THE MESSAGE OF THE FLAME
Gordon made a bee-line through the woods in the direction of the hill,
and presently overtook several of the boys, one of whom carried a
lantern. When they reached the brow of the eminence, they found that
preparations, under Al’s direction, were rapidly going forward.
A lone sapling stood on the summit, and about ten feet from this they
had planted a pole eight or nine feet high, steadying it by lines
running diagonally to the ground and attached to pegs. From the top of
this pole to a branch equally high on the sapling ran a stout line on
which had been placed two metal rings (evidently all that were
available), and some of the boys were now busily binding willow withes
around the line, so that presently the rope had half a dozen rings of
one sort or another encircling it. The moon had gone behind clouds which
were fast covering the sky, and the boys worked almost wholly by the
light of their lantern. But they worked rapidly, and within a few
minutes a large square of tent canvas had been hung from the line, thus
forming a curtain which could be shifted back and forth. Its position,
facing a little north of east, was determined by the compass, and was,
of course, accurate so far as compass points were concerned. But whether
Harry Arnold was precisely northeast, or precisely east, and just how
far and in just what direction, there was no telling.
Gordon looked down from the hill, over the low-lying woods which
stretched eastward, a little north of where he had found his way
through. He thought he could discern a shadowy mass which seemed to
appear and then dissolve in the distance, and which he took to be Dibble
Mountain. And beneath him he saw a faint gray band which he knew to be
the road. This, he now knew, inscribed a great curve through the woods
and came out about a quarter of a mile above his intended meeting-place
with Arnold. He meant, as soon as this signaling was finished, to set
forth along the road toward Dibble Mountain.
As he watched the rapid and rather elaborate preparations, he became
conscious of a feeling of responsibility and accompanying apprehension
that he might be held accountable in some degree if the signal failed to
bear results. So troubled was he that he did not at once notice the boy
who was kneeling behind the canvas and littering the ground about him
with burned matches.
“Will you let me try it?” said Gordon, finally, coming out of his
absorption.
“Sure,” answered the boy, rising with alacrity.
Gathering a number of chips which had been scattered by the ax in
trimming the pole, Gordon knelt, crunched a piece of paper into a
little, loose wad, and quickly, daintily constructed a tiny pyramid
around and above it. Over this pyramid he made a larger one, keeping by
the necessary fuel for one still larger. The process reminded one of the
wooden egg enclosed by a larger one, and that by a still larger one,
often seen at Easter time.
Now his small hands formed a partial dome over the outer pyramid; now
there came a crackling and a little smoke, now the third pyramid was
quickly built over the second, and Gordon watched it intently while a
few little snakes of flame squirmed out from their inner cage. He paid
no heed to the admiring comments of the boys about him. Like a true
artist, his mind was fixed upon his task, not upon his audience. Now his
hand groped behind him for some larger twigs. One or two he threw away
(the boys did not know why). With those which met his approval still
another pyramid was formed to receive the flames which were now escaping
freely from the third pyramid. For a moment he studied the little mass
intently, holding several sticks in his left hand. The thought came over
him that presently his fire would flash the first sign in a message to
his friend, somewhere beyond those thick woods, waiting, or perhaps
searching, in the darkness. And oh, how he hoped the fire would be seen,
but scarcely dared to hope it would be understood.
Presently, satisfied, he rose, and pulling an apple from his pocket
refreshed himself with a gigantic bite.
“You’re all right,” said the tall Al, slapping him on the shoulder.
Gordon smiled his broadest scout smile, with unconcealed pleasure at the
older boy’s praise. He was the smallest boy in the group, and there was
something about him which drew the others irresistibly to him.
“You’re a wonder!” shouted one, with genuine enthusiasm.
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon, as he took another huge bite. I do not
know where he got the apple.
The fire was now coming on famously. “Pull her over,” called a boy,
grabbing the curtain. “Never mind the regular call signal—let’s begin
and run her across the flame quick for four or five minutes—that’ll do
to attract attention.”
This advice was taken, for all the nice points and rules of the Morse
signal code cannot be observed with a bonfire on a hilltop. They pulled
the curtain rapidly from side to side, alternately revealing and
concealing the blaze, and skillfully relieving each other from time to
time, for it required some strength and a good deal of agility.
As Gordon stood watching them, he was roused by a light hand on his
shoulder and turned to find Mr. Wade standing by his side.
“You mustn’t expect too much of your friend,” he said in a kind of
reassuring tone. “It’s possible he’ll see this, but there’s many a slip,
you know, betwixt the cup and the lip. Anyway, it won’t be his fault.”
“He can do ’most anything, sir,” said Gordon, earnestly. “Honest, he
can. If he only sees it he’ll—”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Wade; “and this is good practice for the
boys, anyway.”
“But I’m going to start along toward Dibble Mountain just as soon as
they get through this. He must have been waiting a couple of hours
already.”
“Better stay with us till morning,” said Mr. Wade; “you’ve done enough
for one night.”
Just then Al came up to ask about Walter Lee, the injured boy.
“He’s doing well,” said the scoutmaster. “The wound isn’t deep, and
seems to be clean, thanks to our young runner here. It bled a good deal,
though, and his ankle is strained. The bridge was tampered with, and he
must have gone down as soon as he set foot on it. I was wondering who
those fellows were who dropped in on us the other day. Walter’s pockets
were empty; he says he had forty dollars. I’ve sent Winthrop and John
down to Ti to notify the authorities and get a doctor. I guess they can
pick their way there all right; I told them not to try any Gordon Lord
short-cuts. Walter’ll be all right. Here, Frank,” he called, “let Al
stand near you with the message in code form. Let’s see that. That’s all
right. Now, just call the code signs and cross them off as they’re
shown—something may come of this yet.”
He started for the camp again, and it seemed to Gordon that he took but
secondary interest in the signaling. He did not know whether to be glad
or sorry for this skepticism. He felt that if the plan failed to carry,
as he feared it would, it would be well to have the head of the camp
there to acquit Harry of any blame. Gordon did not give a serious
thought to the impression he might have made in this strange camp; but
he was very jealous for Harry’s reputation, especially after the puff he
had given it, and he wanted more than he could tell to have his friend
do the improbable and make good. He had an unselfish and unqualified
admiration for Harry, and he was sorely troubled now lest his hero fail
in the face of these Albany scouts.
The first letter of the message had been stamped upon the darkness when
Gordon came out of his preoccupation, and he watched the rest of the
work with keen and nervous interest.
“Haul her over, Bill—now back again—cross off your dot, Al—wait a
second now—let her go again—that’s the ticket. Hold on now—three
seconds—there you are. Now show her for two even spaces; now
wait—three seconds—don’t be in too much of a hurry; he’ll wait if he
sees it. Let her go again—quick now—do this one careful. Read her off,
Al, wake up—short flash—wait—long flash—wait, wait! Another long
flash now—wait—now a short one. There you are, fellows, printed right
plank against the side of old Dibble Mountain, C-A-M-P! Hurrah for the
Raven signal corps!”
All this involved a good deal of exercise on the part of several boys,
but nothing happened as a result. Gordon did not exactly expect anything
to happen, but it seemed like a good deal of energy wasted.
On the hilltop all was bustle and excitement, but the dark woods below
and beyond, and the open lowland stretching farther still to the shore
of the great lake, took not the slightest notice. Gordon looked over
Al’s shoulder at the message. They had not done one-tenth of it. He
wondered how the flashes would look from a distance and thought how much
concentration of mind it would require to make head or tail of it.
Though he was a scout of the scouts, he found that he had to strain his
faith a little to believe that anything could really come of this. And
he was conscious of almost a feeling of regret that he had given quite
such a glowing account of Harry.
A fresh relay of boys had started the second word.
“Wake up, Al—spin her off!”
“Four short flashes,” said Al.
“Four it is; here she goes—over and back—over and back—wait!”
“One short,” called Al.
“That’s E—now for the next.”
“Short, long, short,” called Al.
“Pull her over, Ed—now back—now a long one—shut her off! Now a short
one. Next letter, Al.”
“Short flash.”
“Correct for Albert. Over and back—seat your partner!”
“Camp here!” shouted a boy, enthusiastically.
Thus the work went cheerfully on. It required precision, exertion. It
was close to half an hour when they reached the end.
“How do you spell your name?” said Al; “G-o-r-d-o-n?”
“Put it ‘Kid,’” Gordon answered; “that’s shorter and it’s what he always
calls me.”
A sudden inspiration seized Al. “Here,” he said; “come and sign your own
name.”
Gordon hesitated, then went forward. The boys, catching the spirit of
the thing, fell back, while Al himself took the other end of the
curtain. Gordon hauled the canvas over, revealing the flame long enough
to indicate the dash. Then came the short flash, then the dash again. He
almost heard Harry’s quick, low voice, saying, “Hello, Kid,” as he
paused before the middle letter.
“Forward and back,” called a boy.
Gordon’s scout smile broadened into its wonted crescent as his small
hands worked the two short flashes.
“Hurrah for the Oakwoods!” several fellows shouted, and Gordon smiled
still more broadly, as he always did when encouraged or jollied or
praised.
“Dash and two dots,” said Al.
And the name that Harry Arnold always called him had been flashed forth
over woods and valley and meadow, toward the now invisible Dibble
Mountain and Lake Champlain.
That night the Ravens, of whom Al Wilson was patrol leader, doubled up
with the Elephants. The Elephant patrol consisted of smaller boys and
was sometimes facetiously called the infant class. The whole six of them
were tenderfeet with a vengeance, and Mr. Wade usually slept in their
tent. This night, however, he shooed the Ravens into the Elephants’
quarters so that Walter Lee, himself, and the “First Aid” boy might have
a tent to themselves. But some of the Ravens roosted out under the
trees.
The Elephant patrol was a great institution, and their leader, Frankie
Haines, was fully aware of this fact. He attended all the officers’
meetings in the tepee, and on one memorable occasion had sat on a troop
committee. The Elephants’ flag was flauntingly displayed outside their
stronghold; they took a mighty pride in their name and were very
clannish, and hung much together. They were all very punctilious about
their uniforms. Indeed, they furnished so much wholesome entertainment
to the third patrol that the boys of that division had found it
impossible to limit their smiles to the requirements of Section 8, Scout
Law, and were known as the Laughing Hyenas.
It was with the Hyenas that Gordon was to spend the rest of the night.
It was with difficulty that he had been persuaded to give up his
intention of going in search of Harry; but Mr. Wade realized that he
stood in need of rest. To save Harry Arnold from anxiety, however, he
offered to send two of the camp boys to the meeting place at Dibble
Mountain. So Cattell and another boy had started north along the road,
it being agreed that if they found no trace of Harry near the junction
of the two roads they should return to camp early in the morning.
If the Laughing Hyenas had been cast to sleep with the Elephants, there
is no telling what might have happened. But the Elephants and the Ravens
got along very well considering, and it was as good as a circus to see
the older boys coming in, one by one, and making the full salute to
Frankie.
The Elephants had looked upon Gordon as in some measure their especial
property, and felt that his glory was their glory, for he was younger
than any of the camp boys save themselves, and small for his age. It
would have pleased them to extend the hospitality of their tent to the
honored guest and strut a little in consequence, but Mr. Wade’s order
was not to be questioned.
Gordon lay among the Hyenas, who had given him a rousing welcome to
their tent, and listened to their talk about the accident at the chasm
and the sending of the Morse message. One by one, voices dropped out of
the discussion as their owners fell asleep, until only three talked on
in the darkness.
“He’s all right,” said one, “and a mighty clever little fellow. He seems
to have an idea that his chum is just as smart as he is himself.”
“He thinks the world of his patrol leader, all right,” said another. “I
don’t suppose there’s one chance in a thousand of that fellow’s catching
the message.”
“Oh, he might have seen the fire,” put in another, “but whether he could
follow it is another question. It was pretty long for a fire message.”
“Yes, and even if he got the sense of it, he’d be a wonder if he did
anything.”
“What could he do, anyway?”
“He can make a rice pudding.”
“Sure he can!”
“Well, it was good sport sending the message, anyway, but jiminy, my arm
is stiff!”
“Silence there between decks!” called a new voice.
“Ralph, the bos’n, as I live! Thought you were asleep, Ralph.”
“I bet Al Wilson could have caught those flashes and spelled them out,
all right.”
“You bet he could.”
Presently the voices ceased altogether, and Gordon lay in his corner
near the wall of the tent, thinking over all that had happened since he
parted from Harry. He had made a great hit with this Albany troop,
greater than he supposed, but his mind was by no means at ease. He
thought of his chum waiting or searching for him with no clue to his
whereabouts, and of how Harry must spread his balloon silk shelter and
lie down alone, perplexed and anxious about himself. And here was he,
resting on a springy cot after a goodly supper of hunters’ stew. And he
had allowed two strangers to go out in the night to find and make
explanations to his friend. Oh, how he hoped that by some fortunate
chance Harry had caught the message and actually understood it.
Of course, he had no doubt as to his duty after finding the stricken
Walter. But perhaps he ought to have gone first to meet Harry, and then
together they could have followed the trail of the pink arrow. He made
up his mind that as soon as morning came he would take this road under
the hill and go straight to Dibble Mountain, and if Harry were not there
he would track him and find him. “I can do it all right,” he assured
himself; “that’s nothing.”
During the excitement of the evening, his chief desire had been that
Harry should do a mighty feat in the face of all odds, and show these
Albany fellows what a winner he really was. But now he found himself
growing more and more doubtful of the possibility of this and thinking
only of Harry’s anxiety when he did not appear.
Still, he dreaded the morning, when the boys would doubtless speak
indulgently of Harry, cheerfully humoring his own hero-worship, and
probably feeling in their hearts that his friend’s greatness existed
chiefly in his own mind. “If they only knew of the things he has done,”
he thought; “if they only knew.”
Then, for the first time, he fell to thinking of the robbery. It was
inconceivable to his honest, buoyant soul. Never had he been brought so
close to a crime before. Some one who knew that Walter Lee would be
coming through the woods with money had tampered with the bridge and
lurked about until the boy fell insensible, then robbed him, and left
him, perhaps to die. He began to realize the horror of the thing now. He
thought of Walter, as he had found him, lying stark and white in the
muddy chasm. For all he knew, Harry might now be lying, bleeding and
unconscious, in some gully where he had fallen searching for his
recreant friend. Sleep was out of the question.
He hastily pulled on his clothing, raised the wall of the tent, and
crept softly out, stumbling into the drain ditch. A few yards away a
gleam of light shone from a tent upon the Ravens’ patrol flag just
outside. Gordon stood at a distance looking in. Walter Lee lay on a cot
in the center, and the “First Aid” boy stood near making jerky motions
as if hammering tacks. Then he placed something in Walter’s mouth. It
seemed to Gordon that Walter was smoking a cigarette—strange doings for
a boy scout! Then he saw that the “First Aid” boy had been shaking down
the mercury in the clinical thermometer, preparatory to taking his
patient’s temperature.
This “First Aid” boy had not mixed with the others, had hardly spoken to
any one during the evening. He had shown no interest in the signaling,
nor even in the robbery. Apparently he had no intention of sleeping. He
wore above the elbow of his right arm one of the grandest badges that a
boy scout can seek—the ambulance badge.
“I wish Dr. Brent could see that fellow,” thought Gordon. He was always
ready to admire others. In a corner of the tent under a lantern sat Mr.
Wade writing. Gordon wondered if he were writing to Walter Lee’s
parents. A faint odor of carbolic from the tent mingled with the pure,
still air of the night. It was very quiet within. The “First Aid” boy
made no sound as he moved about. “I wish I knew that fellow’s name,”
said Gordon.
He crept away into the woods and up the hill, where the fire—a long
period to the message, as Al called it—was still burning,—a useless
beacon, as it seemed. He went down the other side of the hill to the
road, took out his jack-knife, opened both blades, and stuck one of them
into the earth. Kneeling, he fixed his teeth on the other blade. There
was no vibration, no sound which could possibly be construed into a
distant footfall. He tried it again, fifty yards or so along the road,
with the same result.
Slowly he trudged up the hill again, pulled up his stocking, and stood
by the fire. In the woods below he could distinguish the faint gleam of
the lantern in the open tent. There was no sound but the low sputtering
of the blaze and the distant hoot of an owl. Gordon sat down and clasped
his hands around his drawn-up knees.
“These fellows don’t know how hard it is to shoot rapids and ride logs
down a river,” he said.
He did not even have an apple to comfort him.