The reason that I ended that chapter was because I had to go to supper.
So now I’ll tell you about the signal. If we had only had a tin can with
some kind of a cover to lay over it, it would have been easy. But we
hadn’t any so this is the way we did. After the fire was burning up we
piled some of the damp grass and stuff on top of it and that made a
smudge that went way up in the air. I guess any one could see that
smudge maybe fifty miles, especially on account of it being up on the
top of a mountain.
I said, “All we need now is a cloth or something to spread over it so we
can divide the letters.” Because you know we use the Morse code.
So Brent said we could have his mackinaw jacket and he sent Pee-wee down
to the brook to soak it in the water so that it wouldn’t catch fire.
That was the beginning of Brent Gaylong’s bad luck. Crinkums, that
fellow must have been born on a Friday—anyway, he was born on a Friday
that day, I guess. But one good thing about Friday, it’s the day before
Saturday. That’s why there are fifty-two Good Fridays.
So then we sent the message. The first word was _Uncle_, so to spell
that we let the smudge rise for just a second, then laid Brent’s jacket
over it for about three seconds, then let it rise for another second,
then waited about three seconds more and then let it rise for, oh, I
guess about ten seconds, maybe. That made two dots and a dash in the
Morse code and it made the letter U good and big, cracky, bigger than
you could make it on any blackboard, as big as the whole sky. Maybe it
wouldn’t mean anything to you, but that’s because you’re not a scout.
But anyway it meant U. I don’t mean it meant you, but I mean it meant U.
After that we made the other letters in the word Uncle—N-K-L-E—I don’t
mean K, I mean C.
Then after we’d waited about a minute so as to separate the words we
spelled T-O-M, and after that there was a big blot on our writing
(that’s what Rossie said), because Brent’s mackinaw jacket burned up. He
said he was sorry, because there were some peanuts in one of the
pockets.
Anyway he said he was willing to die for the cause, so he took off his
khaki shirt and after Pee-wee went down and soaked it in the brook, we
used that to separate the words and letters. Maybe you’ll say that kind
of writing isn’t very neat but we knew that it could be seen for miles
and miles and that if the boy scouts in Grumpy’s Cross-roads saw it and
read it, they’d tell Major Grumpy and he’d say the scouts were all
right. Because that was our idea, we wanted those other scouts to get
the credit.
I guess maybe it took a half an hour to send that message and it didn’t
look much like a message to us. You’ve got to get away off if you want
to read a smudge signal. A smudge signal is no good for a fellow that’s
near-sighted. When we were all finished, this is what we had printed in
the sky:
Uncle Tom show will be given as announced.
Deny rumors.
Boy Scouts of America.
Pee-wee wanted to put in something about foiling the railroad strikers,
but Brent said if we made the message any longer he wouldn’t have any
clothes left. Harry said that if the scouts at Grumpy’s Cross-roads got
that message and delivered it to old Grump, that old Grump would
surrender unconditionally. So maybe we had done a good turn for all we
knew. Even if the telegraph operator at Grumpy’s Cross-roads should see
that smudge he’d read the message, all right. But we said that more
likely he’d he asleep and that scouts are always up early because up at
Temple Camp Uncle Jeb Rushmore (he’s camp manager) is always telling us
that the early bird catches the first worm. But, gee whiz, if I were the
first worm I’d stay in bed and then the early bird wouldn’t catch me.
That’s what Pee-wee calls logic. That’s one thing he’s crazy
about,—logic. Logic and Charlie Chaplin. He likes girls, too. He says
they always smile at him. Gee whiz, can you blame them? It’s a wonder
they don’t laugh out loud.
XVI—BRENT’S AMBITION
It was some job picking our way down that mountain. We could see the
road and the machines away down below us and the machines looked like
toy autos. Brent and Harry and Pee-wee and I were together and Brent
talked a lot of that nonsense like he always does. Pee-wee had the
convict’s suit rolled up tight and tied with a couple of thin willow
twigs. If you wet them they’re just as good as cord; you can even tie
them in a knot. He carried the bundle on the end of his scout staff and
he had his scout staff over his shoulder. He looked so important you’d
think he had just captured the convict, too.
Brent said, “That’s what I call real adventure; escaping from a prison
and beating it off to some lonesome mountain and being taken away in an
airplane. That fellow has old Monte Cristo beaten twenty ways. Some
convicts are lucky. I’d like to be that chap.” That’s just the way he
talked.
Harry said, “You might forge a couple of checks if you happen to think
of it sometime.”
Brent said in that funny way of his, “If I could only be sure of
escaping and being carried off by an airplane. But it would be just my
luck to—to——”
“Languish,” Pee-wee shouted; “that’s what they do in jails—languish.”
“And just serve out my term studying logic,” Brent said. “But if I
thought there’d be a chance to escape, I think I’d—let’s see, I think
I’d—what do you think of counterfeiting, Harry?”
“Burglary’s better,” Harry said.
“It’s the dream of my life to be a convict,” Brent kept up. “These
little crimes don’t amount to anything; what I’d like to do is to hit
the high spots, get sent up for life, and then escape in a boat or an
airplane. Somebody could send me a file or a saw in a bunch of flowers.
What do you say? This convict is having the time of his life. That’s the
life—being a fugitive.”
Harry said, “Well, I hope you get your wish.”
Pee-wee said, “You’re crazy, that’s what I say.”
I said, “Gee whiz, there’s fun enough making a cross country trip in
four autos and running into a stranded Uncle Tom’s Cabin Company with
bloodhounds and everything, without being sent to jail.”
Brent said, “Well, I can’t help it; that’s the way I feel. I envy that
convict. I long to languish in a dungeon cell and file away the bars in
the dead of night and kill three keepers and escape in an airplane.
That’s living.”
“Good night,” I said, “not for the three keepers.”
Harry said, “Well, all things come round to him that waits. My ambition
is to be wrecked at sea. How about you, Roy?”
I said, “My ambition is to foil old Major Grumpy and make him fall for
the scouts.”
“No pep to it,” Brent said; “a dark and dismal dungeon with rats poking
around on the stone floor, that’s _my_ speed.”
Cracky, that fellow’s awful funny.
“You’d never get any dessert,” Pee-wee shouted.
Brent said, “Who wants dessert when he can get a crust of bread and a
mug of water?”
“I do,” the kid shouted. “I want two helpings.”
That was _his_ ambition.
XVII—A SIDE SHOW
Pretty soon you’ll see why I named this chapter “A Side Show.” When we
got down to the road all those show people were sitting around on the
rocks talking and laughing and telling Westy lots of funny adventures
that they had had. Oh, boy, if I wasn’t a boy scout I’d like to be in an
Uncle Tom’s Cabin Company, that’s one sure thing. That’s _my_ ambition.
Jails and dungeons may be all right, I’m not saying, but anyway, I’d
like to be in a show—especially one that gets stranded. They said that
they could see the signal away up on the mountain, and the man that had
to beat Uncle Tom, he was an awful nice man, he said he could read most
all of it because he used to be a telegraph operator. But he said he
liked beating Uncle Tom better. Uncle Tom said he didn’t mind being
beaten once a day but he didn’t like matinees.
Now I’m going to tell you about how we all got separated
together—that’s what Pee-wee said. When we were all ready to go, Harry
couldn’t start the engine of the van. He said, “Brent, I wish you’d take
a squint at this motor; it heats up and the water boils over.”
Brent said, “I think the timer must have been set by Pee-wee’s watch.”
Pretty soon he said he guessed it was just a short circuit.
“Anyway, that’s better than a long one,” Pee-wee shouted.
Pretty soon Brent said he thought the coil was running the battery down.
Harry said he didn’t blame the coil.
Then Brent said there was a leak of current somewhere, but that he
couldn’t trace it. I said, “Let one of Eliza’s bloodhounds try; maybe he
can trace it.” He said anyway the battery was discharging; believe me,
if I’d had my way I’d have discharged the whole engine.
After a while Brent got it started but he said it wasn’t running right
and he guessed he’d have to get two new plugs. So then we looked at our
map to find out if there was a village anywhere near along that road
where there might be a garage. Because Brent said there ought to be more
grease in the differential, too. But mostly, he said, one of the plugs
wouldn’t fire the charge.
Westy said, “If the plug won’t fire it, why don’t you get the battery to
discharge it?”
Now when we looked at our map we found that about half a mile east of
that mountain a road branched off from the road we were on and went
through a place named Barrow’s Homestead. It didn’t bother to stop at
Barrow’s Homestead, that road didn’t, but it went on and formed a, you
know, a what-do-you-call-it, a _junction_, with the other road three or
four miles farther along. It was just a kind of a loop, that road was,
so as to take in Barrow’s Homestead. Only that road was pretty rough.
Brent said, “I dare say we can find a young garage at that place; there
are bandits everywhere in the west. If you say so, I’ll drive along that
road and meet you where the roads join.”
Harry said, “I guess that’s the best thing to do—for the rest of us to
keep to the smooth, short road with the touring cars. When we get to the
junction of the two roads we’ll wait for you there as long as we think
it’s safe to wait. If you don’t show up by ten o’clock, say, we’ll jog
along and meet you at the Veterans’ Reunion at Grumpy’s Cross-roads. We
don’t want to run any chance of not getting these people there on time.
Uncle Tom has got to be thrashed this afternoon at any cost.” Then he
asked Uncle Tom if he wanted a cigarette. That man was awful nice—the
man that played Uncle Tom. He said he had been thrashed twice a day for
three years, except on Sundays. Harry said it would be a good thing if
that happened to a lot of us fellows, especially me. Anyway I’d rather
be Eliza and be chased by ferocious bloodhounds. That’s what Mr.
Abbington called them—ferocious.
Now as soon as it was decided that Brent Gaylong should drive the van
along that other road, up jumped our young hero and shouted, “I’ll go
with you; maybe they sell ice cream sodas at that place.”
As soon as he mentioned ice cream sodas all the other fellows said
they’d go—except I didn’t. Because I’m not crazy about an ice cream
soda. I like three or four of them though.
Harry said, “Well, it looks like a mutiny and I guess we’ll have to lock
every one of you in the van.”
By that time, Pee-wee was up on the seat of the van and he shouted, “I
wouldn’t mute; I’m already here and I’m going to stay here!”
Harry said, “Nobody would ever think of the word mute in connection with
you; stay where you are and we’ll be glad to get rid of you, and Roy
too, if he wants to go.”
I said, “The pleasure is mine, I go where duty calls.”
“You mean you go where ice cream sodas call,” the kid shouted at me.
I said, “Well, for goodness’ sake, chuck that bundle inside the van and
give me a chance to sit down, will you?” Because even still he had that
convict’s suit close by him on the seat as if he was afraid somebody
would get it away from him. “What are you going to do with it?” I said.
“Hang it up in the parlor when you get home?”
So then I climbed up and chucked the bundle into the van through the
little window right behind the seat. Brent sat down between Pee-wee and
me, and thus we started off. That’s a peach of a word—_thus_. For a
little way we could look across to the other road and see the three
touring cars filled with the Uncle Tom’s Cabin people and the other
fellows of my patrol. Mr. Abbington was sitting with Harry and he looked
awful funny with his high hat on.
All of a sudden, _good night_, that bloodhound that had been up on the
mountain with us came tearing across from the other road. I guess he
wanted to go with us. He clambered almost up to the seat and began
sniffing around Brent. I bet he liked him on account of Brent’s being so
crazy about adventures, hey?
Brent said, “You go back where you belong, old Snoozer. Who do you think
I am? Eliza?”
Then Mr. Abbington began calling him and the dog didn’t seem to be able
to decide what to do.
“I hear you calling me,” Brent said; “go on back, Snoozer; we’ll see you
later.”
So then the dog went back but I guess he didn’t want to. Gee whiz, you
couldn’t blame him. Because one thing sure, if you stick to Brent
Gaylong you’re pretty sure to see some fun. Believe _me_, that fellow’s
middle name is adventure. Just you wait and see.