"THE WOODS PROPERTY"
When Tom reached the office he took a few matters in to Mr. Burton.
"Well, how are things coming on?" his superior asked him cheerily.
"Getting back in line, all right? This early spring weather ought to be
a tonic to an old scout like you. Here--here's a reminder of spring and
camping for you. Here's the deed for the woods property at last--a
hundred and ninety acres more for Temple Camp. We'll be as big as New
York pretty soon, when we get some of that timber down, and some new
cabins up.
"I'm glad we got it," Tom said.
"Well, I should hope," Mr. Burton came back at him. "That's off the
Archer farm, you know. Gift from Mr. Temple. Runs right up to the peak
of the hill--see?"
Tom looked at the map of the new Temple Camp property, which almost
doubled the size of the camp and at the deed which showed the latest
generous act of the camp's benevolent founder.
"Next summer, if we have the price, we'll put up a couple of dozen new
cabins on that hill and make a bid for troops from South Africa and
China; what do you say? This should be put in the safe and, let's see,
here are some new applications--Michigan, Virginia--Temple Camp is
getting some reputation in the land."
"I had an application from Ohio yesterday," Tom said; "a three-patrol
troop. I gave them the cabins on the hill. They're a season troop."
Mr. Burton glanced suddenly at Tom, then began whistling and drumming
his fingers on the desk. He seemed on the point of saying something in
this connection, but all he did say was, "You find pleasure and
relaxation in the work, Tom?"
"It's next to camping to be here," Tom said.
"Well, that's what I thought," Mr. Burton said encouragingly. "You must
go slow and take it easy and pretty soon you'll be fit and trim."
"I got to thank you," Tom said with his characteristic blunt simplicity.
"I don't know what we should do in the spring rush without your familiar
knowledge of the camp, Tom," Mr. Burton said.
"I think he thinks more of the office than he does of the scouts,"
Margaret ventured to observe. She was sitting alongside Mr. Burton's
desk awaiting his leisure, and Tom was standing awkwardly close by.
"I suppose it's because they don't grow fast enough," Mr. Burton
laughed; "they can't keep up with him. To my certain knowledge young
Peewee, as they call him, hasn't grown a half an inch in two years. It
isn't because he doesn't eat, either, because I observed him personally
when I visited camp."
"Oh, he eats _terrifically_," Margaret said.
"I like the troop better than anything else," Tom said.
"Well, I guess that's right, Tom," Mr. Burton observed; "old friends are
the best."
He gathered up an armful of papers and handed them to Tom who went about
his duties.
The day was long and the routine work tedious. The typewriter machine
rattled drowsily and continuously on, telling troops here and there that
they could have camp accommodations on this or that date. Tom pored over
the big map, jotting down assignments and stumblingly dictated brief
letters which Miss Ellison's readier skill turned out in improved form.
He was sorry that it was not Friday so that he might go to troop meeting
that night. It was only Tuesday and so there were three long, barren
nights ahead of him, and to him they seemed like twenty nights. All the
next day he worked, making a duplicate of the big map for use at the
camp, but his fingers were not steady and the strain was hard upon his
eyes. He went home (if a hall-room in a boarding house may be called
home) with a splitting headache.
On Wednesday he worked on the map and made the last assignment of tent
accommodations. Temple Camp was booked up for the season. It was going
to be a lively summer up there, evidently. One troop was coming all the
way from Idaho--to see Peewee Harris eat pie, perhaps. I can't think for
what other reason they would have made such a journey.
"And _you_ will live in the pavilion in all your glory, won't you?"
Margaret teased him. "I suppose you'll be very proud to be assistant to
Uncle Jeb. I don't suppose you'll notice poor _me_ if I come up there."
"I'll take you for a row on the lake," Tom said. That was saying a good
deal, for _him_.
On Thursday he sent an order for fifteen thousand wooden plates, which
will give you an idea of how they eat at Temple Camp. He attended to
getting the licenses for the two launches and sent a letter up to old
Uncle Jeb telling him to have a new springboard put up and notifying him
that the woods property now belonged to the camp. It was a long slow day
and a longer, slower night.
Once, and only once, since his return, he had tried the movies. The
picture showed soldiers in the trenches and the jerky scenes and figures
made his eyes ache and set his poor sick nerves on edge. Once he had
_almost_ asked Margaret if he might go over to East Bridgeboro and see
her. He was glad when Friday morning came, and the day passed quickly
and gayly, because of the troop meeting that night. He counted the hours
until eight o'clock.
When at last he set out for the troop room he found that he had
forgotten his scout badge and went back after it. He was particular
always to wear this at meetings, because he wished to emphasize there,
that he was still a scout. He was always forgetting something these
days. It was one of the features of shell-shock. It was like a wound,
only you could not _see_ it....