This famous cruise to the remote farther shore of Black Lake is famous
in camp history. And the awful conflict there is often spoken of as The
Battle of the Burs. The losses on the side of the invaded coast were
about fifty million burs, several entire branches of the Wild Rose
Battalion and a ton or two of grassy earth.
The losses of the exploring party were one khaki jacket, three scout
hats, six stockings, one box of egg powder, four cans of condensed milk,
one scout staff, a package of spaghetti, one shoe, four buttons and
three tin spoons. The wounded were one nose, three ears, two knees, two
heads of hair, three arms and about one square mile of scratches. There
is at present a movement in Temple Camp to safeguard the neighborhood
from the recurrence of such a frightful world catastrophe.
One thing remained unscarred after this sanguinary adventure. The bottle
with its companion balloon had been safe within the tent. The _Hoptoad_
was now carried merrily into the cove upon the hurrying water and
proceeded as far into the outlet as its dimensions would permit it to
do. Here it stopped, just as its far-seeing navigator knew it would do,
wedged immovably between the two shores. Pee-wee had always claimed to
be lucky, and his luck was faithful to his purpose here. For the two
ends of the trail ended at the opposite sides of the lumbering float. A
line across the float and the trail would have been unbroken.
Goldenrod Cove could not quite be seen from Temple Camp across the lake,
but in the early fall its profusion of yellow was visible like a dab of
gold across the water. And when that dab of gold appeared, the scouts
still at camp knew that presently school would open and the camp close
for the season. Some fanciful youngster had said that that golden area
was the shape and color of a bell, and it came to be called The
School-bell by the scouts of camp. But the momentous affair of Goldenrod
Cove was in the earlier summertime and there was no school-bell there.
Let us observe the geography of this dim, quiet spot, made memorable by
the immortal exploit of Pee-wee. The cove at its widest point (that is,
where it joined the lake) was about twenty feet wide. It narrowed
gradually till it was just wide enough to let a little brook from the
lake pass through. This trickling outlet found its way to the lordly
Hudson.
Hiking around the lake by the trail, the scout came upon the shore of
this cove where it was perhaps fifteen feet wide. You will say that he
could swim across, and so he could. But that is just where the joker
came in, for the standing offer of Chocolate Drop stipulated for an
unbroken hike. The unbroken hike around Black Lake was like the fountain
of perpetual youth that old What’s-his-name searched for in Florida.
There wasn’t any.
The tempting offer of three desserts for the balance of the season as a
reward for an unbroken hike was just a practical joke. A very, very
cruel practical joke to those who love and reverence desserts. Every new
scout tried it with high hopes till he reached the challenging shore of
the cove. If he followed this shore to a point where he might wade
across he would consume more time than he could afford.
That smile of Chocolate Drop’s which showed all his white teeth was not
a vain and meaningless smile. “This thing could not be did,” as Roy
Blakeley had said. It had come to be the hoary-headed tottering old
practical joke of the camp. And so it remained until Pee-wee Harris
touched it with the wand of his genius.
“Sling the bottle in the water,” he said; “throw it as far as you can.”
This romantic form of announcement, borrowed from shipwrecked mariners
of old, was of course not essential to Pee-wee’s mammoth enterprise. But
in the field of romance and adventure he was nothing if not thorough.
The bottle splashed into the lake beyond the area of outflowing water
and the balloon advertising the Catskill Garage was caught in the breeze
and wafted off upon its mission. It hovered a yard or more above the
bobbing bottle, leading and dragging it eastward like a child with an
unwilling pup. On, on, and ever on, toward the populated eastern shore,
it flew, ducking, jerking, and skimming the water like a playful
seagull. And ever after it bobbed the corked olive bottle with its
inspiring message to the hungry scout camp.
The shadows of evening gathered, the waters darkened in the pervading
twilight, the wooded hills about the lake looked solemn as the night
drew on apace. And merry voices rose about the messboards at Temple
Camp, while smoke as black as Chocolate Drop himself floated above the
sacred temple of the laughing chef.
Laugh on, Chocolate Drop! He laughs best who laughs last. You know not
what awaits you....