Yes, that was it, the little rascal would have to make his own trails;
Tom saw that. And he had evidently made some pretty poor ones. He was
one of those boys from whose point of view the world seems to be against
him.
“They pretty sore at you?” Tom asked.
“Sure--that bunch! I think up things and then they say they’re no good.
I shot a woodchuck with a bow and arrow and still they wouldn’t give me
the archery badge. Can you beat that? Ain’t that archery? I’ll leave it
to this other fellow.”
“That’s archery,” said Brent.
“But there’s a regular way to win the archery badge,” said Tom. “Do you
know the history of archery?”
“Naah, what good is history?”
“Yes, but you’re supposed to know something about it to get the badge,”
said Tom.
“Didn’t I shoot the woodchuck; ain’t that enough? Actions count, don’t
they?”
“Yes, but maybe you’re not supposed to shoot woodchucks; see?”
“Are you hunters?”
“Well, in a way we are,” Tom laughed.
“Didn’t I make a semaphore signal across the lake? Didn’t I make bugle
calls--signals?”
“Did you?”
“_Suuure_ I did. And they gave a signal badge to a feller from Brooklyn
but not to me.”
“Well, you see, there must have been something; you didn’t fulfill all
the requirements of the test--maybe.”
“I didn’t do a thing but tumble that feller off the springboard. That’s
why I got discipline wished on me--dish washing. _Not me!_”
“So you’re quitting?”
“What’s the use staying as long as I’m in dutch?”
There followed a pause during which this redoubtable youngster ate with
a vigor surpassing all his other achievements.
“They got no use for me and I got no use for them,” he said. “Now they
won’t even show me, they won’t. They won’t even tell me the trail signs.
_Geeeeee_, they needn’t worry, I’ll get along all right.”
“Help yourself to bacon,” said Brent.
“They don’t need to tell me where the launch is sunk--not that bunch.
I’m out on the lake every night hunting myself.”
“Against the rules?” Tom queried.
“I don’t need them,” was the rather vague reply.
“All right,” said Tom; “now have you finished eating? Had enough? All
right, now listen. I don’t know anything about your complete life and
adventures in camp, but it seems you’ve got around on the wrong side of
the bunch.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Spiff.
“Oh, I’m not worrying,” Tom said. “I’d put my last dollar on you. I
think you’re all right. How ’bout it, Brent?”
“I’ll put thirty-two cents on him, that’s all I’ve got. The rest went
out of my pocket when I was upside down.”
“You see,” said Tom in a very fraternal way, “you don’t fit. They can’t
make a thing to fit everybody. Now scouting is a great big thing and
it’s not going to change. You’re one fresh little gizinko and you’ve
_got_ to change. You’ve either got to fit into it, or quit--just a
minute!
“Now, about quitting. I think it’s all right for a kid not to join the
Scouts. But I don’t like a fellow that quits; see? Kids that don’t go
in--well, I have nothing to say. But kids that get out--give up,
surrender, climb out through the ropes and run----”
“_You say that’s me?_”
“Sure it is. You’re on your way to Sloatsburg. So far you managed to
stumble in the right direction; you’re not a half bad Scout. I’m not
handing you any bouquets for licking a fellow, but that’s better than
being licked by one.”
“You said it,” vociferated Spiff. “I’d like to stay here with you,
that’s what I’d like to do.”
“We’re not taking any boarders this season,” said Brent, then added in
an undertone to Tom, “It wouldn’t be half bad having him around at
that.”
Tom arose, stepping over to the boy, and in a humorous, friendly way
lifted the four-jewelled pin out of the youngster’s scarf. “Here, Kid,”
said he; “you put this in your pocket, you don’t need to wear it. One,
two, three, four--four stones----”
“They’re glass,” said Spiff.
“Yep, and do you know what they stand for? Four means help; see? Four
blasts of a whistle, four blasts of a horn, four flashes of light, four
signs of any kind, says HELP. Four letters, H-E-L-P. That’s a rule we
have up where I camp sometimes. Guess you never heard of it here? Now, I
don’t think,” Tom added good-humoredly, “that you need to bat around
with a call for help stuck up in front of you, do you? You put that
lemon-drop pin in your pocket and get your sweater on and come along
with me; I’m going to set you on the trail.”
The boy gazed at Tom, bewildered, fascinated. “To Sloatsburg?” he asked.
“No, back to camp. You’re going to go back and beat that game just as
you licked the two fellows in Jersey City. You’re going to read your
little book and find out just what you have to do to win badges. Then
you’re going to _do those things_. And you’re going to have that whole
crowd eating out of your hand, you fresh little rascal! Here, wear the
pin if you want to; I was only kidding you.”
But Spiff Henshaw held the gorgeous ornament tight in his hand and would
not replace it in his scarf. “I wouldn’t let anybody say I wear a call
for help--geeeee, you don’t know me!”
“Here, slip your sweater on,” said Tom, “You’re going to bang around
into the enemy’s country, and after you’ve read your little
book--handbook, they call it?--why, you’ll have them on their knees
begging for an armistice.”
“Shall I chuck the pin?” Spiff asked, with an air of manly independence.
“Well, it’s a call for help,” laughed Tom.
With a fine air of disgust the boy cast his magnificent ornament upon
the floor, drew his sweater over his head and strode out into the night
with Tom.
Brent, left alone, leaned over without disturbing his restful posture,
picked up the pin, and gazed at it amusedly.
“Leave it to Tom,” he said to himself.