Tom and Brent stared at each other. The footfalls approached nearer and
nearer, sounding clear upon the brittle underbrush which obscured the
beaten track to the door; clear as footsteps on a pavement, as the
driving wind which rattled the door and window, bore the sound to the
cabin.
Just as the sound ceased, Brent drawled in his usual half-interested
manner, “Come in, the place is yours.”
Tom, however, jumped to his feet, fully prepared, watching the door
keenly, intently. His attitude said that he was ready and not to be
taken unawares.
The door opened and a small boy in a heavy collared gray sweater
entered. He was a redheaded boy with the usual accompaniment of freckles
and he had a black smear at one end of his mouth. He might have been
fourteen, certainly not older than that. He wore khaki trousers and
indeed the whole part of him that projected below the all-embracing
sweater showed him to be a Scout of the Scouts. He had, what seems often
to be found in company with red hair and freckles, a little round nose
which somehow bespoke an impudent self-possession.
“_Well--I’ll--be--hanged!_” Tom exploded.
“How do you do, sweater?” said Brent, eyeing him whimsically.
“I got lost,” said the boy.
“Been roasting potatoes?” Tom asked, sniffing.
“Yop. I got a smutch?” said the boy, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve.
“The smutch is now on your sweater,” Brent said. “If you’ll take the
sweater off, we’ll be able to see who we’re talking to.”
“How’d you know I was roasting potatoes?” the boy demanded.
“I tell by the smutch and by the smell,” said Tom, helping him off with
the sweater. “That’s right, it’s warm in here.”
“I ain’t scared of cold,” said the boy.
“You smell like a bonfire,” said Tom. “Have you been roasting potatoes
around here anywhere?”
“Back there in the woods--I seen a light here.”
“And did you stamp the fire out?”
“I jumped all over it.”
“Good, let’s see your feet--your shoes. That’s fine. You sure you
stamped it all out? Regular--like a Scout.”
“I got no use for those guys,” said the boy aggressively.
“So? But you’re sure you put the fire out? You’re for the woods even if
you’re not for the scouts, hey?” Tom said pleasantly.
“Give him something to eat,” said Brent. “The potatoes all fell off the
stick, didn’t they?”
“I only had two.”
“And about all you got was a smutch,” said Tom. “A kid, a bonfire, a
stick, and a potato--and no nourishment, hey? They go good in stories
though, don’t they?”
“I got no use for stories,” said the boy unabashed. “They ain’t true. I
got no use for Scouts either.”
“Sit down and eat some beans and some bacon and explain all that,” said
Tom.
“First tell me, in goodness’ name, where did you get that scarf-pin?”
Brent asked.
His interested scrutiny of the boy had paused at a conspicuous ornament
upon the necktie which the youngster wore. He had on an ordinary boy’s
jacket with white collar, and a tie which showed a heroic but ghastly
effort to achieve the glory of a four-in-hand. Into this tie was
inserted a scarf-pin presenting four magnificent glass gems set in a
diagonal row.
“That’s very nifty,” said Brent. “It takes me back to the days when I
lived in the civilized world. You got it----”
“I got it in a package of lemon-drops,” said the boy, with aggressive
frankness.
“Which you bought on a train?”
“In a show,” said the boy, “between the acts.”
“Exactly,” said Brent, winking at Tom. “Now sit down and---- You like
bacon?”
“Sure, I like anything,” said the boy, eating.
“Except Scouts,” said Tom.
“You don’t like ’em, do you?” said the boy, out of a full and busy
mouth.
Tom eyed him amusedly. His look seemed to say that he knew the type.
“Was you ever one?” the boy asked.
“I used to think I was,” Tom said.
“It’s good you got out of ’em.”
“What’s your name?”
“Arnold Henshaw, but you can call me Spiff, if you want to--it don’t
worry me.”
“That’s short for spiffy?” said Brent.
“Yop--it don’t bother me, it don’t. They’re a fresh bunch up there, I’ll
tell the world.”
“You camping up there, Spiff?” Tom asked.
“I was, but I’m through--never again--I’ll say.”
“Had a falling out with them?”
“Nix, they had a falling out with me.”
Tom winked at Brent. “You like chocolate?” Brent asked.
“Sure, I can eat anything.”
“It’s great for making smutches,” said Brent. “Now, tell us all about
your life and death and Christian sufferings.”
“Gee, I didn’t die yet; not so you’d notice it.”
“So they’re a fresh bunch up there at the lakes?” Tom encouraged.
“Sure,” said Arnold Henshaw, alias Spiff.
“They says I got to take lessons from those guys. To get merit badges I
don’t have to take lessons. Anyway, they get merit badges and they can’t
do as many things as I can. I swam across the lake one night and they
wouldn’t give me a merit badge. They can chuck it in the lake for all I
care.”
“So?” Tom was sitting with hands clasped around his upraised knee,
listening intently. He seemed inwardly amused.
“They got the knife in me, that crowd,” said Spiff.
“You’re not understood,” Brent commented in an undertone.
“May be true at that,” said Tom. “You see, I suppose it’s against the
rule to swim at night. Of course, you can’t get merit badges breaking
rules.”
“They got me washing dishes for discipline,” said the boy. “Would you do
that?”
“Oh, I’ve washed lots of dishes,” said Tom.
“Well, they ain’t going to put _me_ doing that. That’s why I sneaked
away this afternoon.”
“Oh, I see,” said Tom.
“I’m going to go home, I am. I’m going to find my way out of here; you
can go to Sloatsburg this way, can’t you?”
“I believe so. Where do you live?”
“And why?” said Brent.
“Jersey City,” said the boy.
“Why should anybody want to go there?” said Brent.
“The Erie Railroad goes there,” said Spiff.
“Well, you don’t want to be like the Erie Railroad, do you?” said Brent.
“Do they have many like you in Jersey City?”
“Sure, I licked two of ’em,” said Spiff.
“Well, now,” said Tom, “let’s forget Jersey City and talk of something
pleasant. You’re on the outs with the Scouts up yonder, hey? So you’re
running away. They put you to washing dishes and you quit. Then you want
me to believe that you licked two fellows in Jersey City. Why, you
couldn’t even lick a fellow in Hoboken, you couldn’t. You’re a
quitter.--Here, have some more beans.”
“Who you calling a quitter?”
“You. You’ve got a grouch about the----”
“Oh su-u-u-re,” the boy sneered. “You’re like the scoutmaster, you are.”
“Those are harsh words,” said Brent.
“You got to be a teacher’s pet up there,” said Spiff.
“Did they ever call you fresh?” Tom queried sociably.
“Sure, all of them, lots of times. They wouldn’t let me get into the
second class and they wouldn’t give me the astronomy badge, even if I
can follow the stars----”
“You can do that?”
“You tell ’em I can.”
“We’ll show ’em, that’s better,” said Tom.
“_I’m through!_ Didn’t I hike out to White Bar not following the trail?
_I made a trail of my own, I did!_”
“Now you’re shouting,” said Brent.
Tom sat there studying the boy curiously.