WORDS
After he had prepared for supper he went up the hill to the cabin
occupied by Mr. Carroll's troop. It was pleasantly located on a knoll
and somewhat removed from the main body of camp. Mr. Carroll was himself
about to start down for supper.
"H'lo, Mr. Carroll," said Tom; "alone in your glory?"
"The boys have gone down," said Mr. Carroll. "They'll be sorry to have
missed a visit from Tom Slade."
"Comfortable?" Tom asked.
"Couldn't be more so, thank you. We can almost see home from up here,
though the boys prefer not to look in that direction."
Tom glanced about. "Sometimes new troops are kind of backward to ask for
things," he said. "We're not mind readers, you know. So sing out if
there's anything you want."
"Thank you."
"Kid comfortable?"
"Yes, he's giving his attention to pie and awards."
"Hm," said Tom, seating himself on a stump. "Pie's all right, but you
want to have these fellows go easy on awards. The boys here in camp are
a bunch of jolliers. Of course, you know the handbook----"
"Oh, yes."
"And you know Tyson doesn't stand to win any medal for anything he did
last night. Strictly speaking, he saved your lives, I suppose, but it
isn't exactly a case for an award."
"Oh, mercy, no."
"I'm glad you see it that way, Mr. Carroll. Because sometimes scouts get
to enjoying themselves so much here, that they forget what's in the
handbook. These things go by rules, you know. I like Gilbert and I
wouldn't want him to get any crazy notions from what these old timers
say. There's some talk among the boys----"
"I think the little fellow's responsible for that," Mr. Carroll
laughed. "Gilbert is level-headed and sensible."
"You bet," said Tom. "Well, then, it's all right, and there won't be any
broken hearts. I've seen more broken hearts here at camp than broken
heads.... You're a new troop, aren't you?" he queried.
"Oh, yes, we haven't got our eyes open yet."
"Goliath seems to have his mouth open for business."
"Yes," Mr. Carroll laughed. "Shall we stroll down to supper?"
"I've got one more call to make if you'll excuse me," said Tom.
"Come up again, won't you?"
"Oh, yes, I make inspection every day. You'll be sick of the sight of
me."
He was off again, striding down the little hill. He passed among the
tents, around Visitors' Bungalow, and toward the cabins in Good Turn
Grove. Somewhat removed from these (a couple of good turns from them, as
Roy Blakeley said) was the cabin of Mr. Denny's troop.
The boys were getting ready to go down and they greeted Tom cheerily.
"Where's Hervey?" he asked.
He had not seen Hervey since late the previous night, just after
returning from the mountain. Hervey was then so exhausted as hardly to
know him. The young assistant fancied a sort of constraint among the
boys and he thought that maybe Hervey's condition had taken an alarming
turn.
"Ask Mr. D.," said one of the scouts.
"H'lo, Mr. Denny," said Tom, stepping into one of the cabins. No one was
there but the scoutmaster. "Where's our wandering boy to-night?"
"He has been dismissed from camp, I'm sorry to say," said Mr. Denny.
"Sit down, won't you?"
Tom could hardly speak for astonishment.
"You mean the camp--down at the office----"
"Oh, no, I sent him home. It was just between him and myself."
"Oh, I see," said Tom, a trifle relieved, apparently. "It wasn't on
account of his hurt?"
"Oh, no, he's all right. He just disobeyed me, that's all. That sort of
thing couldn't go on, you know. It was getting worse."
Mr. Denny had now had a chance to review his conduct and he found it in
all ways justified. He was glad that he had not weakened. Moreover,
there was fresh evidence.
"Only just now," he said, "one of the scoutmasters came to me with a
notice from the bulletin board utterly ruined by a tomato which Hervey
threw. He was greatly annoyed."
"Sure," said Tom.
"I don't exactly blame you, Slade----"
"Me?"
"But you took Hervey with you across the lake. He had promised me not to
leave camp. Where he went, I don't know----"
"You _don't_?"
"No, and I don't care. He was picked up by the people in the bus, and if
it hadn't been for that I suppose I'd be answerable to his parents for
his death. He was very insolent to me."
"He didn't say----"
"Oh, no, he didn't say anything. He assumed an air of boyish
independence; I don't know that I hold that against him."
"But he didn't tell you where he had been--or anything?"
"Why, no. I had no desire to hear that. His fault was in _starting_. It
made no difference where he went."
"Oh."
For a few seconds Tom said nothing, only drummed with his fingers on the
edge of the cot on which he sat.
"This is a big surprise to me," he finally said.
"It is a very regrettable circumstance to me," said Mr. Denny.
There ensued a few seconds more of silence. The boys outside could be
heard starting for supper.
Tom was the first to speak. "Of course you won't think I'm trying to
butt in, Mr. Denny, but there's a rule that the camp can call on all its
people in an emergency. The first year the camp opened we had a bad fire
here and every kid in the place was set to work. After that they made a
rule. Sometimes things have to be done in a hurry. I took Hervey and a
couple of others across the lake, because I knew something serious had
happened over there. I think I had a right to do that. But there's
something else. Hervey didn't tell you everything. You said you didn't
want him to."
"He has never told me everything. I had always been in the dark
concerning him. This tomato throwing makes me rather ashamed, too."
"Yes," said Tom, "that's bad. But will you listen to me if I tell you
the whole of that story--the whole business? I've been away from camp
all day. I only got here fifteen minutes ago. I know Hervey's a queer
kid--hard to understand. I don't know why he didn't speak out----"
"Why, it was because I told him it wouldn't make any difference," said
Mr. Denny, a bit nettled. "The important point was known to me and that
was that he disobeyed me. I don't think we can gain anything by talking
this over, Slade."
"Then you won't listen to me, Mr. Denny?"
"I don't think it would be any use."
Tom paused a moment. He was just a bit nettled, too. Then he stood. And
then, just in that brief interval, his lips tightened and his mouth
looked just as it used to look in the old hoodlum days--rugged, strong.
The one saving, hopeful feature which Mr. Ellsworth, his old
scoutmaster, had banked upon then in that sooty, unkempt countenance.
They were the lips of a bulldog:
"All right, Mr. Denny," he said respectfully.