FIVE, SIX, AND SEVEN
Then Tom Slade stood up. Any one observing him carefully would have
noticed that his hand which clung to the back of the bench moved
nervously, but otherwise he seemed stolid and dull as usual. For just a
second he breathed almost audibly and bit his lip, then he spoke. They
listened, a kind of balm of soothing silence pervaded the room, because
he spoke so seldom these days. They seemed ready enough to pay him the
tribute of their attention when he really seemed to take an interest.
"I got to tell you something," he said, "and maybe you won't like it.
Those three cabins are already taken by a troop in Ohio."
"Which three?" Westy Martin asked, apparently dumbfounded.
"Oh boy, suppose that was true!" Roy said, amused at the very thought of
such a possibility.
"Which three?" Westy repeated, still apparently in some suspense.
"Tomasso has Westy's goat," Roy laughed.
"Look at the straight face he's keeping," Doc laughed, referring to Tom.
"I might as well tell you the truth," Tom said. "I forget things
sometimes; maybe you don't understand. Maybe it was because I wasn't
here last year--maybe. But I didn't stop to think about those numbers
being your--our--numbers. Now I can remember. I assigned those cabins to
a troop in Ohio. They wanted three that were kind of separate from the
others and--and--I--I didn't remember."
He seemed a pathetic spectacle as he stood there facing them, jerking
his head nervously in the interval of silence and staring amazement that
followed. There was no joking about it and they knew it. It was not in
Tom's nature to "jolly."
"What do you mean, assigned them?" Connie asked, utterly nonplussed.
"You don't mean you gave our three cabins on the hill to another troop?"
"Yes, I did," Tom said weakly; "I remember now. I'm sorry."
For a moment no one spoke, then Dorry Benton said, "Do you mean that?"
"I got to admit I did," Tom said in his simple, blunt way.
"Well I'll be----" Roy began. Then suddenly, "You sober old grave
digger," said he laughing; "you're kidding the life out of us and we
don't know it. Let's see you laugh."
But Tom did not laugh. "I'm sorry, because they were the last three
cabins," he said. "I don't know how I happened to do it. But you've got
no right to misjudge me, you haven't; only yesterday I told Mr. Burton I
liked the troop, you fellows, best----"
Roy Blakeley did not wait for him to finish; he threw the troop book on
the table and stared at Tom in angry amazement. "All right," he said,
"let it go at that. Now we know where you stand. Thanks, we're glad to
know it," he added in a kind of contemptuous disgust. "Ever since you
got back from France I knew you were sick and tired of us--I could see
it. I knew you only came around to please Mr. Ellsworth. I knew you
forgot all about the troop. But I didn't think you'd put one like that
over on us, I'll be hanged if I did! You mean to tell me you didn't know
those three cabins were ours, after we've had them every summer since
the camp started? Mr. Burton will fix it----"
"He can't fix it," Tom said; "not now."
"And I suppose we'll have to take tent space," Connie put in. "Gee
williger, that's one raw deal."
"But _you_ won't have to take tent space, will you?" Roy asked. "You
should worry about _us_--we're nothing but scouts--kids. We didn't go
over to France and fight. We only stayed here and walked our legs off
selling Liberty Bonds to keep you going. Gee whiz, I knew you were sick
and tired of us, but I didn't think you'd hand us one like that."
"Don't get excited, Roy," Doc Carson urged.
"Who's excited?" Roy shouted. "A lot _he_ has to worry about. He'll be
sleeping on his nice metal bed in the pavilion--assistant camp
manager--while we're bunking in tents if we're lucky enough to get any
space. Don't talk to _me_! I could see this coming. I suppose the
scoutmaster of that troop out in Ohio was a friend of his in France. We
should worry. We can go on a hike in August. It's little Alf I'm
thinking of mostly."
It was noticeable that Tom Slade said not a word. With him actions
always spoke louder than words and he had no words to explain his
actions.
"All I've got to say to _you_" said Roy turning suddenly upon him, "is
that as long as you care so much more about scouts out west than you do
about your own troop, you'd better stay away from here--that's all I've
got to say."
"That's what I say, too," said Westy.
"Same here," Connie said; "Jiminies, after all we did for you, to put
one over on us like that; I don't see what you want to come here for
anyway."
"I--I haven't got any other place to go," said Tom with touching
honesty; "it's kind of like a home----"
"Well, there's one other place and that's the street," said Roy. "We
haven't got any place to go either, thanks to you. You're a nice one to
be shouting home sweet home--you are."
With a trembling hand, Tom Slade reached for his hat and fingering it
nervously, paused for just a moment, irresolute.
"I wouldn't stay if I'm not wanted," he said; "I'll say good night."
No one answered him, and he went forth into the night.
He had been put out of the tenement where he had once lived with his
poor mother, he had been put out of school as a young boy, and he had
been put out of the Public Library once; so he was not unaccustomed to
being put out. Down near the station he climbed the steps of Wop Harry's
lunch wagon and had a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then he went
home--if one might call it home....