HARRY ARNOLD, SCOUT
Harry Arnold sat on a rock by the roadside, eating raisins out of a
small pasteboard box. On the ground lay his canvas pack, and against it
leaned his rifle. The air was brisk, for the night was well along, but
he wore no jacket, and the double row of pearl buttons on his blue
flannel shirt shone occasionally in the fitful gleams of moonlight. The
moon was working like a suffragette for its rights, but was continually
being effaced by the clouds which were rapidly coming to monopolize the
sky. If the breeze continued to increase Harry would, perhaps,
compromise with it by getting out a thin sweater, but under no
circumstances would he so far yield as to put on a coat. The matter of
attire was his weak point, and his total absence of any interest in the
scout regalia was the source of a great deal of sorrow to Gordon.
Once he tightened the thin book-strap which he used for a belt and put
his belt ax into his canvas bag. Once he leaned and fastened the laces
in his mooseskin moccasins. He was as slender as a boy could be without
being noticeably thin,—gracefully slender, one would say.
At the present moment he was just passing from the stage of mild
curiosity into that of anxiety for his young friend. For, making full
allowance for delays caused by inquiries and for Gordon’s independent
propensity to amble along in search of treasure, he was already very
much overdue.
“I bet he shows up with a fifty-cent piece that he’s found, or a lady’s
buckle, or a rusty jack-knife,” said Harry.
But Gordon did not show up with any of these things, and when an hour
and a half had gone by and still he did not come, Harry became seriously
anxious. He knew Gordon’s tendency to jump the track, as he called it,
and he thought it not at all improbable that he would any minute hear,
from the thicket, the hollow hand clap, merging into a rubbing sound,
which so accurately simulated the noise made by a four-footed beaver. It
had cost the patrol some trouble and not a little expense to get this
sound from first sources, and learn to make it, and you might practise
it a week and not fool a beaver; but Gordon had it pat.
So Harry did not think it wise to leave the spot for long at a time. At
length, however, he tied a wisp of grass around a sapling, and
concealing his bag in the undergrowth started down the road along which
Gordon should come. A walk of fifteen minutes brought him to a house
where a dog barked at him vociferously. He did not waken the inmates,
for he knew that if Gordon had passed or called at the house, he would
have heard the distant barking. Another fifteen or twenty minutes
brought him to a ramshackle building, the home of one of the
unprosperous farmers of the district. Here he made inquiries, but the
farmer, roused from his sleep, was very brief and surly and had seen no
one. Harry thanked him with unaffected courtesy and went on.
What surprised him most was that the occasional moonlight showed him no
footprints. After a few minutes he came to a little opening at the left
of the road and, straining his eyes, looked down through a vista of
trees which ran through the woods at a direct right angle from the road.
This reminded him that he had looked through a similar vista on the west
side of the straight road on which he had gone north. So there was
evidently a woodland track connecting the two roads he and Gordon had
taken, which did not show on the map. Turning rather abruptly into this
woodland byway were two wide concave tracks. He walked a little farther
down the road and in a flare of moonlight discovered a perfect carnival
of footprints. They faced in every direction, north, south, east, west.
There were scoopy indentations showing the heel counter of a shoe, and
little points in the ground, indicating the downward thrusts of a toe.
“There’s only one thing lacking,” said Harry; “I wonder where she
waited.” He walked over to the stone wall and picked up a little
reticule containing, on hasty inspection, sixteen cents, a handkerchief,
and a bottle of smelling salts. This he thrust into his pocket. He also
thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled.
“I bet he enjoyed this,” he soliloquized; “I can just see him standing
here watching—and waiting for a chance to spring a good turn.”
He was perfectly satisfied that an auto had broken down. He picked out
where a man had lain on his stomach, had knelt, had lain on his back. He
put big prints and little prints together, like a picture puzzle, and
made human attitudes out of them. And he concluded that this interesting
exhibition, right in Gordon’s line, was accountable for the boy’s delay.
The auto had evidently turned down the wooded byway in order to get into
the better road. That Gordon should have abandoned his investigations to
be carried to his destination in an auto seemed hardly probable, except
on the theory that he was on the trail of a good turn. But what other
explanation was there?
Acting on this theory, he turned back, sure that he would find Gordon
waiting for him. When he was within hailing distance of the point where
the roads converged he made the Beaver call, and was surprised that it
was not answered. Presently he reached the spot. The rock was empty, the
wisp of grass was as he had left it on the sapling. The moon was behind
a cloud now, so he lit a match and examined the eastern road. There were
the auto tracks, but running along one of these with lighted matches for
fifty yards or so (covering the spot where the two roads met), he could
find no interruption in the concave line. The auto had not stopped. It
had gone straight on along the road which skirted Dibble Mountain.
Now, Harry was truly alarmed and more than perplexed. It was late at
night, the moonlight was fitful and uncertain, it was more often pitch
dark than not. He did not like to give up and rig his shelter for the
night. Idly he picked up the empty raisin box. Above him rose almost
sheer the grim, black side of the mountain. Soon he must eat something,
at any rate, for he was cruelly hungry.
“Kid,” he said aloud, “where are you, anyway?”
And then, on the minute, the answer came. Over in the west—a
mile—two—three,—he did not know,—there flickered a tiny light in the
darkness. Presently it grew larger, then disappeared, then came again.
Half interested, in his preoccupation, he waited for it to reappear. Now
it came and went, rapidly, in alternate flashes. He looked behind him
into the east to see if there were any answering light, but the flame
came jumping out faster and faster, as if to say, “Look here, _you_—I
have something to say—wait.” He waited, and when it came again it
stayed, one, two seconds. Instantly he was on his feet. It disappeared
and showed again for just a fraction of a second, then flared steadily,
then showed for another fraction of a second. He watched it intently as
it came and went. Now came a longer pause between the flashes.
And on the bottom of the little raisin box that Harry held he had
written with the lead of a rifle cartridge the letters CAMP.
He did not write the arbitrary signs for translation later; he took the
message in plain English, with never doubt or hesitancy, and in good
time he had it all.
“All right, Kid,” he said, smiling; “glad to hear from you,” and dropped
the cartridge into his pocket.
He was much relieved, of course, and very curious. Taking his pack and
rifle, he ran up the road until he came to the first turn. The distant
fire now burned steadily, though not as high as before, and he could see
that the road he had reached must lead in its direction. He was to go
down this road and watch any one he met. He hid his pack near the
roadside, took his rifle, and crept stealthily along through the trees
which bordered the road. His toes, free and pliant in their soft
moccasins, pinned and held the twigs on which he stepped and he made no
sound. Now and then a low, sudden scurrying told him that he had
disturbed some smaller creature of the wood, but save for these trifling
sounds he walked in perfect silence.
The moon edged slowly from behind a cloud. “That’s right,” he whispered,
“bully for you—be a scout—come on out and help.” Perhaps the moon was
influenced by his persuasive words and felt that such a boy on such a
business and against such odds was entitled to all the help that she
could give. In any event, she sailed majestically clear of her
encumbrances and, as sure as you live, smiled a broad scout smile down
upon Harry Arnold. “Now you’re talking,” commented Harry. “Keep it up
and I’ll see you get the bronze medal—only keep it up.”
He crept up to the road and looked for footprints, but found none of
recent making. His information was pitiably meager. A scout had been
robbed, and it was evidently suspected that the robber or robbers had
taken this road. That was all he knew. No one had passed here lately,
that was sure. He assumed that the signalers had good reason to believe
that some one had taken this direction. He figured that he could get to
the vicinity of the fire inside of an hour. So it would work the same
the other way. He would conceal himself and watch the road for an hour.
If he saw no one, he would simply assume that the robber had not taken
the open road.
Now, if he had carried out this plan, he would shortly have seen the two
boys who had set out to find him. But Harry Arnold, Scout, was a mile
off the road when these boys passed, and this is how it happened.
Before settling down to watch the road, he noticed a small bridge a few
yards farther along under which a stream flowed. You could canoe from
the Albany scouts’ camp to Lake Champlain on this stream, but Harry knew
nothing of the Albany camp. For all he knew, the Morse message had come
from the Oakwood scouts. In quest of a draught of water, he went
stealthily down the bank. He knelt, looked at the water, felt of it, and
shook his head. Then he stood on the brink of the stream with his two
hands resting on the bridge, which was about level with his shoulder.
Thus he craned his neck, looking up and down the road. Satisfied, he
vaulted silently up to the planking. His spring was as graceful and
agile as a panther’s. Instinctively, he looked down to see if he had
left any sign, for it is part of the A B C of scouting to leave no clue
behind, whatever your business, except what you leave for a purpose.
There on the edge of the planking were the wet prints of his two hands.
“Humph,” said he, and studied them closely. Then he knelt, felt of one,
daintily, softly, and brushed his two hands together. “Dried quick,”
said he. He leaped down to the bank and felt of the water.
“Tisn’t so muddy, either.” He placed his hands on the planking over the
two marks. They did not match his. “I didn’t think I had a paw like
that,” he said.
He looked beneath him on the bank where the dank grass was flattened.
“Too clumsy to vault it,” was his comment. “One of those big gawking
country jays, I guess.” He crept up the bank to the road, where the
moonlight flickered down through the branches of a willow tree. Reaching
up, he wriggled a broken limb, then smilingly kicked a small twig that
lay in the road. Crossing, he found a ruffled place, half in the road
and half in the bordering growths, where the brush seemed to be trampled
down. All this he examined in an amused, half-careless way. Presently he
took a short run and leaped across the road. “Easy enough,” he said.
Stooping, he carefully examined the ground and rose triumphant, holding
a small, flat paper package in his hand. “Maunabasha!” he whispered to
himself. (Maunabasha was the good Indian spirit that occasionally smiled
on his endeavors.) He lighted a match and read the lettering on the
package:
FARMER’S FRIEND PLUG CUT
THE TOBACCO OF QUALITY
A SOLACE TO THE TIRED TOILER
THE AROMA OF THE HARVEST FIELD
Harry took a whiff of the aroma of the harvest field. “The harvest field
could sue for damages on that,” he thought. But despite his scout
prejudice against tobacco, he was forced to admit that this little
package had done him a good turn. Here was the unmistakable proof of a
human presence, and it had not been here long, for it was fresh,
unstained, and dry.
He put it in his pocket and went down the bank into the long meadow
grass that skirted the river. It was easy enough for him to see where
some one had preceded him here. The tall bent grass showed the trail
plainly. He plodded on through this marshy patch till presently he found
himself on the dry, abrupt shore of the river. Naked roots projected
here and there, worn smooth with the friction of feet, and he was able
to pick out a beaten path which ran along the stream’s edge. But the
earth was hard and there was no sign of footprint. Stooping, he examined
the ground carefully and presently discovered something which brought
him to his hands and knees. This was a little mark in the earth about
two inches long, knobby at one end and pointed at the other, as if some
one had attempted to draw a pollywog in the sand. But Harry knew it for
the imprint of a nail. He took an ordinary stride and found another
one—then another. There was no sign of shoeprint, for the earth was too
hard, but he found the nail impressions, printed crosswise for, maybe,
half a mile. Then one appeared lengthwise and he turned up from the
path.
So far, so good. But here was a stubbly field with never sign of trail
or footprint. He tied his handkerchief to a branch of a tree where the
trail ended and walked straight ahead for a few feet until he discovered
a dim light flickering through the trees, which proved to come from the
upper window of a small, dilapidated house. Under the trees in the
little grove which surrounded it, he saw a stooping figure. He advanced
stealthily to the edge of the grove and watched. By the light from the
window he could see clearly a burly country fellow of, maybe,
twenty-five years, who drew something from his pocket and, lifting the
edge of a flat stone from the ground, placed it underneath. Harry
skirted the grove without making a sound and reached a point in front of
the stranger and about fifty feet from him. Here he stood behind a tree,
watching the fellow as he packed some loose earth under the edge of the
stone. Then, gliding noiselessly from one tree to another, he presently
stood before the stooping figure, now pressing the stone down with all
the strength of both arms. He spoke in the low, nonchalant,
half-interested tone that was characteristic of him:
“Hello, what are you doing?”
[Illustration: “HELLO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”]
The fellow sprang to his feet, amazed at this apparition which seemed to
have dropped from the clouds.
“M-me?”
“Yes, you—what are you doing?”
“Who are you, anyway—what are you doing here?”
“I’m standing here,” said Harry, quietly. His manner was easy and his
voice low, almost sociable. “What are you doing, digging a hole?”
The fellow instantly became as excited as Harry was calm, and tried to
hide his confusion under a torrent of abuse.
“I guess you’re one of them scout fellers that’s always puttin’ their
noses in other folks’ business. Do ye know ye’re on private land? I
thought them scout fellers had a rule not to trespass. You get out of
this double quick, or I’ll fix yer. You can’t prowl round this farm in
the middle of the night—you nor none of yer hifalutin crew. What are ye
doin’ here, anyway—where d’ye come from?”
“How do you know ‘them scout fellers’ have a rule not to trespass?”
asked Harry, gently.
“That’s all right, how I know.”
“You’ve met some of them?”
“None o’ your business!”
“You’ve seen one or two of them quite lately?” Harry asked, with just a
touch of sharpness in his voice.
The fellow saw that he had fallen into a trap.
Almost in his first sentence he had admitted a knowledge of the boy
scouts, and he stood embarrassed before Harry’s rather contemptuous
smile.
“Are you goin’ ter clear out o’ this or not?”
“Not,” said Harry.
The fellow stooped and picked up a rock. Harry did not move. He dropped
the rock and put his hand around to his hip pocket. Harry also put his
hand in his hip pocket, and the fellow started back.
“Here, is this yours?” said Harry, tossing him the package of tobacco.
“What’s the matter—did you think I was going to shoot you?”
They stood contemplating each other, Harry quietly amused, the other
afraid to speak lest he say too much.
The countryman put the package in his hip pocket.
“I thought you had plenty of room there,” said Harry; “no pistol after
all, eh? You see, you shouldn’t have picked up the rock. That was a bad
move, because men with pistols in their pockets don’t pick up rocks. And
I have nothing but this rifle and I’m not going to use it. I’d no more
think of using it than I would of using that tobacco. The only dangerous
thing you have about you is your ‘Farmer’s Friend Plug Cut,’ and it’s no
friend to you either, for it gave you dead away.”
“You think you can come up here with your city gab, don’t you, and scare
honest folks on their own land, that don’t trespass, nor ask no favors,
neither.”
“The scouts been asking for milk—or maybe water?” Harry asked, smiling.
“What made you think you might be tracked? Because you knew there were
scouts about?”
“Who said I thought I’d be tracked? I ain’t a-scared to have my spoor
follered—”
“Where did you learn that word—spoor?”
Harry’s voice and manner were now a little sharp. Every time the fellow
spoke he was tripped up. The more he said, the more he gave himself
away. The active mind of his inquisitor balked and confounded him, and
he had no resource except in a tirade or an attack, and these he wished
to avoid, partly from genuine fear of this strange boy, and partly
because he had no wish that the altercation be heard in the house. Harry
saw that he had him. And he went on, speaking in short, choppy
sentences, looking the other right in the eye, and sending each word
straight to its mark like an arrow. He had no more fear or hesitancy
than if he were talking to an infant. The great creature who stood
before him looked at him as a grizzly bear might look at its keeper.
“Look here now. In the first place, you didn’t come down the road. Why
not? When you had to cross it, you tried to vault up to the bridge and
went down like a bag of oats. Then you tried to swing across the road
like a monkey and went down again like a bag of meal. Why were you so
anxious not to leave a footprint, eh? Then, after all that trouble, you
left the ‘Farmer’s Solace’—or whatever you call it—Plug Cut, and went
down the bank marking out a trail as clear as Broadway. Then, when I
show up, the first thing you tell me is the rules of the boy scouts?
What do _you_ know about the boy scouts? You’ve been trying to imitate
them with your smattering about ‘spooring.’ Who said anything about
spooring? Hold on, now—I know what you’re going to say. Of course,
there’s no crime in all that. You can come down the road standing on
your head for all I care, but just the same I’m going to see what’s
under that stone.”
“I thought a scout feller was supposed—”
“Oh, a scout fellow is supposed to put this and that together,” Harry
interrupted with some impatience; “and if you think I came here for the
benefit of my health you’re mistaken.”
He stepped toward the stone and saw the other look apprehensively at the
house. His predicament was a sore one, and Harry had foreseen and
counted on it. If he precipitated a scuffle, it would rouse the inmates
of the house. If he didn’t, the game was up. He fell back on the only
course open to him—a weak attempt at explanation.
“Haven’t I got a right to pick up what I find, hey? What business have
you got to trac—follow me, anyway? Haven’t I got a good right to bring
home anything I find?”
Harry disdained to answer. Kneeling, he raised the edge of the stone.
But the wretched boy who watched him could not quite stand by and see
that done. He put his big hand on Arnold’s shoulder, and roughly thrust
him back. Like lightning Harry’s hand was on his ankle. He tripped,
staggered clumsily, and went down with a thud. When he had pulled
himself together Harry was standing a few feet away examining his find,
but keeping a weather eye on his new acquaintance. There was a wallet
containing money and a letter. The wallet and the money he thrust into
his pocket; the letter he read as best he could by the light from the
window. It was dated several days before, and read:
Dear Walter,—
I have no objection to the canoe if Mr. Wade approves. You say
several others have them. You had better take Al Wilson to
Ticonderoga with you and be sure you are getting a good one. I
should say the one you mention would be a bargain if it is in
good condition.
Your examination papers are here and I want to talk over this
matter of the mathematics with you. Suppose you run down home
over Sunday. You could go back Monday or Tuesday, and I’ll give
you the money while you are here.
Yours,
Father.
All this was a puzzle to Harry, for there was no Walter in the Oakwood
troop. But he betrayed not the slightest surprise as he spoke to the
other boy.
“So you stole Walter’s canoe money, eh?”
“I found it in the road,” was the sullen answer. “I was going to—”
“Sure you were—you were going to hide it. What’s the matter—afraid to
let your folks know you found something in the road?” His tone was full
of contempt now, and he paused, in a quandary what to do. He knew he
could not arrest the farmer boy, and he was not sure that he wanted to.
He did not know that the crime had been all but murder. His only feeling
was that of disgust, and he surveyed the great, clumsy figure before him
from head to foot.
“Go on into the house,” he said impatiently. “Who’s in there, your
mother and father?”
“My mother.”
“Well, go on in and go to bed.”
“What are you going to do?” the wretched fellow asked desperately.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, if you mean about you. I’ve got to
consult my scoutmaster. Go on in and go to bed—How old is your mother?”
“She’s nearly seventy.”
Harry surveyed him slowly, contemptuously, from head to foot. He did not
understand dishonesty. “Well, go on in,” he repeated, “and don’t wake
her up. I guess you’re about through for to-night.” He paused, looking
steadily, curiously, at the other, as one might look at a strange
animal. Then he wheeled about and went silently off across the field.
“Blamed if I know who Al Wilson is, or Walter, either, but if they buy a
second-hand canoe in Ticonderoga they get stuck. Jiminy, but that Kid’s
the greatest! I wonder what he’s been pushing into now.”
* * * * *
Gordon squatted before the dying signal-fire, an occasional gape of
stupendous dimensions distorting his round face. Below him the camp
slept peacefully. The dim light glimmered in the invalid’s tent,
occasionally blurred by the shadow of the “First Aid” boy moving to and
fro. Gordon knew now that his mind’s-eye picture of Arnold arriving like
a conquering hero was an extravagant vision. He knew that the Albany
scouts knew it, too.
“Al Wilson could _not_ have done it,” said he, “nor any of the rest of
’em. Nobody can do impossibilities. These fellows think it’s easy to
bring a ca-a-a-a—” He was trying to say canoe and gape at the same
time.
“Hello, Kid,” said a low, careless voice, almost in his ear. “What are
you doing here?”
“Harry!”
“Sure—who’d you think? Where’ve you been, anyway?”
“But Harry—”
“Who the dickens is Walter?”
The younger boy clutched his friend by the arm. “Harry—I—he’s a boy
here—they—did you—why—”
“I’ve got forty dollars belonging to him. What’s the news, anyway?”