AN ACCIDENT
The time had now come when each day brought new arrivals to the camp,
and August the first loomed large in the near future. It was less than a
week off. The three new cabins stood all but completed, and thanks to
the strenuous and unfailing help of his friend from the West, Tom knew
that his scout dream of atonement was fulfilled.
"When they get here," he said to Uncle Jeb, "just tell them that they
are to bunk in the cabins up on the hill. Barnard will be here to meet
his own troop, and he'll take them up to the new cabins. Roy and the
fellows will like Barnard, that's sure. It'll be like a kind of a little
separate camp up on the hill; two troops--six patrols."
"En yer ain't a goin' ter change yer mind en stay, Tommy?"
"Nope," said Tom; "I don't want to see them. I'm going down Thursday.
They'll all be here Saturday, I suppose."
In those last days of the work, little groups of scouts would stroll up
from the main body of the camp to watch the progress of the labor, but
the novelty of this form of entertainment soon passed, for the big camp
had too many other attractions. In those days of hard work, Tom's liking
for his friend had ripened into a feeling of admiring affection, which
his stolid but generous nature was not slow to reveal, and he made the
sprightly visitor his confidant.
One night--it might have been along about the middle of the week--they
sprawled wearily near their camp-fire, chatting about the work and about
Tom's future plans.
"One thing, I never could have finished it without you," Tom said, "and
I'm glad you're going to stay, because you can be a kind of scoutmaster
to both troops. I bet you'll be glad to see your own fellows. I bet
you'll like Roy, too, and the other fellows I told you about. Peewee
Harris--you'll laugh at him. He has everybody laughing. Their own
scoutmaster, Mr. Ellsworth, is away, so it'll be good, as you might say,
for them to have you. One thing I like about you, and that is you're not
always talking about the law, and giving lectures and things like that.
You're just like another fellow; you're different from a lot of
scoutmasters. You're not always talking about the handbook and good
turns and things."
His companion seemed a bit uncomfortable but he only laughed and said,
"Actions speak louder than words, don't they, Tommy? We've _lived_ it,
and that's better, huh?"
"That's mostly the only thing that makes me wish I was going to stay,"
Tom said; "so's I'd know you better. I bet you'll keep those fellows on
the jump; I bet you won't be all the time preaching to them. Mostly, the
way my troop comes is across the lake. They hike up from Catskill
through the woods. If your troop comes on the afternoon train, maybe
both troops will come up through the woods together, hey? I'd like to
see some of those scouts of yours. I bet they're crazy about you. You
never told me much about them."
"We've been building cabins, Tommy, old boy."
"Yes, but now the work is nearly finished, all we have to do is clear
up, and I'd like to hear something about your troop. Have they got many
merit badges?"
"'Bout 'steen. Look here, Tommy boy; I think the best thing for you to do
is to forget your grouch at Ray, or Roy, or whatever you call him, and
just make up your mind to stay right here. This job you've done----"
"You mean _we_," Tom interrupted.
"Well, _we_, then--it's going to wipe out all hard feeling and
everything is going to be all hunk. You'll make a better scoutmaster to
the whole bunch than I will. I'm better at work than I am at discipline,
Tom. I can't pull that moral suasion bunk at all. I'm pretty nifty at
swinging an axe, but I'm weak on the good turn and duty stuff."
"You did _me_ a good turn, all right," Tom said, with simple gratitude
in his tone.
"But I mean the big brother stuff," his companion said; "I'm not so much
of a dabster at that. You're the one for that--you're a scoutologist."
"A what?" Tom said.
"A scout specialist. One who has studied scoutology. You're the one to
manage, what's-his-name, Peewee? And that other kid--Ray----"
"Roy," Tom corrected him.
"I was in hopes you'd weaken and decide to stay and we'd--they'd--elect
you generalissimo of the allied troops, like old Foch."
Tom only shook his head. "I don't want to be here," he said; "I don't
want to be here when they come. After they see the cabins you can tell
them how I didn't know who you were until long after I--I made the
mistake. They'll admit that this was the only thing for me to do;
they'll admit it when they know about it. The only thing is, that I
thought about it before they did, that's all. You got to admit it's the
scout way, 'cause a scout wouldn't try to sneak out of anything the easy
way."
"I don't know if it's the scout way," his companion said, "but it's the
Tom Slade way."
"I got to be thankful I was a scout," Tom observed.
"I think the scouts have to be thankful," his friend said, with a note
of admiration ringing in his voice.
"They thought I forgot how to be a scout," Tom said. "Now they'll see."
Barnard raised himself to a sitting posture, clasped his hands over his
knees, in that attitude which had come to be characteristic of him about
their lonely camp-fire, and glanced about at the results of Tom's long,
strenuous, lonesome labors. And he thought how monotonous it must have
been there for Tom through those long days and nights that he had spent
alone on that isolated hilltop. As he glanced about him, the completed
work loomed large and seemed like a monument to the indomitable will and
prowess of this young fellow who seemed to him so simple and
credulous--almost childlike in some ways. He wondered how Tom could ever
have raised those upper logs into their places. It seemed to him that
the trifling instance of thoughtlessness which was the cause of all this
striving, was nothing at all, and in no way justified those weeks of
wearisome labor. A queer fellow, he thought, was this Tom Slade. There
was the work, all but finished, three new cabins standing alongside the
other three, and all the disorder of choppings and bits of wood lying
about.
He glanced at Tom Slade where he sat near him by the fire, and noticed
the torn shirt, the hand wrapped in a bandage, the bruised spot on that
plain, dogged face, where a chunk of wood had flown up and all but
blinded him. He noticed that big mouth. The whimsical thought occurred
to him that this young fellow's face was, itself, something like a knot
of wood; strong and stubborn, and very plain and homely. And yet he was
so easily imposed upon--not exactly that, perhaps, but he was simple
withal, and trusting and credulous....
"If I get back before Saturday I can see that fellow," Tom said, "and
buy his boat. He comes home early Saturday afternoons. He said I could
have it for a hundred dollars if I wanted it. I got twenty-five dollars
more than I need."
"You're rich. And the girl; don't forget _her_. She's worth more than a
hundred and twenty-five."
"I'm going to give her a ride in it Sunday, maybe," Tom said.
For a few minutes neither spoke, and there was no sound but the
crackling of the blaze and the distant voices of scouts down on the
lake. "You can hear them plain up here," Tom said; "are your scouts fond
of boating?"
Still his companion did not speak.
"Well, then," he finally said; "if you're going Thursday that means you
go to-morrow. I was going to try to talk you into changing your mind,
but just now, when I was piking around, and taking a squint at the work
and at your face, I saw it wouldn't be any use. I guess people don't
influence you much, hey?"
"Roy Blakeley influenced me a lot."
"Well then," said Barnard, "let's put the finishing touch on this job
while both of us are here to do it. What do you say? Shall we haul up
the flagpole?"
The shortest way down the hill in the direction of the new property was
across a little gully over which they had laid a log. This was a
convenient way of going when there was no burden to be borne. The
hauling and carrying were done at a point some hundred feet from this
hollow. In the woods beyond, they had cut and hewn a flagstaff and since
two could easily carry it, Barnard's idea was that this should be done
then, so that he might have Tom's assistance.
With Barnard, to think was to act, he was all impulse, and in two
seconds he was on his feet and headed for their makeshift bridge across
the gully. Tom followed him and was startled to see his friend go
tumbling down into the hollow fully three feet from where the log lay.
Before Tom reached the edge a scream, as of excruciating pain, arose,
and he lost not a second in scrambling down into the chasm, where his
companion lay upon the rocks, holding his forehead and groaning.