ON THE LONG TRAIL
That night he bunked in Uncle Jeb's cabin, and slept as he had not slept
in many a night. In the morning his stolid, stoical nature reasserted
itself, and he set about his task with dogged determination. Uncle Jeb
watched him keenly and a little puzzled, and helped him some, but Tom
seemed to prefer to work alone. The old man knew nothing of that
frightful malady of the great war; his own calm, keen eyes bespoke a
disciplined and iron nerve. But his kindly instinct told him to make no
further reference to the war, and so Tom found in him a helpful and
sympathetic companion. Here at last, so it seemed, was the medicine that
poor Tom needed, and he looked forward to their meals, and the quiet
chats beside their lonely camp-fire, with ever-growing pleasure and
solace.
He hauled out from under the porch of the main pavilion the logs which
had been saved from the fire that had all but devastated the camp during
its first season, and saved himself much labor thereby. These he wheeled
up the hill one by one in a wheelbarrow. There were enough of these logs
to make one cabin, all but the roof, and part of another one.
When Tom had got out the scout pioneer badge which Roy had noticed on
him, it had been by way of defying time and hardship and proclaiming his
faith in himself and his indomitable power of accomplishment. As the
work progressed it became a sort of mania with him; he was engrossed in
it, he lived in it and for it. He would right his wrong to the troop by
scout methods if he tore down the whole forest and killed himself. That
was Tom Slade.
Up on the new woods property, which included the side of the hill away
from the camp, he felled such trees as he needed, hauling them up to the
summit by means of a block and falls, where he trimmed them and notched
them, and rolled or pried them up into place. At times whole days would
be spent on that further slope of the hillside and Uncle Jeb, busy with
preparations for the first arrivals, could not see him at all, only hear
the sound of his axe, and sometimes the pulleys creaking. He did not go
down into camp for lunch as a rule, and spent but a few minutes eating
the snack which he had brought with him.
At last there came a day when five cabins stood upon that isolated
hilltop which overlooked the main body of the camp, and Tom Slade,
leaning upon his axe like Daniel Boone, could look down over the more
closely built area, with its more or less straight rows of cabins and
shacks, and its modern pavilion. Five cabins where there had been only
three. They made a pleasant, secluded little community up there, far
removed from the hustle and bustle of camp life. "No wonder they like it
up here," he mused; "the camp is getting to be sort of like a village.
They'll have a lot of fun up here, those two troops, and it's a kind of
a good turn how I bring them together. Nobody loses anything, this way."
True--nobody but Tom Slade. His hands were covered with blisters so that
he must wind his handkerchief around one of them to ease the chafing of
the axe handle. His hair was streaky and dishevelled and needed cutting,
so that he looked not unlike one of those hardy pioneers of old. And
now, with some of the rough material for the last cabin strewn about him
and with but two weeks in which to finish the work, he was confronted
with a new handicap. The old pain caused by the wound in his arm
returned, and the crippled muscles rebelled against this excessive
usage. Well, that was just a little obstacle in the long trail; he would
put the burden on the other arm. "I'm glad I got two," he said.
He tried to calculate the remainder of the work in relation to the time
he had to do it. For of one thing he was resolved, and that was to be
finished and gone before those two troops arrived, the troop from the
west and his own troop from Bridgeboro. They were to find these six
cabins waiting for them. Everything would be all right....
He mopped his brow off, and rewound the handkerchief about his sore
hand. The fingers smarted and tingled and he wriggled them to obtain a
little relief from their cramped condition. He buttoned up his flannel
shirt which he always left wide open when he worked, and laid his axe
away in one of the old familiar cabins. It chanced to be one in which he
and Roy had cut their initials, and he paused a moment and glanced
wistfully at their boyish handiwork. Then he went down.
As he passed through Temple Lane he saw that Uncle Jeb had been busy
taking down the board shutters from the main pavilion--ominous reminder
of the fast approaching season. Soon scouts would be tumbling all over
each other hereabouts. The springboard had been put in place at the
lake's edge, too, and a couple of freshly painted rowboats were bobbing
at the float, looking spick and glossy in the dying sunlight. Temple
Camp was beginning to look natural and familiar.
"I reckon it'll be a lively season," Uncle Jeb said, glancing about
after his own strenuous day's work. "Last summer most of the scouts was
busy with war gardens and war work and 'twas a kind of off season as you
might say. I cal'late they'll come in herds like buffaloes this summer."
"Every cabin is booked until Columbus Day," Tom said; "and all the tent
space is assigned."
"Yer reckon to finish by August first?" Uncle Jeb asked.
"I'd like to finish before anybody comes," Tom said; "but I guess I
can't do that. I'll get away before August first, that's sure. You have
to be sure to see that 5, 6 and 7 go to my troop, and the new ones to
the troop from Ohio. You can tell them it's a kind of a surprise if you
want to. You don't need to tell 'em who did it. It's nice up there on
that hill. It's a kind of a camp all by itself. Do you remember that
woodchuck skin you gave Roy? It's hanging up there in the Silver Fox's
cabin now."
"What's the matter with your hand?" Uncle Jeb inquired.
"It's just blistered and it tingles," Tom said. "It's from holding the
axe."