THE GARB OF THE SCOUT
Mr. Wilde stared. The loitering boys stared. Everybody stared. And well
they might, for the figure they gazed upon was bizarre to the last
degree. Around Ed’s waist was drawn a sweater like a romantic Spanish
sash, while sticking ostentatiously in the shoulder of his shirt was a
safety-pin, disqualified for its conventional use by much twisting and
bending.
But the onlookers had not long to stare. The sound of loud talking
outside caused a general rush of the younger element to the great
veranda, while their less curious elders looked from doors and windows
and wondered.
Approaching along one of the walks that bisect the spacious lawn in
front of the big hotel was a strange sight. A boy in tattered khaki was
approaching, hatless and barefooted, surrounded and followed by a
questioning, gaping, shouting, clamorous throng. With him was another
khaki-clad boy who was laughing at the excitement they were causing and
answering the queries of their astonished escort.
It was no wonder that the boys gazed spellbound at the ragged
apparition, nor that the park employees and tourists paused to stare.
His trousers were all but in shreds, and not a button remained upon his
mud-bespattered and torn shirt which lay open exposing his scratched
chest. His hair was disheveled, one rebellious lock depending over his
forehead. With one hand he kept continually pushing this back and
sometimes effected the same result with a fine toss of his head, which
somehow rounded out his picturesque, vagabond aspect. His other hand was
firmly buried in his trousers pocket, which bulged with the pressure of
something large and flat. It was noticeable that he kept his hand there.
But it was not the name of Westy Martin that brought every last person
out of the hotel, watching eagerly the excited little group. Rather was
it the awful name of Bloodhound Pete shouted by an exuberant follower of
the award boys.
“He got it from Bloodhound Pete! He got it from Bloodhound Pete!”
“Let’s see it!”
“Yes, you did—not!”
“Give us a look!”
“Seeing is believing!”
“Where did he?”
“When?”
“How?”
“Who says he did?”
“_This_ feller did—_alone_? _Yaaah!_”
“What do you take us for?” one breathless skeptic demanded of Warde.
And so, shouting, clamoring, denying, scoffing, questioning and crowding
about him and talking all at the same time, the crowd constituted itself
a vociferous escort to Westy as he passed along the walk and up the big
veranda and into the spacious, airy lobby of the Mammoth Hotel.
He had expected to keep his promise to his poor, fond mother and “wash
his hands and face and brush his clothes before leaving the train,” and
a few minutes later descend, bag and baggage, from an auto before the
portal of his first stopping place in the park. “When you enter a
hotel,” she had said, adjusting his collar, “you want to have your hair
brushed and look like a gentleman.”
“Is Mr. Madison C. Wilde here?” Warde asked.
“The movie man?”
“Sure he is, he’s in the smoking room.”
“No, he isn’t, he’s in the lobby—he’s mad.”
“Come on, I’ll show you where he is, he chased us.”
Before Mr. Wilde had recovered from the sight of Ed Carlyle, Westy stood
before him, conspicuous in the clustering, vociferous throng, a fine
picture of rags and tatters. Warde, standing close to him, had forcibly
loosened his comrade’s rolled-up sleeve so that on the loose hanging
khaki the stalker’s badge and the pathfinder’s badge were exposed.
Westy’s other arm, with a long scratch on it where he had let it slide
against the bark of the big elm, was at his side, hand in pocket,
clutching the treasure that was there.
Not so much as one vestige remained about Westy of the trim boy scout
whom Mr. Wilde had “jollied” on the train; only his two badges exposed
by his patrol mate and rendered clearer to view by Ed Carlyle as he
smoothed down his companion’s wrinkled sleeve.
“Mr. Wilde,” said Westy, pulling his scarred arm out of his pocket,
“here’s your wallet; it’s got your money and your permit all safe. I
took it away from Bloodhound Pete and—and——”
“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Ed Carlyle concluded for him.