On the evening of one Thursday in August, Scout Master Hall and the
members of the three patrols composing the troop of Boy Scouts were
lounging on the piazza of the bungalow or clubhouse which stands on the
shore of Gosling Lake in Southern Maine. It was the day succeeding the
departure of George Burton and his bloodhound Zip.
The hours had been busy ones for our young friends. There had been
fishing, strolls through the woods, investigation of the different kinds
of trees, the study of birds, besides a “deer hunt.” I hasten to say
that this was not a real hunt, a dummy being used with bows and arrows
as weapons. This is one of the most popular forms of amusements among
Boy Scouts, who enjoy it to the full.
So when the youths came back to headquarters, they brought keen
appetites, overflowing spirits and healthy tired bodies. The gathering
on the piazza was a pleasing reunion of all the members. There were
experiences to be told, good natured chaffing, the laying of plans for
the morrow, and now and then Mike Murphy, in answer to the unanimous
demand, sang for them. As I have already said, this remarkable youth,
despite his unrestrainable waggery, would never sing anything of a
frivolous or “rag time” nature, but inclined to sentimental or religious
themes. When that marvelous voice of his, like the notes of a
Stradivarius violin in the hands of Ole Bull, or Spohr, or Kubelik, was
wafted across the placid lake, it was easy to believe the story of the
sirens of Lorelei.
Thus the party was grouped on the night I have named, and the hum and
chatter of conversation was at its height, when Scout Master Hall
exclaimed:
“Look!”
Every voice was instantly hushed. In the gloom the leader’s arm which he
had instinctively extended could not be seen, but naturally all who were
not already looking out upon the water did so. Every one was in time to
see a swift ascending rocket turn and break into a shower of sparks as
it dived downward again.
It was still in sight when a second whirred upward for two hundred feet
or more, leaving a streaming, dazzling trail as it circled over,
exploded and the stick plunged downward in the darkness.
Every one held his breath. Most of them rose and stared. It might be
that the physician was sending up the rockets to amuse his daughter. If
there were only two, they would mean nothing more; if there was
another——
“There it is!” gasped Scout Master Hall; “something is wrong at Doctor
Spellman’s!”
It was the signal which had been agreed upon in the event of their
friend finding himself in urgent need of help.
It seemed as if several minutes passed before, through the tomb-like
hush, stole a faint popping sound,—the report of the explosion ending
its journey across the lake.
The dull, almost inaudible call acted as if it were a bugle blast. The
whole party dashed off the porch and at headlong speed to the two canoes
drawn upon the beach. Even Jack Crandall swung to the steps, and debated
a moment whether he should not join the party of rescue, but his common
sense told him he would be only a hindrance, and he reluctantly stayed
behind and watched the shadowy forms of his friends as shown in the star
gleam, the moon not yet having risen.
“He has called for us,” said Scout Master Hall, “and there isn’t a
minute to lose!”
Standing on the edge of the lake he gave his commands as coolly as an
officer marshaling his forces for a charge. In a twinkling the two boats
were afloat in the deep water which came close to the bank.
“There are twenty-one of us; each canoe will carry no more than eight;
the other five must hurry along the shore to the doctor’s house.”
The lads stood breathless, waiting for the leader to name those who must
walk. He promptly did so:
“Isaac Rothstein, Hoke Butler, Gerald Hume, Arthur Mitchell, Gordon
Calhoun.”
It was a keen disappointment to the five, but there was not a murmur.
“Come on, boys,” called Hoke; “if we do our best we shall not be far
behind them.”
His long legs carried him at a pace that made it hard for the others to
equal. In Indian file the procession, with him in the lead, loped along
the beach and was speedily swallowed up in the obscurity.
The crews of the canoes worked like beavers. In a twinkling the boys had
adjusted themselves and in each boat the two who were handiest with the
paddles plyed them vigorously. Scout Master Hall was seated in the stern
of one, among his companions being Mike Murphy, Alvin Landon and Chester
Haynes.
At the moment the two craft put out from shore, Mike Murphy repeated the
exclamation—
“Look!”
The startling performance of a few minutes before was repeated. One,
two, three rockets streamed upward in the heavens, curved over, exploded
and plunged downward among the trees.
“What can be the trouble?” was the question which everyone of the
rescuers asked himself, as the oarsmen threw their energies into the
task, and sent the heavily-laden craft with the utmost speed across the
lake toward the home of their friend.
Alvin and Chester swung the paddles in their canoe, which speedily
assumed a slight lead. There was little or no conversation, but each Boy
Scout was busy with his thoughts, and burning with curiosity to learn
the cause of the strange night call across the lake. Since every one
knew of the doings of the two tramps, who had been lurking in the
vicinity for several days and had been seen the previous afternoon, it
was natural that suspicion should turn to them.
And yet it was hard to imagine a situation in which so plucky a man as
Doctor Spellman, who owned a revolver and a repeating rifle, would have
any fear of two unarmed vagrants. Impulsive by nature, and already
resentful toward them, he would stand no nonsense at their hands.
And for a third time were three signal rockets sent streaming aloft,
before the canoes had passed half the distance between the bungalow and
the home of the physician. The urgency of the summons filled all with
anguish. Mike and the Patrol Leader offered to relieve Alvin and Chester
with the paddles, but they would not listen and bent resolutely to their
task. The other canoe had pulled up alongside, and the two kept abreast
with barely ten feet separating them.
The cause of the call of distress was revealed with startling suddenness
and before the craft reached land. Through the gloom, Mike Murphy caught
the vague outlines of a man and woman on the beach, and he shouted:
“What’s the matter, docther?”
The reply of itself was a partial answer:
“Is Ruth at the bungalow?”
“She hasn’t been there since ye brought her over the other day.”
“Then heaven save us! she is lost.”
It was the mother who uttered this wail, as she convulsively clasped her
hands and walked distractedly to and fro.
The boys leaped out of the boats and gathered round the grief-smitten
couple.
“Tell us what this means,” said Scout Master Hall, as he sympathetically
clasped the hand of the physician, who spoke with rare self-command,
though his wife began sobbing as if her heart was broken:
“We did not miss her until about an hour ago; I sat in front of the
house smoking and talking with wife, when she remarked that it was time
Ruth was in bed. I called to her, but there was no answer. Thinking she
had fallen asleep inside, I lighted a match and looked around, wife
joining me. A brief search showed she was not there. We hurried outside,
and I shouted again.
“By that time we were in an agony of distress and wife was sure
something dreadful had happened to her. As soon as we could command our
wits we found that neither of us had seen her for nearly two hours and
the thought struck us both that she had wandered off to the bungalow. If
she had kept along the beach and walked steadily she would have had time
to reach you, but there are so many other awful chances that I dared not
trust to that, so I appealed to you.”
“And you did right; there is nothing that is possible for us to do that
we will not do,” was the response of Scout Master Hall.
“She may still be wandering along the beach on her way to the bungalow.”
“Five of our boys are hurrying over the same course to this point, and
will be sure to meet and bring her home.”
“Unless she has strayed off in the woods and been lost.”
“Let us hope that such is the fact, for then she will be safe and suffer
only slight inconveniences.”
“Oh, it is worse than that,” moaned the mother, still pacing to and fro
and wringing her hands; “she has fallen into the lake and been drowned.”
“I cannot believe that,” said the Scout Master, following the remark
with such tactful assurances that the mother regained a part of her
self-command, to the extent even of feeling a faint hope that all was
well with her child.
The conduct of the youths was admirable. When they spoke it was in
whispers and undertones, but every heart was filled with the sincerest
pity, and all were eager to do everything they could for the smitten
parents.
The Boy Scout does not content himself with words: his mission is to do
a good turn, and where every minute was beyond value none was thrown
away.
Scout Master Hall assumed charge. He directed six of the boys to take
the back trail, as it might be called,—that is, around the eastern end
of the lake to the bungalow. This would insure their meeting Hoke Butler
and his companions, who in turn would meet the missing child if she had
wandered over the same route. The six to whom this task was entrusted
were under the charge of Mike Murphy.
The same number of boys were ordered to follow the opposite
direction,—that is, to skirt the lake to the westward,—each of the two
searching parties to keep it up until they came together at the
bungalow. This arrangement left four Boy Scouts, including Mr. Hall and
not mentioning the father and mother. The leader proposed that he, one
of the lads and the parents should separate, plunge into the woods and
pursue the hunt independently of one another. Since for a time the
search must be a blind one this plan was as good as any that could be
suggested.
The Scout Master took Alvin and Chester aside.
“I have selected you for a special work,” he said. “You are fleet of
foot, cool-headed and have good judgment. The doctor has made no
reference to those tramps, and yet I know he suspects they have stolen
Ruth, and intend to hold her for ransom. I believe it is either that, or
she has wandered off and fallen asleep in the woods,—with the
possibility that she is drowned.
“I want you to make your way as quickly as you can to the little town of
Bovil, where I think there is a telephone. If the tramps have kidnapped
the Sunbeam, they will try to get out of the neighborhood. Telephone to
the officers at Boothbay Harbor and other points, and get word to Burton
at Mouse Island as soon as possible, and ask him to make all haste here
with Zip. He’ll do it.”