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ROY BLAKELEY IN THE HAUNTED CAMP
by
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of
The Tom Slade Books
The Roy Blakeley Books
The Pee-Wee Harris Books
Illustrated by R. Emmett Owen
[Illustration: THE BOYS MINGLED SOME FUN WITH THEIR WORK.]
Published with the Approval of
The Boy Scouts of America
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers :: New York
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1922, by
Grosset & Dunlap
CONTENTS
I The House in the Lane 1
II An Echo of the War 6
III A New Acquaintance 14
IV Pee-wee Fixes It 26
V Pee-wee's Discovery 30
VI Sunday the Fourteenth 36
VII Then and Now 44
VIII Peace! 49
IX Around the Fire 54
X The Fall of Scout Harris 62
XI Young Mr. Blythe 69
XII Three's a Company 72
XIII Warde Is in Earnest 79
XIV Baffled? 86
XV Within Reach 93
XVI Right Side Out 97
XVII A Revelation 99
XVIII The Test 103
XIX The Dull Blaze 108
XX The Voice 114
XXI The Diagonal Mark 120
XXII The Banshee 126
XXIII After the Storm 133
XXIV The Warning 136
XXV The Good Turn 141
XXVI Mr. Ferrett's Triumph 146
XXVII Scout Law Number Two 155
XXVIII Home Sweet Home 164
XXIX A Discovery 172
XXX The Visit 175
XXXI Hark, the Conquering Hero Comes 182
XXXII Return of the Good Turn 187
XXXIII The Mystery 194
XXXIV Seein' Things 202
ROY BLAKELEY IN THE HAUNTED CAMP
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE IN THE LANE
One fine day in the merry month of August when the birds were singing in
the trees and all the schools were closed and hikes and camping and ice
cream cones were in season, and the chickens were congregated on the
platform of the Hicksville, North Carolina, post office, something of
far reaching consequence happened.
On that day Joshua Hicks, postmaster-general of that thriving world
centre, emerged from the post office, adjusted his octagon-shaped,
steel-rimmed spectacles exactly half way down his long nose, held a
certain large envelope at arm's length and contemplating it with an air
of rueful perplexity said,
"Well--by--gum!"
Then he cocked his head to one side, then to the other, squinted first
his right eye, then his left, and at last inquired, of the chickens,
apparently,
"What--in--all--_cre-a-tion_ is this?"
The chickens did not answer him; on the contrary they departed from the
platform, seeing, perhaps, that there was no mail for them. With the
exception of two persons the chickens were the only creatures that ever
waited for the mail in Hicksville.
In the peacefulness of the Hicksville solitude the train could be heard
rattling over the bridge and into the woods beyond, going straight about
its business as if Hicksville did not exist.
It was no wonder that Joshua Hicks was astonished, for things like this
did not happen in Hicksville every day. The last previous event had been
a circus but that was nothing compared to the large envelope. For the
address on this was as follows:
To a lady in Hicksville, North Carolina, who lives in a white
house with the end of the porch broken and with a dog that has a
collar. Maybe there's a window broken.
In the upper left hand corner was written:
If not delivered sometime or other return to W. Harris, scout,
Raven Patrol 1st Bridgeboro New Jersey troop, Boy Scouts of
America.
And at the lower right hand corner was the additional information:
P. S. There is a puddle outside the woodshed or a pail.
With such detailed information as this Uncle Sam, that world renowned
errand boy, could hardly do otherwise than deliver this formidable
document. And thus it was that W. Harris, scout, had stopped a great
train, which goes to show you what boy scouts can do.
Thinking no doubt that an envelope of such imposing dimensions
containing such explicit descriptive matter was entitled to the honor of
rural free delivery, the postmaster-general himself took off his
spectacles, put on a large straw hat and started up the road.
He came presently to a small white house some distance up a lane, where
a dog with a collar greeted him with a cordial wag of the tail.
That dog, in his humble abode, did not know that his fame had gone
abroad and that his personal distinction of a collar was known in the
sovereign commonwealth of New Jersey, not to mention the vast
cosmopolitan centre of Bridgeboro, county seat so-called, because of the
comfortable propensity of the people living there to spend their time
sitting down. Perhaps it might more appropriately have been called the
county couch, since the inhabitants were said to be forever in a kind of
doze.
But if Bridgeboro, New Jersey, dozed, Hicksville, North Carolina, had
the sleeping sickness. And it did not even walk in its sleep for not a
soul was to be seen about the little white house nor anywhere else.
There was no doubt, however, of its being the house in question. A
pillar at the end of the porch had rotted away and the roof over the
little platform was tumbling down. A pane of glass was missing from the
sitting room window.
But Joshua Hicks was not going to take any chances. So he playfully
ruffled the dog's hair to make sure that the collar was around the
animal's neck and having satisfied himself of this he strolled around in
back of the house for an official inspection of the puddle or the pail.
The United States government must be very thorough about these things;
puddles especially....
There, sure enough, was the puddle, a perennial puddle, fed by a
laughing, babbling, leaky drainpipe. Joshua Hicks dipped a finger in the
mud and made sure of the puddle. He then looked for the pail, and not
seeing it, put on his steel spectacles and glanced again at the
envelope.
"A puddle _or_ a pail," he said. "I reckon that's all right; it
says _or_ a pail."
He was going to knock on the kitchen door, but he bethought him to make
a supplementary inspection of the tumbled down porch roof. There could
be no two opinions about that; even a profiteering landlord would have
admitted the condition. And finally Postmaster Hicks satisfied himself
in the best of all ways of the condition of the window, and that was by
cutting his finger on a fragment of broken glass.
Staunch and true as he was, he was ready to shed his blood for his
country.