FRANKIE SQUARES ACCOUNTS
“Come, come, hurry up, Frankie! Don’t be all day! Are you all there?
Where’s the Stetson twins?”
“Coming,” answered Frankie, as he and three of his patrol reached the
shore. “What’s in that bottle?”
“Soothing sirup, in case you cry,” said a boy, who was bailing out the
dory.
Frankie and his scouts got into the boat, and soon the Stetson twins
(aged ten, the very youngest of the troop, and known as
“tenderfeetlets”) came down. One of them, “Giant George,” was hardly big
enough to see without a magnifying glass, if you care to believe Atwell,
but he made up in fearlessness and resolution.
“There mustn’t be more than one boy in the boat with Giant George,”
spoke up Brownell. “Mr. Wade says we must run no risks. Who’s willing to
volunteer to paddle the canoe occupied by Giant George?”
“I’ll take that job,” said Harry Arnold.
“Got a good muscle?” asked Brownell, seriously.
“I guess I can manage it,” smiled Harry.
“All right; now, let’s see. Frankie, Corporal Tommy, Eddie Worth, and
Charles Augustus Denning in the dory—here, Atwell, it’s up to you—get
in and keep your eye on this bunch. Now, William Stetson, hop in the
canoe there with Oakwood” (meaning Gordon), “and I’ll make up the trio.”
This left four members of the Hyena Patrol, who got into the other
canoe.
The stream flowed about a quarter of a mile from camp, and, passing
under the three roads which had figured in the night’s adventures, wound
through a beautiful, wooded valley into Lake Champlain. The dory, flying
Frankie’s official banner ostentatiously at its stern, headed the
procession, and the three canoes hovered about it, gliding easily upon
the current. Now one of them would swerve near the majestic flagship to
make some slurring comment on the Elephant Patrol, now dart forward like
a playful child to await the squadron under low-hanging boughs farther
down the stream. Now and again a lazy frog, startled by the passing
pageant, dived into his muddy sanctum, and here and there along the way
the birds complained to one another of this invasion of their domain.
The scene was peaceful, quiet, and one might fancy the adventurous
Champlain exploring these same woods in his own rough, Indian-paddled
craft, many years before. Only, where the colors of France or the banner
of the French Jesuits once grazed the overhanging branches, now the flag
of the Elephant Patrol waved gayly and defiantly in the breeze. And
never had the bold Champlain such a startling enterprise to carry
through as the young leader of the Elephants.
Harry managed his canoe as an experienced driver manages his horse. He
never appeared to exert himself. He never had to undo the effect of one
stroke with that of another. “Giant George,” his sole passenger, sat in
the bow and watched him with unbounded admiration. The canoe containing
the four Hyenas had been skirting the shore and its passengers had been
reaching out and plucking leaves or twigs or berries. Now one of them
called out:
“Here, Giant George, have a pear?”
Giant George’s small hands went up to receive the luscious missile which
bounded through the air.
“Ouch!” he said, as he caught and dropped it.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Burs!” Giant George answered.
“Sit in the middle, Giant George, and don’t bear down too hard,” came
from Atwell, in the dory.
“Hey, Giant George, sit in the middle!” shouted Brownell, excitedly.
“What are you trying to do, tip the canoe?” Others took up the cry,
yelling at him to sit in the middle, till they had stirred up quite a
panic. It was difficult to sit anywhere except in the middle, for Giant
George was wedged into the bow where there wasn’t anything but middle,
but he sat straight upright and was very much frightened. Then he began
to shake the hand which stung him from catching the burs.
“Don’t do that!” came from a neighboring canoe. “My, but you’re
reckless! Shake the other one too if you must shake!” Poor Giant George
was very much frightened, until presently an assuring word came from
Frankie.
“Splash some water on them,” he called. But Giant George would not
budge.
“Don’t you mind them,” said Harry. “Suppose I lose you overboard and
we’ll make one of those Laughing Hyenas go in after you.”
“I can’t swim,” said Giant George, promptly.
“No, I don’t suppose you can,” said Harry, looking the little fellow
over with an amused grin. “But you don’t need to sit so straight, and
you can shake your hand all you want to—they’re only joking you.”
“We’re going to get square on them,” said Giant George, encouraged by
Harry’s show of friendship. “My patrol leader’s got a scheme to make
them laugh on the other side of their faces; he’s awful smart—Frankie
is.”
“What’s the scheme?”
“Well, I can’t tell you yet, but you’ll see. Will you stand by us?”
“Surest thing you know. I’m with the Elephants to the last ditch.”
“Hey, Oakwood,” some one called to Harry; “don’t let him jolly you. Here
you go, Giant, catch this!” But Giant George was out of the business of
catching things.
Presently Gordon’s canoe came alongside Harry’s, and naturally enough a
race was in order. Gordon was much troubled. He did not want to be in
the losing canoe, but he did not want to see Harry beaten. There was not
much danger of this, however, for Brownell had plenty to learn in
wielding the paddle. The two canoes shot forward, Brownell taking the
lead and splashing water over his rival. Harry soon passed him, however,
making neither sound nor spray, and a loud cheer went up, to the delight
of Giant George, who was very proud of his companion.
Harry’s swift glide brought his canoe into a marshy basin filled with
reeds, beyond which was Lake Champlain.
“Don’t push through there,” called Brownell; “run her up and we’ll cut
across that little cape.”
The craft were all drawn up on the shore, and Gordon and Harry saw that
a walk of some two minutes across a little grassy point of land would
bring them out upon the lake. A beaten path ran here, and it was evident
to the two Oakwood boys that this was the customary way to reach Lake
Champlain.
“Now, Frankie,” said Atwell, “here’s your happy hunting ground; get busy
and dig us some bait while we’re over having a soak.” The Hyenas, one
and all, undressed, throwing their clothing into the boats and putting
on their trunks. Gordon and Harry followed suit, wearing trunks which
had been lent them by the Ravens.
“Come, Giant George, hurry up!” called Atwell, as George stepped
gingerly from his canoe. “Who’s got the can, anyway?” The can was not to
be found. “Well, that’s a nice fix to get us in, Frankie; here, let’s
have that bottle—you’ll have to put the bait in that.”
“How’ll we get ’em out?” asked Brownell.
“Just whistle and they’ll come out.”
“Let’s have the bottle a minute,” said Gordon.
“Let him have it,” laughed Harry; “he’s got a way.”
And sure enough, he had. He placed the bottle between his knees, wound a
piece of fishing line once around it just below the neck, pulled it
rapidly back and forth for several seconds, then plunged the bottle into
the water. The neck remained in the stream and Gordon handed to Brownell
a perfect drinking cup, smooth and even where it had broken off.
“Good for you!” exclaimed Atwell.
“Isn’t he the greatest!” said Frankie.
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon.
“Here, Frankie,” said Brownell, “you and the youngsters get busy now.
We’ll be back in half an hour and fish upstream a ways. Good-by, Giant
George.” The group passed out of sight, and the Elephants gathered
faithfully about their leader.
“That big Oakwood fellow’s with us,” spoke up Giant George; “he said
he’d stand by us to the last ditch.” This was encouraging, for with the
exception of Frankie, they were a little fearful and had a cowardly
tendency to backslide. But the patronage of such a scout as Harry Arnold
reassured them, and Frankie’s enthusiasm and resolve lent them courage.
“Quick, now,” said he, “one of them may be back any minute. Put your
hand up inside my jacket, George. Feel that cardboard?” Giant George
presently loosened from under his leader’s garment a large square of
cardboard on which was printed:
THE ELEPHANTS’ COMPLIMENTS
TO
THE HYENAS
This was fastened to a tree in a conspicuous place, while other members
of the patrol went through various extraordinary contortions to release
from under the rear of their jackets other squares of cardboard, bearing
a variety of significant observations:
CAMP TWO MILES
TAKE FIRST PATH TO LEFT
BEWARE OF PINE NEEDLES
AFTER YOU, MY DEAR HYENAS
TEN CENTS TO SEE THE
LAUGHING HYENAS LAUGH!
ELEPHANTS SUDDENLY CALLED
BACK TO THE JUNGLE
HAVE A LEMON, ATWELL?
DON’T FORGET SCOUT LAW,
“SMILE AND LOOK PLEASANT”
“Take one shoe from each pair,” Frankie ordered. “They can’t wear the
other one, and it will make something for them to carry. Same with socks
and stockings. And leave them one garter each. Now pitch the
rest—everything—in the boat.”
In less than five minutes the tree trunks were decorated with signs and
artistic representations of hyenas laughing, ironic directions for
reaching home, and so forth. From one tree there dangled here and there
an odd shoe, an odd sock, or a garter. A sign proclaimed this “The Shoe
Tree,” and another sign invited the beholder to “Help Yourself.”
In one canoe they laid, in two neat piles, Harry’s and Gordon’s
clothing, shoes and all, and upon them a sign which read:
FOR THE OAKWOOD SCOUTS
TO COME HOME IN
(BE SURE TO SIT IN THE MIDDLE)
Then, after Frankie had contemplated his work admiringly for fully half
a minute, the Elephant Patrol pushed off the boat, and towing the two
canoes behind, turned their prow gleefully upstream and rowed away with
the official banner of the Elephants flaunted gayly at their stern.
Meanwhile, the afternoon “soak” had begun. The lake was narrow at this
point and across the water they could see the Vermont shore rising
gradually, and beyond the Green Mountains, onetime home of the
adventurous Ethan Allen. The little Lake Champlain steamer, making a
prodigious racket for its insignificant size, came tooting down, and a
deckful of summer tourists waved their handkerchiefs to the boys. On the
shore stood an old, disused railroad water tank (for the railroad hugs
the shore here), and across the top of the butt which stood on lofty
spindles the boys had fastened a springy board for diving.
Scarcely had they reached the shore when every one of them was splashing
in the water. Gordon found it much warmer than at the sea beach where he
was used to bathing. But he was a novice at swimming and, despite the
pleasure he took in bathing, had been slow to pick up the art. He
explained this by saying that he “tried to think of things” while in the
water and could not give his undivided attention to it.
“What’s the matter, Oakwood?” Brownell asked, as Gordon came out, wiping
the water from his eyes.
“My, but they smart!” answered Gordon.
“That’s because you keep them open when you go under—trying to pick up
trails, I suppose.”
“Tails?” gasped Gordon, wringing out his hair.
“No—_trails_,” said Brownell; “didn’t you know you can follow a fish’s
trail?”
Gordon grinned.
“Sure,” said Atwell, always to the fore when there was any jollying
afoot; “that is, _some_ fishes’; they say it’s almost impossible to
follow a shark’s trail.”
“Stow that, Atwell,” said the Hyenas’ corporal. Then, turning to Gordon,
“Better shut your eyes when you go under; guess you’re used to surf
bathing, hey? Well, that’s the reason. The eyes are used to salt
water—it doesn’t hurt them. Don’t you know the secretions of the eye
are salty? Tears never hurt you, did they?”
This was plausible enough, but seeing that it was a Hyena who spoke,
Gordon was on his guard.
“He never sheds tears,” called Harry, who was sitting astride the diving
board. “Come on up and have a dive.”
Soon they were launching themselves, one after another, from the height
of twenty feet into the lake. Brownell had the stiff dive to perfection,
his straight body turning so as to bring his head down into the water
like an arrow. Atwell did the “drop” to the admiration of all, falling
limp and lifeless, till he almost reached the water, then straightening
out like magic. The clown element was furnished by Gordon, who came up
each time choking and sputtering, but with a grin always on his face.
None of his calculations for reaching the water panned out, but he
managed to get there each time in some fashion.
“What do you call that one?” one of the boys asked him.
“That’s the celebrated roly-poly tumble, I guess,” volunteered Brownell.
“Here’s a good one.” He sprang sideways, maintaining the position till
he almost reached the water, then swerved about.
“Good,” said Harry. “Ever do this one?”
He stood a moment on the end of the board, sprang high, turned a
complete backward somersault, and sank into the water feet first and
hands high in air.
“That was simply great!” Atwell shouted.
“Try this one,” said Harry, as he clambered off the ladder on to the
plank. Placing his feet on the very end of the board, he allowed himself
to fall to a horizontal position, rolled in the air like a hoop slightly
opened at one side, and pierced the water turning like a wheel.
“Fine! Magnificent!” said Brownell, as Harry clambered up again to take
his place beside the others who were sitting along the board with their
feet dangling into the butt.
“That fellow over there,” said one of the Hyenas, “makes more noise than
a ferry-boat.” He pointed to a canoe out in the lake which was occupied
by a young man and a small boy. The boy was waving his handkerchief
ecstatically in applause of Harry’s feat, and his companion was
splashing the water with his paddle, apparently for the same purpose. As
they watched, they saw the young man ship the paddle, rise, step toward
the middle of the canoe, lift what appeared to be a red sweater and wave
it. Suddenly he staggered, and the next thing the boys saw was an
overturned canoe, a lot of paraphernalia, and two figures sprawling
desperately in the water.
Harry had risen and without a single word walked across the knees of the
other boys and disappeared, before the canoeists were really in the lake
and before the other boys had moved. He did not stop to dive or even to
jump, he simply walked off the end of the board. Then Brownell, who was
at the outer end of the board, dived, but by that time Harry had almost
reached the small boy, who was uttering pitiable cries. The young man
had managed to get from deep water and stood chest deep near the farther
shore, wringing his hands and screaming like a girl.
As Harry neared the boy the floundering figure disappeared and he
waited. Presently it rose logily, heavily, the head back. “That’s
right,” said Harry, “keep your head back and don’t move.” The only
response was a scream and a panic-stricken clutch for Harry’s wrist. He
loosened the small hand easily by turning his thumb against its wrist,
but the boy’s two hands went convulsively to his neck, clinging
desperately. He put his arm around the little fellow’s waist and his
other hand, palm upward, under the chin, the tips of his fingers
reaching the boy’s nose. Then he pulled and pushed jerkily. In a moment
the little hands let go their hold. Like lightning, the boy was turned,
almost brutally, as it seemed, and Harry was behind him again, his arms
under the little fellow’s armpits, grasping each hand as it tried
convulsively to clutch him, and making for the shore.
“Is he all right?” called Brownell, who, with one or two others, was
almost across.
“Is he dead? Oh, is he dead?” gasped the young fellow who had been his
companion. Harry paid no attention to the question, nor to the excited
youth, but helped the boy to get rid of the water he had swallowed and
tried to calm him.
“You’re all right,” said he; “and see how nice and clean your hands and
face are. Where do you live?”
“He lives right up the hill in that handsome mansion,” volunteered the
boy’s friend, who lisped and panted out his words excitedly with
chattering teeth. He wore a gorgeous silk outing shirt, a neckerchief
with ends tied loosely and hanging in a way of studied nonchalance, and
a silly little trinket in the way of a compass hung on a lanyard about
his neck. He was the true amateur camper, put together in a
sporting-goods store, and now presented a ridiculous appearance as he
stood shivering and dripping. Even his jack-knife, which might easily
have been carried in his pocket, was suspended on a little silver hook
from his belt.
“His people are extremely well-to-do,” he explained in his rapid,
lisping voice. “I am a guest there myself; I have not the slightest
doubt they will reward you suitably for your bravery.”
Harry surveyed him curiously, but did not answer. “What’s your name,
sport?” he asked the boy, who was gradually getting possession of his
senses.
“His name is Danforth—Penfield Danforth,” spoke up the summer
sportsman; “he’s a delicate boy, father thinks the world of him,
youngest child and all that sort of thing. Poor little codger, he seems
to be quite upset. I—”
“Oh, let up,” Harry broke out.
“Pardon me?”
“He was upset, all right,” laughed Atwell.
“Yes, indeed, in more ways than one,” said the young man, smiling.
“Well, I guess you’d better take him home,” said Harry. “There’s your
canoe down there under that tree; you can get it later. Take him up and
get him something hot to drink.”
“I was very much impressed with your diving,” said the young man,
“especially that last one—”
“I guess you can get him up the hill, all right?” said Harry.
“Indeed, yes, but I must ask your name. Mr. Danforth will, no doubt,
wish to communicate with you.” He pulled out a little blank book with a
red morocco cover, somewhat draggled from his plunge, and a pencil
pocket along its edge. On the cover was printed in gold letters, _My
Summer in the Woods_.
Harry eyed it amusedly.
“Your name, please?”
“Buffalo Bill,” said Harry.
“I’m afraid you’re joking. May I ask yours?”
“Daniel Boone,” said Atwell.
He dropped the book on its cord. “Well, we shall be able to find you
anyway; you can’t hide your light under a bushel.”
Harry helped the boy to his feet, and watched the pair make their way up
toward a large house with spacious lawns that crowned a hill a little
way back from the shore. Then the boys swam across the lake and made for
the little grove where they had left the Elephants.
“What the dickens is this?” said one. He was standing in front of a sign
which read:
CAN’T GET AWAY TO DIG BAIT FOR
YOU TO-DAY, MY PATROL WON’T LET ME.
“And look at this one, will you?” said the amazed Atwell.
“Here’s another,” called Brownell.
They walked about reading the various signs which Frankie had lost a
night’s sleep to manufacture.
“Well, what do you think of that?” said Brownell, as they stood
surveying the “shoe tree.” “The little imps! I wonder how many pairs
they’ve left?”
“Haven’t left any, of course; they’re all odd shoes.”
Meanwhile, Gordon and Harry had discovered the canoe and begun quietly
to put on their clothes.
The others gathered about and looked on enviously. “You fellows must
have a pull with Frankie,” said one. “Going to give us a ride home?”
“Two of you can come,” answered Harry, “two light-weights. I don’t think
it would be quite safe with Brownell or Atwell.” He was not going to
lessen Frankie’s triumph any more than necessary and he knew that these
two were the chief targets of Frankie’s vengeance. Two of the Hyenas
lost no time in getting in, and while the others were wandering here and
there, ruefully surveying the Elephants’ handiwork, Gordon and Harry
pushed off.
“Hey, Oakwood, take these shoes and things, will you?” came from the
shore. But Harry was almost in midstream and making a great splash with
his paddle, and was discreetly unable to hear.
Two hours later, Frankie sat on a camp chair before the Elephants’ tent,
playing dominoes with Giant George. His faithful corporal stood at his
elbow.
“Here they come,” said Giant George, in an undertone. Frankie glanced
covertly up at a sight which gladdened his heart. The Hyenas, in their
bathing trunks, each one carrying a single shoe, were straggling to
their stronghold. The perspiration dripped from them, for the heat was
intense and their long walk home had been under a broiling sun. The
Elephants had thoughtfully relieved them even of their hats and caps.
Mr. Wade and Al Wilson stood in the path, talking. The scoutmaster had a
twinkle in his eye as the procession passed, and even the sober Al could
not repress a smile.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Wade, chuckling. “I don’t want to be drawn into
these political broils.”