A LETTER FROM BARNARD
When Tom reached Temple Camp he found a letter awaiting him there. It
was stuck up among the antlers of Uncle Jeb's moose head which hung in
the old camp manager's cabin. He found Uncle Jeb alone in his glory, and
mighty glad to see him.
It was characteristic of the old western scout and trapper whom Mr.
Temple had brought from Arizona, that he was never surprised at
anything. If a grizzly bear had wandered into camp it would not have
ruffled him in the least. He would have surveyed it with calm, shrewd
deliberation, taken his corncob pipe out of his mouth, knocked the ashes
out of it, and proceeded to business. If the grizzly bear had been one
of the large fraternity who believe in "safety first" he would have
withdrawn immediately upon the ominous sound of old Uncle Jeb's pipe
knocking against the nearest hard substance. Uncle Jeb, like Uncle Sam,
moved slowly but very surely.
It was not altogether uncommon for some nature loving pilgrim to drop in
at camp out of season, and such a one was always sure of that easy-going
western welcome. But if all the kings and emperors in the world (or such
few of them as are left) had dropped in at camp, Uncle Jeb Rushmore
would have eyed them keenly, puffed some awful smoke at them, and said,
"Haow doo." He liked people, but he did not depend on them. The lake and
the trees and the wild life talked to him, and as for human beings, he
was always glad of their company.
It was also characteristic of Uncle Jeb that no adventurous enterprise,
no foolhardy, daredevil scheme, ever caused him any astonishment. Mr.
Burton, engrossed in a hundred and one matters of detail and routine had
simply laughed at Tom's plan, and let him go to Temple Camp to discover
its absurdity, and then benefit by the quiet life and fresh air. It
would have been better if Tom had been sent up there long before. He had
humored him by promising not to tell, and he was glad that this crazy
notion about the cabins had given Tom the incentive to go. He had
believed that Tom's unfortunate error could be made right by the
romantic expedient of a postage stamp. Mr. Burton was not a scout. And
Tom Slade was the queerest of all scouts.
So now Uncle Jeb removed his pipe from his mouth, and said, "Reckoned
you'd make a trip up, hey?"
"I'm going to stay here alone with you until the season opens," Tom
said; "I got shell-shocked. I ain't any good down there. I assigned our
three cabins to a troop in Ohio. So I got to build three more and have
'em ready by August first. I'm going to build them on the hill."
"Yer ain't cal'latin' on trimming yer timbers much are yer?" Uncle Jeb
asked, going straight to the practical aspects of Tom's plan.
"I'm going to put them up just like the temporary cabins were when the
camp first opened," Tom said.
"Ye'll find some of them same logs under the pavilion," Uncle Jeb said;
"enough for two cabins, mebbe. Why doan't you put up four and let that
Peewee kid hev one all by hisself?"
"Do you think I can do it in six weeks?" Tom asked.
"I've seed a Injun stockade throwed up in three days," Uncle Jeb
answered. "Me'n General Custer throwed up Fort Bendy in two nights; that
wuz in Montanny. Th' Injuns thought we wuz gods from heaven. But we
wuzn't no gods, as I told the general; leastways _I_ was'n, n'never wuz.
But I had a sharp axe.
"I knew I could do it," Tom said, "but I wanted it to be a stunt, as you
might say."
"'Tain't no stunt," Uncle Jeb said. "Who's writin' yer from out in Ohio?
I see the postmark. 'Tain't them kids from out Dayton way, I hope?"
Tom opened the letter and read aloud:
DEAR TOM:
When I save a fellow's life I claim the right to call him by his
first name, even if I've never seen him. If anybody ever tells me
again that the world is a big place, I'll tell them it's about the
size of a shell-hole, no bigger, and that's small enough, as you and
I know. All I can say is, "Well, well!" And you're the same Thomas
Slade!
And the funny part of it is, we wouldn't know each other if we met
in the street. That's because we met in a shell-hole. I tried to
hunt you up along the line, made inquiries in the hospital at
Rheims, and tried to get a line on you from the Red Cross and
Y.M.C.A. Nothing doing. Somebody told me you were in the Flying
Corps. I guess I must have fainted while they were taking you away.
Anyway, when I woke up I was in a dressing station, trying to get my
breath. I asked what became of you and nobody seemed to know. One
said you were in the Messenger Service. When I left France I didn't
even know you were alive.
And now you turn up in Temple Camp office and tell me to write you
at Temple Camp. What are you doing up there before the season opens,
anyway? I bet you're there for your health.
Do you know what I'm thinking of doing? I'm thinking of making a
trip to camp and looking over our dug-outs and seeing what kind of a
place you have, before I bring my scouts. How would that strike you?
I've got three patrols and take it from me, they're a bigger job
than winning the war. They're all crazy for August first to arrive.
Well, Tommy old boy, I'm glad I've met you at last. I have a hunch
you're kind of tall, with gray eyes and curly hair. Am I right? I'm
about medium height and very handsome. Hair red--to suggest the
camp-fire.
I don't know whether my scouts will let me off for a week or two,
but my boss wants me to take a good rest before I knuckle down to
work. I'm off for August anyway. Don't expect me before that, but if
I should show up on a surprise raid, don't drop dead. I may go over
the top some fine day and drop in on you like a hand grenade. Are
you there all alone?
Write me again and let's get acquainted. I'd send you a photo, only
I gave my girl the last one I had.
So long,
BILLY BARNARD,
Scoutmaster.