GOOSETOWN’S PRODIGAL SONS
The arraignment of the six horse thieves in court the next morning was
only a matter of form. To the surprise of Marshal Walter and the other
court officers, the mayor called the cases, asked for witnesses and,
none being present, dismissed the prisoners. A penitent sextet of boys
slipped out of the court room, and the regeneration of “Hank’s gang”
had begun.
The next five weeks passed rapidly. The Wolves continued their drills,
scout games and outings but not once did they clash with the rival
Coyotes. This patrol had been organized and completely outfitted by Mr.
Conyers. Each of the Goosetowners who had suffered arrest was also at
work, thanks to Mr. Trevor. It was a new era in juvenile Scottsville.
Ten days after the arrests Willie Bonner was able to leave his bed and
in a few more days he was on Mr. Trevor’s pay roll, as a chauffeur and
handy helper about the house and yard. With the boys, however, he was a
chum and equal. One would have thought him Art’s brother.
Mr. Trevor had written to the American Aeroplane Company in Newark
explaining the situation. As young Bonner had figured, the boy owed the
company four hundred dollars, for which the company held a mortgage.
This the restored young aviator had promised to pay as soon as he
could, and the company readily accepted the terms.
“We suggest,” wrote the president, “that you do not attempt to do
this while it is a burden to you.” (The boy had also written to his
old employers.) “Your treatment by the circus was outrageous and we
sympathize with you. We were sorry to lose your services and will
be glad to reëmploy you at any time. If you prefer to remain in the
west until you have paid the expenses of your illness we will suspend
payments on the engine until you are in a position to resume them.”
This suited Bonner and was received by his new associates with joy. As
soon as it was determined that Bonner (or Bonny as he was immediately
rechristened) was to stay in Scottsville that summer and fall, two
much discussed secret plans were at once laid before the new boy;
that he become a member of the Wolf Patrol and that the entire patrol
join with Bonner, financially and physically, to restore the wrecked
aeroplane.
Why this project should have been made a secret was hard to say. It was
a matter of business with Bonny. But there was a boyish feeling among
his fellow scouts that the rebuilding of the aeroplane in secret gave
the project a glamor of romance――like a satisfied puppy gnawing over a
hidden bone――and the attempt to restore the flying machine was to be
made without the knowledge of any outsider.
Mr. Trevor, however, had to be consulted. Manifestly the wareroom where
the broken planes were stored was no place to make repairs. A happy
expedient was hit upon. Mr. Trevor owned several farms and one of
these, the Cloverdale Stock Farm, was just beyond the town limits on
the bluff north of the river bottom.
Here there were the usual barns, wagon sheds, cribs and silos. And in
addition there was a low, wide implement house――full of farm tools and
wagons in the winter but empty in the summer. Cloverdale being an
up-to-date farm, one end of the implement building――“Shed No. 4”――was a
smithy, with a forge for shoeing horses and a carpenter’s bench for the
ordinary farm repairs.
Cloverdale was a mile and a half from town. The road that passed by
the sycamore-tree resort wound its way across the river bottom and
then turned east on the bluff. Finally it reached the river again and
descended once more to cross a rattling iron bridge where, on the far
side of the bridge, the road made its way between two pieces of open
woods.
These, clean and free from dead timber, were favorite picnic grounds
for all of Scottsville. Midway between the bridge and where the road
reached the top of the bluff was Cloverdale Farm, whose dairy and fat
cattle were the pride of that part of the country.
To this place, after nine o’clock one evening, when a mist of rain had
driven most of Scottsville indoors, a farm wagon carried the remnants
of the wrecked aeroplane. When these had been stowed within the
blackness of “Shed No. 4” and its owner and Art and Connie had hurried
back to town in Mr. Trevor’s automobile, another significant step had
been taken in that summer’s adventures.
Although the Wolves and Coyotes had not clashed in these and the
preceding days, they were well aware of each other’s doings. And, as
nearly always happens, when the erring individual reforms or tries to,
many persons rushed to the Goosetowners’ aid with never a thought of
the others who had stuck to a reasonably straight and narrow path.
“I suppose you notice,” observed Art to Connie one day, “that we ain’t
in it any more. People used to come out and make nice remarks when
the Wolves marched by with our flag flyin’ and our new suits shinin’.
The Coyotes were up on the public square last night durin’ the band
concert, paradin’ around an’ gettin’ more applause ’an we ever did.”
“That ain’t all, neither,” retorted Connie. “Most o’ the Coyotes work
over to the table factory. They’re a-givin’ it out that the factory
folks is goin’ to send their patrol up to the state fair to march in
the big parade carryin’ a banner sayin’ ‘Scottsville Tables.’”
“Well,” remarked Willie Bonner who was with the boys, “isn’t that what
you wanted?”
“Sure,” answered Art. “Only, I kind o’ thought that we’d mix a little.
Now they don’t seem to know we’re on earth. I ain’t jealous of ’em,
only I wish they knew we was still doin’ business.”
The last week in July an annual religious camp meeting opened a session
on its grounds fifteen miles from Scottsville. To the surprise and joy
of the Wolves they were invited to attend the opening and participate
in the “young people’s outdoor program.” A few days before the event it
was learned that the Coyotes had also been invited and what was more to
the point, that their employers had given them the day off.
“I’m bully glad they’re goin’,” said Davy Cooke at the first gathering
of the Wolves. “That’s better’n drinkin’ beer an’ stealin’ horses. An’
I reckon,” he added, “it’ll be a case o’ the prodigal son. When the
fatted calf is barbecued, the Coyotes’ll probably get the choice cuts.”
“You ain’t sorry, are you?” laughed Willie Bonner as usual. “I kind o’
think you fellows have had your share o’ calf an’ other good things.”
“Sorry?” exclaimed Connie. “Of course not. We don’t want any the best
of it. But we’re gettin’ tired o’ playin’ second fiddle.”
“All we want,” broke in Art, “is an even break.”
When the eventful day came, sure enough, the Coyotes boarded the
same train. Both patrols entered the same car. There was a volley
of jocularity, good-natured salutations and then some mixing of
fellow scouts. There had certainly been a revolution in the Goosetown
representatives. Shining shoes, scrubbed faces and hands and freshly
ironed shirts and ties were as general among the Coyotes as the Wolves.
“Now you watch ’em,” whispered Art to Connie when the camp grounds were
reached. “All the women an’ the preachers’ll take ’em up. An’ they’ll
head the procession――you’ll see.”
“Mebbe we’d better tell the camp meetin’ folks we’ve reformed too,”
suggested Connie.
“That’s no joke,” replied Art. “The original Boy Scouts,” he went on
with a smile, “will soon be back numbers.”
“Cheer up! Cheer up!” exclaimed Willie Bonner who was also resplendent
in hat and khaki, “you ought to be proud of your work.”
As predicted by Art, while the camp grounds committee gave all the
scouts a cordial reception, it lingered with the reformed Goosetowners.
And also as predicted, when the camp grounds band set out for the big
tabernacle, the Coyote Patrol held the right of line. Then came the
“ancient and honorable” Wolf Patrol, gay and resplendent in spite
of some secret jealousy, and, after these, various bodies of boys
and girls, Christian Endeavorers, Sunday School classes, Young Men’s
Christian Association representatives and Willing Workers.
When the procession reached the assembly hall, speeches of welcome were
made; there was a short address extolling the work of the young people
and some special remarks on the Boy Scout movement. When the speaker
told how the Boy Scout idea “brings all classes of boys together, the
rich and the poor, and levels all to one plane of comradeship and
equality,” Art nudged Wart Ware and whispered:
“Unless you’ve been a real tough. Then it seems to level you up on top
o’ the other fellows.”
“And now,” concluded the speaker, “as appropriate to this day’s outdoor
program, it is my pleasure to announce that the association has
provided a number of beautiful prizes to be awarded the winners in an
athletic contest――‘track events’ I believe you call them. Of course
these events are open to all our young friends. But, I feel sure,” he
added with a beaming smile, “that none of us will be surprised if all
the prizes are captured by our young athletic friends and guests, the
Boy Scouts of Scottsville. We will now adjourn to the recreation field.”
If the fourteen Wolves had each and instantly swallowed a lump of
ice the chill that each felt at these words could not have been more
pronounced.
“It’s a put-up job,” whispered Sammy Addington.
“It winds up the last of our little ball o’ yarn,” added Wart under his
breath.
“What do you think o’ that?” gasped Art to Connie behind his hand.
“It’s like a gang o’ freshies tackling the varsity team at football. It
ain’t square!”
Connie looked at the near-by Coyotes. To tell the truth the latter
showed no assurance themselves. They were heavier and in the main,
older. And it needed but one look to reassure him that it was no
“put-up job.”
“They’re worse scared than we are,” answered Connie trying to reassure
his chums. “Anyway, we got to go against ’em. They ain’t no gettin’ out
o’ it. Buck up boys! If they’ve got a hundred yard dash Sammy ought to
scare some one. An’ if they high jump what’s the matter with Art!”
Just then the master of ceremonies was introduced to read the program
of events. When he reached the end and announced “Relay race, two
hundred and twenty yards each, four persons to a side,” Willie Bonner
caught Art and Connie by the knees.
“Let me in that,” he whispered. “I’ve done relays――nothin’ to get
excited about――but that’s my distance. Cheer up, fellows!”
With grit, if with but little confidence, the Wolves joined the
procession to the recreation green. The Coyotes, less familiar with
school and youthful athletics, followed with curious anticipation. The
program, while it included the main track contests, was not prepared
with a view to “team work” and there were no points for the first,
second and third. First prizes alone were provided for the winner in
each event.
“Remember,” urged Connie to his scouts, “we ain’t entered as a team.
Come to think of it we’re not fightin’ the Coyotes.”
“That’s all right,” replied Art, “if you want to look at it that way.
But I don’t. We’ll know and they’ll know. An’ ever’body’ll know when
it’s over what they took an’ what we took. An’ the patrol ’at gets the
most prizes’ll lick the other. An’ we’re licked now, don’t you forget
that. Who’s goin’ to put the twelve pound shot against Hank Milleson?”
“All right,” responded Connie, “let ’em. Muscle and bone ain’t the only
things.”
“But it’s something,” growled Art, “an’ most folks think it’s a whole
lot.”
For an hour the athletic meet aroused enthusiasm. Event after event was
run off with yells and cheers, and at noon when the big basket dinner
was announced in the Grove, fourteen sweating Wolves had what they had
feared――a decisive defeat. There were no tears and there was no anger
but there were set lips and flushed faces. Art’s tabulation of results
was as follows:
Events. Winner.
1 100 yard dash――Sammy Addington, Wolf; Time 11⅘ sec.
2 440 yard run――James Compton, Coyote; Time 1 min. 3⅖ sec.
3 880 yard run――Martin Clare, Coyote; Time 2 min. 45 sec.
4 1 mile run――Jack Chandler, Y. M. C. A.; Time 5 min. 56⅕ sec.
5 Putting 12 lb. shot――Henry Milleson, Coyote; Dist. 28 ft. 7½ in.
6 High jump――Job Wilkes, Coyote; height 4 ft. 11 in.
7 Running broad jump――Henry Milleson, Coyote; dist. 15 ft. 3 in.
8 Relay race, 220 yards each, 4 men on a side.
Sammy Addington, Wolf; }
David Cooke, Wolf; } Time
Lewis Ashwood, Wolf; } 1 min., 50⅖ sec.
William Bonner, Wolf; }
“There it is,” growled Art. “Five prizes to our two. An’ headin’ the
procession! An’ goin’ to the state fair to show off! Where do we get
off?”
Connie, who had been watching the Coyotes reforming company in silence,
turned suddenly to his companions. Instead of replying to Art’s
question, he exclaimed in a whisper, “Come here, kids! I’ve got an
idea. Mebbe it’s rotten, but listen!”
For several moments he spoke earnestly in whispers, glancing quickly
from one to the other. There were constant interruptions from the
puzzled Wolves and explanations in turn from Art and Wart. Then all
attention seemed centered in Willie Bonner. When he finally nodded his
head with an approving laugh Connie turned and walked quickly to the
Coyote crowd.
“Well, kids,” began the Wolf Patrol Leader, “I want to congratulate
you. You put it over us all right.”
“What d’you mean?” asked Hank Milleson.
“Why you beat us, fair and square.”
“Beat you?” continued Hank. “How’s that?”
“Didn’t you win five events to our two?”
“Five to two?” repeated Hank. “Oh, yes! Yes, I guess so. It was a lot
o’ fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” answered Connie. “But we don’t like to be licked. You fellows
got more muscle an’ wind ’an we have but we got a game we think we can
beat you at.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed several.
“It’s a scout game,” replied Connie. “You know ‘When Scout Meets
Scout’?”
“Sure,” every one answered.
“The first week in August we’re goin’ to camp out in the picnic woods
up on the river. If you kids think you can lick us at ever’thing, we
dare you to fix a day for a game of ‘When Scout Meets Scout,’ the
winners to be the champion Boy Scouts of Scottsville. How about it?”
“Purty soft,” exclaimed Nick Apthorp tantalizingly. “We’ll be there an’
we’ll be the champeens.”