CONNOVER BREAKS LOOSE
Advancing stealthily, our young hero raised his rifle and leveled it at
the chief of the howling Zulus, who clustered threateningly on the
farther shore. The young girl whom they had kidnapped lay bound hand
and foot, and Dan Dreadnought clenched his teeth with anger as he heard
her cries for help. The poisoned spears of the infuriated Zulus were
flying all about him, but they did not cower the brave lad. He was
resolved at any cost to rescue that girl.
"I am a Boy Scout," he called, "and I can handle a hundred savages if
need be." Then, uttering the cry of the Eureka Patrol, he dashed into
the dugout which lay drawn up on the shore, and using the butt end of
his rifle for a paddle, he guided his unsteady boat across the raging
torrent amid a fusillade of spears and arrows with which the frantic
Zulus vainly sought to stay his approach.
"I am Lieutenant of the Eureka Patrol!" called Dan. "Untie those
fetters, or every one of you shall die!"
His trusty companion, Ralph Redgore, tried to hold him back, but all in
vain.
Connover Bennett laid down the copy of _The Eureka Patrol in South
Africa_, by Captain Dauntless, U. S. A., and dragging himself from
the hammock, entered the house. He was breathing hard as if he had been
running.
The bungalow was deserted save for the maid in the kitchen, and
Connover was monarch of all he surveyed.
Quietly, he crept upstairs and into the "den." In the corner among his
father's fishing-rods and golf sticks stood a rifle. It was forbidden
to Connover, but unfortunately _The Eureka Patrol in South Africa_
dealt not with scout honor and made no mention of the Seventh Law,
which stipulates that a "scout shall be obedient." Nor had Captain
Dauntless thought it worth while to mention Law One, which says that a
"scout's honor is to be trusted."
Connover glanced up and down the road from the bay-window to see if by
any chance his mother might have forgotten something and was coming
back. Reassured in this particular, he took up the rifle and, standing
before the large pier-glass, he adopted a heroic attitude of aiming.
Then he looked from the window down into the woods through which he
could see little glints of the river.
It was not glints of Salmon River that he saw, but the "Deadly Morass
River" of South Africa; the woods were not quiet, fragrant pine woods
where the First Bridgeboro Troop of real scouts was encamped, but the
deadly morass itself; and he was not Connover Bennett, but _Dan
Dreadnought_, and this was the trusty rifle with which he would--
He looked again from the bay-window to make sure that his mother was
not in sight. Then the creaking of a door startled him and he laid the
rifle down. It was queer how every little sound startled him. He
unfastened his negligee shirt at the neck and, standing before the
pier-glass, arranged it as much like the frontispiece pictures of
_Dan Dreadnought_ as possible. There was a curious fluttering
feeling in his chest all the while which annoyed him. It did not seem
to jibe at all with the heroic program.
Yes, this was the rifle with which he would...
He tiptoed to the stairs and listened, "Molly, is that you?" he called.
"Yes, Master Connover."
"All right, I just wanted to know."
He went back into the room and opening the drawer of the desk, took out
a box of cartridges, extracted several and put them in his pocket. When
he replaced the box he forgot which end of the drawer he had taken it
from and was in a quandary where to place it. He took up the rifle
again, then laid it down and the thud of its butt on the floor startled
him. What a lot of noise it seemed to make!
It was oily and his hands were oily from it and left an oily stain on
the felt covering of the desk. He placed the inkstand over it, and all
the while he felt very strange and nervous; trembling almost as he
planned his exploit.
Then he took the rifle and got behind the revolving-chair, and rested
the weapon on it. It was not a very realistic jungle, but...
He saw the Zulus just as plain as day; and he saw himself, or rather,
_Dan Dreadnought_, in that big pier-glass.
He knew the gun was not loaded and he pulled the trigger, which
clicked.
The click seemed louder than he thought it would and he listened in
suspense. No sound.
Yes, this was the rifle with which he would... Casting one more
cautious look from the window, he shouldered the weapon and hurried
quietly down the stairs.
"What time did my mother say she'd be back?" he called.
"Not till dinnertime, Master Connover." He crossed the road, and headed
through the woods toward the river. Once in the woods, the spirit of
freedom took possession of him and he indulged in the luxury of
shooting the gun at nothing at all.
"'I am a scout,'" he said, "'and can handle a hundred savages!'"
Whereas, in plain fact, he couldn't have been much farther from being a
scout.
Arrested by a flutter in one of the trees, he leveled his gun again and
by the luck of a random shot, brought down a robin. The sight of its
quivering body and loose-hanging neck as it lay at his feet almost
frightened him for he had never killed a red-blooded creature before,
and he felt now a sense of heavy guilt. He was afraid to pick the robin
up and when he finally did so and saw how wilted and drooping the thing
was and how aimlessly the head swung he was seized with a little panic
of fear and dropped it suddenly.
But it was absolutely necessary that he should carry out his program of
encountering the Zulu's. As long as he was not really going to kill
anyone it was all right. He was at least going to have the thrill of
that experience. Now that he had killed the robin, he found that in
actual practice he preferred a sort of modified Dan Dreadnought to the
real one; and he could piece out with his imagination the more
harrowing features of Captain Dauntless's book.
So he pictured a dugout drawn up on the shore of the river which he was
approaching; and he pictured a group of howling Zulus on the farther
shore. He heard ikes and the splashing of water, and it fitted well
with his heroic scheme to imagine these sounds were made by the howling
Zulus, though in reality he knew, or thought he knew, that they came
from farther up the river near the scouts' camp.
He was within a few yards of the river now and pushing through the
thick growth which bordered it.
His imagination was working like machinery, and had all the features
and details of his daring act, pat.
"'I am a boy scout,'" he repeated, "'and can handle----'"
He raised his rifle and, aiming with dramatic gesture at nothing in
particular, pulled the trigger, then dashed forward in a perfect frenzy
of adventurous delight to the shore.
On the other side of the river the O'Connor boy was leaning back in the
arms of one of a group of people, the boys in the boat were mending
their efforts to get to shore; someone said, "There he is!" and then
all eyes were upon him and Connover Bennett dropped the gun, reeled
against a tree and stood staring as he realized that he was nearer to
being the real _Dan Dreadnought_ than he had dreamed.
A cold sweat broke out upon his brow, his first impulse was to run with
all his might and main; but he could not stir.