Spiffy Henshaw was breaking the rules that night. He did not care, since
he was going to be sent home anyway. He was paddling about on the lake
alone in his glory.
Spiffy had not fared well at camp. He had set himself up to be
independent and do things in his own way. Then, when he had found that
this way did not bring the world at his feet and win him merit badges,
he had sought the coöperation and help which Scouts have in these
enterprises. But by that time Spiffy was too deeply involved in
difficulties with his superiors to make a new and proper start. He had
denounced the ways of the Scout and had come to find that he could not
count on the help of those that he had ridiculed and belittled.
This was the state of things when Spiffy had made his memorable call at
the cabin. He had returned to camp after that call, resolved that he
would win merit badges according to program and without help. But he had
not made out. You cannot annihilate the past with a knock-out
blow--unless it is a tremendous knock-out blow. Spiffy had scorned to
wear his sumptuous four-jewelled pin, his cry for help, as Tom had
called it, and had tried to win out alone. But he could not swim against
the tide. And back he was going to Jersey City.
Suddenly, his gaze was attracted to something in the sky to the south.
He saw a long, black, upright column hovering there. His ever scornful
eye lingered upon it till it disappeared. Then it came again, high,
commanding, alien in the clear, moonlit night. Then went, then came. And
still Spiffy Henshaw watched it curiously, idly. Again it rose up like a
climbing rocket, a great black, beckoning finger in the sky. And again
it dissolved. Only the moon and the wind clouds were not to be seen in
that direction.
Then it was that Spiffy Henshaw might have won a merit badge with his
rowing--if frantic effort counts for anything. He did not row well; he
did not do well anything which has to be learned. But if there had been
any merit badge given for a mighty spirit, that badge would have been
Spiffy’s. Though ornaments were dear to his heart, he did not possess a
single such badge. The only ornament of vainglory which he owned was in
his pocket (where the misjudging world could not see it) with its sharp
end stuck into a cork--the four-jewelled pin, his disgraceful call for
help, which since his meeting with Tom he had disdained to wear. Yet who
shall say that this gorgeous trinket from a package of lemon-drops did
not play its part in the life of Spiffy Henshaw?
It was just like him not to bother about chaining the boat. “_Hurry
up!_” he shouted. “_Hurry up, come ahead, there’s a call for help!_”
He did not pause to see if any followed. Like a madman he ran headlong
up the road to his own camp where he lived discredited. They were
getting ready for camp fire (a pleasure he eschewed) and he alighted
among them like a meteor out of the sky.
“_Come ahead, everybody!_” he fairly screamed. “There were
four--black--smokes like--in--over there in the sky. It means help!”
“I guess not,” said the camp manager.
“Four--col--columns,” Spiffy panted; “it means help.”
Spiffy’s prestige in camp was not strong enough to win him much
attention.
“It would be a lot of little puffs then,” said the young camp manager.
“Or four dots, and one dot, and a dot and a dash and two dots, and a dot
and two dashes and one dot,” said a scout, who certainly knew the Morse
code off-hand. “That’s what means help around here, if you know how to
spell.”
Spiffy glared at him in mounting rage. And he said something which I
think is worth recording. “What difference does it make what it means
here?” he fairly roared. “It’s what it means over there that counts. I’m
not asking _you_ or anybody else what it means _because I know_! I’m
asking you if you’re going to answer a call for help. Come ahead, those
that are coming. You can come, too, if you want to,” he added,
addressing the camp manager.
[Illustration: TOM SHOT ANOTHER DENSE PILLAR OF BLACKNESS INTO THE
MOONLIT SKY.]
A few straggled after him, smiling, doubting. And others followed after
those few. These last would not have admitted that they were following
Spiffy. They did not rally about him as he sped into the night; they
straggled along, laughing among themselves. One said that Spiffy had
been seeing things, and this created a chorus of laughter.
I can’t tell you how glad I am that the young camp manager went. He
hurried along with the others, the big boy who knew the Morse code so
well running at his side. In the intervals of his panting he said,
“When’s he going home, anyway?”
“To-morrow, I guess--poor kid,” the young manager panted.
Yes, I am glad that those two went along; I wouldn’t have had them miss
it for anything....