OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE, ON WITH THE NEW
"All right, we're coming down; kill the fatted calf," Hervey called with
all his former gay manner. "No more up and down trails for me. This is
moving day."
When he had descended a little nearer, Tom heard the cheery voice more
clearly. "It's no easy job moving a house and family. I have to watch my
step. Oh, boy, _coming down!_ This tree is tied in a sailor's knot."
"Are you bringing the bird?" Tom called.
"I'm bringing the bird and the whole block he lived in," Hervey called
back merrily. "I'm transplanting the neighborhood. He's going to move
into a better locality--very fashionable. He's coming up in the world--I
mean down. _O-o-h, boy_, watch your step; there was a narrow escape! I
stepped on a chunk of air."
So he came down working his way with both feet and one hand, and holding
the precious piece of branch with its dangling nest in the other.
"Talk about your barbed wire entanglements," he called. Then, after a
minute, "This little codger lives in a swing," he shouted; "I should
think she'd get dizzy. No accounting for tastes, hey? Whoa--boy! There's
where I nearly took a double-header. If I should fall now, I wouldn't
have so far to go."
"You won't fall," said Tom with a note of admiring confidence in his
brief remark.
"Better knock wood," came the cheery answer from above.
And presently his trim, agile form stood upon the lowest stalwart limb,
as he balanced himself with one hand against the trunk. His khaki jacket
was in shreds, a great rent was in his sleeve, and a tear in one of his
stockings showed a long bloody scratch beneath. In his free hand he held
the piece of branch with its depending nest, extending his arm out so as
to keep the rescued trophy safe from any harm of contact.
"Some rags, hey?" he called down good-humoredly, and exposing his figure
in grotesque attitude for sober Tom's amusement. "If mother could only
see me now! Get out from under while I swing down. Back to terra
cotta--I mean firma. Here goes----"
Down he came, tumbling forward, and sprawling on the ground, while he
held the branch above him, like the Statue of Liberty lighting the
world.
"Here we are," he said. "Take it while I have a look at my leg. It's
nothing but an abrasion. It looks like a trail from my ankle up to the
back of my knee. What care we? I've got trails on the brain, haven't I?"
Tom took the branch and stood looking admiringly, yet with a glint of
amusement lighting his stolid features, at the younger boy, who sat with
his knees drawn up humorously inspecting the scratch on his leg.
"Well, what do you think of eagles now?" Tom asked, in his dull way.
"Decline to be interviewed," Hervey said, with irrepressible buoyancy.
"What kind of a crazy bird is this that lives upside down in a house
that looks like a bat. It reminds me of a plum pudding, hanging in the
pantry. What's that streak of red, anyway? His patrol colors? You'd
think he'd get seasick, wouldn't you?"
"You've got the bird badge," Tom said, smiling a little; "can't you
guess?"
What Tom did not realize was that this merry, reckless, impulsive young
dare-devil, whose very talk, as he jumped from one theme to another,
made him smile in spite of himself, could not be expected to bear in
mind the record of his whole remarkable accomplishment. He was no
handbook scout.
There is the scout who learns a thing so that he may know it. But there
is the scout who learns a thing so that he may do it. And having done
it, he forgets it. Perhaps there is the scout who learns, does, and
remembers. But Hervey was not of that order. He had made a plunge for
each merit badge, won it and, presto, his nervous mind was on another.
It takes all kinds of scouts to make a world.
Perhaps Hervey was not the ideal scout, but there was something very
fascinating about his blithe way of going after a thing, getting it, and
burdening his mind with it no more. He lived for the present. His naïve
manner of asking Tom for a tip as to a trail had greatly amused the more
experienced scout, who now could not understand how Hervey had used the
handbook so much and knew it so imperfectly.
"Didn't you ever see one before?" Tom asked.
"Not while I was conscious," Hervey shot back, "but if he likes to live
that way it's none of my business. He's inside taking a nap, I guess. He
had some rocky road to Dublin coming down. I wonder what he thinks? That
wasn't the right kind of a trail, was it?"
"Wasn't it?" Tom queried.
"No; I want a trail along the ground."
"Still after the Eagle, huh? Do you realize what you have done?"
"I've torn my suit all to shreds, I know that. Right the first time,
hey? I'd look nice going up on the platform Saturday night? Good I won't
have to, hey?"
"I thought you were going to," Tom said soberly.
"So I am," Hervey shot back at him; "trails up in the air don't count.
Never mind, I'll find a trail to-morrow. It's my troop I'm thinking of.
I'll land it, all right. When I get my mind on a thing.... Hey, Slady,
what in the dickens is that streak of red in the nest? Is it a trade
mark or something like that? You're a naturalist."
"It's an oriole's nest," Tom said, with just a note of good-humored
impatience in his voice. "I thought you'd know that."
"You see my head is full of the Eagle badge just now," Hervey pleaded,
"but I'm going to look up orioles."
Tom smiled.
"I'm going to look up orioles, and I'm going to get Doc to put some
iodine on my leg, and I'm going to do that tracking stunt to-morrow.
There's three things I'm going to do."
Tom paused, seemingly irresolute, as if not knowing whether to say what
was in his mind or not. And presently they started toward the camp,
Hervey limping along and carrying the branch.
"An oriole picks up everything he can find and weaves it into his nest,"
Tom said; "string, ribbon, bits of straw, any old thing. He likes things
that are bright colored."
"He's got the right idea, there," Hervey said.
Tom tried again to interest the rescuer in this little companion,
imprisoned within its own cozy little home, whom they were taking back
to camp. He could not comprehend how one who had performed such a stunt
as Hervey had just performed, and been so careful and humane, could
forget about his act so soon and take so little interest in the bird
which had been saved by his reckless courage. But that was Hervey
Willetts all over. His heart went where action was. And his interest
lapsed when action ceased.
"Somebody in a book called the oriole Orestes, because that means
dweller in the woods," Tom ventured.
"He dwells in a sky-scraper, that's what _I_ say," Hervey commented. "In
a hall bedroom upside down, twenty floors up."
Tom tried again. "What do you mean to do with her now that you've got
her?" he asked.
"I'm going to turn her over to you, Slady. You're the real scout; none
genuine unless marked T. S. You've got the birds all eating out of your
hands."
"You didn't tear the nest from the branch," Tom said. "You must have had
some idea."
"Well," said Hervey, "my idea was to stick it up in an elm tree down at
camp. Think she'd stand for it?"
"Guess so," Tom said.
"You see I'm all through bird study," Hervey said with amusing
artlessness, "so I think you'd better adopt Erastus--is that the way you
say it?"
"Orestes," Tom corrected him.
"Pardon _me_," Hervey said.
"Maybe you don't even care if I tell them what you did?" Tom queried.
"Tell them whatever you want," Hervey said. "I don't care. What I'm
thinking now is----"
"The next stunt," Tom interrupted him.
"You said it," Hervey answered cheerily; "just about a mile or so of
tracks. I guess you think I'm kind of happy-go-lucky, don't you?"
"I don't blame you for not remembering all the things you've done," Tom
said, "and all the rules and tests and like that. But most every scout
goes in for some particular thing. Maybe it's first aid, or maybe it's
signaling. And he keeps on with that thing even after he has the badge."
"That's right," Hervey concurred with surprising readiness. "You've got
the right idea. My specialty is the Eagle badge. See?"
"Well, that's twenty-one badges," Tom said.
"Right-o, and all I need to do now is test three for the stalking badge
and I'm _it_. And if I can't go over the top between now and this time
Saturday, I'll never look the fellows in my troop in the face again,
that's what."
Tom whistled to himself a moment as they strolled along. Perhaps he knew
more than he wished to say. Perhaps he was just a little out of patience
with this sprightly, irresponsible young hero.
"Well, there isn't much time," he said.
"That's the trouble, Slady, and it's got me guessing."