Billy Simpson intended to be a regular out-and-out scout. So before
starting for Temple Camp he had spent the trifling amount of money which
he had for several things he had seen advertised as being indispensable
to scouts. One of these was a pocket flashlight. The advertisement had
conveyed the belief to him that he could hardly expect to be a scout
without one of these flashlights. _“Say fellows! Just the thing!”_ the
ad had begun. So poor Billy had bought one of those flashlights. A tried
and true scout would have had better sense.
He now turned this flashlight on the paper which he fished out of the
bottle, but not so much as a syllable was there written upon it. The
reticent onion was true to its reputation. Billy laughed as he thought
of Pee-wee.
Here was he, Billy Simpson, with the most modern kind of a device, a
nickel-plated flashlight that would “throw a glare continuously for two
hours or your money refunded,” and its value was set at naught by a
homely onion in the hands of a true scout. The onion had cost nothing.
Yet the most dazzling flashlight in the world could not render visible
one word upon that scrap of paper. Only _heat_ could do that. You don’t
have to know anything to buy a flashlight. But you have to know
something, that is you have to be a scout, to know the tender uses of
the onion....
Yes, Gaylong was a real scout. And Harris was a real scout. And Billy
was greatly dissatisfied with himself. Like most boys who do not mix
readily and do not quickly become popular with the multitude, he was
given to a morbid disgust with himself. He conceived his shyness as a
sort of deficiency. He thought he was not likable.
He was now sorely at odds with himself. He had started out by helping
somebody off the train and had jotted this down as a good turn. Then
Gaylong, in his quiet, drawling way, had knocked this good turn into a
cocked hat and made it seem trivial. He had bought a fine nickel
flashlight-- “just what every scout needs”--and Pee-wee Harris had made
this “scout” trinket ridiculous. They were real scouts here at Temple
Camp, not little tin scouts. They could _do_ things. True, Pee-wee was a
walking rummage sale, but what he carried on his diminutive person was
nothing to what he carried in his head.
Billy Simpson was beginning to get the hang of this thing now. He pulled
out of his pocket a handful of beans which he had intended to drop along
the way in his pathless explorations so that he could find his way back.
He scattered them into the lake. “If I can’t find my way without those
things I deserve to get lost,” he said. Contemptuous of his own weakness
he threw away a whistle he had bought, a boy scout whistle--“_just the
thing, fellows_” of course. “I ought to be able to make as much noise
with my mouth as Harris can,” he said, disgustedly. That was saying a
good deal....
Then he sauntered up toward the camp-fire and instead of treating
himself to the small glory which the discovery of the bottle might have
brought him, he slipped in among the assemblage unnoticed and gave the
paper to his patrol leader, Artie Van Arlen. And all the while Billy
Simpson was the best oarsman at Temple Camp. In his hands a canoe paddle
became a thing of magic. But he could not “join in”; he just didn’t know
how.
His brief connection with this paper was soon forgotten in the paper
itself. He sat down out of the immediate range of the flame and was lost
in the crowd and the surrounding darkness.
Meanwhile a clamorous chorus greeted the discovery.
“Hold it over the light.”
“Don’t burn it.”
“The voice of Scout Harris.”
“The plot grows thicker.”
“Invincible writing again.”
“E-pluribus onion.”
“Don’t hold it so near the flame, you’ll have boiled onions.”
“Let’s see what it says.”
“Wait a minute, it takes time.”
“He has a strong handwriting.”
“Sure, it’s a strong onion.”
“Oh it’s getting visible.”
“It’s more likely to get risible.”
“Read it, go ahead.”
Artie Van Arlen read aloud as the writing slowly came into view under
the influence of the heat. It was interesting to see how the words
appeared, slowly, slowly, like a person emerging out of a fog.
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still
open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around
scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.
Harris—Hop-toad.
Ex-raven.
“_What?_” demanded a dozen voices.
“Let’s see it!”
“You’re kidding us.”
“What the dickens is he up to now?”
“What do you mean--bridged?”
“Let’s see it.”
“Don’t crowd.”
“Look out, you’ll tear it.”
“Well--I’ll--be--” Roy Blakely began, elbowing his way into the excited
throng.
“What do you suppose he’s been doing?”
“Let’s hike around.”
“Not to-night,” said a scoutmaster.
“It isn’t true,” a scout shouted. “Remember the false armistice.”
“It’s too good to be true.”
“It _must_ be true, it’s written with food.”
“Let me dream again,” called another scout reeling.
“The world is made safe for dessert,” shouted another.
“This will kill Chocolate Drop,” laughed still another.
“The kid’s crazy,” another yelled.
“He’s seeing things again.”
“Let’s go over there in the morning and kid the life out of him.”
“I’m game.”
“Right after breakfast, hey?”
“And his two aids--or lemonades, we’ll have some sport with them; what
do you say?”
“Answered in the positive.”
“Yes, but home sweet home by noontime; to-morrow’s ice cream day.”
At this Roy Blakeley jumped upon an old barrel that was about to be
offered to the flames and shouted:
“I scream, I scream
When we have ice cream
And I do not roam
But stay at home----
“All in favor of making a raid on P. Harris to-morrow will say Me, I
mean Aye, and be ready for a hike around the lake at ten P. Q. and we’ll
jolly the life out of him, and everybody that isn’t back by one I can
have his helping of cream as a tribute--I mean a herald--I mean a
tribute; I don’t know what I mean, shut up, I will, thanks be seated!”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Me.”
“Us.”
“We.”
“Also.”
“Likewise.”
“Who said _likewise_? Slap him on the wrist, he’s a highbrow!” shouted
Roy. “We’re getting up an exhibition, I mean an expedition to chastise
Pee-wee Harris for making us hungry and other forms of frightfulness and
perpetrating a ruse--”
“A what?”
“A ruse, it’s the same as a bluff only different; for trying to play a
cruel joke on us--”
“Maybe it’s true; there’s many a true word spoken in a jest,” a hopeful
voice called.
“There’s many a bunk bunked by a pest, you mean,” shouted Roy. “I was
happy till he put the idea of three desserts in my head. He shall suffer
for this--and his official lemonades too! That’s what comes from being a
free lance. He got out of the Ravens and now he’s wished onto the whole
camp. There can be no peace while he lives. He’s crazy with his three
desserts; I would have been satisfied with four before he went west and
sent us a message by Western Onion. The whole thing is a Ford, I mean a
fraud. Don’t be fooled, scouts! He’s always talking about mysteries and
foiling people with tin-foil; he’s a tin-foil scout. Let’s start an
exhibitionary force to-morrow and make him vaccinate the place, or
evacuate it or whatever you call it. We were just going to turn in for
the night when he starts us thinking about desserts. Can you beat it? If
that isn’t like a raving Raven. Once a Raven, always a Raven if not more
so!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted a score of voices, while several trustees and half
a dozen scoutmasters stood about smiling.
“Where? Where?”
“Hear, hear!”
Several of the Ravens pushed the barrel out from under the irrepressible
Silver Fox and down he went, sprawling on the ground.
“There! There!” called a dozen laughing voices.
“I may be down but I’m never out,” said Roy; “come on, let’s turn in.
To-morrow’s the big day--the puny exhibition.”
“You mean punitive expedition,” said Artie Van Arlen.
“I should worry about what I mean,” said Roy.