Brent said nothing of his talk with Simpson, but in some mysterious way
these things get abroad in a large camp, and it came to be known that
Billy Simpson had refused to yield his place in the canoe to Pee-wee. No
one would have thought twice about it except for Pee-wee’s position and
the fact that he was such a universal favorite.
That Simpson should hold Connie Bennett to a casual promise in a matter
so trifling caused the camp to look on him with a kind of tolerant
contempt. He had never been popular but now he became unpopular. To
Brent it seemed that the scout who had wanted to do something big had
done something unspeakably small. But he did not say this. The view that
most scouts took of it was that it was too small to talk about.
Nor was there time to talk or think about it, for the big event was now
close at hand, and the three patrols of the Bridgeboro troop united in
the troop cause of keeping the Mary Temple Cup in their own scout
circle. “United we stand, divided we sprawl,” said Roy Blakeley; “when
we race and when we eat we’re all one--we’re a league of rations.”
About the most pathetic sight at Temple Camp was Pee-wee, aroused by
this troop spirit, united with his old colleagues in the common cause;
shouting, boasting, denouncing, arguing, belittling, extolling,
predicting, like the loyal little rooter that he was.
He won the big race twenty times a day, and several times in his dreams
each night. He championed even the Silver Foxes, and the Elks, of which
Connie Bennett was leader, were the subjects of his unstinted eulogy.
There were no patrols now, just the troop, and he was _for_ it if not
_of_ it. He had his camera ready for a close snapshot of Connie if
chance should still smile on him and let him sit in that canoe. He made
a new pole for the troop pennant which the canoe would carry. He dangled
his legs from the springboard and said the red-headed fellow from Ohio
didn’t stand a chance. His imagination overcame the obstacle of
non-membership and he became the voice and spirit of the troop--_his_
troop.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that they--we--I mean
they--can’t beat everybody because don’t we live in Bridgeboro where
there’s a river and we all have canoes--except a few that haven’t?”
“They’re born with paddles in their mouths,” said a Virginia scout.
“And oars!” Pee-wee shouted.
It went to Brent Gaylong’s heart to see Pee-wee trudging down from the
Ravens’ cabin night to go to bed in the pavilion dormitory. He might
have stayed on cabin hill but only one full patrol could bunk in a
cabin. Pee-wee never questioned the camp rules or the rules of the scout
organization. “Gee whiz, they’re good rules all right,” he said. And he
never overstepped the privilege of a non-member. That was the pathetic
part of it. He watched them wistfully when they voted, contented, happy,
just to be among them.
Just in proportion as he made a pathetic picture, just in that same
proportion did Billy Simpson become more and more an object of tolerant
contempt. If he had made the little sacrifice in the matter of the canoe
it would not have been so bad, but now they were ready enough to think
ill of him, reasonably or not. And often their dislike was without
reason, for indeed he was as much a member of the Raven Patrol as any
other Raven was.
If there was any criticism in that matter Artie Van Arlen should have
borne it. It is only fair to Artie to say that from the day he summoned
Billy Simpson from Bridgeboro, he was friendly to him, and fair to him,
and seemed to believe in him. He did not study him, as Brent might have
done, because it was not given to him to do that. But he treated him
with a wholesome cheerfulness and with the same fraternal air which
characterized his demeanor toward all. If he was disappointed he did not
say so. If he had expected Billy to bring honors, merit badges, to the
patrol he renounced that hope amiably. He was a pretty good all-around
sort of a fellow, was Artie.
The camp assistant, young Mr. Slade, spoke to him one day. “You know,
Van, this is an impossible situation,” said he; “Pee-wee’s a Raven.
You’re taking liberties with nature, you fellows are.”
“It can’t be helped now,” said Artie; “besides I’m not worrying and I’ll
tell you why. Do you want to know?”
“Go ahead, shoot.”
“Pee-wee doesn’t belong to the Boy Scouts of America. The Boy Scouts of
America belong to Pee-wee. Just wait till he gets back home. You’re not
afraid he’s going to drift away, are you?”
“Well, it knocks me clean to see him,” said Slade.
“You and old Doc. Gaylong ought to camp under a weeping willow, you’re
so tender-hearted. How about the race?”
“Nothing about it,” said Slade; “except everything’s ready, and Connie
Bennett is going to win it.”
“Sure thing?”
“That’s what Pee-wee says,” said Tom. “He says we’ve won it already.”
“Well, to-morrow’s the day,” said Artie cheerily. “Pee-wee says if the
cup gets away from _us_, he’ll never look Mary Temple in the face again.
But he’ll accept an ice cream soda from her.”