A BATTLE FOR HONOR
Reaching Woodcraft late the next afternoon Walter at once hurried to
the dark room adjoining Dr. Merriam's office to develop his plates. To
his dismay he found that needed chemicals for fresh developer were
lacking, and he was unwilling to risk his plates in the old and
necessarily weak developer on hand. There was nothing for it but to
possess himself in such patience as he could until a fresh supply
could be obtained from the city. Dr. Merriam promised to send at once.
Leaving Big Jim to report to the doctor the results of their trip
Walter sought the wigwam.
He found Tug rewinding his split bamboo and Billy Buxby assisting with
a ceaseless stream of unheeded advice.
"Behold the mighty hunter!" exclaimed Billy with an exaggerated bow of
mock deference as Walter entered.
"What luck?" asked Tug, as he tied the final knot and reached for the
shellac.
Walter rapidly sketched a brief account of his two days at Lonesome
Pond, but in his enthusiasm over the deer hunt forgot to mention his
double catch of trout. "Anything new here?" he asked finally.
Tug shook his head. "Nothin' much. Harrison came in with a three-pound
brook trout this morning, and unless some one gets in to-night with
something better that will give the Senecas the score for this week.
Say, the gloom in this little old shanty is something fierce. If it
was any one but Harrison there'd be no kick comin'. He's gettin' such
a swelled head he can't see anybody outside his own tribe. I'd like to
punch it for him," growled Tug savagely.
"Say," he added as he looked up, "what's the matter with you, you
grinning Cheshire cat?"
"Nothing much," replied Walter, "only day before yesterday I landed a
double, for a total of five pounds; brook trout, too."
Tug and Billy fell on him as one. "Say it again! Say it again!" begged
Tug as they pinned Walter to the floor and sat on him.
"I got two trout at one cast, and they weighed five pounds. Does that
beat it?" gasped Walter, giving up the struggle.
"Counts same as one fish," whooped Billy joyously.
"Well, we win anyway, for one of them weighed over three and a half,"
said Walter, giving a sudden heave that sent Billy sprawling. "Now
what's the matter, you old gloom chaser?"
"Walt, you ain't foolin', are you? Tell me, you rabbit-footed
tenderfoot, have you got proof?" implored Tug.
"Big Jim's word for it, and a photo," replied Walter.
Tug's face cleared. "That's good enough. Oh, my eye, wait till that
record is posted to-night!" he chortled.
Tug was not disappointed. The record held, and the Delawares
celebrated that night with a bonfire and war dance in which Walter, to
his confusion, found himself the central figure. Harrison's chagrin
was too evident to escape notice, and his defeat was rubbed in with a
malice born of his growing unpopularity.
The next morning when Walter met him and offered his hand Hal passed
on as if the other lad were a stick or a stone. The insult was
witnessed by several Delawares and by members of Hal's own tribe. That
night a meeting of indignation was held by the Delawares, and in spite
of Walter's protest and the efforts of Woodhull and one or two of the
older boys, it was voted to send Harrison to Coventry so far as the
Delawares were concerned, that is, he was not to be spoken to or
recognized in any way.
In his own wigwam Hal was only a degree less unpopular. The leaders
tried to induce him to make an apology, pointing out to him that he
was violating both the spirit and word of the Scout's oath, but the
effort was without avail. The high-strung, undisciplined boy,
accustomed from babyhood to having his own way, fawned upon by all
with whom he had hitherto come in contact because of his father's
great wealth, was utterly unable to adjust himself to the new
conditions which surrounded him, to the democracy of which he was now
a part yet of which he had no understanding. So he went his headstrong
way, and if in his heart were bitterness and misery he made no sign.
The Senecas stood by him with half-hearted loyalty because he was a
fellow tribesman, but there was not one whom he could call a friend.
So he became more and more isolated, spending his days fishing, the
proudest, loneliest boy in all the big camp. The fact that he
continued to score with big fish gave him a measure of standing with
his tribe, and to maintain this became his chief object in the daily
life.
Walter was thinking of this and wondering what the outcome would be as
early one morning he headed his canoe for a setback some three miles
from camp, which he had discovered the day before. The entrance was so
hidden in a tangle of alders and brush that it was only with the
greatest difficulty that he could pick out the channel. He had passed
the spot dozens of times without suspecting that anything lay beyond.
Patiently and carefully he worked his way through the tangle, once
having to get out and lift the canoe over a jam of a dozen stranded
logs. Beyond this the channel was comparatively clear. Unexpectedly
it abruptly opened into a broad body of water perhaps half a mile
long, deep in the middle, and with the upper end covered with an acre
or more of lily-pads.
Walter's eyes sparkled. "Gee, I bet there's pickerel in here!" he
exclaimed, unconsciously speaking aloud.
"Bet yer life thar is," said a voice with a chuckle.
Walter turned to find a rude raft anchored behind the half submerged
top of a fallen hemlock, and on it sat Pat Malone, catching young
striped perch for bait.
"Hello!" exclaimed Walter. "What are you doing here?"
"Seem ter be fishin'," replied Pat, a broad grin spreading across his
freckled face.
Walter grinned in return. "Well, what are you catching?" he asked.
"Mostly fish--some skeeters," was the prompt retort.
Pat lifted a wriggling three-inch perch from the water. "Do you call
that a fish?" asked Walter.
"Mebbe it is an' mebbe it isn't," said the lumber boy as he dropped
the victim into a battered old pail half filled with water. "How
about this?" He reached behind him and held up at arm's length a huge
pickerel.
Walter allowed a long low whistle of admiration escape him. "Are there
any more like that in here?" he asked eagerly.
"Shure," replied Pat. "That's nothin' but a minnie 'longside some old
whopperlulus in here."
"What'd you catch him with?"
"Bait an' a hook an' line."
Walter laughed. "Pat, you win," said he. "I don't want any of your
secrets, but I should like to catch just one fish like that one."
A crafty look swept over the freckled face grinning across at him.
"Yez licked me once."
Walter nodded.
"An' yez said that if iver yez had the chance yez'd show me some o'
thim thricks what done it."
Again Walter nodded.
"Will yez do it now if Oi'll show yez where thim big fish is an' how
ter ketch 'em?" asked Pat eagerly.
"I'll do it anyway, and you don't need to show me anything about the
fish," replied Walter heartily, driving the canoe ashore as he spoke.
Together they forced their way through the underbrush until they found
a cleared place. "This isn't to be another fight?" asked Walter, a
sudden suspicion flashing into his mind.
"Course it ain't! What kind av a low-down hedgehog do ye take me fer,
anyway?" retorted his companion indignantly.
Walter put out his hand and apologized promptly, ashamed to think that
he should have been guilty of entertaining such a thought. Then he
began by briefly explaining the rules governing boxing, pointing out
that a blow below the waist line constitutes a foul, that a man
knocked down is allowed ten seconds in which to get on his feet again,
and during that time must not be touched by his opponent; that
wrestling is not allowed, and that matches usually are conducted by
rounds of three minutes each, with a minute for rest in between.
"No true sportsman will ever hit a man when he's down," concluded
Walter.
This was difficult for the backwoods boy to grasp, and it was equally
hard for him to understand why in a fight he should not scratch, kick
and gouge, even use his teeth if opportunity offered, for in his hard
life in the lumber camps he had witnessed many a rough and tumble
fight where ethics are unknown, and where fighting men sink to the
level of fighting beasts, employing every weapon with which nature has
endowed them, and giving no mercy to a fallen foe.
But Pat was blessed with a strong sense of fair play, and when he had
fully grasped the meaning of the rules they appealed to him instantly.
"'Tis jist a square deal both byes gits in a foight!" he exclaimed, a
light breaking over his puzzled face.
Then Walter showed him a few of the simplest guards, how to parry an
opponent's blow with one arm while countering with the other, how to
protect the body with elbows and forearms while the hands shield the
face, how to step inside, and how to duck under a swing, how, by
watching his opponent, to anticipate the coming blow and be prepared
to avoid it. Lastly he showed him the art of side-stepping, the
little shift of the feet which while keeping the body perfectly poised
allows the blow to pass harmlessly to one side or the other, at the
same time opening an opportunity to counter on the opponent.
Naturally quick, and with an Irishman's inborn love of battle, Pat
picked up the points readily and when at the end of an hour Walter
flung himself on the ground for a breathing spell Pat executed a
double shuffle.
"Shure it be the greatest dancin' lesson av me loife!" he whooped
joyously, side-stepping, ducking and lunging into empty space. "Come
on, bye, come on! Oi can lick yez now! Come on, ye spalpeen! 'Tis Pat
Malone will give yez the greatest lickin' av yer life!"
Walter declined with thanks, lying back weak from laughter, while the
young giant continued to dance around sparring, ducking and countering
on an imaginary foe. "'Tis meself will clane out the Durant camp
before anither sun is up as shure as Oi be the eldest son av me
mither," he chuckled, flinging himself beside Walter from sheer
exhaustion.
When they had rested a bit Walter proposed that they go try the fish,
and that Pat come in his canoe. In an instant the young woodsman had
forgotten his newly acquired accomplishments, for a new idea had
suddenly possessed him.
"Tell me, bye, what's this about catchin' the biggest fish at
Woodcraft Camp?" he asked eagerly.
Walter explained the contest fully, and told how eager he was to score
over the Senecas.
"'Tis aisy," broke in Pat.
"What do you mean?" asked Walter, a bit puzzled.
Pat struck one side of his nose with a dirty forefinger and winked
solemnly. "Oi wonder now, have yez forgot the big pickerel yez have
lyin' down on the raft? 'Twill weigh ten pounds if it weighs an
ounce."
"But that isn't mine!" exclaimed Walter. "It's yours."
"Is ut now?" said Pat, scratching his head. "Shure Oi disremimber
ketchin' ut. Oi'm thinkin' yez must hev caught ut in yer shlape an'
didn't know ut."
Walter laughed and thanked his companion heartily, while he refused
the gift. Then seeing the look of hurt disappointment on Pat's face
he hastened to make clear why he could not accept the fish. "You see,"
he concluded, "a Scout's honor is always to be trusted, and it would
not be honorable to try to win with a fish I did not catch myself. A
man's honor is the greatest thing he possesses."
The other pondered this in silence for a few minutes trying to adjust
his mind to a new idea. When he spoke it was slowly, as one feeling
his way.
"Yez mane that ter score wid thot fish would be loike hittin' a man
when he's down, or shtalin' from a blind pup."
"Exactly," replied Walter.
"An' do all the other byes feel the same way?"
"Of course they do."
"No they don't! Anyway, there's wan that doesn't."
"What do you mean?" cried Walter startled.
"Oi mane thot there's wan dirty blackguard has been winnin' points
roight along wid Pat Malone's fish. Oi mane thot thot spalpeen thot
yez call Harrison, the wan with his pockets lined with money, has been
buyin' me big fish fer the last mont' an' payin' me good money fer
'em. Oi mane thot if yez hadn't happened in here this marnin' yez
moight hev seen him luggin' in thot big pickerel this very noight.
'Tis his last fish he's had from me, the low-down blackguard." Then he
added ruefully: "Sure 'tis a glad day fer Pat Malone an' a sorry wan
fer his pockets ter hev found out what honor manes."
The two boys returned to the canoe and spent the remainder of the
morning in a vain attempt to land another big pickerel. When they
parted it was with a mutual respect and liking and a promise on
Walter's part to return the next day in quest of the big fellows.
"Oi'm goin' ter hunt frogs fer bait this afternoon an' Oi'll be
waitin' fer ye at sunup," were Pat's parting words.
It was a sober boy who paddled back to Woodcraft that afternoon. What
he had learned that morning filled him with mingled feelings of
contempt and gladness--contempt, for the fellow Scout who had so
perjured himself and violated his Scout's oath, and gladness that his
faith in the unkempt boy of the woods had been so fully justified. Any
lingering doubt of Pat Malone's innocence of the theft of Mother
Merriam's pin which he might have entertained had been banished by
what he had learned of the boy that morning.
And in his own mind the boy was fighting a battle. Where lay the path
of duty? What did his honor as a Scout demand of him? To go report
what he had learned? To become a bearer of tales? The very thought was
abhorrent to him! On the other hand had he any moral right to allow
his fellow tribesmen to suffer through the dishonesty of which he held
the proof? And Hal's own tribesmen, was it fair to them to allow them
to profit by points to which, though no fault of theirs, they had no
right?
It was a relief to see Harrison's canoe approaching the landing as he
pulled his own out. He would put it up to Hal to do the square
thing--redeem himself by playing the man for once.
"Hal," said Walter in a low tone as the other landed, "I know where
you get your fish."
Hal turned and faced him. "What are you talking about?" he said
roughly.
Walter flushed and instinctively his fists doubled, but he kept a
check on his temper. "You have bought your record fish of Pat Malone,"
he said evenly.
It was the other's turn to flush, but he maintained his air of
bravado.
"That's silly," he jeered.
"No it isn't, and you know it," replied Walter.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked the other sulkily,
seeing that denial was useless.
"I don't know," replied Walter sadly. "Say, Hal, why don't you go own
up to Dr. Merriam and ask him to try and put you right with the
fellows?"
"What do you take me for? I'm in bad enough now. If you don't blab
who's going to know it? And if you turn telltale I guess my word's as
good as yours," sneered Hal.
"For two cents I'd punch----" began Walter hotly, then pity for the
unfortunate boy before him calmed him. "Hal, I'm not going to say
anything to-night, anyway. Do the right thing. Remember your Scout's
oath," he begged.
"Remember it yourself," growled Hal. "There's mighty little honor in
telling tales." And with this parting shot he strode off to the
wigwam.
Walter's preoccupation and sober face were bound to attract the
attention of his mates, and he came in for a lot of guying.
"Who is she, Walt?"
"Is her papa a big chief?"
"Take us round and give us a knock-down, Walt."
"Romance of the big woods! Walt, the tenderfoot, falls in love with an
Indian princess!"
Walter's replies to all these sallies were only half-hearted, and
seeing that something was really amiss with him the boys dropped their
banter. He retired to his bunk early, only to twist and toss uneasily
all night long. Over and over till his brain grew weary he kept
repeating the perplexing question, "Ought I to tell? Ought I to tell?
Ought I to tell?"
The problem was no nearer a solution when in the gray of dawn he
slipped a canoe into the water the next morning and turned her bow
toward the setback. Pat was waiting for him on the old raft and, true
to his word, he had a pocket full of lively little frogs, which were
giving him no end of trouble in their efforts to escape. Walter took
him aboard, and they were soon skirting the lily-pads at the upper
end.
Here Pat bade Walter rig his rod and, producing a lively green frog
from his pocket, he impaled it on the hook by thrusting the barb
through its lips, explaining that in this way the frog's swimming was
not seriously interfered with. He then took the paddle and handled the
canoe while Walter cast. The frog had hardly struck the water before
there was a swirl at the very edge of a patch of lily-pads followed by
a strike that made the reel sing. A couple of good rushes and then, as
is the way with pickerel, the fish was brought alongside with hardly a
struggle. Pat deftly scooped it into the canoe and killed it with a
blow that broke its spine. It was fair for a beginning, weighing
perhaps four pounds, and Walter prepared to try again.
For half an hour they worked along the pads, taking several smaller
fish.
At length they approached an outlying patch of pads where the water
was deep and black. Two canoe lengths short of it Pat stopped the
canoe. Then he sorted over his remaining supply of frogs till he found
one that suited his critical fancy. With this he rebaited Walter's
hook. "Now, ye throw roight over ter the very edge o' thim pads, and
don't ye be in no hurry," he commanded.
The first cast was short, but at the second attempt the frog landed
with a spat at the very edge of the pads and began to swim vigorously
in an effort to reach and climb up on them. Suddenly the water fairly
boiled, and Walter all but lost his balance and upset the canoe, so
sudden and vicious was the strike.
"Ye have him! Ye have him! Shure 'tis the king av thim all, an' 'tis
mesilf that knows ut, for 'tis tree times thot the ould feller has
walked off wid me line and hooks!" yelled Pat excitedly. "Don't let
him get foul o' thim pads!"
Walter soon found that he had the fight of his life on to keep the
wary old warrior in clear water, but inch by inch he worked the fish
away from the pads until finally he felt that the danger was past and
that it was only a matter of time when the prize would be his. A few
more heavy lunges, which threatened by the mere weight of the fish to
break the slender rod, and the battle was over. Softly Pat slid his
hand along till his stout fingers closed in the gills and the prize
was in the canoe, where Pat speedily put an end to the snapping of its
cruel looking jaws by severing the spinal cord with his knife.
Walter brought out his scales, and could hardly believe that he read
them aright. "Thirteen pounds and a half!" he gasped.
"An' there's two av me hooks in his mouth, bad cess ter him," said the
matter-of-fact Pat, deftly extracting his property.
Pat was for trying for another big fellow, but Walter had had enough
for that morning. Besides, he was anxious to show his prize at camp,
so reeling in his line they started for the mouth of the backset.
"Pat, did Harrison ever have much luck in here?" asked Walter.
Pat stared at his companion for a minute before he found speech.
"What, do ye mane ter tell me ye be thinkin' Oi iver showed him where
Oi was ketching the fish he bought?" demanded Pat. "Not he nor any
ither o' the Woodcraft byes knows about this setback. 'Tis lucky ye
was ter be findin' the way in yer own self. Ye will kape ut ter
yerself now, will ye not?"
Walter promised that he would.
"Say, bye, did ye tell the docther av the low-down thrick this
Harrison has been afther playin'?" Pat suddenly inquired.
Walter confessed that he had not. Then in a sudden burst of confidence
he told the Irish lad all about the dilemma in which he had become
involved. "What would you do, Pat?" he concluded.
"Me? Shure Oi dunno at all, at all. Oi'm thinkin' Oi'd side-step,"
replied Pat, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"But that's the trouble, I can't side-step," responded Walter.
The freckled face of the woods boy sobered. "'Tis a quare thing, this
honor ye be tellin' about, but Oi'm thinkin' 'tis a moighty foine
thing too," he said. Then, his Irish humor rising to the surface, he
added: "There be wan thing Oi wud do; Oi'd knock the block clane off
av that blackguard that's made all the throuble."
Walter laughed. "I'd like to," he confessed.
They were now at the entrance and setting Pat ashore Walter turned his
canoe toward camp. His arrival with the big pickerel, to say nothing
of the smaller ones, created a wave of excitement among the boys who
were in camp, and great jubilation among the Delawares. It happened
that Harrison was among those present.
"So," he sneered when no one was near, "you've tried the silver bait!
How much did you pay for the bunch?"
Walter turned on his heel and walked away. All the joy of the day had
vanished. He wanted to be alone to fight out to a finish the battle of
honor. So immediately after noon mess he slipped away unseen, and
sought the cool depths of the forest to find in the peace of the great
woodland the solution of his difficulty.
Late that afternoon, his mind made up, he turned toward camp. As he
approached he became aware of an air of suppressed excitement about
the camp. Buxby was the first to see him.
"Hi, Walt! Have you heard the news?" he shouted.
"No," said Walter. "What is it?"
"The Senecas' records have been wiped out; Harrison's been buying
those fish," whooped Billy.
Walter's first thought was that Hal had done the right thing and had
confessed, and a great load fell from his shoulders. But Billy's next
words brought him up short.
"Pat Malone came in this afternoon and told the big chief that he'd
been selling fish to Hal right along. Brought in what money he had
left, and said he guessed it wasn't quite the square thing for him to
keep it. What do you think of that?"
"What did the doctor do?" asked Walter.
"Told Pat that as he had sold the fish in good faith the money was
his, especially as the camp had had the benefit of them. Then he
called Hal in and paid him back all that he had given Pat. Then he
wiped out from the Senecas' score all of Hal's records. Don't know
what he said to Hal, but the word's been passed that the incident is
closed. Gee, but I'd hate to feel the way Hal must! I guess Pat's
squared himself with the bunch on that pin business. A feller that
would do what he did wouldn't steal."
After the first burst of indignation the feeling of the camp settled
into contempt, mingled with pity, for the boy who had so besmirched
his honor. No reference was ever made to his disgrace, but for the
most part he was left severely alone, only a few, of whom Walter was
one, endeavoring to hold out a helping hand. So the camp settled down
to the usual routine once more.