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THE BOY SCOUTS OF BOB'S HILL
[Illustration: BE PREPARED]
CHARLES PIERCE BURTON
OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL
Honorary President, THE HON. WOODROW WILSON
Honorary Vice-President, HON. WILLIAM H. TAFT
Honorary Vice-President, COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT
President, COLIN H. LIVINGSTONE, Washington, D. C.
Vice-President, B. L. DULANEY, Bristol, Tenn.
Vice-President, MILTON A. McRAE, Detroit. Mich.
Vice-President, DAVID STARR JORDAN, Stanford University, Cal.
Vice-President, F. L. SEELY, Asheville, N. C.
Vice-President, A. STAMFORD WHITE, Chicago, Ill.
Chief Scout, ERNEST THOMPSON SETON, Greenwich, Connecticut
National Scout Commissioner, DANIEL CARTER BEARD, Flushing, N. Y.
NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
THE FIFTH AVENUE BUILDING, 200 FIFTH AVENUE
TELEPHONE GRAMERCY 545
NEW YORK CITY
FINANCE COMMITTEE
John Sherman Hoyt, Chairman
August Belmont
George D. Pratt
Mortimer L. Schiff
H. Rogers Winthrop
GEORGE D. PRATT, Treasurer
JAMES E. WEST, Chief Scout Executive
ADDITIONAL MEMBERS OF THE EXECUTIVE BOARD
Ernest P. Bicknell
Robert Garrett
Lee F. Hanmer
John Sherman Hoyt
Charles C. Jackson
Prof. Jeremiah W. Jenks
William D. Murray
Dr. Charles P. Neill
George D. Porter
Frank Presbrey
Edgar M. Robinson
Mortimer L. Schiff
Lorillard Spencer
Seth Sprague Terry
July 31st, 1913.
TO THE PUBLIC:--
In the elecution of its purpose to give educational value and moral
worth to the recreational activities of the boyhood of America, the
leaders of the Boy Scout Movement quickly learned that to effectively
carry out its program, the boy must be influenced not only in his
out-of-door life but also in the diversions of his other leisure
moments. It is at such times that the boy is captured by the tales of
daring enterprises and adventurous good times. What now is needful is
not that his taste should be thwarted but trained. There should
constantly be presented to him the books the boy likes best, yet always
the books that will be best for the boy. As a matter of fact, however,
the boy's taste is being constantly vitiated and exploited by the great
mass of cheap juvenile literature.
To help anxiously concerned parents and educators to meet this grave
peril, the Library Commission of the Boy Scouts of America has been
organized. EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY is the result of their labors. All the
books chosen have been approved by them. The Commission is composed of
the following members: George F. Bowerman, Librarian, Public Library of
the District of Columbia, Washington, D. C.; Harrison F. Graver,
Librarian, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Pa.; Claude G. Leland,
Superintendent, Bureau of Libraries, Board of Education, New York City;
Edward F. Stevens Librarian, Pratt Institute Free Library, Brooklyn, New
York; together with the Editorial Board of our Movement, William D.
Murray, George D. Pratt and Frank Presbrey, with Franklin K. Mathiews,
Chief Scout Librarian, as Secretary.
In selecting the books, the Commission has chosen only such as are of
interest to boys, the first twenty-five being either works of fiction or
stirring stories of adventurous experiences. In later lists, books of a
more serious sort will be included. It is hoped that as many as
twenty-five may be added to the Library each year.
Thanks are due the several publishers who have helped to inaugurate this
new department of our work. Without their co-operation in making
available for popular priced editions some of the best books ever
published for boys, the promotion of EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY would have been
impossible.
We wish, too, to express our heartiest gratitude to the Library
Commission, who, without compensation, have placed their vast experience
and immense resources at the service of our Movement.
The Commission invites suggestions as to future books to be included in
the Library. Librarians, teachers, parents, and all others interested in
welfare work for boys, can render a unique service by forwarding to
National Headquarters lists of such books as in their Judgment would be
suitable for EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY.
Signed
James E. West
Chief Scout Executive.
"DO A GOOD TURN DAILY."
[Illustration: "I HAVE LOST THE CAMP. HELP!"--_Page 132._]
EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY--BOY SCOUT EDITION
THE BOY SCOUTS OF BOB'S HILL
_A Sequel to "The Bob's Hill Braves"_
BY
CHARLES PIERCE BURTON
AUTHOR OF
THE BOYS OF BOB'S HILL, THE BOB'S CAVE BOYS,
AND THE BOB'S HILL BRAVES
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GORDON GRANT
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1912,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_Published October, 1912_
=To=
THE RAVENS,
Patrol 1, Troop 3, of Aurora, Illinois,
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "THE BAND" AND THE CAVE 1
II. RAVEN PATROL HITS THE TRAIL 20
III. TRACKING THE ROBBERS 37
IV. "DANGER--COME" 53
V. A CAMPFIRE ON BOB'S HILL 67
VI. A FOURTEEN-MILE HIKE 82
VII. "BILL HASN'T COME BACK" 102
VIII. SMOKE SIGNALS ON THE MOUNTAIN 120
IX. FOUND AT LAST 135
X. A MAIDEN IN DISTRESS 146
XI. TREED BY A BEAR 162
XII. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BEAR 174
XIII. EAGLE PATROL JOINS THE SCOUTS 191
XIV. PLANNING A CAMPING TRIP 206
XV. SCOUTING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST 219
XVI. CLOUDBURST ON GREYLOCK 233
XVII. ON THE WAY AT LAST 246
XVIII. SCOUTING THROUGH A WILDERNESS 262
XIX. ON HISTORIC GROUND 278
XX. SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE 295
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"I HAVE LOST THE CAMP. HELP!" _Frontispiece_
WITH SKINNY LEADING, WE STARTED, DODGING FROM
TREE TO TREE 13
"IT GIVES ME PAIN," SHE SAID, "TO INFORM YOU
THAT THE WOODBOX IS EMPTY" 206
AS WE RAN, WE HEARD A YELL OF PAIN, OR FRIGHT,
AND IT WAS NOT A BEAR'S VOICE AT ALL 261
THE BOY SCOUTS OF BOB'S HILL
CHAPTER I
"THE BAND" AND THE CAVE
BLACKINTON'S barn is exactly at the foot of Bob's Hill. Phillips's is,
too, and so is our garden; but I am not telling about those now. Beyond
the barns are apple orchards, reaching halfway up the hill, as you know,
if you have read about the doings of the Band.
When they built Blackinton's barn they cut into the hill, so that the
roof of the stable slopes clear down to the ground, on the hill side in
the orchard. It makes a fine place for us boys to sit and talk about
things.
Mrs. Blackinton, who owns the barn, says that maybe climbing around on a
roof isn't the best thing in the world for shingles but boys have got to
do something and she is willing to take a chance; only to be as careful
as we can, and not to eat any more apples than are necessary to our
happiness and well being.
Anyhow, seven of us Bob's Hill boys sat there one Saturday afternoon in
May, planning what to do in the long vacation. Every member of the Band
was there, not counting Tom Chapin, except Skinny Miller; and we were
expecting him every minute.
He was late then, and every little while one of us would stick his head
around the edge of the barn to see if he wasn't coming up the driveway
from Park Street. We might as well have sat still, for you never can
tell which way he will come.
Pa says that Skinny is like the wind, which bloweth whither it listeth.
I don't exactly know what he meant but that is what he said, or
something like that.
It was quiet in the orchard. There was hardly a sound except the buzzing
of insects in the sunshine, and somehow that only seemed to make it more
quiet and dreamy.
Suddenly Bill Wilson stood up on the sloping shingles and gave such a
warwhoop that it almost made the bark rattle on the trees. When Bill
turns his voice loose it is something awful.
We looked up to see what it all was about. He had grabbed Benny Wade by
the hair and, giving another yell louder than the first, was pretending
to scalp him. Bill always likes to play Indian.
Benny didn't want to be scalped. Although he is two years younger and
not nearly so big, he grabbed Bill around the legs and held on until
they both slipped and went tumbling down the steep roof to the ground,
where they sat, with the rest of us laughing down at them.
Just then we heard another warwhoop, sounding from up the hill
somewhere, beyond the orchard. Bill and Benny scrambled to their feet,
and we all looked and listened.
We saw nothing for a minute or two. Then something darted through the
gate, which leads into the orchard from the hill; dropped down out of
sight behind the fence, and commenced crawling backward toward the
nearest apple tree. Every few seconds, it would raise up long enough to
point something, which looked like a gun, at the enemy.
"Great snakes!" whispered Bill. "What's that?"
But we could tell in a minute without asking, for when it reached the
tree it stood up and peered around the trunk, aiming a stick and
pretending to fire. We knew then that Skinny was on the way.
"It's Skinny!" shouted Benny, throwing a stick at him.
Skinny waved one arm for us to be quiet, then began to wriggle back to
the next tree. Making his way slowly from tree to tree, with a quick
dash he finally reached the roof, where he felt safe.
"That was a close call, Skinny," said Bill. "I heard a bee buzzin'
around out there in the orchard, a few minutes ago."
"Bee, nothin'!" Skinny told him, still pointing with his gun and looking
around in every direction. "They pretty near had me surrounded."
That was the beginning of this history, which tells all about the doings
of the Band, that set all the people talking about us for miles around.
Perhaps you never heard about the Band; how we found a cave at Peck's
Falls, part way up the mountain, and had all kinds of fun playing there
and on Bob's Hill. There are eight of us in all. Skinny is captain. His
folks call him Gabriel but we don't like that name. Skinny is a good
name for him, he is so fat. He can run though, even if he is heavy, and
you would think that he could fight some if you had seen him once, when
the Gingham Ground Gang got after us.
Benny Wade is the littlest fellow in the bunch but he feels just as big
as anybody and sometimes that is almost as good as being big. Besides
these there are Harry, Wallie, Chuck, Bill Wilson, Hank Bates,--Oh, yes,
I most forgot,--and myself.
My name is John Alexander Smith. The boys call me Pedro, and I have been
secretary ever since Tom Chapin found the cave. It's up to me to write
the doings of the Band and the minutes of the meetings.
Tom Chapin was our first captain and he meets with us now, whenever he
is in town.
The village where we live is in a long, narrow valley, with little
Hoosac River flowing north through the center of it, until it gets
beyond the mountain range. Then it turns west and hurries down into the
Hudson.
Bob's Hill stands just west of the village and looks down upon the
highest steeples. Over the brow of the hill and a little south are
Plunkett's woods. West, straight back, a mile or more, begins the
timbered slope of old Greylock, which, everybody knows, is the highest
mountain in Massachusetts. And in the edge of the first woods, a little
back from the road, is the prettiest place you ever sat eyes upon.
Grown-up folks call it "the glen," but we boys just say "Peck's Falls."
I don't know why, only there is a waterfall there, which begins in a
brook, somewhere up on the mountainside, and plays and tumbles along,
until finally it pours down from a high cliff into a pool a hundred feet
below; then dashes off to join Hoosac River.
A queer-shaped rock, with a high back and narrow ledge, which we call
the "pulpit," bridges the ravine in front of the falls, fifty feet and
maybe more, above the rushing water. A little farther down the ravine,
at the edge of the stream, is another rock. It will do no harm now to
say that our cave is under that rock, because folks have found out about
it, although not many know about there being two entrances.
All these things that I have told about belong to us boys. Mr. Plunkett
thinks that he owns Plunkett's woods and Bob's Hill. I mean the very top
of it. And somebody has been cutting trees off from Greylock, until it
looks like a picked chicken in spots. But we call them all ours because
we have more fun with them than anybody else does, and it seems to us
that things belong to those who get the most out of them.
We knew from the way Skinny was acting that he had something on his
mind, so we sat down and waited for him to tell us.
"Fellers," said he, after a while, "we've been Injuns and we've been
bandits, and we have had fun, good and plenty. I ain't sayin' that
Injuns and bandits are not all right sometimes but----"
"Guess what!" broke in Benny. "We've been 'splorers, too. Don't you
remember 'sploring out in Illinois last summer? About LaSalle and that
other guy and What's-her-name who fell over the cliff?"
"That was all right, too," said Skinny, "and I couldn't forget it in a
thousand years, but I tell you those things are back numbers. They are
out of date."
"Never mind about the date," said Hank, "but hurry and get it out of
your system. We've got to be something, haven't we? If we ain't Injuns
and we ain't bandits, what are we?"
"We are Scouts," shouted Skinny, aiming with his gun and dodging so
quickly that he almost slid down the roof.
We all looked at one another in surprise, wondering what he meant. Benny
spoke up first.
"What are those things, Skinny?" he asked.
"Why," said Skinny, "haven't you been readin' about 'em? They
are--er--they are--er--they're just Scouts, that's all.--They scout
around, you know, and do all kinds of stunts."
"Scoot around, you mean," I told him.
"Well, it's the same thing, ain't it?"
"Not for mine," said Bill, shaking his head. "Scouts may be all right,
but Injuns and bandits are good enough for me."
"Here's the book, anyhow," said Skinny.
He pulled out of his pocket a little book, which told all about "The Boy
Scouts of America."
"That's what we are going to be, the Boy Scouts of America, or part of
them. They have members all over the country. We'll call ourselves 'The
Boy Scouts of Bob's Hill,' when we have our meetings."
Say, it looked good to the Band, except Bill, after Skinny had read the
book to us a little, sitting there on the roof. It was a good deal like
what we had been doing, only more so. Even Bill said it was almost as
good as being Injuns and when Benny heard about the uniforms he hardly
could wait.
"How are we going to do it?" I asked, after we had talked until we were
tired.
"That is what I came to tell you about," said Skinny. "Mr. Norton, who
teaches my class in Sunday school, is getting one up."
"One what, Skinny?" asked Benny, his eyes bulging out like saucers, he
was so interested.
"Something he called a 'patrol.' You see, the Boy Scouts are almost like
an army, with all kinds of officers, only they call them different
names, and the different companies are called patrols. He is getting up
a patrol in the Sunday school and wanted me in that, but when I told him
about the Band he said that we could have a patrol of our own, if we
wanted to. There are eight of us, you know, and that is just enough. I
don't know much about it yet, but Mr. Norton wants me to bring the Band
up to his house Monday night and talk it over. He's going to have ice
cream; I heard him say so to Mrs. Norton."
When he said that last, he looked at Bill, because Bill liked ice cream,
although he didn't seem to think much of the Scout business.
"Will you go?" asked Skinny. "I've got to tell him to-morrow, so he'll
know how much ice cream to make."
Benny looked at me and I could see by the way his eyes were shining
that he wanted to go. But Bill never likes to change his mind.
"I think we ought to vote on it," he said, "and have Pedro put it in the
minutes of the meetin'."
"Shall I put it down in invisible ink," I asked, "or in the kind that
shows?"
We always write our most secret doings in invisible ink, made of lemon
juice, so that nobody can read about them. We don't need to read it
ourselves, because we know all about it anyway. If we want to, by
holding the writing up to a fire we can make the letters show.
"Write it with chalk," said Skinny, "and make the letters a foot high.
This is something we want folks to know about."
"Uniforms wouldn't be so very much good," said Benny, "if folks couldn't
see us with them on."
Skinny nodded his head; then took a piece of chalk out of his pocket,
and commenced to mark on the clapboards, back of the sloping roof.
I thought at first that he was going to write the minutes of the meeting
before it happened and was going to kick about it, being secretary.
Instead of that, however, he made a big circle, and in the center of
the circle he drew a picture of a tomahawk. Then, after looking at a
watch which his folks gave him for Christmas, he put the figures 18
above the tomahawk, and 16 below.
That was our Indian sign. The circle meant our cave at Peck's Falls,
that being sort of round. The figures said for us to meet on the
eighteenth day of the month, at the sixteenth hour, which would be at
four o'clock that very afternoon. We had half an hour in which to get to
the cave.
When we saw the Sign we all gave a yell, Bill Wilson louder than
anybody, and were going to start for the cave on a jump, but Skinny
hissed like a snake and held up one hand for us to keep still.
"My braves," said he, after he had made up a lot of Indian words, which
we couldn't understand, only they sounded fierce, "do you want to lose
your scalps? You don't know what is waitin' for us on yonder hill."
We didn't, either. If we had, maybe we shouldn't have gone.
[Illustration: WITH SKINNY LEADING, WE STARTED, DODGING FROM TREE TO
TREE.]
"Follow me," said he. "Keep behind the trees until we get out of the
forest, and mum's the word!"
So, with Skinny leading, we started, dodging from tree to tree on the
hillside, until we came to the orchard fence. After that there were no
trees except on the very top.
There is a sort of road leading out of the orchard and winding around
the hill, where the walking is easy, but on that side Bob's Hill itself
rises almost straight up from the orchards, and the slope is covered
with slippery grass, with now and then a big stone sticking its nose out
of the ground. To climb it you have to dig in with the sides and heels
of your shoes and work hard.
Skinny started straight up and we after him, except Bill, who can climb
faster than anybody. He soon was ahead.
As Bill neared the top, forgetting all about danger, Skinny gave a
warning hiss. Bill looked back; then dropped to the ground and began to
crawl slowly up, pulling at the grass and stones to help him along. The
rest of us waited to see what would happen to Bill.
In a few minutes we saw him stick his head up carefully above the brow
of the hill. Then he dodged down out of sight and slid back part way
toward us, motioning for us to come on and not to make any noise.
I didn't know what to think of it, for I hadn't really supposed anybody
would be there. Skinny is 'most always careful that way because, he
says, you never can tell what may happen.
"Gee!" said he, when Bill motioned. "Didn't I tell you they pretty near
had me surrounded? Steady now, and mum's the word!"
Slowly we crawled up toward Bill. When we had come up even with him,
without a word he crept toward the top of the hill, we crawling along
after him, and my heart was pounding like a trip-hammer, partly from the
work of climbing and partly because it was scary.
Pretty soon we began to hear voices. The eight of us put our heads up at
about the same time; then sank down again out of sight, and I heard
Skinny whisper, "Jerusalem!" and Bill saying "Great snakes!" to himself.
We lay there for a moment, looking at each other and not knowing what to
do. Then Benny spoke up.
"Come on, fellers," said he. "Who's afraid of them? It's only a lot of
girls."
That's what it was. About twelve high-school girls were sitting there
under a tree, with lunch baskets around, looking at Greylock and waiting
for it to be time to eat. There was no way for us to pass without being
seen except to go back and around through Plunkett's woods, and we
didn't want to do that.
"Let's scare 'em," said Skinny at last. "We'll yell the way we did on
Greylock that time we scared the wild cat."
"It's all right to scare 'em," said Hank, "for they haven't any business
on our hill. But a girl ain't a wild cat or anything like it, and you
never can tell what she will do. They may not scare worth a cent."
"I'll tell you what," I said. "If we all yell, they'll know that it
must be the Band. So let's have only one yell. Give Bill a chance and
there will be something doing."
We left Bill and crawled up to where we could see them and they couldn't
see us. Then he commenced.
Say, I've heard Bill Wilson a lot of times, but I never heard anything
like that. Although I knew what was doing it, shivers chased up and down
my back, until I 'most forgot about the girls.
He started with a moan like he was in pain. Then for a minute it sounded
as if a whole menagerie had been turned loose, with a dog fight in the
middle. From the midst of the dog fight came a blood-curdling screech
which died away again in a moan and sob, and then all was still while
Bill was getting his breath for another.
It was awful to hear, and the girls didn't wait for another, or even for
the sob part. At the first moan they started to their feet, looking
around with scared faces, and when the menagerie turned loose away they
went on a run.
"Charge, my braves!" cried Skinny, as soon as he could stop laughing
long enough to speak. "Let's surround 'em."
With a yell, we charged across the top of the hill, down the slope
beyond and into a field which rose gently up to Plunkett's woods.
Just before the girls reached the woods one of them looked back, saw us,
and told the others. I thought they would run harder than ever when they
saw us coming, but it was just as Hank said about not knowing what they
would do. They turned and stood there, the whole twelve of them, looking
so mad that we stopped running and waited to see what would happen.
"We know who you are, Skinny Miller," said the one who had seen us
first, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. We'll fix you for
this."
She said something to the others, which we couldn't hear, and pointed
toward us. Then they stooped and each one grabbed a stick from the edge
of the woods.
"Great snakes!" said Bill. "I wish I hadn't come."
"Fellers," said Skinny, looking at his watch. "It's 'most four o'clock.
We'll have to run like sixty if we get to the cave in time for the
meetin'."
There are a lot of boys who never saw a mountain, and the Band, even,
never saw the Rockies and big mountains like those. But Greylock is big
enough for us. On a summer day, with fleecy clouds chasing over his head
like great, white butterflies; sunshine resting on the pine trees, and
the mountain smiling down on us with arms outstretched, as if he would
gather in all of Massachusetts and a part of Vermont, and the cawing of
crows in the Bellows Pipe, and no school to call us back--say, that's
living; that is!
Soon we came to the woods and followed along a path until we could hear
the rushing and roaring of Peck's Falls in front of us, sounding as if
old Greylock himself was talking.
We stopped at Pulpit Rock a minute to see the falls and the foaming pool
below; then followed Skinny down the side of the steep ravine to our
cave at the edge of the stream.
"The meetin' will come to order," said Skinny, after we had crawled in
and were sitting on the floor. "Are we all here?"
"I am," said Benny, "and I," "and I," "and I," said the others, faster
than I could count them.
"All the fellers that want to go to Mr. Norton's," said Skinny, as soon
as he had found that everybody was there, "to see about this Scout
business--and eat ice cream," he added, looking at Bill when he said it,
"mark a cross on the floor of the cave with your knives."
Everybody marked except Bill. He didn't have his knife with him.
"It's all right," said he. "I'll go, anyhow, knife or no knife. I'd
rather be an Injun than a Scout any day in the week, but there ain't any
use letting that ice cream go to waste."
"'Tis well," said Skinny. "We have spoken."