When Tom Slade started to go to the Ford for the rope he tried to cut
off a little of the distance by taking a new route through the hills.
That is Tom all over; always exploring, always experimenting. He got
into a fine mess doing this. Soon he found himself in a dense thicket
and had to retrace his steps and hunt for the more familiar way. He
thinks he lost “maybe half an hour or so” in this way. I dare say it was
nearer to an hour. I thought it was a poor time to be seeking new routes
with his companion in the bottom of an old well, and I told him so.
“Brent had plenty to do,” he said. He was certainly right about that!
The car, as you will remember, had been left some distance from the
Gulch in the country north of Breakneck Pond. Its parking spot marked, I
dare say, the farthest point in roadless, undeveloped country ever
penetrated by the gallant and redoubtable Ford car. I say this
advisedly, knowing Tom and his driving, and something of his bizarre
advances through swamp and wilderness. I am quite ready to believe that
his lusty little flivver could not have been urged one inch nearer to
the camp. It must have looked lonesome enough as he approached it where
it stood wrapped in the old, rotten canvas which gave it somewhat the
appearance of a deformed tent.
Now, as Tom approached it through the woods, he saw the hanging canvas
gather somewhat, so that the effect was the same as when one grasps a
portiére on the side away from the beholder. Something (and that a hand,
it seemed) was holding it closed or was about to part it, making an
opening. The appearance, or rather the concealed presence, of a hand
thus disguised is unmistakable. The hand was holding the canvas, perhaps
only to keep it from blowing.
Suddenly, as Tom approached, the covering undulated as if something
within were moving where there was little room to move. Something was,
indeed, moving and seeking a point of exit where escape and flight might
not be seen.
Tom paused behind a tree. Then for a few seconds there was neither sound
nor stir. Suddenly, beyond the car--that is, beyond the end of it which
was farthest from Tom--he saw the shadow of something moving. It was
shadow time in the woods, early twilight; the witching hour when Nature
masquerades in a score of ghostly forms, and trees conceal lurking
specters.
Through the soft-toned quiet woods stole a figure, running silently. It
was a figure clad in khaki and was hatless, exposing a wealth of thick,
gray, curly hair. The playing light fell upon this and brightened it to
a lustrous iron gray. Yet the figure sped with great agility, with the
buoyancy of youth.
Tom paused in astonishment. His first impulse was to pursue. But instead
he walked up to the car, lifted the old canvas, and climbed into the
Ford. On the floor in back some canned goods and other things were lying
loose; he thought nothing had been taken. The rope was there. The camera
(carelessly left) was still there. It was an expensive little
collapsible camera and worth stealing. If anything had been taken it
must have been some small container of food. He could not check up on
these things because he did not know exactly what they had brought or
how much of it had been taken to the cabin. But, anyway, the leaving of
the camera indicated that the fugitive was not a wanton thief.
He now saw that the stranger had slept under the car. A couple of old
cushions and a blanket which he and Brent had not yet taken to the cabin
were lying there. In picking these up, he saw a khaki hat lying just
inside the canvas. It had evidently been left by the fugitive, perhaps
knocked off as he crawled out under the lifted canvas. It was after the
fashion of a scout hat and on the inside of the crown was stamped
GORDON PENLEY
MEN’S OUTFITTER
BUFFALO
N. Y.
“So he came from Buffalo,” said Tom. “That’s a blamed funny thing, that
is!”
He sat on the rear seat of the Ford, resting and enjoying for a few
moments the dim cosiness of the little ramshackle enclosure. It wasn’t
half bad in there--a pretty nifty little bunk, he thought. He
contemplated the hat where it lay on his knee. “A blamed funny thing.”
He did not mean that there was anything funny about the owner of the hat
coming from Buffalo. What astonished him was that this young man,
evidently a camper and one of the great scout fraternity, should flee
from the auto upon the approach of someone. This fellow was too old to
be a scout. A boy (Scout though he be) might prowl and investigate where
he has no business to, and run if discovered. Boys do those things. But
a scout official? A camp manager? Or a scoutmaster? Hardly.
This fellow was evidently of the scoutmaster age; that is, he was a
young man. He would knew the scout laws (Tom knew them) and the scout
standard of honor. Yet he had escaped and fled when discovered. Why? He
did not seem to have done anything wrong. Tom had (and I shall be glad
if he reads this) an easygoing though fine sense as to the point of
honor. He certainly would not have thought it wrong for a stranger to
take shelter under the protecting drapery of his old Ford. He’s a pretty
good sort of sport, Tom is.
So that is why he gazed at the hat and mused. “That’s a mighty funny
thing when you come to think of it.”