The Boy Scouts
of
Woodcraft Camp
By
Thornton W. Burgess
Author of
The Boy Scouts on Swift River
The Boy Scouts on Lost Trail
The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp
[Illustration]
Illustrated by C. S. Corson
The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
1922
COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE CHIEF GREETED HIM PLEASANTLY]
_To my Wife_
_whose faith and encouragement
have placed me in her debt
beyond my power to pay_
Introduction
The Boy Scout movement has appealed to me from the very first as a
long step in the right direction. It stands for an organized boyhood
on a world-wide plan. It has in it the essentials for a stronger and
better manhood, based on character building and physical development.
Clear and clean thinking and self-reliance are its fundamental
principles. Its weakness has been and is the difficulty in securing
leaders, men with an understanding of and sympathy with boys, who can
give the necessary time to active work in the field with the patrols,
and who are themselves sufficiently versed in the lore of the woods
and fields.
For years, before ever the Boy Scouts were organized, I had dreamed of
a woodcraft camp for boys, a camp which in its appointments and
surroundings should make constant appeal to the imagination of
red-blooded, adventure-loving boys, and which should at the same time
be a true "school of the woods" wherein woodcraft and the ways of
nature should be taught along much the same lines as those on which
the Boy Scout movement is founded.
In this and succeeding volumes, "The Boy Scouts on Swift River," "The
Boy Scouts on Lost Trail," "The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp," I
have sought to portray the life of such a school camp under Boy Scout
rules. "The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp" has been written with a
twofold purpose: To stimulate on the part of every one of my boy
readers a desire to master for himself the mysteries of nature's great
out-of-doors, the secrets of field and wood and stream, and to show by
example what the Boy Scout's oath means in the development of
character. Many of the incidents in the succeeding pages are drawn
from my own experiences. And if, because of reading this story, one
more boy is led to the Shrine of the Hemlock, there to inhale the
pungent incense from a camp-fire and to master the art of tossing a
flapjack, I shall feel that I have not written in vain.
THE AUTHOR.
Contents
I. THE TENDERFOOT 11
II. WOODCRAFT CAMP 26
III. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 39
IV. THE INITIATION 56
V. THE RECALL 71
VI. THE SPECTER IN CAMP 86
VII. FIRST LESSONS 100
VIII. LONESOME POND 116
IX. A SHOT IN THE DUSK 136
X. A BATTLE FOR HONOR 161
XI. BUXBY'S BUNCOMBE 184
XII. LOST 199
XIII. THE HONEY SEEKERS 220
XIV. THE SUPREME TEST 237
XV. CRAFTY MIKE 254
XVI. THE POACHER OF LONESOME POND 273
XVII. THE HAUNTED CABIN 288
XVIII. ON GUARD 304
XIX. FOR THE HONOR OF THE TRIBE 319
XX. THE HOME TRAIL 337
Illustrations
THE CHIEF GREETED HIM PLEASANTLY _Frontispiece_
DIAGRAM OF WOODCRAFT CAMP 41
"TELL HIM YOU ARE TO BE A DELAWARE" 51
HE HAD BUILT A FIRE 118
BILLY'S APPARATUS FOR MAKING FIRE 207
"RUN!" HE YELLED 233
THE BOYS WERE DRILLED IN WIG-WAG SIGNALING 308
The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp
CHAPTER I
THE TENDERFOOT
In the semi-darkness of daybreak a boy of fourteen jumped from a
Pullman sleeper and slipped a quarter into the hand of the dusky
porter who handed down his luggage.
"You are sure this is Upper Chain?" he inquired.
"'Spects it is, boss, but I ain't no ways sho'. Ain't never been up
this way afore," replied the porter, yawning sleepily.
The boy vainly strove to pierce the night mist which shrouded
everything in ghostly gray, hoping to see the conductor or a brakeman,
but he could see barely half the length of the next Pullman. A warning
rumble at the head of the long train admonished him that he must act
at once; he must make up his mind to stay or he must climb aboard
again, and that quickly.
The long night ride had been a momentous event to him. He had slept
little, partly from the novelty of his first experience in a sleeping
car, and partly from the excitement of actually being on his way into
the big north woods, the Mecca of all his desires and daydreams.
Consequently he had kept a fairly close record of the train's running
time, dozing off between stations but waking instantly whenever the
train came to a stop. According to his reckoning he should now be at
Upper Chain. He had given the porter strict orders to call him twenty
minutes before reaching his destination, but to his supreme disgust he
had had to perform that service for the darkey. That worthy had then
been sent forward to find the conductor and make sure of their
whereabouts. Unsuccessful, he had returned just in time to hand down
the lad's duffle.
Now, as the preliminary jerk ran down the heavy train, the boy once
more looked at his watch, and made up his mind. If the train was on
time, and he felt sure that it was, this was Upper Chain, the
junction where he was to change for the final stage of his journey. He
would stay.
The dark, heavy sleepers slowly crept past as the train gathered way,
till suddenly he found himself staring for a moment at the red and
green tail lights. Then they grew dim and blinked out in the
enveloping fog. He shivered a bit, for the first time realizing how
cold it was at this altitude before daybreak. And, to be quite honest,
there was just a little feeling of loneliness as he made out the dim
black wall of evergreens on one side and the long string of empty
freight cars shutting him in on the other. The whistle of the laboring
locomotive shrieked out of the darkness ahead, reverberating with an
eery hollowness from mountain to mountain. Involuntarily he shivered
again. Then, with a boyish laugh at his momentary loss of nerve, he
shouldered his duffle bag and picked up his fishing-rod.
"Must be a depot here somewhere, and it's up to me to find it," he
said aloud. "Wonder what I tipped that stupid porter for, anyway! Dad
would say I'm easy. Guess I am, all right. Br-r-r-r, who says this is
July?"
Trudging along the ties he soon came to the end of the string of
empties and, a little way to his right, made out the dim outlines of a
building. This proved to be the depot. A moment later he was in the
bare, stuffy little waiting-room, in the middle of which a big stove
was radiating a welcome warmth.
On a bench at one side sat two roughly-dressed men, who glanced up as
the boy entered. One was in the prime of vigorous manhood. Broad of
shoulder, large of frame, he was spare with the leanness of the
professional woodsman, who lives up to the rule that takes nothing
useless on the trail and, therefore, cannot afford to carry
superfluous flesh. The gray flannel shirt, falling open at the neck,
exposed a throat which, like his face, was roughened and bronzed by
the weather.
The boy caught the quick glance of the keen blue eyes which, for all
their kindly twinkle, bored straight through him. Instinctively he
felt that here was one of the very men his imagination had so often
pictured, a man skilled in woodcraft, accustomed to meeting danger,
clear-headed, resourceful--in fact just such a man as was Deerslayer,
whose rifle had so often roused the echoes in these very woods.
The man beside him was short, thick-set, black-haired and mare-browed.
His skin was swarthy, with just a tinge of color to hint at Indian
ancestry among his French forebears. He wore the large check mackinaw
of the French Canadian lumberman. Against the bench beside him rested
a double-bladed axe. A pair of beady black eyes burned their way into
the boy's consciousness. They were not good eyes; they seemed to carry
a hint of hate and evil, an unspoken threat. The man, taking in the
new khaki suit of the boy and the unsoiled case of the fishing-rod,
grunted contemptuously and spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the
box of sawdust beside the stove. The boy flushed and turned to meet
the kindly, luminous eyes of the other man.
"If you please, is this Upper Chain?" he inquired.
"Sure, son," was the prompt response. "Reckon we must hev come in on
th' same train, only I was up forward. Guess you're bound for
Woodcraft Camp. So'm I, so let's shake. My name's Jim Everly--'Big
Jim' they call me--and I'm goin' in t' guide fer Dr. Merriam th' rest
o' th' summer and try to teach you youngsters a few o' th' first
principles. What might yer name be an' whar be yer from?"
"Walter Upton, but the boys mostly call me 'Walt.' My home is in New
York," replied the boy.
"Never hit th' trail t' th' big woods afore, did yer?" inquired the
big guide, rising to stretch.
"No," said Walter, and then added eagerly: "But I've read lots and
lots of books about them, and I guess I could most find my way along a
trail even if I am a city tenderfoot. I've paddled a canoe some, and I
know all about the habits of wild animals and how to build a fire
and----"
"Son," interrupted Big Jim, "stop right thar! Forget it--all this rot
you've been a-readin'. Woodcraft never yet was larned out o' books,
and it never will be. I reckon you an' me are goin' t' hitch up
together fine, an' when yer go back t' yer daddy this fall yer'll be
able t' take him out in th' tall timbers an' show him a few stunts
what ain't down in th' program o' city schools, but what every
cottontail born in the north woods larns the second day he gets his
eyes open. Now yer jes' fergit all this stuff yer've been a-readin'
and stick t' me; we'll git along fine. I'll make a woodsman o' yer yer
dad will be proud o'. Let's have a look outside t' see how the weather
is."
As he followed the big fellow out onto the platform Walter felt his
cheeks burn at this wholesale condemnation of his treasured books, one
of which, "A Complete Guide to Woodcraft," was at that moment within
easy reach in the top of his duffle bag. Despite his natural
admiration for this big guide, to whom the mountains, lakes and woods
were as an open book, and his unbounded delight in having made a good
impression, Walter was not yet willing to overthrow his former idols
for this new one, and he was independent enough to stand by his
opinions until convinced that he was wrong.
"Have you ever read any of them, Mr. Everly?" he inquired courteously.
"Me? Read them books?" Big Jim's laugh rolled out infectiously. "What
would I read 'em for, sonny? I've seen some o' them book-writers in
th' woods, and thet's enough fer me. Lordy!" and again Jim's hearty
laugh rolled forth.
Walter laughed a little too, but deep in his heart he resolved that he
would yet show Big Jim that there was some good in the despised books.
To change the subject he inquired about the low-browed owner of the
axe back by the fire.
"Him? Why, thet's Red Pete, a French canuck with some Indian in him,
an' th' meanest man in th' mountains," replied Big Jim.
The mist had begun to burn off. Even as they watched they saw it roll
in great tattered masses up the side of the opposite mountain. With
the coming of the sun Walter was able to take note of his
surroundings, and his eager eyes drank in the scene so strange to him
but so familiar to his companion. It was one of those few moments
which come to all of us, when we experience sensations which so
impress themselves upon the memory that never are they forgotten.
Walter felt a thrill that made him tingle from head to foot and, from
sheer delight, clinch his hands till the nails nearly bit into the
flesh. Since he was big enough to read "Deerslayer" and "The
Pathfinder" and Captain Mayne Reid's fascinating tales of adventure in
forest and on the plains he had lived in an imaginary world of his
own--a wonderful world, where he penetrated vast wildernesses, voyaged
on great rivers and climbed snow-capped mountains. Now he was really
in the great woods; his dreams were coming true in a measure.
Indeed, it was a scene to stir any red-blooded boy. A gentle breeze,
moving across an unsuspected lake, rolled before it great billowing
masses of vapor. The sun, just rising above the eastern hills, drew
the mist swiftly up the mountainsides in broken, detached masses that
eddied, separated, came together and in an incredibly short time
dissipated in thin, clear air, till naught remained save in the
deepest hollows not yet penetrated by the sun's rays. Walter drew a
long breath.
"Oh!" he gasped, and again, "Oh!"
Big Jim looked at him curiously, while a sincere liking twinkled in
his blue eyes.
"Never see a sunrise in th' mountains afore, did yer, sonny?" he
asked. "Jes' yer wait till yer see a sunup from th' top of old Baldy,
and watch forty lakes throw off their night clothes all at once."
Sordid enough was the scene now revealed close at hand in the clear
morning light, the ulcer of so-called civilization, to be seen
wherever man has pushed the outposts of commercialism into the great
forests. A dozen log houses and a few ugly frame buildings, the latter
unpainted for the most part, but with one a glaring red and another a
washed-out blue, dotted an irregular clearing on either side of the
railroad. Close by, the tail of a log jam choked a narrow river, while
the tall iron stack of a sawmill towered above the rough board roof
that afforded some protection to the engine and saws. Off to the right
glistened the end of a lake of which the river was the outlet, its
margin a mass of stark, drowned timber. The peculiar odor of wet
sawdust filled the air. A sawdust road threaded its way among the
scattered buildings, and all about were unsightly piles of slabs,
heaps of bark and mill waste.
But to Walter it was all fascinating. The sky-scrapers of his native
city seemed not half so wonderful as these moss and clay chinked
cabins. He pinched himself to make quite sure he was awake, that it
was all real. An engine and single dingy coach were backing down a
siding.
"Thar's our train, son," said his companion. "Better stow yer duffle
aboard. It won't pull out for half an hour, and then it'll be a
twenty-minute run over t' Upper Lake. I want to see Tim Mulligan over
yonder t' th' store, but I'll join yer on th' train."
Taking the hint, Walter put his duffle aboard the train beside the
pack basket of his friend, and then, to kill time, started out to form
a closer acquaintance with the town. From most of the houses thin
columns of smoke and the odor of frying bacon or pork proclaimed that
breakfast was being prepared. Occasionally he had glimpses of
weary-faced women in faded calico gowns. One, standing in the doorway
of her cabin, was barefooted. A frowzy-headed, dirty-faced little
urchin stared at him from the shelter of her skirts. The men he met
were for the most part rough, good-natured fellows, dressed in the
flannel shirt of the woods, their trousers thrust into high, laced,
hobnailed boots. Several nodded kindly or exchanged a "howdy" with the
bright-faced boy.
On his way back, as he neared a cabin somewhat apart from the others,
he heard voices in angry dispute. Turning a corner of the cabin he was
just in time to see a boy of about his own age, but a good head
taller, strike a vicious blow at a whimpering hunchback. In a flash
Walter confronted the astonished young ruffian, eyes flashing and
fists doubled.
"You coward!" he shouted. "You miserable coward, to strike a boy
smaller than yourself, and a cripple!"
For an instant the other stared. Then his face darkened with an ugly
scowl, and he advanced threateningly.
"Get out av here! This ain't any av your business, ye city dude!" he
growled.
"I'll make it my business when you hit a little fellow like that,"
replied Walter, edging between the bully and his victim.
"Want ter foight?" demanded the other.
"No, I don't," said Walter, "but I want you to leave that little chap
alone."
"Huh, yez do, do yez?" responded the other, and rushing in he aimed
an ugly blow at Walter's face. The fight was on.
And just here the young ruffian was treated to the greatest surprise
of his bullying career. Instead of crushing his slight antagonist as
he had contemptuously expected to, he lunged into empty space. The
next instant he received a stinging blow fairly on the nose. For a
moment he gasped from sheer surprise, then, with a howl of pain and
rage, he rushed again.
To all appearances it was a most unequal match. The young backwoodsman
was not only taller, but was heavy in proportion; his muscles were
hardened by work and rough outdoor life in a sawmill village, and hard
knocks had toughened him as well. In contrast, the city boy seemed
slight and hopelessly at a disadvantage. But underneath that neat
khaki jacket was a well-knit, wiry frame, and muscles developed in the
home gymnasium. Moreover, Walter's father believed in teaching a boy
to take care of himself, and it was not for nothing that Walter had
taken lessons in boxing and wrestling.
As before, he avoided the rush by lightly side-stepping, driving in a
vigorous left to the ear and following this with a right which raised
a lump just under his opponent's left eye. The latter backed away.
Then he came in again, but more cautiously. He was beginning to
respect this elusive antagonist who hit so hard, yet managed to get
away untouched. It was all so new in his experience that he was
utterly at a loss to know what to expect.
Round and round they circled, each watching for an opening. Suddenly
Walter took the offensive. As he started to rush he slipped in the wet
sawdust. His opponent saw his advantage and swung hard, but Walter
caught the blow on his right forearm, and the next instant they were
locked in a clinch. This was what the bully wanted. Now he would throw
his antagonist and, once he had him down, that would end the battle,
for his ethics knew no quarter for a fallen foe.
But again he reckoned without his host. Scientific wrestling was an
unheard-of art to the young giant, while in the home gymnasium Walter
had twice won the championship for his weight. For a few minutes they
swayed this way and that, then Walter secured the lock he was trying
for, there was an instant of straining muscles, then the bully was
pinned flat on his back.
A big hand fell on Walter's shoulder. "Son," said Big Jim, "I hate t'
break into yer morning exercise, but you an' me hev an engagement at
Upper Lake, and we've got jes' two minutes t' ketch thet train."
Walter jumped up at once, and then held out his hand to the
discomfited bully. "Will you shake?" he asked.
To the surprise of the delighted onlookers the fallen terror of the
village arose and in a manly way, though sheepishly, shook the
outstretched hand, for at heart he had the right stuff in him.
"Ye licked me fair an' square," he mumbled. "Oi wish ye'd show me some
av thim thricks."
"I will if I ever have a chance. You ought to be a Boy Scout," shouted
Walter as he and Big Jim sprinted for the train.