THE HANDBOOK
OUT of a hip-pocket one morning Mr. Perkins produced a book--a small,
limp, gray-colored volume upon the cover of which were two bare-kneed
boy scouts, one of whom was waving a pair of flags. Also on that cover,
near its top, were the words, _Boy Scouts of America_. "I wonder if you
wouldn't like to look through this," he observed.
"Oh, gee!" Up from the sagging neckband of the big shirt swept the red
of joy, and out leaped Johnnie's hands. "Does this tell all 'bout 'em,
Mister Perkins? And, my goodness, don't I wish you could leave it here
over night!" For some time he had been feeling that there was a lack of
variety in his long program of preparation to be a scout; but here was
something more definite than just the taking of a bath or the regular
working of his muscles.
"I'm giving it to you," explained Mr. Perkins.
"Oh!" Johnnie pinched the gray book hard. "It's my own? Aw, thank y'!
And ain't I lucky, though! This is seven I got now, countin' the
d'rect'ry! And I'll learn ev'ry word in this one, Mister Perkins!"
To emphasize this determination to be thorough, before they started to
look through the handbook he had to know all there was to tell about the
picture on the front cover. "What's this one kid standin' on?" he asked.
"And what's the scraggly thing behind him? And what's the other boy
holdin' against his eyes? And what country do the flags belong t'?"
When at last Mr. Perkins began to turn the pages, he went too fast to
suit Johnnie, who was anxious not to pass over any scrap of scout
knowledge, hated to skip even a sentence, and wanted full time on each
engrossing picture. They touched on the aim of the scout movement, the
knowledge all scouts should have, their daily good turns (an interesting
subject!), their characteristics, how troops are formed and led, the
scout oath, and the laws. This brought them to merit badges, which
proved so attractive a topic, yet discouraged Johnnie so sadly at the
first, that they got no farther.
Johnnie was cast down because, on looking into the badge question, he
believed he could never qualify for merit in any particular line. For
certainly he knew nothing about Agriculture, or Angling, Archery,
Architecture, Art, Astronomy, Athletics, Automobiling, or Aviation. "And
so I don't see how I'll ever be a merit-badger," he told Mr. Perkins
wistfully, when he had gone through the list of the A's.
Sometimes of late, in Johnnie's opinion, the scout leader had seemed to
be as absentminded as Cis; and now he was evidently not thinking of the
matter in hand, for he asked a question which appeared to have nothing
whatever to do with merit badges. Also, it was a most embarrassing
question, since it concerned a fact which Johnnie had been careful, all
these past weeks, to suppress. "Can you cook?" he inquired.
For a moment Johnnie did not answer, being divided in his mind as to
what to say, but sat, his very breath suspended, searching a way out of
his dilemma. Then he remembered the laws Mr. Perkins had just read to
him--in particular he remembered one which deplored the telling of lies.
He understood that he must live up to that law if he were ever to hold
any badge he might be able to earn. "I--I help out Cis sometimes," he
admitted. "Y' see, she goes t' the fac'try awful early. And--and if I
didn't know how t' cook, why, maybe--if I was t' go 'way from
here--maybe I'd almost starve t' death."
"At the same time," reminded Mr. Perkins, "you're doing Miss Narcissa a
daily good turn."
That aspect of the matter had not occurred to Johnnie, who at once felt
considerably better. "And also I earn my keep," he added proudly.
"Earning your keep comes under the ninth law," pointed out Mr. Perkins.
"A scout is thrifty. He pays his own way."
Now the leader seemed to be in the proper mood to hear even the worst,
and this Johnnie decided to admit. "I--I sweep, too," he confessed; "and
make beds, and--and wash dishes." Then he set his small jaws and waited,
for the other was again thoughtfully turning the pages of the book. He
could hear the hard thump-thumping of his own heart. He began to wish
that he had not been tempted to tell. He saw himself forever barred out
of those ranks he so yearned to join just because he had been guilty of
doing girl's work.
Mr. Perkins stopped turning pages and looked up with a smile. "With some
study, you might be able to get the Personal Health Badge," he said;
"but I guess, after all, that the easiest one for you will be the merit
badge for cooking."
_The merit badge for cooking?_ Then without a doubt cooking was
something which boy scouts deigned to do! And it was not just girl's
work! Nor did he have to be ashamed because he did it! On the contrary,
he could be proud of his knowledge! could even win honors with it! Oh,
what a difference all this made!
Something began to happen to the amazed Johnnie. Relieved at the
thought that he was neither to be dropped nor despised for his kitchen
work, happy with the realization that he was not unlike those boys of
the never-to-be-forgotten marching twos, suddenly he felt a change of
attitude toward cooking. What he had hated so long now did not seem
hateful. "I can cook mush," he boasted with satisfaction, "and meat, and
beans, and potatoes, and cabbage, and biscuits and gravy, and tea and
coffee, and--and prunes."
"Great!" said Mr. Perkins. "I don't believe one of my scouts can cook as
well as you can. Why, you're _sure_ to get your badge on that list of
yours!" And pointing to a small and very black picture at the middle of
a page, "This is the device," he explained. "When a boy gets it, he's
allowed to wear it on his blouse."
Johnnie looked. And looked closer. Next, to make certain that he was not
mistaken, he pinned the picture with a calloused forefinger. "A--a
kettle?" he asked incredulously. "Scouts wear a pitcher of a--a
_kettle_?"
"Dandy idea, isn't it?" returned Mr. Perkins; "--the big, black, iron
kettle that soldiers and miners and hunters have used for hundreds of
years! Like yours over there!"
Slowly Johnnie faced round. On the back of the stove was the
bean-kettle, big, black and of iron, heavy to lift, hard to wash, and
for years--by Cis as well as Johnnie--cordially loathed. "Soldiers and
miners and hunters," he repeated, as if to himself; "and scout kids wear
pitchers of 'em." That remarkable change of attitude of his now included
the kettle. He knew that he would never again hate it. When he turned
back to the leader, he was his old confident self. "Do boy scouts ever
wear aprons?" he inquired. "And does anybody laugh at 'em?"
"Laugh?" said Mr. Perkins. "They do not! When a scout's round the house
like you are, helping his mother, perhaps, he puts on an apron if he's
smart. Remember that thrifty law? Well, a boy mustn't ruin his clothes.
Out on the hike, of course, where there aren't any aprons, he generally
uses a piece of sacking--especially when he's washing dishes." Then,
opening the little book again, "Here are directions for dish washing,"
he added.
As before Johnnie stared while he used a forefinger. Directions for dish
washing? in the scouts' own book? Would wonders never cease? Then
without a doubt this newest possession of his contained many another
unsuspected salve to his pride. "My goodness!" he exclaimed happily,
"what all more is there in here 'bout cookin'?"
"Well, there's a recipe for griddle cakes, and bacon, and salmon on
toast," said Mr. Perkins; "also roast potatoes, and baked fish, and
hunter's stew. But eggs and biscuits, of course, you know."
After an hour of that kind, it was quite natural that Johnnie, when he
found himself alone again, should straightway devise a cooking
think--and this for the first time in his life. He saw himself in the
center of a great group of splendidly uniformed scouts, all of whom were
nearly famished. He was uniformed, too; and he was preparing a meal
which consisted of everything edible described in the Scouts' book. And
as he mixed and stirred and tasted, his companions proclaimed him a
marvel, while proudly upon his breast he displayed that device of the
kettle.
Till the clock warned him at five that it was time to get ready for Big
Tom, the Handbook was not out of his hands. To a boy who had made easy
reading even of _The Last of the Mohicans_, Mr. Perkins's present
offered few problems. There was not a little in what he read that,
cooped up as he had been during the last five years, he did not
understand. But starting at the first page, and eating his way through
the first chapter, not missing one of the paragraphs skipped during the
morning, studying each illustration thoroughly, and absorbing both
pictures and print like a sponge, he got a very real glimmering of what
it meant to a boy to be a scout; and not only so far as the body, its
strength and its growth, was concerned, but also in relation to
character. And just that first chapter made him understand that there
was, indeed, something more to scouting than looking plump-chested,
having good blood, and cultivating strong muscles.
That evening supper achieved a dignity and a pleasure. Glad now that he
knew how to get a meal, he baked potatoes, made biscuits and gravy, and
boiled coffee. He realized that Big Tom would enjoy such a good supper,
and this, of course, was a decided drawback. Yet the fact remained that
if he (Johnnie) was to win a badge by his cooking, the longshoreman must
profit. It could not be helped. He set about preparing a dessert--an
unheard-of climax to any previous evening meal. Fashioning small
containers of some biscuit dough, he first put the pulp of some cooked
prunes through the tea strainer--then filled the containers with the
sweetened fruit and baked them. All the while he visioned Cis's surprise
and delight over the tarts. He even anticipated some complimentary
remark from Big Tom.
"I'll get a merit badge," he vowed, "even if I have t' do a lot o'
things I hate!"
Luckily Cis arrived ahead of her stepfather. Having borrowed Grandpa's
Grand Army hat, Johnnie greeted her, first with a snappy salute; after
that he bowed and bared his head as if to the Queen or the Princess
Buddir al Buddoor--all this as per an illustration in his book which
showed a scout uncovering to an elderly lady in a three-cornered shawl.
"A scout's always p'lite t' women and children," he explained as he
offered her the kitchen chair. "And some day Boof is goin' t' go mad,
and I'm goin' t' protect y' from him! There's a pitcher in my new book
that shows how t' do it!"
He showed her his new present. However, she gave it only a glance,
exactly as if she had seen it before. She rarely even mentioned Mr.
Perkins any more, and now only remarked that to have given Johnnie the
book "was nice of him," adding that sport socks which showed a boy's
knees (she was referring to the cover of the Handbook) were "as stylish
as Fifth Avenue."
With Johnnie bustling hither and thither in a proud and entirely willing
manner, the longshoreman could not fail to remark a new spirit in the
flat. But in spite of the well-cooked, tasty meal, Big Tom was not moved
to speak any appreciation.
After a time, Johnnie decided to invite a comment. "I made y' biscuits
and gravy again," he pointed out.
"It's about time," returned Barber.
Biscuits and gravy, however, were an established combination. The
desired effect, then, might better be gotten with something never before
served. "And I fixed somethin' for y' t' finish up on," he announced.
Then opening the oven door to display the browning prune tarts, "Lookee!
Baby pies!"
"Mm!" breathed Big Tom, suspicion flashing whitely in that left eye.
"You're gittin' too good t' live! What y' been doin' t'-day? Breakin'
somethin'?" But later he ate four of the little confections with loud
smacks.
Johnnie, standing at his plate (as he had always stood at it since
coming to the flat, for there was no chair for him), ate his own small
pie and cogitated philosophically. Big Tom had not repaid a good turn
with gratitude. But then at least he had been no uglier than usual; had
not stormed about wasting biscuit dough and sugar, as he might easily
have done. He had been just his ordinary self, which was something to be
thankful for.
"Would y' bring home a can of salmon fish for t'morrow supper when y'
come in t'night?" Johnnie asked. (He longed to try that scout recipe!)
To that, Barber did not commit himself.
When Johnnie and Cis were left alone, old Grandpa being already abed,
Johnnie did not try to win her interest in the Handbook, or share with
her the new and absorbing thinks it inspired. Since that unhappy ending
to the procession of the bath, with its wailing protest, and its tears,
with nice consideration he had not again so much as broached a pretend
to her. She sat at the window in the warm twilight, busy--or so it
seemed--with her fingernails, which these days consumed a great deal of
her time. Johnnie took down the clothesline and fell to making Knots
Every Scout Should Know.
But that night on the roof! What a revel there was of brave scout
doings, of gentlemanly conduct!--all witnessed by a large, fat moon. He
wigwagged messages of great portent to phantom scouts who were in dire
need. He helped blind men across streets that ran down the whole length
of the roof. He held back pressing crowds while the police were rendered
speechless with admiration. He swept off his scout headgear to scores of
motherly ladies in three-cornered shawls; wrapped up the sore paws of
stray dogs; soothed weeping children; straightened the blankets on
numbers of storm-blown horses standing humped against the bitter wind
and rain; and pointed out the right road to many a laden and bewhiskered
traveler.
But when his bed claimed him, and he was free to do a little quiet
thinking, it occurred to him that he had not strung a single bead that
day, nor made one violet. Did this not number him among the breakers of
that first law?--"by not doing exactly a given task." There was not the
least doubt of it! "My!" he exclaimed. "I'm 'fraid them laws 're goin'
t' be a' awful bother!"
Nevertheless, the following day, he did not fail to keep them in mind.
Though Barber had so ill repaid his efforts to please, though no can of
salmon had been forthcoming as requested, he did not punish the
longshoreman that morning. Life seemed very full to him now, what with
his regular duties and the fresh obligations laid upon him by the
Handbook.
He skimped nothing. What did the housework amount to, now that he felt a
sudden liking for it? And he found that he could memorize the laws while
he was stringing beads. When he paused, either in one line of effort or
the other, it was to do a good turn: put crumbs on the window sill for
the sparrows, feed Boof, take Mrs. Kukor up one of the small pies
(lifting off Grandpa's hat to her at the door), and give the little old
veteran not one, but several, short railway journeys. And all the while
he made sure, by the help of Cis's mirror, that his mouth was turned up
at each end like a true scout's mouth should be.
"I got t' git my lips used to it," he declared, "so's they'll stay put."
And the things he did not do! For example, he discontinued his
clothesline telephone service; for another, he wasted no minute by
introducing into the kitchen territory either foreign or domestic. For
he was experiencing the high joy of being excessively good. Indeed, and
for the first time in his life, he was being so good that it was almost
painful.
Finding Johnnie in this truly angelic state of mind when he arrived, Mr.
Perkins grasped his opportunity, skipped all the chapters of the
Handbook till he came to that one touching upon chivalry, and sat down
with Johnnie to review it. And what a joy it proved to the new convert
to find in those pages his old friends King Arthur and Sir Launcelot,
together with Galahad, Gareth, Bedivere and all the others! and to make
the acquaintance of Alfred the Great, the Pilgrim Fathers, the
pioneers, and Mr. Lincoln!--especially Mr. Lincoln, that boy who had
traveled from a log cabin to the White House!
"And I'll tell y' what!" he vowed, when Mr. Perkins rose to take his
leave, "I've made up my mind what I'm goin' t' be when I grow up. I've
thought 'bout a lot of things, but this time I'm sure! Mister Perkins,
I'm goin' t' try t' be President of the United States!"
Later on, he made a second vow to himself. "Good turns for Grandpa don't
'mount t' much," he declared. "He's so handy as a good-turner. So I'm
goin' t' do one that'll count. I'm goin' t' good-turn Big Tom!"
He took down the bag of dried beans from the cupboard and searched out
certain nine small buttons. From time to time, in the past, he had, on
what he felt was just provocation, subtracted these nine buttons from
Big Tom's shirts. Now with painstaking effort, pricking his fingers many
times, he sewed the buttons back where they belonged. The task finished,
he was in nothing short of an exalted state of mind. So that again for
supper he made biscuits and gravy.
Then came the bombshell. It was Big Tom who cast it, figuratively
speaking, among the supper plates. He had come scuffing his way in, his
look roving and suspicious--if not a little apprehensive. But what he
had to say he had saved, as was his habit, for meal time. "Sa-a-ay!" he
began, helping himself to a generous portion of his favorite dish;
"who's that dude that's been hangin' 'round here lately?"
Johnnie's tongue felt numb, and his throat dry. He thought of the laws,
hoping he might remember one that would help him. He could remember
nothing. There was a spy in the house--a spy as evil as Magua. And that
spy deserved to be killed. He resolved that, later on, up on the roof,
he would have a splendid execution.
Meanwhile Cis had come to the rescue. "You mean Mr. Perkins, the
scoutmaster?" she asked. She was white, Johnnie noticed, and did not
look at Barber.
"Scoutmaster!" repeated the longshoreman. "So that's it, is it? I
guessed you was up to some deviltry!"--this to Johnnie. "And let me tell
you somethin': none of them crazy idears 'round here! D' y' understand?"
(This was how much he appreciated biscuits and gravy!)
"Yes, sir," murmured Johnnie. But he thought what a pity it was that
some one had not made a scout out of Big Tom.
"None o' that foolish business," went on Barber; then to Cis, noticing
her paleness, perhaps. "What's eatin' _you_?"
"Nothing. I feel tired to-night," she answered weakly.
"Go t' bed."
She went, and as if she was grateful to get away, though the sun was
still shining on the roofs of the houses opposite. She did not even
glance at Johnnie, and shut herself in.
"What time t'morrow will that guy come?" the longshoreman wanted to know
as soon as Cis was gone.
"'Bout 'leven." Johnnie could not help but wonder how he was ever to get
on if the laws bound him so tight to the truth, and the truth would
prove the undoing, the wrecking of all his dearest plans.
"'Leven," mused Barber. "Hm!--Well, y' needn't t' put up no lunch for me
in the mornin'. I'll come home for it. I jus' want t' take a look at
that scout gent."