong, work will
swiftly come to be the great slogan throughout the country. Will you
do this, fellows? Stand up, every one who's willing."
There was a rush, a clatter--a bench was overturned--in ten seconds not a
boy remained seated.
"Fine!" smiled Mr. Curtis. "I thought I could count on you. When Mr.
Thornton comes on Friday we'll show him something that will surprise
him. And we'll give those folks at the rally something to think about,
too."
"But are we still going to have the rally, sir?" asked Bob Gibson.
Mr. Curtis laughed. "Of course we are," he said emphatically. "You
mustn't think, Bob, that a state of war is going to disrupt the entire
country. That would be hysterical. There'll be unusual doings, of course.
Things will be a bit different in many ways. But school and chores
and all the ordinary routine of your daily lives must go on as they
always have. Suppose we get out now and work up a little program for
Mr. Thornton's benefit."
The days that followed, so radically different from anything the boys
had planned, showed up their spirit admirably. Of course there were
grumblers; those develop in any situation where discipline is involved.
There were many moments of weariness and discouragement, too, when it
seemed as if proficiency could never be attained. But underneath it
all, stirring, invigorating, that wonderful sense of service--service to
another, service to their country, perhaps, upheld and strengthened
them. What they were doing was not merely play. Some day or other, far
away or near, it would be of value; and the measure of that value no
man could tell.
Mr. Thornton was due to reach camp Friday afternoon. The _Aquita_, in
charge of Wesley Becker and another scout, went over to meet him, and as
soon as the motor-boat was seen returning, a bugle blast summoned the
others hastily from their tents.
"Fall in!" ordered Mr. Curtis, crisply. "Phelps will take charge while I
go down to the dock."
Only their eyes moved, but these followed him to the landing and they saw
Mr. Thornton step ashore and pause for a moment or two of conversation
before heading for the parade-ground. The banker's face looked tired
and his shoulders drooped a little. But as he caught sight of the scouts
drawn up in a straight, soldierly line behind the colors his head went
up and his eyes brightened with surprise and interest.
"'Tention, troop!" called Mr. Curtis, sharply. "Right
dress!--Front!--Present arms!"
The "arms" were, of course, their staves, but the manoeuver was
executed with a snap and precision which many a company of militia
might have envied. Then came the command, "Count off!" followed by,
"Fours left--march!" and the squad swung smartly down the parade-ground.
In the half-hour of manoeuvering which followed--and this included
some fairly difficult formations for new recruits--every boy gave the
best that was in him. And when it was all over, the expression on Mr.
Thornton's face was quite reward enough. At the command, "Fall out!" they
surged around him, shaking him by the hand, thanking him exuberantly,
and all trying at once to tell him how much more wonderful everything
was than they had expected.
The council-fire that night was built out on the point instead of in
the great stone fireplace. Because of Mr. Thornton's presence, a
special program had been arranged. There were scout games and stunts in
abundance, songs galore, and a number of other features which had
proved effective last summer. But it wasn't quite all gaiety and
careless amusement. Mingling with the joking and laughter and occasional
bit of skylarking was a touch of sober seriousness. It was their last
night in camp together. Moreover, from that momentous Tuesday things
had never been really quite the same. Their daily drills and practice
were rousing in them a sense of responsibility. They knew that all
over the country preparations for war were being pushed energetically.
There had been time also, to hear from home--of how this brother talked
of enlisting in the marines, or that cousin, a member of Captain
Chalmers's own regiment, who had been ordered to hold himself in
readiness to join the colors. And so at the end, standing shoulder to
shoulder around the blaze, their young voices ringing out in the
stirring strains of "America," more than one throat tightened, and there
were few who did not feel a tingling thrill beyond the thrill those
verses usually evoked.
There came a pause. Then slowly John Thornton rose and stood for a moment
facing them in silence.
"I want to thank you, boys," he said at length, in tones which emotion
had rendered brusk and almost harsh. "It--it has been a privilege and
more than pleasure to see your surprising work this afternoon and to
be with you in this way to-night. I am proud of you--prouder than you
can ever know. I can say nothing more than this," and his voice rang
out suddenly with a note that stirred them inexplicably: "If only the
youth of our country will measure up to your standards in the crisis
that is before us, we need fear nothing for the future."