THE “COYOTES” INVADE ELM STREET
One evening with his Boy Scout manual transformed Connie into a most
exacting military commander. And in two days the Wolf Patrol was
performing drill evolutions that inflated its members with pride.
Formal drill in full uniform took place each afternoon between four and
five o’clock. Then came semaphore signaling until six o’clock. Even
after supper there were “fireless” camp fires in Conyers’ yard where,
beneath the maple, Connie read aloud the history and aims of the Boy
Scout organization. This, in the manual, was described as “even song”
and always concluded with new and elaborate plans for the patrol’s
coming field campaign.
Lew Ashwood’s suggestion of an all-day hike to Round Rock River was
the first event scheduled. This was to take place on the following
Saturday. In the succeeding week all had agreed to make a second trip
to Bluff Creek about six miles east of town, and there spend two days
and two nights in camp.
Each boy had already secured permission to make the Round Rock trip
and Mr. Trevor and Sammy Addington’s father had promised to follow the
boys Saturday evening and bring them home in the automobile. Even the
mothers of all agreed to honor each boy’s requisition for food. There
was such general endorsement of Mr. Trevor’s work in organizing the
patrol and of his kindness in contributing uniforms for all, that it
would have been hard for any parent to refuse coöperation.
The sick boy was no worse. He was yet so weak that no one was admitted
to his room. Morning and night, when the doctor came, there was a
report for the Scouts, all of whom had come to look on the sick boy as
a personal friend, although not one of them had ever spoken to Bonner
and he was not conscious of ever having seen one of them. Yet he had
spoken to them. At the first flight of the aeroplane he had called to
them gruffly: “Chase yourselves, you kids.”
Each boy recalled this, but with no feeling of ill will. It was now
generally agreed that the words were meant kindly. At this time
came the first of three moves on the part of the Goosetowners which
were to set Scottsville by the ears again. The first action was most
unexpected. The Elm Streeters saw at once that the olive branch of
peace they had extended was not accepted in the same spirit. Envy and
jealousy were too much for Hank Milleson.
Wednesday evening, as the Wolf Patrol was forming for its daily dress
parade, quiet Elm Street suddenly resounded with the sound of fife
and drum. The clamor came from far up the street and rolled through
the leafy tunnel of the grand elms with martial resonance. The patrol
line dissolved into listeners and then came together in a knot of
indignant, red-faced boys. Straggling along in shiftless formation,
with Hank Milleson at their head and a fifer and a drummer just behind
him, appeared the entire Goosetown gang in a burlesque of the Wolf
Patrol. Behind the drummer and the fifer one of the marchers carried
a square of muslin on a lath. On this was the word “KIOTES.” As the
marching humorists began to file by the Elm Street crowd, all the
bitterness that led to the sycamore-tree fight revived. Without a word
to each other the Wolves moved forward. The Coyotes were grinning and
attempting some uniformity of step with the aid of a chorus of “hep,
hep, hep.” Connie saw that another crisis was at hand.
“Attention, Wolves!” he exclaimed. “Fall in!”
No one moved.
“Patrol, fall in!” came a second, quick command.
A few of the real scouts made a semblance of formation.
“The Wolf who doesn’t fall in on the next command,” whispered Connie
with determination, “loses his uniform and is discharged. Attention!
Fall in!”
With lips quivering, and white about their mouths, every Wolf did
his duty. The line was formed. Then Connie whirled about. With all
the dignity of a captain reporting to his superior, not a trace of
irritation showing on his face, he brought his right hand to a full
salute. Not to be outdone, the head of the Coyotes returned the salute,
his followers accompanying the act with snorts of laughter and loud
guffaws.
There were eleven boys in the mock parade. Each had made some attempt
to add to the humor of the occasion by painting his face, by the use
of odds and ends of clothing or by wearing some bit of old uniform,
old hat or even feathers in his hair. The marchers were Hank Milleson,
Job Wilkes beating an old snare drum, Joe Andrews blowing a fife on
which he had no skill whatever, Nick Apthorp carrying the improvised
standard, Matt Branson, Buck Bluett, Tom Bates, Pete Chester, Mart
Clare, Carrots Compton and Tony Cooper.
Hank’s costume was the one that aroused the bitterest resentment. He
was puffing at his black pipe and his bare feet and legs showed beneath
his trousers which were rolled up to the knees. His flaunting insult
was a soiled gingham apron which was tied about his waist and a faded
sunbonnet which partly concealed his face. But this stinging affront
was allowed to pass in dead silence.
The other costumes were less irritating, and reflected little
originality on the part of the performers; an old political marching
cap and cape, a poor imitation of an Indian, three guns, one sword
with clanging scabbard, a woman’s beflowered bonnet, one boy with an
infant’s nursing bottle, a great deal of colored chalk on hands and
cheeks, and goose and chicken feathers generously ornamenting hats and
caps, make a fair summary.
The crowning feature was more to the point. At the rear of the
single file cavalcade came Tony Cooper, the Sammy Addington of the
Goosetowners. Tony was dragging at his heels a fat, little yellow cur
puppy. On each yellow side of the pudgy little animal this word had
been inscribed with tar:
“WOLF”
A piece of twine encircled the puppy’s neck. Either frightened or in
pain the dog was waddling along and pulling backwards with jerks and
jumps. The unexpected salute by the leader of the Wolves, and Hank
Milleson’s embarrassed return of it, created surprise in both groups of
boys. Tony Cooper, at the end of the line, crowded forward to get the
details of what was happening. As he did so, his mind off the captive
puppy, the rolypoly little beast gave a new jump and the string came
out of Tony’s hand. Like a big ball of yellow yarn, the “Wolf” leaped
away with all his might. The captive had torn itself free!
Not even Patrol Leader Connie tried to keep his face straight. The
Wolves roared with laughter as Tony lit out after his charge.
“Wolf too much for you, eh!” yelled one of the Elm Streeters. “Look out
he don’t bite! Them wolves is fierce!”
Taunts came from others of the Wolf Patrol but Connie made no attempt
to detect the culprits as he was yet laughing himself.
“Better cage him!” called another scout. “Take all of you to handle
him!” was another yell.
“An’ at that,” retorted Nick Apthorp from the street, “he’s the
fiercest wolf I ever see.”
When it was seen that Tony had recaptured his puppy the fife and drum
broke out anew. At this, Connie advanced into the street and approached
Hank Milleson.
“Hank,” began Connie, “you know the boy ’at got hurt in the circus
aeroplane is over to Trevor’s?”
“Pretty soft fur him I reckon,” replied Hank. “I knowed he is.”
“Well, we don’t play around there. We don’t make no noise at Trevor’s
’cause he’s purty sick.”
“I heered he was goin’ to likely die,” commented Hank absently.
“I don’t know if he is or not,” answered Connie. “But the doctor says
they oughtn’t to be no noise where he can hear it.”
Hank hesitated, grew sober and then said:
“This is as fur as we was goin’ anyway.” In order not to show weakness,
however, he added: “We jus’ thought we’d come over here and tell you
not to come a-paradin’ ’round in our part of town wearin’ them baby
clothes.”
“Why do you come over here then, wearin’ monkey clothes?” retorted
Connie.
“’Cause it suits us. What you goin’ to do ’bout it?”
“Nothin’,” answered Connie. “March where you like. But, when you’ve
laughed yourself sick I wish you’d read this. It’s great,” and he
handed Hank his own new manual. “It’s a present,” he added.
“What you givin’ it to me fur?” asked the puzzled Hank.
“’Cause I liked it and all our fellows do. I think you’ll like it too.”
Hank looked at it as if in much doubt. Then he opened it, by chance,
at the picture of a camp scene with tents, camp fires, flagstaff, and
picturesquely clad young scouts lying beneath tall, shady trees.
“Purty swell,” he commented slowly. “You guys goin’ to do that?”
“You bet,” answered Connie.
“I reckon we’ll have to visit you.”
“Sure,” responded the Wolf Leader. “We’ll have eats enough for all.”
With a half wistful look at Connie, but with no reply to this
invitation, Hank turned and shambled away. He still held the open book
in his hand and, the decorated gang crowding closely about him, without
the sound of fife or drum and with Tony Cooper carrying the puppy in
his arms, the lately defiant crowd moved down the street.
Two hours later, when Connie came out from supper to hasten to the
usual “talk gathering” in Art’s front yard, he found Nick Apthorp
sitting on the curb in front of his home.
“Kind o’ out o’ your bailiwick, ain’t you, Nick?” exclaimed Connie with
a smile.
“Say,” replied Nick ignoring the banter, “you got any more o’ them
books? Hank hung onto the one you give him. It’s full o’ pictures. I
wish’t I could get one.”
“Mebbe Art Trevor’ll let you take his,” suggested Connie. “I got to get
another one myself.”
“I don’t want no favors o’ that guy,” responded Nick. “Can’t you get
me one? How much do they cost?”
“Twenty-five cents,” explained Connie. “I’m goin’ to send for another.
I’ll get you one if you like.”
“Well, you do it,” replied Nick. “Here’s a quarter ’at I got fur
passin’ soap samples. But I wish’t you wouldn’t say nothin’ ’bout
it――not to my gang nor to yours neither. Hank thinks he’s the whole
cheese. I’ll show him.”
“Sure,” said Connie taking the money. “I’ll――”
“When you guys goin’ campin’?” interrupted Nick as if that was his only
interest in seeing Connie.
“We ain’t goin’ campin’ right away,” responded Connie innocently.
“Saturday we’re goin’ to hike to Round Rock an’ cook our breakfast at
the cave. Then we’re goin’ to go up the river to Borden’s Ford――that’s
’bout four miles. There’s good bass fishin’ at the ford. We’re goin’ to
cook dinner there an’ fish awhile. An’ then we’re goin’ up to the old
quarry an’ loaf ’round till they bring the automobile for us.”
“I caught some fine bass at the ford,” volunteered Nick. He paused
rather wistfully for a few moments. Then with renewed requests about
secrecy as to his book he slouched up the street. Connie did not speak
to the other boys of Nick’s visit nor of the book the boy wanted.
The eventful Saturday came at last. With haversacks packed the night
before, thirteen boys awaited the dawn with impatience. Before five
o’clock the wrought-up scouts were off. In open order the squad was
soon out of town.
With two stops for water at convenient wells the patrol reached the
dusty lane leading to the caves of Round Rock River just before half
past six. Once they were within the shade of the grove bordering the
river bank at the cave, “Break ranks” was given and the perspiring
young campaigners threw themselves on the grass. But boys rest
quickly. At the first mention of breakfast the patrol was on its feet.
The place was one used for picnics and tables were standing. When
haversack contents were dumped on one of these, the table resembled a
delicatessen shop.
Connie took charge at once and put aside what was needed for luncheon.
“Say,” protested Colly Craighead. “That ain’t fair. I’m hungry. I
brought them baked beans for breakfast.”
“You’ll want ’em worse at noon,” answered Connie. “Go help make the
fire. Duke,” he added, “fill that pan with water.”
At the last moment they had been compelled to borrow a stew pan to boil
the frankfurters. And this had been Duke’s extra equipment. Each boy
had also strung a tin cup on his belt, and Davy Cooke carried a teapot.
About seven o’clock the open-shirted, hatless gang gathered about
a table covered with newspapers. Before each was a cup of tea with
sugar but no cream, and the portion of food for each boy: four large
frankfurters, hot and steaming to the point of bursting, three
inch-thick slices of bread, half a dill pickle, two hard-boiled eggs,
one doughnut and two cookies. In the center of the table were butter,
pepper, salt, mustard and sugar. In ten minutes every scrap of food had
disappeared. Colly again brought up the question of baked beans but he
was instantly suppressed.
“One hour for restin’ or explorin’,” ordered Connie when haversacks had
been repacked and stored in a heap and the pans washed. “But, remember,
no swimmin’ until I give the word. Wart,” he added, “you’ll guard the
haversacks.”
“Me?” exclaimed Wart in a shocked voice. “I brung a candle to explore
the cave!”
“Well, you may as well hand it over to some one else. You’re on guard
duty. Blow the recall whistle in one hour!”
There was a scattering of boys in all directions: some to the woods,
several to a flat-bottomed boat lying partly on the shore, and others
to the cave, a low opening into a rocky bluff, celebrated mainly for
its ever dripping water and its bottom of sticky clay mud.
Connie walked along toward the farmer’s house. The last look he gave
Wart revealed the disappointed boy gazing over the river beyond. It was
well for the sentinel that Connie did not hear his muttered comment.
“They ain’t nothin’ in my book ’bout guardin’ nothin’ where they ain’t
nobody to do nothin’.”
When Connie returned, Wart was fast asleep, hunched up at the foot of a
tree. His leader blew the return whistle.
“I reckon I dropped off in a kind o’ doze,” began the aroused boy.
“You did, for half an hour. You’ll carry the stew pan an’ the
teakettle the rest o’ the day.”
“Who――?” began Wart in protest, his face reddening.
“You mean ‘who says so?’” interrupted Connie. “I do. Is that enough?”
“Yes, sir,” faltered Wart. “That’s enough.”
At half past eight o’clock the patrol was off for Borden’s Ford.