TWO LETTERS
The trail wound its way through a pleasant stretch of woodland where the
birds sang cheerily, and occasionally a squirrel paused and cocked its
head in pert amazement at this rude intrusion into its domain. It
crossed a little brook where Tom and Roy had fished many times, and
groped for pollywogs and crawfish when Tom was a tenderfoot at Temple
Camp. Those were happy days.
Where the trail came out into the state road there was a rough board
across two little pedestals of logs, which the scouts of camp had put
there, as a seat on which to wait for the ever welcome mail stage. The
board was thick with carved initials, the handiwork of scouts who had
come and gone, and among these Tom picked out R. B. and W. H. (which
stood for Walter Harris for Peewee did not acknowledge officially his
famous nickname). As Tom glanced at these crude reminders of his troop
and former comrades, he noted wistfully how Peewee's initials were
always cut unusually large and imposing, standing out boldly among
others, as if to inform the observer that a giant had been at work.
Everything about Peewee was tremendous--except his size.
Tom sat on this bench and waited. It reminded him of old times to be
there. But he was not unhappy. He had followed the long trail, the trail
which to his simple nature had seemed the right one, he had done the job
which he had set out to do, they were going to have their three familiar
cabins on the hill, and he was happy. He had renewed that strange, brief
acquaintanceship in France, and found in his war-time friend, a new
comrade. He felt better, his nerves were steady. The time had been well
spent and he was happy. Perhaps it was only a stubborn whim, this going
away now, but that was his nature and he could not change it.
When the mail wagon came along, its driver greeted him cheerily, for he
remembered him well.
"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.
"I came instead, to-day," Tom said.
"That chap is a sketch, ain't he?" the man commented. "He ain't gone
home, has he?"
"He's going to stay through August," Tom said; "his troop's coming
Saturday."
"Purty lively young feller," the man said.
"He's happy-go-lucky," said Tom.
The man handed him a dozen or so letters and cards and a batch of
papers, and drove on. Tom resumed his seat on the bench and looked them
over. There was no doubt that Roy and the troop were coming; apparently
they were coming in their usual manner, for there was a card from Roy to
Uncle Jeb which said,
Coming Saturday on afternoon train. Hope you can give us a tent away
from the crowd. Tell Chocolate Drop to have wheat cakes Sunday
morning. Peewee's appetite being sent ahead by express. Pay charges.
So long, see you later.
P.S. Have hot biscuits, too. ROY.
There were a couple of letters to Uncle Jeb from the camp office, and
the rest were to scouts in camp whom Tom did not know, for he had made
no acquaintances. There was one letter for Tom, bearing the postmark of
Dansburg, Ohio, which he opened with curiosity and read with increasing
consternation. It ran:
DEAR TOM SLADE:
I didn't get there after all, but now we're coming, the whole
outfit, bag and baggage. I suppose you think I'm among the missing,
not hearing from me all this time. But on Saturday I'll show you the
finest troop of scouts this side of Mars. So kill the fatted calf
for we're coming.
Slade, as sure as I'm writing you this letter, I started east,
sumpty-sump days ago and was going to drop in on you and have a
little visit, just we two, before this noisy bunch got a chance to
interfere. We'll just have to sneak away from them and get off in
the woods alone and talk about old times in France.
Maybe you won't believe it, but I got as far as Columbus and there
was a telegram from my boss, "Come in, come in, wherever you are."
Can you beat that? So back I went on the next train. You'll have to
take the will for the deed, old man.
Don't you care; now I'm coming with my expeditionary forces, and you
and I'll foil them yet. One of our office men was taken sick, that
was the trouble. And I've been so busy doing his work and my own,
and getting this crew of wild Indians ready to invade Temple Camp,
that I haven't had time to write a letter, that's a fact. Even at
this very minute, one young tenderfoot is shouting in my ear that
he's crazy to see that fellow I bunked into in France. He says he
thinks the troop you're mixed up with must think you're a great
hero.
So bye bye, till I see you,
W. BARNARD.
Twice, three times, Tom read this letter through, in utter dismay. What
did it mean? He squinted his eyes and scrutinized the signature, as if
to make sure that he read it aright. There was the name, W. Barnard. The
handwriting was Barnard's, too. And the envelope had been postmarked in
Dansburg, Ohio, two days prior to the day of its arrival.
How could this be? What did it mean?