MR. FERRETT'S TRIUMPH
Roy's injury was but a strained ankle. For a moment he seemed dazed and
unable to realize what had happened. That the whole collapsed roof had
been held above him by superhuman effort of Blythe only dawned on him
when he saw the bleeding, unconscious form of his friend lying clear of
the wreckage, Doc Carson kneeling by him, the others standing silently
about. It did occur to Roy, as odd thoughts do come in tense moments,
how pleased and content Blythe would be could he but know that "Doctor
Cawson" was in attendance. His faith in scout first aid was so great, so
flattering....
They made sure that his back was not broken and that his heart action
was not dangerously weak. Doc bathed the streaked hair and sterilized
the cut which he thought was not necessarily mortal.
"Someone will have to get a doctor," he said. He seemed the calmest one
present. "Hustle to Dumont or Haworth, one of you, and get to a 'phone.
If you can find a doctor send him, but anyway call up Bridgeboro; call
up the hospital and tell them someone is hurt up here."
Roy was starting but Artie Van Arlen pulled him back. "It's all you can
do to limp," he said. "I'll go."
"If it's a hospital emergency call, the police will come," Westy warned.
"Never mind," said Doc, "get to a 'phone, that's all I care about. And
hustle."
Before he had finished speaking Artie was gone. Several of them watched
his fleeting form, moving with steady, easy speed down the smooth white
road. The patter of his shoes sounded farther and farther off until the
sound died altogether, and the hurrying figure grew smaller and smaller
as if it were going down the scale from patrol leader to tenderfoot.
They saw his hat blow off and that he did not pause to recover it. Then
he passed between the old gateposts where the sentinels had once stood,
and disappeared in a turn of the road. There were houses a little beyond
that point.
Under Doc's direction the scouts worked three boards under Blythe's own
balsam couch and carried this to where he lay. They got him onto it and
bore it gently into the camping shack, out of the glaring sunlight.
There, in Blythe's Bunk, the only home he knew, they laid him gently
down and at Doc's request those who were not needed went out. The victim
lay quite unconscious, his face ghastly pale and with a look of being
polished caused perhaps by the water which Doc Carson kept applying.
The wet, matted hair, too, gave him a ghastly, unhuman look. But Doc
said that his pulse was fair and that the blood was not flowing too
profusely. That was all he would say. With the true spirit of one who
ministers he seemed to have forgotten all else except that Blythe was
stricken.
Outside the air seemed tense, the scouts standing about in little
groups, waiting. Their suspense was shown in the occasional glances
which they gave up the road. They spoke in undertones, their talk was
forced and charged with nervous tension. A kind of foreboding dwelt
among them.
"They'll find out everything now," one said. "Should we maybe hide his
coat?"
"We have no right to do that," said another.
"It's out of our hands now," Westy said.
Then spoke Pee-wee Harris out of his staunch, sturdy little heart, "I
don't care--I don't care what you say--he didn't do it. Lots of people
look like other people. Because anyway I know he didn't do it. Remember
about that robin."
"How about the label, Kid?"
Pee-wee had not time to answer this poser for along the road came the
ambulance, pell-mell. Surely, the boys thought, Artie could not have
spoken of Blythe's identity over the 'phone, yet following the ambulance
came the touring car of Bridgeboro's police department with the chief in
it, the policeman chauffeur, a couple of other men, and county detective
Ferrett. A couple of other cars, too, came lagging behind, in deference
to the speed laws, doubtless lured thither by the sonorous gong of the
ambulance and the imposing official display.
Pretty soon Artie came along scout pace. The scene of the pleasant
little scout camp was presently overrun by aimless sojourners in private
cars, who gathered about awaiting the actions of the high and mighty.
The surgeon in spotless white examined Blythe and said little. When one
of the scouts ventured to ask him if the injuries would prove fatal he
said, "Not necessarily."
"Who is this fellow anyway?" the Bridgeboro chief asked.
"He's a fellow that's hurt," Doc Carson answered rather dryly.
"Belong around here?"
"He was working here and we were helping him," Westy said.
"What's his name?"
"Blythe."
"What do you boys know about this chap?"
No one answered this question. The boys felt nervous, uncertain what to
say. The one person present who was quite oblivious to all this official
nonsense at such a time was the one whom it most concerned, Blythe. He
lay stark upon his balsam couch with the blessing of unconsciousness
upon him. The surgeon, with a few words and much quiet show of
efficiency, knelt by him, heedless of these official busybodies. What
hint he had of possible crime none could say. But they were like
vultures.
"Where's the fire department?" Warde Hollister ventured to ask a brother
scout.
At this point the surgeon with gentle deftness removed the victim's
faded, threadbare coat, and threw it upon the ground. With the
promptness of sudden discovery county detective Ferrett picked it up. He
held it distastefully, as one holds a thing infected. To the boys his
act seemed like an insult to the poor worn rag with its tear, caused by
the falling beam, and its brown bloodstain. But none of them spoke. Roy,
in particular, watched the official with keen interest.
"Dominion--Dominion Clothing Company," they heard him say; "Quebec,
Canada."
There followed an awful pause. That would have been the time for the
scouts to speak. But none spoke.
"Hold on a minute," they heard Mr. Ferrett say, just as two men were
about to lift the canvas stretcher which they had slipped under Blythe's
body; "just a moment."
He took from his pocket a sort of huge wallet, and fumbling among its
multifarious contents pulled out an old faded paper, which he opened.
Roy and Westy, who stood nearest to him could read it plainly enough and
see two pictures, profile and front face, which it displayed:
WANTED FOR MURDER FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS
REWARD WILL BE PAID BY THE POLICE OF QUEBEC, CANADA, FOR
INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST AND CONVICTION OF CLAUDE
DARRELL, ALIAS DARROW, ALIAS HICKY JOE, ETC., ETC. WANTED FOR
BURGLARY AND HOMICIDE.
Was last seen in New York where he tried to enlist for military
service. Hair brown and straight. Complexion dark. Eyes gray.
Height 5 feet 10-1/2 inches. Weight about 140 pounds. Teeth
white and even. May seek work as gasfitter. When last seen wore
a gray suit with double breasted vest. Walks slightly sideways.
"Here's our bird all right," said Detective Ferrett with a cold
vulgarity which made the scouts' blood boil. "This is that Quebec chap,
wanted for murder. Here's an easy five thousand. Look at this, Chief;
look at these pictures and then look at that face. O. K.? This is him or
I'm a dub. Just wait till I measure this chap."
"Oh, you'll do nothing of the sort," said the surgeon briskly, and
apparently not at all interested in Blythe's history or identity. "He's
not going to walk away. Just stand out of the way, gentlemen, this is an
ambulance call."
A thrill of admiration passed through several of the scouts as they
heard this. "I'd--I'd--anyway I'd rather be a doctor than a detective,"
Pee-wee whispered.
"Well, it's all down on the paper here," said Detective Ferrett. "We've
got him dead to rights. Aim for a goose and you hit a gander. This
fellow's a red-handed thug from Canada. They've had the alarm out for
him a couple of years. You kids never knew that, hey?" And by way of a
pleasantry he hit Roy a rap with his bulging wallet. "We'll measure him
up down yonder. The face is enough, but these specifications will clinch
it."
"If you're after specifications," said Roy, "you might as well put down
that he's got a scar on his left heel. It's an old one, about ten years
old. And we're glad you were the one to discover him and you're welcome
to your old five thousand dollars. We don't want it, do we, Westy?"