A MEMBER OF THE WOLF PATROL.
When Fremont opened the door of the Cameron suite, facing the Great
White Way, he saw that the room before him was dark and in disorder.
The place was dimly illuminated from the high-lights on Broadway, and
the noises of the street came stridently up, still, there seemed to the
boy to be a shadowy and brooding hush over the place.
Remembering his subconscious impressions of some indefinable evil at
hand, the boy shivered with a strange dread as he switched on the
electrics, half afraid of what they might reveal. Why was the room so
dark and silent? The lights had been burning when he looked up from
below, and he had not met Mr. Cameron on his way up. Where was the man
he had come to meet? What evil had befallen him?
At the left of the apartment, from which two others opened, to right
and left, was a small safe, used privately by Mr. Cameron. Its usual
place was against the wall, but it had been wheeled about so that it
fronted the windows. The door was open, and, although no violence
seemed to have been used, Fremont saw that the interior was in a mess,
papers and books being scattered about in confusion.
At the right of the room, and near the doorway opening into the north
room, stood a large flat-topped desk, most of the drawers of which were
now open. One of the drawers lay on its side on the floor, and was
empty. The articles on the desk's top gave evidence of rough handling.
Papers appeared to be dripping from filecases, and a black pool of ink
lay on the shining surface of the desk.
A swivel-chair which had stood in front of the desk was overturned, and
its back now rested on the rug while its polished castors stuck up in
the air. At first glance, there seemed to be no human being in the
suite save the frightened boy.
With his mind filled with thoughts of robbery, George was about to rush
out into the corridor and summon assistance, when a slight sound coming
from the north room attracted his attention. He hastened thither, and
was soon bending over an office couch upon which lay a still figure.
There was no longer doubt in the mind of the boy as to what had taken
place there. Mr. Cameron had been attacked and the suite ransacked.
The boy recalled the fact that the rooms had been lighted from within
when he stood on the pavement, and wondered if it would not be
possible, by acting promptly, to capture the assassin, as he must still
be in the building, possibly hiding in some of the dark corners.
First, however, it was necessary that the injured man should receive
medical help. Fremont saw a wound on the head, probably dealt with
some blunt instrument, and then moved toward the telephone in the outer
room. As he did so the corridor door was opened and a boy of perhaps
fifteen years looked in. When the intruder saw that Fremont was
observing him, he advanced to the connecting doorway.
For quite a minute the boys, standing within a yard of each other,
remained silent. Fremont would have spoken, but the accusing look on
the face of the other stopped him. The intruder glanced keenly about
the two rooms which lay under his gaze and finally rested on the figure
on the leather office couch. Then, while Fremont watched him
curiously, he went back to the corridor door and stood against it.
"You've got your nerve!" he said, then. "You're nervy, but you ain't
got good sense, doin' a think like that with the shades up, the lights
on, an' the door unlocked. What did you go an' do it for?"
The sinister meaning of the words took form in the mind of the boy
instantly. For the first time he realized that he would be accused of
the crime, and that circumstances would be against him. If Mr. Cameron
should never recover sufficiently to give a true account of what had
taken place, he would be arrested and locked up as the guilty one.
If his benefactor should die without regaining consciousness, he might
even be sent to the electric chair, and always his name would be
mentioned with horror. While these thoughts were passing through the
dazed mind of the boy, there came, also, the keen regret that Frank
Shaw had not accompanied him to the building. That would have changed
everything--just one witness.
"What did you go an' do it for?" repeated the intruder. "What had Mr.
Cameron ever done to you?"
"You think I did it?" said Fremont, as cooly as his excitement would
permit of. "You think I struck Mr. Cameron and robbed the office?"
"What about all this?" asked the boy, swinging a hand over the littered
rooms, "and the man on the couch?" he added. "Who did it if you
didn't?"
"I understand that circumstances are against me," Fremont said,
presently. "It looks bad for me, but I didn't do it. I came here to
accompany Mr. Cameron home, and found everything just as you see it
now."
A smile of disbelief flitted over the other's face, but he did not
speak.
"I hadn't been in here half a minute when you came in," Fremont went
on. "I had just switched on the lights when I heard a noise in here
and there Mr. Cameron lay. I was going to the 'phone when you entered."
"Tell it to the judge," the other said, grimly.
Fremont dropped into a chair and put a hand to his head. Of course.
There would be a judge, and a jury, and a crowded court room, and
columns in the newspapers. He had read of such cases, and knew how
reporters convicted the accused in advance of action by the courts.
"Where did you get that badge?" the intruder demanded, stepping forward
as Fremont lifted his arm. "The arrow-head badge with the lettered
scroll, I mean."
"I earned it," replied Fremont, covering the scroll with one hand. "Can
you tell me," he continued, "what the letters on the scroll say?"
"Be prepared," was the reply.
"Be prepared for what?"
"To do your duty, and to face danger in order to help others."
"What is the name of your patrol?"
"The Wolf. And your's is the Black Bear. I've heard a lot about the
boys of that patrol, a lot that was good."
"And never anything that was bad?"
"Not a thing."
"Well then," said Fremont, extending his hand, which the other hastened
to take, "you've got to help me now. You've got to stand by me. It is
your duty."
"If you belong to the Black Bear Patrol," began the boy, "and have all
the fine things you want--as the members of that patrol do--what did
you want to go an' do this thing for? What's your name?"
"George Fremont. What is yours?"
"Jimmie McGraw," was the reply. "I'm second assistant to the private
secretary to the woman who scrubs here nights. She'll be docking me
if I don't get busy," he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his keen
gray eyes. "Or, worse, she'll be comin' in here an' findin' out what's
goin' on."
"Why didn't one of you come in here before I got to the top of the
stairs?" asked Fremont, illogically. "Why did you just happen in here
in time to accuse me of doing this thing?"
"I was just beginnin' on this floor," the boy replied. "I wish now
that I hadn't come in here at all. You know what I've got to do?"
"You mean call the police?" asked Fremont.
"That's what I've got to do."
"I didn't do it. I wasn't here when it was done," exclaimed Fremont.
"You've got to listen to me. You've got to listen to me, and believe
what I say. It is your duty to do so."
"What did you want to go and be a Boy Scout an' do such a thing for?"
demanded the boy. "Boy Scouts don't protect robbers, or murderers. You
know I've got to go an' call the police. There ain't nothin' else I
can do."
"If you call the police now," Fremont urged, "you'll rob me of every
chance to prove that I am innocent. They will lock me up in the Tombs
and I'll have no show at all. Mrs. Cameron will believe that I did it,
and won't come near me. If he dies I'll be sent to the electric
chair--and you'll be my murderer."
"What am I goin' to do, then?" demanded Jimmie. "I can't go out of the
room and testify that I know nothing about it when the police do come.
I can't do that for you, even if you do belong to the Black Bear
Patrol. I wish I'd never come here to-night. I wish I'd never worked
for the scrubwoman."
"To face danger in order to help others," Fremont repeated,
significantly.
"Oh, I know--I know," said Jimmie, flinging his arms out in a gesture
of despair. "I've heard that before, but what am I to do?"
"Who's your patrol leader?" asked Fremont. "Go and ask him, or the
scoutmaster. One of them ought to be able to tell you what you ought
to do."
"And you'll take to your legs while I'm gone," replied Jimmie, with a
grin. "Good idea that. For you."
"Here," said Fremont, tossing out his key to the door, "go on away and
lock me in. I couldn't get away if I wanted to, and I give you my
honor that I won't try. Go and find some one you can talk this thing
over with."
Jimmie's eyes brightened with sudden recollection of his patrol
leader's love for mysterious cases--his great liking for detective work.
"Say," he said, presently, "I'll go an' bring Ned Nestor. He's my
patrol leader, and the bulliest boy in New York. He'll know what to
do. I'll bet he'll come here when he knows what the trouble is. And
I'll do just as he says."
Jimmie turned toward the door, fingering the key, his eyes blinking
rapidly, then he turned and faced Fremont.
"If Ned Nestor tells me it ain't no use," he said, slowly, reluctantly,
"I'll have to bring the police. I'll have to do it anyway, if he tells
me to."
"You'll find me here, whoever you bring," Fremont replied. "I won't
run away. What would be the use of that? They'd find me and bring me
back. Go on out and bring in anyone you want to. I guess I'll never
make the trip to the Rio Grande we were planning to-night--just before
I came here."
"The Black Bears?" asked Jimmie. "Were they planning a trip to the Rio
Grande?"
Fremont nodded and pointed toward the door.
"Anyway," he said, "you can get me out of this suspense. You can let
me know, if you want to, whether I am going to the Rio Grande or to the
Tombs."
"Jere! What a trip that would be."
Without waiting for any further words, Jimmie darted out of the door
and then his steps were heard on the staircase. Fremont had never in
all his life had a key turned on him before. He threw himself into a
chair, then, realizing how selfish he was, he hastened to the north
room and again bent over the injured man.
There appeared to be little change in Mr. Cameron's condition. He
moved restlessly at intervals. Fremont brought water and used it
freely, but its application did not produce any immediate effect.
Realizing that a surgeon should be summoned at once, the boy moved
toward the telephone.
However, he found himself unable to bring himself to the point of
communicating with the surgeon he had in mind. Questions would be
asked, and he would be suspected, and the intervention of the Boy
Scouts could do him no good. He understood now that his every hope for
the future centered in the little lad who was hurrying through the
night in quest of Ned Nestor, his patrol leader. If these boys of the
Wolf Patrol should decide against him, and the injured man should not
recover, there was the end of life and of hope. And only an hour ago
he had planned the wonderful excursion down the Rio Grande. That time
seemed farther away to him now than the birth of Adam.
And mixed with the horror of the situation was the mystery of it! What
motive could have actuate the criminal? Had the blow been struck by a
personal enemy, in payment of a grudge, or had robbery been the motive?
Surely not the latter, for the injured man's valuable watch and chain,
his diamonds, were in place. Stocks and bonds, good in the hands of
any holder, lay on the floor in front of the open safe. A robber would
have taken both bonds and jewelry.
The one reasonable theory was that the act had been committed by some
person in quest of papers kept in the office files. The manner in
which the desk and safe had been ransacked showed that a thorough
search for something had been made. Directly the boy heard Mr. Cameron
speaking and hastened to his side. If he had regained consciousness,
the nightmare of suspicion would pass away.
"Fremont! Fremont! He did it! He did it!"
This was worse than all the rest. Mr. Cameron was still out of his
head, but his words indicated that he might have fallen under the blow
with the impression in his mind that it was Fremont who had attacked
him. At least the words he was repeating over and over again would
leave no doubt in the minds of the officers as to who the guilty party
was. While Fremont was mentally facing this new danger, the corridor
door was roughly shaken and a harsh voice demanded admittance.
It was Jim Scoby, the night watchman, a sullen, brutal fellow who had
always shown dislike for the boy. Why should he be asking admission?
Did he suspect? But the fellow went away presently, threatening to
call the police and have the door broken down, and then two persons
stopped in front of the door.
Fremont could hear them talking, but could not distinguish the words
spoken. It seemed, however, that one of the voices was that of Jimmie
McGraw, who had gone out after his patrol leader.
The question in the mind of the waiting boy now was this:
Had Jimmie brought his patrol leader, or had he brought an officer of
the law?
And there was another question connected with this one, that depended
upon the manner in which the first one was answered:
Would it be the Black Bear Patrol excursion down the Rio Grande, the
sweet Spring in the South, or would it be the Tombs prison with its
brutal keepers and blighted lives?