THE SWASTIKA
In the morning it began, bright and early. Harry lay alone in the tepee,
dead to the world. Mr. Wade had been quietly roused by Gordon and had
accorded Harry this resting-place with strict instructions to pay no
attention to reveille. Gordon had crept back among the sleeping Hyenas.
It started when the two boys who had gone in search of Harry returned to
camp a few minutes after reveille, passing the Hyenas’ tent.
“How’s Walter?” they called to the one or two who had risen promptly.
“All right when we turned in. Any news?”
“No—couldn’t find a sign of his friend. He may have gone back to
Ticonderoga. He didn’t come along this road—that’s sure.”
“Maybe he’s up on Dibble Mountain making rice puddings.”
“Keep quiet, you’ll wake him.”
All this Gordon heard in a delicious half-sleep.
“We met a chap on a bicycle from a summer place up Crown Point way—said
he was hunting for a hand-bag a lady left on a stone wall—auto broke
down and she sat on the wall to wait for them to fix it.”
“I haven’t it,” called one Hyena.
“You can search me,” said another.
“Guess she’ll never see it again.”
“Oh, she may, you can’t tell; the bicycle chap may find it. Nobody’s
likely to have noticed it on a stone wall at night—it’s early yet.
Honest, didn’t you hear anything of that Oakwood chap?”
“Didn’t we tell you, no?”
“Gone back to the log jam, I guess. The kid’ll be awful disappointed.
He’s got the bee in his bonnet that his friend’s as clever as he
is,—he’s a mighty nice little fellow.”
“Sure, it’s fun to see him grin when you jolly him. Wade’s stuck on him,
all right.”
“Yes, and he’s got Al hypnotized.”
By this time the Hyenas were dragging themselves heavily from their cots
and sleepily aiding the conversation.
“I’d like to know what was the use of sending that message, anyway. We
might have known it wouldn’t do any good. Why, man alive, if any one did
sneak down that road, it must have been an hour before we got the fire
started. Chuck my belt over here, will you, Dan?”
“Well, it was good exercise, anyway. Oh, but my arm is stiff!”
The camp was soon astir, and Gordon, wrestling desperately to suppress
his scout smile, came forth with the last stragglers. He stood in the
fresh morning air, watching the routine, which began early. A boy with a
pointed stick moved about, spearing papers and depositing them in a box
for burning. “No news of your pal?” said he, as he passed. Gordon smiled
and said nothing. Another boy was hurrying here and there, filling,
trimming, and wiping lanterns. “Hello, Oakwood,” he called, “guess your
patrol leader was asleep at the switch when we sent that little fire
note—don’t you care.” Several others were rigging a rope fence outside
Walter’s tent, where a Red Cross flag had already been raised.
Everything seemed to move like clockwork. Two boys came in for firewood
and departed for more. One was sorting and chopping the pieces. Others
were setting the long table-board with plates, while the savory odor of
coffee came from the lean-to. Gordon wandered among these early toilers,
responding to a pleasant word or a good-natured taunt from each,
fascinated with this first view of genuine camp life.
Mr. Wade sat at a small table under a tree, while several scouts hovered
near, waiting his leisure. Al Wilson, standing at his elbow, beckoned to
Gordon.
“Don’t you worry,” said he. “No doubt your friend is all right. I think
he may have gone into Ticonderoga. Most of the folks around here know
our camp, and I guess you’ll see him come walking in before the day’s
over. And don’t think that he ought to have made good—it was
impossible.”
“The fellows say _you_ could have done it,” ventured Gordon.
“Well, I couldn’t. I might have made out the message, but that’s all the
good it would have done me. None of us can do the impossible, can we,
Mr. Wade?”
“Not as a rule,” said Mr. Wade, intent on his writing. Presently he
handed three small pieces of birch-bark to a boy, on each of which was
written in lead pencil, “10:30.” These were for the patrol leaders and
meant, “Come to council.” Atwell, leader of the Hyenas, received his
while helping to raise the colors, and was puzzled. Al read his in
silence and was puzzled, too, but knew better than to question his
chief. Frankie, leader of the Elephants, standing in the door of his
tent, took his with great condescension.
“Frankie got a pretty picture card?” asked a passing scout. For answer,
Frankie let fly a huge, overripe pear, which went to its mark with
deadly precision.
“I suppose you know those Hyenas are a bunch of jolliers,” he remarked
to Gordon, who stood near.
“I don’t mind that,” Gordon answered.
“Well, you would if you were I. But I’ve got a way to fix them. It’s my
corporal’s idea. You’re going to be here through to-day, aren’t you?
Well, you’ll see some fun. I’ve got to attend council at ten-thirty, and
after that I’ve called a special patrol meeting to consider the plan.”
“Peek-a-boo, Frankie,” called a passing boy.
“That’s one of the worst of the lot,” said Frankie, confidentially.
“What’s the plan?” Gordon asked.
“You’ll see—it’ll be the Laughing _Elephants_ by to-night.”
In a little while came the call to prayers, then breakfast. There was a
camp historian in the Albany troop whose business it was to record the
doings of each day and to read the entries of the day before, every
morning before the campers rose from the early meal. Since the patrols
often went about their pleasures separately and the boys were wont to
wander off in pairs for a day of fishing, stalking, or exploring, it
fell out that this record often contained matter unfamiliar to the camp
as a whole, and so its reading was awaited with interest.
This morning, owing to the affair of Walter Lee, it would have a special
interest. For Mr. Wade had been so much occupied during the evening and
night before that none had ventured to question him.
When the meal was finished Henry Earle, the historian, rose at his place
and, according to custom, first announced the camp routine for the day.
Plans for any special expeditions were submitted to Mr. Wade and then
handed to Earle. From these he now read:
“The Raven patrol attends to the cooking from to-day until the
10th inclusive. Not more than two members to leave camp at one
time for longer than an hour. No sentry duty. Collins relieved
of all patrol duties because of troop duty.” (Collins was “First
Aid” boy.) “The Hyena Patrol canoes to the Lake this afternoon
for fishing. Elephant Patrol to accompany them for outing and
assistance.” (Smiles from the Raven Patrol.) “Meals as usual.
Camp-fire yarns to-night. Blake to go into the village for mail
and errands; must have commissions and letters before eleven
o’clock. Patrol leaders in conference with scoutmaster at 10:30.
No leaves of absence for this evening.”
He thrust the papers into his pocket and took up his book. The brief
record of Walter Lee’s return, with the circumstances, was read.
Gordon’s name was mentioned without comment or compliment. The troop
listened attentively.
“The suspicions of robbery were entertained,” Earle read,
“because of a footprint and other signs near the chasm. The
visit of two country boys to camp a few days ago and the
conversation they heard about Walter’s visiting home to get
money for a canoe were regarded with some suspicion. It was
thought that the fugitive might have taken the road under the
hill, and as the friend and scout partner of Gordon Lord was
supposed to be waiting for him on the road under Dibble
Mountain, a Morse signal message was sent up telling Lord’s
whereabouts and asking him to watch the road. But the fugitive,
it appears, did not take the road.”
At this sentence the boys started, and a stir of surprise passed round
the board. Even the quiet Al Wilson looked inquiringly at Mr. Wade.
Gordon wrestled valiantly with his scout smile, and looked straight
before him.
“At ten minutes after two this morning,” the reader continued,
“a scout, Harry Arnold by name, leader of the Beaver Patrol, 1st
Oakwood, N. J., Troop, brought to camp and delivered to Mr. E.
C. Wade, Scoutmaster, a wallet containing two letters and forty
dollars belonging to Walter Lee.”
Murmurs of astonishment followed this announcement. Gordon’s eyes were
riveted upon a distant tree.
“The full details of how he received and read the Morse message,
made sure that no one had gone along the road, traced the robber
by means of finger prints on the flooring of a bridge, and
followed his trail over hard land by the print of a nail
embedded in his shoe; how he came upon the thief in the very act
of hiding his booty near his home, took it from him and brought
it here; these details belong to the history of the 1st Oakwood
Troop, Oakwood, N. J., and will constitute a glorious page in
that troop’s annals.”
Gordon, still looking straight before him, had conquered his scout
smile; yet he was not wholly victorious, for instead his eyes were
brimming over.
“Where is he? Where is he, anyway?” shouted several boys, jumping up.
Cattell rose, knocking over a cup, stumbled round the board, and clapped
Gordon on the shoulder. “Where is he?” he shouted. “Let’s have a look at
him.” Al Wilson came around and placed his arm over Gordon’s shoulder,
smiling, saying nothing. Some one suggested the tepee, and it was not
till a roystering, shouting group had started in that direction that
Gordon got himself under control. They did not wait for him. They had
forgotten him. But Harry Arnold, his chum, his friend, his idol, had
made good, as he always made good, and they were going to honor him.
This was joy enough for Gordon. Then, realizing what they were bent on
doing, he rushed pell-mell in pursuit, and coming between them and the
closed tepee, spread out his arms.
“You can’t go in, fellows,” he panted. “He’s asleep and Mr. Wade doesn’t
want him waked up. He’s awfully tired—honest, he is!” Then, as they
paused, he said, as if on second thought, and so as not to make their
disappointment too heavy, “But if you come quiet, you can peek in and
take a look at him if you want to.”
* * * * *
An hour later Harry sat down to a belated but welcome breakfast, served
by enthusiastic Ravens who rejoiced in their special privilege to
minister to his comfort. A continually changing group lolled about the
long board, asking questions and commenting on his exploit. He answered
all their questions in his easy, careless way, correcting when they
overrated the difficulty of this or that.
“Oh, no,” he said, answering one of Al Wilson’s questions, “hard
ground’s better than soft when there’s a loose nail in a shoe or
anything sticking on the sole—there’s nothing hard about following
that—anybody could do it.”
“That’s just like him! That’s just like him!” cried Gordon, excitedly.
His breakfast over, Harry wandered about, a dozen Albany scouts
surrounding him. Gordon walked over to the boy who was clearing the
table and whispered to him confidentially. “You can’t get him to wear a
belt,” said he. “Red Deer tried to, and his corporal gave him an
alligator-skin one, but he wouldn’t wear it—he just wears that
book-strap. And we can’t get him to wear the scout uniform—he likes
that blue shirt,—he’s very funny about some things.”
“Eccentricities of genius,” suggested Al Wilson, who stood near.
“He won’t even wear a coat,” said Gordon.
“Never mind,” said Al, “let him wear what he likes.”
There was never a happier boy than Gordon Lord that morning. In the
excitement of Harry’s coming his own adventure of the day before had
fallen into the shadow. No one spoke of that now, but Harry knew about
it and had praised him, and that was enough. He was constantly near his
friend, feasting on the praises which Harry, much to his discomfort, was
forced to hear. The rule requiring a scout to “smile and look pleasant”
was obeyed by Gordon to the full ability of his mouth. But the climax of
his triumph was reached as they sat about under a huge oak waiting for
the early dinner which was to precede the trip down to the lake. Harry
lolled indolently on the sward, amusing himself with mumbly-peg, and
occasionally joining in the conversation.
“Wonder if that bicycle chap found the bag he was after?” one said.
“Like enough—nobody’d see it in the dark and he was out early.”
“What kind of a bag was it, anyway?”
“Oh, kind of—this—what do you call it—mesh-work, he said.”
“Bottle of smelling salts in it?” asked Harry, as he twirled his
jack-knife and sent it plunging into the earth.
The boys stared.
“Sure,” answered one of those who had met the bicyclist. “What do you
know about it?”
Harry laid the blade of his knife between two fingers, eyed it
critically, and struck the bone handle with the first finger of his
other hand. The knife made four complete somersaults and landed upright
in the grass.
“Handkerchief—sixteen cents?” said he.
“Sure!” cried the astonished boy.
Harry fumbled in his pocket, brought forth the reticule, and slung it by
its chain to the boy who had spoken. Then he held his knife suspended
vertically and, forming a ring with his thumb and finger about twelve
inches below it, dropped the knife through the ring.
“Can you do that, Kid?” he said to Gordon, who sat near him.
“Where’d you get this bag?” asked the boy who held it.
“Picked it up on a stone wall near where there’d been an automobile
accident.”
“How did you know there was an automobile accident?” chimed in another.
“Oh, I don’t know—just noticed it—that is, the signs of it—there was
an auto, that’s sure, and somebody doing acrobatic tricks in the road.
Who does the bag belong to, do you know?”
“Lady in Crown Point, that’s all I know.”
“We’ll have to hunt her up, Kid; here” (handing the knife to Gordon)
“try this—it’s a good trick—I bet you pull your fingers away. This is
the hardest one I ever did.”
“Then you admit there’s something hard you _can_ do,” laughed Al Wilson,
admiringly.
“Oh, yes,” Harry laughed back. “I’m the star mumbly-peg player—hey,
Kid?” And he slapped Gordon on the shoulder. But Gordon was too
astonished to speak.
The meeting of the patrol leaders with Mr. Wade had taken place earlier
in the morning, but no one had been able to get a clue as to what it was
all about. Frankie carried himself with an air of profound mystery—but
that was for reasons of his own. Of course, Al Wilson knew, but you
couldn’t pry anything out of Al with a crowbar.
The dinner hour came, and it was a merry company that gathered around
the rough, tree-shaded board. The trip to the lake was discussed, talk
of canoes, fishing tackle, and such things went round, and an occasional
remark, in a particularly loud, significant tone, about Frankie and the
Elephants, passed from one Hyena to another. But the Elephants paid no
heed to these flippant observations.
When Mr. Wade rose from the table, he asked the entire troop to gather
in fifteen minutes under the “assembly tree.” This was a spreading oak
from whose low branches hung a variety of forest trophies, masterpieces
of whittling and willowworking (the product of rainy afternoons), and
other specimens of camp handiwork. About six feet from the ground a
rough board with ragged ends had been fastened to the trunk, on which
was carved the quotation:
And this, our life, exempt from public haunts,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
This had been their meeting-place ever since they started camp. Here two
of Frankie’s patrol, the Stetson brothers, having come from the city to
join the scouts, had stood in the dim, solemn light under the thick
branches, and taken the Scouts’ Oath to do their duty to God and
country, to help others at all times, and to obey the Scout Law. Here
Fred Brownell, Hyena, had stood before the Court of Honor and received
from Mr. Wade’s hand the badge for marksmanship, which Frankie’s vote
had helped to award him. For Frankie was incorruptible in the discharge
of public duties, and his worst jollier could be sure of justice at his
hands.
The full troop always gathered here for morning prayers and to sing the
patriotic anthem when the sun went down. There was always a quiet
atmosphere under this green roof, and the boys, as they straggled into
the old tree’s shade, removed their hats and stood together in little
groups. Harry and Gordon stood apart.
Presently Mr. Wade came out of the tepee and through the assembled boys
to his usual place, directly under the rustic sign.
“Scouts,” he said, “it is written in the law that it is a scout’s duty
to be useful and to help others, even though he give up his own pleasure
or comfort or safety to do it, and that he is bound to carry out an
order to the very best of his ability, and to let nothing interfere with
his doing so.”
(“He means you,” whispered Gordon.
“Nonsense!” answered Harry.)
“If he be a good scout, he may conceive a mere suggestion, a hint, to be
an order, and map out his own path of duty as if he were acting under
command. The path may lead him among strangers. He may have to decide
his duty, standing alone, without counsel, in the darkness of the night.
But that is the law.”
(“He does mean you,” protested Gordon.
“Keep still, will you.”)
“The hint may come to him in such a way that an ordinary boy—I had
almost said an ordinary scout—could not have known his duty from it. We
are not all equally favored by Providence.”
(“There, what more do you want?” whispered Gordon, excitedly.
“Nonsense,” said Harry, blushing a little.)
“He may limit himself to the letter of the law if he chooses,” continued
Mr. Wade, “but he usually follows its spirit. The path of his duty may
wind its way through hardship or suffering or peril, but these things he
will not see.”
(“Tha—”
“Keep still, I tell you!” whispered Harry.)
“If he be a scout favored by the gods and have the gift of prowess—”
(“That’s you, sure!”
“Oh, give us a rest!”)
“—the measure of his achievement may be large, and applause and
admiration follow after him to pay him tribute.”
(Harry managed with difficulty to control Gordon.)
“The path may lead him to the wounded, the dying. It may bring him face
to face with the guilty and the desperate.”
This time Gordon had no chance to whisper, for a shout went up that
echoed back from the hill to meet another and still another, yelled out
by a score of boys, who waved their arms and threw their hats in the
air.
“Hurrah for Oakwood! Hurray for the Beavers! Hurray for the Beavers’
leader! Hurray for Gordon Lord!”
Mr. Wade’s upraised arm could not stem the tide, nor could Gordon turn
it all upon his friend. His attempt to do so, the tendency that he had
shown from the first, only increased their admiration and enthusiasm for
him. It was as if a dam had burst and overwhelmed him—a dam which had
been seeking vent for two days. Harry patted Gordon proudly on the
shoulder.
“Hurray for Oakwood!” went up again and again. “Hurrah for Harry Arnold!
Three cheers for Kid Lord!”
A rousing “tiger” was given, and then Mr. Wade motioned again for
silence.
“I have been authorized by our three patrols,” he said, “represented by
their leaders, to present to Harry Arnold, leader of the Beaver Patrol,
1st Oakwood, N. J., Troop, and to Gordon Lord, one of his scouts, the
swastika badge of gratitude.
“These badges were made especially for our troop,” he went on, looking
toward Gordon and Harry, “and were planned by us as a means of offering
some grateful tribute to those who, whether scouts or not, may chance to
do us some special service. Intrinsically they are mere trifles,” he
said, holding up a small swastika of narrow band silver, “but they will
serve as souvenirs to keep in memory deeds of which you two boys may be
justly proud. They are given ‘lest you forget’ for your memories, it
appears, are poor. One of you has already forgotten his achievement of
last evening in praising the achievement of his friend; and his friend’s
interest in mumbly-peg seems to be so great that he can remember little
else.”
A general laugh followed this.
“He’s got eyes in the back of his head,” Frankie whispered
confidentially, in Harry’s ear. “He’s on to everything.”
“These little testimonials of our admiration and gratitude are given you
with the wish that you will remain with us as long as you can. But we
realize that you are searching for your own troop, and we must not
detain you long. It is the earnest request of our three patrols, who
agree in this if in nothing else” (he glanced slyly at Frankie and at
the Hyenas’ leader) “that you, at least, remain for camp-fire this
evening and let us have you for our guests one night more.”
Harry stepped forward and received the little silver swastika badge in
his easy, offhand, but not ungrateful manner; then Gordon, beaming with
pride and delight, and smiling his scout smile from ear to ear. It was
the first honor he had received from the Boy Scouts, and though many
honors were to come his way, there was never another one which gave him
just the same pleasure. And though he was destined to learn much, there
was one thing that he never learned, and that was why, with such a
fellow as Harry Arnold to admire, scouts, young and old (to say nothing
of scoutmasters), loved to make him smile his scout smile and persisted
in helping him, in jollying him, in liking him, and in cheering him like
wild Indians whenever they got the chance.