EVERYBODY BUSY.
“That’s going to mean a pack of trouble, isn’t it, Hugh?” said Billy the
Wolf, as he counted the men who were passing, and found that they
numbered fully a score, with six armed guards who looked very grim and
determined.
“Yes,” replied the scout master, reluctantly, “I’m afraid it does spell
that, not only for the strikers’ families but to the company as well.”
“How’s that?” demanded Alec Sands, who had also pushed alongside so as
to see better, and at the same time learn what the leader of the Wolf
Patrol thought of the situation.
“Why,” replied Hugh, still speaking softly so that those on the road
might not overhear the sound of his voice, “there never was a bitter
strike yet when bullets flew but what the company involved suffered in
the end. Public opinion is against the use of force. There must sooner
or later be some way found to arbitrate all these labor troubles. Both
sides would be better off if that could be done.”
They remained very quiet as the several detachments passed along the
road. Perhaps it was fortunate that the presence of the boys was not
suddenly discovered by those guards. They looked as though they might
prove to be somewhat reckless in the use of the firearms they were
carrying; and since they knew the striking foreigners were camped
somewhere in this vicinity, they might have fired on the spur of the
moment and investigated afterward.
“I wonder if that’s the whole bunch?” remarked Tom Sherwood, looking up
the road as though under the impression that what they had seen was only
the advance guard of an invading army.
“They’d be apt to keep as much together as they could,” said Hugh, “so
as to be able to cow any demonstration the strikers might make; and on
that score I reckon we’ve seen their full strength.”
“Wow! if those excitable foreigners find out that strike-breakers are
being taken into the cement works by the back door, they’ll be hopping
mad, let me tell you,” observed Billy Worth, seriously.
The situation reminded some of the scouts of that time they had
accompanied the militia on their annual training trip, when a mock
battle was fought, with the boys rendering invaluable service as part of
the Signal Corps.
“Suppose the strikers and that crowd did happen to meet, Hugh; there’d
likely be a pitched battle, wouldn’t you think?” asked Bud Morgan.
“The chances lean that way,” he was told. “I’ve heard a good deal about
these impetuous foreigners. It seems that the women have more nerve than
the men. That may be because they feel the pinch of hunger sooner, and
see their children suffering. But they’ve always been known to push
their men into a fight, yes, and even take part in the row themselves,
with clubs, or any sort of thing they could handle.”
“Hugh, if something like that did come off while we were camped on the
Hurricane what could we do?” demanded Arthur Cameron.
“Oh, it would be out of the question for scouts to take sides in any
labor quarrel; we’d have to be strictly neutral!” the other hastened to
tell him.
“Shucks! I don’t mean it that way, Hugh,” continued the other, eagerly.
“Wouldn’t it be all right for us to try and help the under-dog in some
way? Of course we couldn’t fight, or anything like that, but what’s to
hinder us from trying to save the lives of any who might get hurt in the
riot?”
Hugh looked decidedly interested.
“That’s a suggestion, Arthur, that does your heart credit,” he hastened
to say with enthusiasm. “Certainly there could be no objection to our
playing the part of the Good Samaritan to any of the strikers who
happened to get wounded. That’s always in the province of scouts; the
main part of our manual is taken up with the idea that it’s noble to
stretch out a helping hand to those who are down.”
“There is likely to be no doctor near the foreign camps, I should say,”
Arthur added, as if the idea was fast taking a firm grip of his mind,
“and some of us have made a special study of treating wounds.”
Billy Worth also desired to be heard as favoring the cause of humanity.
“We always carry plenty of lint, bandages, liniment and salve along with
us when we go into camp. There’s never any knowing when an accident
might happen, with boys handling sharp axes recklessly, and cutting
themselves with knives. Of course I hope nothing is going to happen
between those two crowds; but if it does, I’m in favor of taking up
Arthur’s idea.”
As it was apparent that there were no more strike-breakers coming along
the road, at least just then, the boys presently began to pay attention
to the various matters they had planned to carry out during this, the
first full day in camp.
A couple of them had determined to try the fishing in the river, and as
the first requisite toward success they started to find some
angle-worms. This is an easy enough task around gardens and compost
heaps at home; but off in the woods one has to depend for the main
source of supply on grubs taken from decayed tree trunks, beetles,
grasshoppers, if they are to be had, and all such things.
Under some of the rocks the boys discovered a few ugly looking dobsons
or, as Bud called them, hellgamites. They had a black color, and were
armed with a pair of powerful mandibles or “pincers” that had to be
avoided unless one scorned the sharp snap they could give when angered.
After an hour or so of searching, enough bait of various kinds had been
found to answer their purpose. Then Bud and Billy walked down the river
a short distance until they came to a likely-looking place where a deep
pool seemed to promise them good results.
They had been wise enough to bring jointed rods along, as well as a
landing net, and all the paraphernalia needed for the work. Being
experienced bass fishermen, the two scouts knew how to go about the job;
and it was not long before they were enjoying the sport.
The Hurricane proved to have gamey bass in its slumbering pools, and the
varied kind of bait which the fishermen offered was very tempting to
their capricious appetites, for the boys inside of an hour had landed
quite a number of fighters, all of which compensated Bud and Billy for
their work in hunting for the bait.
Arthur Cameron had taken the tenderfoot under his wing. Harold Tremaine
had discovered how much enjoyment the others seemed to get from their
observation of things about them. He was earnestly desirous of emulating
their example, and since above all other things he fancied he would best
like being an expert at reading animal “signs,” Hugh had privately asked
Arthur to get him interested in that line.
They spent the livelong morning in the woods, searching everywhere for
tracks, and when finding them, trying to read a story in the marks as
made by the shy little animals. Sometimes they came upon evidences of a
tragedy, such as are constantly happening amidst these primitive
circles, where existence on the part of one always means annihilation of
another.
There was a creek that ran into the river a short distance above the
camp, and it was here that Arthur and his friend spent most of their
time. Along the banks, where it was narrow, they could easily find the
tracks of numerous small animals.
Arthur, from his longer experience and study, was able to point out
exactly what difference existed between the footprint of a mink and that
of a ’coon.
“This one here,” he told Harold as the morning waned, and they were
about returning to the camp for lunch, “bothers me. It doesn’t look like
anything I ever happened to run across before. Ralph Kenyon would know,
and if I can get him up here I’d like to see what he makes of it. Even
if he won’t come we can describe it to him.”
“But what do you think it can be?” insisted Harold.
“Well, there’s a badger and a fisher cat, besides an otter,” replied
Arthur, meditatively. “I know it isn’t made by a muskrat, because I’ve
seen heaps of their tracks, and I showed you several.”
“We must tell Billy Worth about the big greenback frogs there are up
here along the shores of this creek in places,” remarked Harold, as they
started down the winding creek, so as to strike its junction with the
river, as that would be the easiest way to keep from getting lost,
something Harold seemed to dislike the very thought of.
“Why, yes, Billy was always wild over his favorite dish of frog legs,”
Arthur admitted. “I’ve known him to spend half a day prowling about in a
marsh and working like everything, only to fetch in a couple of measly
little saddles that gave him just a few bites.”
“These fellows are whoppers up here,” the tenderfoot continued, “and he
could get a dozen if only he made decent shots with that little Flobert
rifle he carries with him. Now, I own up I don’t think I’d like frog
legs for a meal. I never tasted any, but then I haven’t been much of a
hand for eating oysters or clams, though I do like fish; and I hope the
boys manage to catch a mess to-day.”
“I’m in the same boat with you, Harold,” agreed the second scout; “but
if I get the chance, I’d like to try a taste. Hugh tells me they’re as
fine as spring chicken. It seems cruel to kill frogs, but when you want
them to eat what difference is it from stepping out in the barnyard and
chopping the head off the old family pet of a rooster when the parson
comes to dinner?”
Meanwhile the other boys had spent the fine summer morning in pursuits
that appealed especially to them. Two of them roamed the neighborhood
looking for birds of every description. They were deeply interested in
classifying the various species found in New England during the season,
with something of their habits as observed by amateur ornithologists.
This sort of thing entailed considerable work. It became necessary to do
more or less running in order to make observations, consultations over
the guide book that was carried along for reference, and climbing of
trees when a nest was discovered; so that, taken all in all, the morning
proved to be an exhausting one, even though enjoyable in the extreme.
Then there was another lot who had made a hobby of photography, and they
were forever getting some of the others to pose; or else seeking what
they termed wonderful views that might take the prize in a competition.
Hugh was interested in many things. He could have entered into each and
every separate pursuit undertaken by the others—from fishing, animal
tracking, bird lore, and even taking snapshot pictures; for at times he
had pursued each and every one of these with his usual vim.
On this morning, however, Hugh was apparently hardly feeling in a humor
to undertake any of these attractive things. He hung about the camp
doing many little chores that were calculated to add to the
attractiveness and comfort of the place during their term of occupation.
Once he found himself quite alone there, and when assured of that, Hugh
got out the little medicine kit that was a part and parcel of the
Oakvale Troop’s camp equipage, spending quite some time in overhauling
its contents.
From the significance attached to this action on the part of the scout
master, it might be suspected that Hugh could not get certain things out
of his mind. He feared that sooner or later there was bound to be a
collision of armed forces over there between the camp of the strikers,
and the cement works where the new men were being guarded by deputies
and guards; and the possibility of such a calamity gave Hugh Hardin much
cause for thought.
A number of times during the earlier part of the morning, had anyone
been observing the scout master, they might have seen him raise his head
and appear to listen intently.
This always happened when the wind picked up a little, and rustled
through the leaves of the trees overhead. It was also a significant fact
that the breeze was coming directly from the quarter where they had
reason to believe the shanties of the foreigners made up a settlement,
with the cement works not far beyond.
Some sound startled Hugh each time. He feared it might be a distant
shout, and that it would mean the beginning of an outbreak, the end of
which no person could prophesy. But fortunately these all proved to be
false alarms. The morning slipped away, and at noon all of the scouts
gathered to enjoy the fish that Billy and Bud had captured and prepared
for the pan.
They were pronounced simply elegant, and the successful fishermen told
they could duplicate their performance at any time they felt inclined
that way.
“Mebbe we will to-morrow,” said Billy; “but there’s a louder call for me
this same afternoon. Bullfrogs as big as puppies, and singing to get
knocked over, eh? Well, I’m much obliged for the information, Harold and
Arthur. If I’m lucky in my little hunt, you’ll be able to taste the
finest dish going to-night.”
While they ate their midday meal, everybody explained what they had
spent the morning in doing; and that added greatly to the enjoyment of
the occasion. And it had been amusing to see how Billy’s eyes danced
when told about those gigantic frogs hidden among the sedge grass along
the low shores of the creek, in places where it widened out and became
very shallow.
“I’m going to take off my shoes and wade wherever it happens that’s the
best way to get a crack at the sly old chaps,” Billy had told them; and
shortly afterward he was seen ambling away to where the creek joined the
river, meaning to follow this former stream up until he came to the
hunting-grounds described by the tracking party.
Now and then, during the next half hour, they heard a faint report,
which, of course, they knew was made by Billy’s small Flobert rifle.
“If he’s a dead shot,” Harold Tremaine was saying, “he must be getting
quite a load of game, for that makes about the tenth time I’ve heard him
fire.”
It was only a short time afterward when those in the camp suddenly
looked up and exchanged significant exclamations.
“He’s shouting about something, Hugh!” cried Bud Morgan, scrambling to
his feet.
“Sounds as if he might be in trouble of some kind!” added Harold
Tremaine, turning a little pale, for he was new to all this sort of
thing, and unused to excitement.