Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: HERVEY FIXED HIS EYES UPON THE ONE REMAINING LIGHT AND RAN
WITH UTTER DESPERATION. Tom Slade's Double Dare. Frontispiece--Page 40]
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TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE
BY PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT, TOM SLADE AT BLACK LAKE, ROY BLAKELEY,
ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY R. EMMETT OWEN
Published with the approval of THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
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COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY GROSSET & DUNLAP
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The life of a scout is bold,
so bold,
His adventures have never been told,
been told.
His legs they are bare,
And he won't take a dare,
The life of a scout is bold.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE LIGHT GOES OUT 1
II THE BRIDGE 10
III AN IMPORTANT MISSION 14
IV THE TREE 21
V WIN OR LOSE 26
VI SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 33
VII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 37
VIII ALMOST 44
IX THE HERO 51
X PROVEN A SCOUT 57
XI THE NEW SCOUT 63
XII THE GRAY ROADSTER 68
XIII THE UNKNOWN TRAIL 74
XIV ON THE SUMMIT 80
XV A SCOUT IS THOROUGH 85
XVI THE WANDERING MINSTREL 90
XVII TOM'S INTEREST AROUSED 97
XVIII TRIUMPH AND---- 101
XIX HERVEY SHOWS HIS COLORS 104
XX TOM ADVISES GOLIATH 116
XXI WORDS 123
XXII ACTION 130
XXIII THE MONSTER 133
XXIV GILBERT'S DISCOVERY 140
XXV A VOICE IN THE DARK 145
XXVI LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 151
XXVII TOM LEARNS SOMETHING 157
XXVIII THE BLACK SHEEP 164
XXIX STUNTS AND STUNTS 169
XXX THE DOUBLE DARE 173
XXXI THE COURT IN SESSION 181
XXXII OVER THE TOP 187
XXXIII QUESTIONS 198
XXXIV THE MESSAGE 205
XXXV THE HERO 209
XXXVI HARLOWE'S STORY 213
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TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE
CHAPTER I
THE LIGHT GOES OUT
If it were not for the very remarkable part played by the scouts in this
strange business, perhaps it would have been just as well if the whole
matter had been allowed to die when the newspaper excitement subsided.
Singularly enough, that part of the curious drama which unfolded itself
at Temple Camp is the very part which was never material for glaring
headlines.
The main occurrence is familiar enough to the inhabitants of the
neighborhood about the scout camp, but the sequel has never been told,
for scouts do not seek notoriety, and the quiet woodland community in
its sequestered hills is as remote from the turmoil and gossip of the
world as if it were located at the North Pole.
But I know the story of Aaron Harlowe from beginning to end, and the
part that Tom Slade played in it, and all the latter history of Goliath,
as they called him. And I purpose to set all these matters down for your
entertainment, for I think that first and last they make a pretty good
camp-fire yarn.
* * * * *
For a week it had been raining at Temple Camp, and the ground was soggy
from the continuous downpour. The thatched roofs of the more primitive
type of cabins looked bedrabbled, like the hair of a bather emerging
from the lake, and the more substantial shelters were crowded with the
overflow from these and from tents deserted by troops and patrols that
had been almost drowned out.
The grub boards out under the elm trees had been removed to the main
pavilion. The diving springboard was submerged by the swollen lake, the
rowboats rocked logily, half full of water, and the woods across the
lake looked weird and dim through the incessant stream of rain, rain,
rain.
The spring which supplied the camp and for years had been content to
bubble in its modest abode among the rocks, burst forth from its shady
and sequestered prison and came tumbling, roaring down out of the woods,
like some boisterous marauder, and rushed headlong into the lake.
Being no respecter of persons, the invader swept straight through the
cabin of the Silver Fox Patrol, and the Silver Fox Patrol took up their
belongings and went over to the pavilion where they sat along the deep
veranda with others, their chairs tilted back, watching the gloomy scene
across the lake.
"This is good weather for the race," said Roy Blakeley.
"What race?" demanded Pee-wee Harris.
"The human race. No sooner said than stung. It's good weather to study
monotony."
"All we can do is eat," said Pee-wee.
"Right the first time," Roy responded. "There's only one thing you don't
like about meals and that's the time between them."
"What are we going to do for two hours, waiting for supper?" a scout
asked.
"Search _me_," said Roy; "tell riddles, I guess. If we had some ham we'd
have some ham and eggs, if we only had some eggs. We should worry. It's
going to rain for forty-eight hours and three months more. That's what
that scout from Walla-Walla told me."
"That's a dickens of a name for a city," said Westy Martin of Roy's
patrol.
"It's a nice place, they liked it so much they named it twice," Roy
said.
"There's a troop here all the way from Salt Lake," said Dorry Benton.
"They ought to have plenty of pep," said Roy.
"There's a troop came from Hoboken, too," Will Dawson observed.
"I don't blame them," Roy said. "There's a troop coming from Kingston
next week. They've got an Eagle Scout, I understand."
"Don't you suppose I know that?" Pee-wee shouted. "Uncle Jeb had a
letter from them yesterday; I saw it."
"Was it in their own handwriting?"
"What do you mean?" Pee-wee demanded disgustedly. "How can a troop have
a handwriting?"
"They must be very ignorant," Roy said. "Can you send an animal by
mail?"
"Sure you can't!" Pee-wee shouted.
"That's where you're wrong," said Roy. "I got a letter with a seal on
it."
"Can you unscramble eggs?" Pee-wee demanded.
"There you go, talking about eats again. Can't you wait two hours?"
There was nothing to do but wait, and watch the drops as they pattered
down on the lake.
"This is the longest rain in history except the reign of Queen
Elizabeth," Roy said. "If I ever meet Saint Swithin----"
This sort of talk was a sample of life at Temple Camp for seven days
past. Those who were not given to jollying and banter had fallen back on
checkers and dominos and other wild sports. A few of the more
adventurous and reckless made birchbark ornaments, while those who were
in utter despair for something to do wrote letters home.
Several dauntless spirits had braved the rain to catch some fish, but
the fish, themselves disgusted, stayed down at the bottom of the lake,
out of the wet, as Roy said. It was so wet that even the turtles
wouldn't come out without umbrellas.
Rain, rain, rain. It flowed off the pavilion roof like a waterfall. It
shrunk tent canvas which pulled on the ropes and lifted the pegs out of
the soggy ground. It buried the roads in mud. Hour in and hour out the
scouts sat along the back of the deep veranda, beguiling their enforced
leisure with banter and riddles and camp gossip.
On Friday afternoon a brisk wind arose and blew the rain sideways so
that most of the scouts withdrew from their last entrenchment and went
inside. You have to take off your hat to a rain which can drive a scout
in out of the open.
It began blowing in across the veranda in fitful little gusts and within
an hour the wind had lashed itself into a gale. A few of the hardier
spirits, including Roy, held their ground on the veranda, squeezing back
against the shingled side whenever an unusually severe gust assailed
them.
There is no such thing as twilight in such weather, but the sodden sky
grew darker, and the mountainside across the lake became gloomier and
more forbidding as the night drew on apace.
The few remaining stragglers on the veranda watched this darkening scene
with a kind of idle half interest, ducking the occasional gusts.
"How would you like to be out on the lake now?" one asked.
The question directed their gaze out upon the churning, black sheet of
water before them. The lake, lying amid those frowning, wooded hills,
was somber enough at all times, and a quiet gloom pervaded it which
imparted a rare charm. But now, in the grip of the rain and wind, the
enshrouding night made the lake seem like a place haunted, and the
enclosing mountains desolate and forlorn.
"I'll swim across with anybody," said Hervey Willetts.
He belonged in a troop from western New York and reveled in stunts which
bespoke a kind of blithe daring. No one took him up and silence reigned
for a few minutes more.
"There's the little light on the top of the mountain," said Will Dawson
of Roy's patrol. "If there's anybody up there, I hope he has an
umbrella."
But of course there was no one up there. For weeks the tiny light away
up on the summit of that mountain wilderness had puzzled the scouts of
camp. They had not, indeed, been able to determine that it was a light;
it seemed rather a tiny patch of brightness which was always brighter
when the moon shone. This had led to the belief that it was caused by
some kind of natural phenomena.
The scouts fixed their gaze upon it, watching it curiously for a few
moments.
"It isn't a reflection, that's sure," said Roy, "or we wouldn't see it
on a night like this."
"It's a phosphate," said Pee-wee.
"It's a chocolate soda," said Roy.
"You're crazy!" Pee-wee vociferated. "Phosphate is something that shines
in the dark."
"You mean phosphorus," said Westy Martin.
That seemed a not unlikely explanation. But the consensus of opinion in
camp was that the bright patch was the reflection of some powerful light
in the low country on the opposite side of the mountain.
"It's a mystery," said Pee-wee, "that's what it is."
Suddenly, while they gazed, it went out. They watched but it did not
come again. And the frowning, jungle-covered, storm beaten summit was
enshrouded again in ghostly darkness. And the increasing gale beat the
lake, and the driven rain assailed the few stragglers on the veranda
with lashing fury. And across the black water, in that ghoul-haunted,
trackless wilderness, could be heard the sound of timber being rent in
splinters and of great trees crashing down the mountainside.
Suddenly a word from Westy Martin aroused them all like a cannon shot.
"Look!" he shouted, "_Look! Look at the springboard!_"
Every one of them looked, speechless, astonished, aghast, at the sight
which they beheld before their very eyes.