RETURN OF THE GOOD TURN
"You think you're so smart," said Pee-wee, including the men as well as
his scout comrades in his scathing rebuke. "It shows how much you know
about good turns and scout laws and things. Maybe you think _I_
haven't got any[3] specific vacations. Here, read this letter and look
at the pictures. Then you better go home and read scout law Number Two.
Did you start jollying yet?"
As Roy drew a folded sheet from the envelope several pictures fell to
the floor. One of these was an unmounted cabinet photo, the others were
exceptionally good amateur prints. As County Detective Ferrett gathered
these up he scrutinized the photograph with sudden interest.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded.
"Oh, I got it," said Pee-wee mysteriously. "You're a detective, you
ought to know specific vacations when you see them."
County detective Ferrett was not one to be either polite or ceremonious
where his professional interests were concerned. He therefore snatched
the letter from Roy's hands and proceeded to read it with eager
interest.
It was only by crowding around him that the boys could read it. But in
his sudden interest in the letter the shrewd official had released the
pictures to their rightful owner and the eyes of Warde and Roy were
riveted upon these in speechless consternation.
One showed the very sweet face of a woman, and as the boys looked at
this they were conscious of having seen that face somewhere before. Two
others showed country scenes, including a house. They were the kind of
scenes that amateur photographers love to take; scenes with a homely
familiarity about them--a woman sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, a
dog skilfully caught by the camera in the moment of his resting his paws
upon a fence, a back door with a churn standing near. Commonplace
things, the last subjects that an artist would choose, but scenes that
have a way of reaching the heart and recalling fond memories.
But out of the professionally taken photo there looked straight at the
boys eyes, oh, how familiar, how friendly, how companionable. And upon
the mouth hovered that little smile that they knew, oh, so well. It
seemed, yes it seemed that if Roy were to start jollying Pee-wee then
and there, that smile would broaden. It was the picture of Blythey,
their friend. It seemed to say, "Let's start the camp-fire."
The handwriting of the letter was small and shaky. The missive read:
_Dear Unknown Friend:_--
The letter you sent me came to me. It was brought to me by the
postmaster. In the big town not so far from here there are boys
in brown suits and they call them scouts. A neighbor of mine
says you must be one of those because they are all over the
country.
It is so kind how you thought to send the letter. I would like
to know where you got it. It made me very sad to read it because
it was written to me by my son Joe, who was killed in the war.
He was killed near Reims. I wish I could know all about it but
nobody can find out for me.
He went from Camp Merritt in April 1918 and Mr. Hicks who is
postmaster here has a big map on the wall in his store and he
says that Bridgeboro (which is written near your name on the
envelope) is near Camp Merritt, so perhaps you found the letter.
I guess so for it is so old and looks as if it had been in the
weather, but it is very, very dear to me. So, my dear young
friend, who are so kind, you can say to yourself that you made
me see my boy once more just the same as if he came back. I
think that will make you happy. It made me sad but it made me
happy too. It seems as if I have a letter from both of you and I
will never see you but you are both with me in my trouble and
loneliness.
I would like you to come here sometime and see the home where my
boy grew up but I have much trouble and fear that soon I must go
to the Home in Barnardsville, there to end my days. But these
pictures taken by my boy will show you his home that I must now
lose and his dog now twelve years old; poor dog, I do not know
where he will go when I go to the Home.
My dear boy saved his life when he was your age as I suppose,
and do you know how? By running to him when he was caught in a
thrasher and my boy stepped on a scythe as he ran and he was
many weeks in bed while I nursed him. It seemed hardest of all
that I could not nurse him when he died. He was a brave boy and
so gentle and kind to me and to everyone, even the animals, and
he was so noble and good to me after his father died.
So you see, my dear young friend, I have lost much, even more
than I tell you and I say there are sorrows worse than death so
you will be a pride and comfort as you grow up, for I have known
what an undutiful son is too. But I think of my brave, noble boy
that died in France and you brought him back to me for a few
minutes when I sat reading his letter. So I shall always love
these scout boys on account of you and would like to read about
them but my eyes are not very strong.
And now I say good-bye to you, my dear young friend and often I
will think of you after I go to the Home.
Mrs. Mary Haskell
Hicksville, North Carolina.
The quiet of Hicksville, North Carolina, could have been no deeper than
the stillness which prevailed when the scouts finished reading this
letter. They seemed to feel that if they moved or spoke it would destroy
a spell and prove this whole amazing business a dream. Within the ward
the voice of some patient could be heard in petulant complaint. Nurses
with silent tread, moved in and out of the apartment. An auto horn could
be heard tooting somewhere in the distance. But Warde and Roy were in
Hicksville, North Carolina.
Warde was the first to speak. Modest, as he always was, he now uttered a
thought which had lingered in his mind for many days. "Now I know why he
said '_Doctor Cawson_,'" he observed quietly. "He belongs in the
south. I know why he didn't say _Tranto_ and _Monreal_; it was
because he never lived in those places. But of course, that doesn't
prove anything, I guess."
"It proves something about _you_," said Roy proudly. Oh, he could
afford to be generous and happy!
"We don't need any proof," said Pee-wee; "haven't we got proof enough?
What more do you want? Now what have you all got to say? You're so
smart!"
No one had anything to say, not even Detective Ferrett. All he could do
was whistle perplexedly. The overworked, thin, trembling arm of poor
Mrs. Haskell had reached out and dealt him a knockout blow, under the
exclusive auspices of Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the raving Ravens, scout
of the first class, master of good turns, defender and exponent of good
scout law Number Two, First Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Troop, Boy Scouts of
America!
[Footnote 3: Specifications he probably meant.]