THE VOICE
The camp-fire had died, the last embers had been trodden out, the scouts
had turned in for the night. A half dozen or so fresh air enthusiasts
lay upon their couches of balsam under a big elm, through the high
branches of which the stars looked down upon the weary toilers, dead to
the world. For a precious interval at least they would feel no
disappointment. It was well that they were tired that night.
They had not decided what they should do, but they knew they could not
conceal a criminal and take money from him and count him their
companion. They must do a detestable thing; they must go home and tell.
They did not relish doing this, they _could_ not relish it. They
were not of the class of detectives. They were capable of feeling
contemptible....
There, close to where they slept, were the results of their faithful
labor. And there, too, were the dead embers of their cheerful fire
around which they and their strange, likable companion, had gathered
night after night. One shack had completely disappeared, another stood
there in the darkness like a skeleton to mock them, the third was to
have been tackled in dead earnest in the morning. Then would come the
dividing of the money--oh, the whole thing would seem like a dream when
they awakened.
Only Warde and Roy were abroad on that still night. They sat upon the
sill of a shack rather more pretentious than the barnlike buildings all
about, for it had been officers' quarters. There were even the rotten
remnants of curtains in the windows, necessary no doubt to help defeat
the Germans. The neighborhood was very quiet and very dark, save for the
sounds caused by the breeze in those old wrecks of buildings. Every
rusty hinge and loose board and creaky joint seemed to contribute to
this dismal music. One might easily have imagined those dark, spectral
structures to be tenanted by the ghosts of dead soldiers.
"Why didn't you mention Quebec?" Roy asked. "Why didn't you ask him if
he had been there? That was the place named in the notice."
"That isn't what I was thinking about," Warde said. "I was reading in
the old scout handbook[2] how you can tell where people come from by
their talk. If a person belongs in Canada he'll say Monreal instead of
Montreal. He'll say Tranto instead of Toronto."
"Yes?" urged Roy, hopefully.
"That's all," Warde said. "He doesn't talk as if he came from up that
way. But the notice didn't say he belonged there, it only said he was
wanted there. The way he spoke about the robin was what got me. I can't
make him out at all."
"I guess the picture's the principal thing," Roy said despairingly.
"The principal thing is to wait a day or so," said Warde; "and see what
we can find out. It looks bad, that's sure. It's his picture as far as I
can see. I don't see how we're going to take his measurement; we don't
want to make him suspicious."
"It's funny how he never speaks about his past," said Roy.
"Anybody can see there's something funny about him," Warde said. "What
he said about the robin makes me think that if he committed a murder he
was probably crazy when he did it. Maybe he doesn't even remember that
he did it."
"You can't say he's crazy," Roy protested.
"I know I like him," Warde said; "I just can't help it. I like him now.
Maybe he isn't smart, but he's always thinking about us. He's for the
scouts good and strong. Maybe it's because he's so simple and
easy--maybe that's what makes me like him so much...."
For a few moments neither spoke. It seemed as if both were preoccupied
by pleasant memories of their friend. Weak, uncertain, queer he may have
been, and a failure into the bargain. Shabby and all that. But his smile
haunted them now; he had been their comrade, their friend, their
champion.
"Something always gets in the way when you try to swing a _big_
good turn," Roy mused.
"It takes Pee-wee to manage the big ones," said Warde.
"Poor kid," Roy said.
Again neither spoke. A loose board creaked somewhere in the darkness. A
crude little weathervane, the handiwork of some departed soldier,
rattled nearby.
"_Listen_," said Roy. "Do you hear that voice again?"
As he spoke a long, discordant cry could be heard somewhere in the
distance, ending in a spasmodic jerk. It was like nothing human. Yet
strangely it suggested something human. As if some unearthly ghoul were
trying to simulate the wailing of human anguish.... Then again it was
quite grotesque, bearing no resemblance to the cry of a living thing.
"What do you suppose it is?" Warde asked.
"It's a--I don't know," said Roy doubtfully. "I never heard anything
just like that before."
The sound was not continuous, but came at intervals.
"Do you know what I'd like to do?" said Warde. "I'd like to get just one
good look at Blythe while he's lying asleep. I'd like to see his face
calm and still like in the picture. I'd like to see it when he isn't
looking at me."
"That's easy," said Roy, caught by the idea. "Let's go. Maybe we can
tell better."
They returned to their camp, as they called it, through the dismantled
frame of the first shack, and past the sleepers under the big elm.
Pee-wee was there, tied in a bowline knot, the official knot of the
Raven patrol, sleeping the sleep of the righteous.
"If he should hear us, remember we're just turning in," said Roy.
"Have you got your flashlight?" Warde asked.
"Sure," Roy whispered. "Walk softly."
They entered the sleeping shack, "Blythe's Bunk," and tiptoed to the
spot where Blythe usually lay. Then Roy turned on his light.
The two scouts stood appalled, speechless. Blythe's old shabby coat
which he always folded and used as a pillow was there with the
depression made by his head still in it. But Blythe had gone away....
[Footnote 2: Edition of 1910, containing much interesting and important
matter omitted from subsequent editions.]