THE LAST NIGHT
Back on the main thoroughfare of the shipyard, Steve stared about him
with widening eyes. How could he ever have thought the place quiet or
empty he wondered? The siren still wailed shrilly from the engine stack.
But added to it now was the dull, hoarse clamor of many voices rising
and falling, the roar and clatter of arriving motor cars, the thud of
hurrying feet.
Along the road as far as he could see ranged a long line of empty
automobiles, and fresh ones were constantly arriving. Workmen and
mechanics belonging to the yard, fishermen from Shelbourne, farmers from
the surrounding country who had heard and answered the alarm, poured
from the cars and were marshalled into line and sent to the danger
points by a file of soldiers.
“Where on earth did they come from?” the boy asked, staring at the
latter.
“It’s Major Whitcomb’s bunch,” explained Dick. “He got here about five
minutes ago and took charge. Come ahead in; he’ll want to see you.”
Steve was about to protest, but remembering that he would probably have
to tell his story sometime, he gave way with a shrug. Dick pushed
through the throng, followed by the two guards with their prisoner. A
moment later the group halted before a big table in the bunk house
behind which sat the officer who had charge of constructing the
shipyard. He answered Dick’s salute smartly; then Steve caught the
gimlet stare from a pair of cool gray eyes.
“Two more?” the officer questioned curtly.
“No, sir; only one,” returned Dick. “This is the lad who brought us
warning of the plot He’s just caught the fellow, here, who he says is
leader of the whole gang.”
Major Whitcomb’s face changed abruptly. The gray eyes softened a bit,
and under the crisp mustache his lips laxed something of their
sternness.
“You’re just the one I want to see, then,” he said in a friendly voice.
“You look done up, too. Bring a chair and sit down here. Sergeant, take
this man in charge and don’t let him out of your sight. Now,” he added
when Steve had brought over a chair, and dropped down in it, “tell me
all about it. Who are you? and how did you get mixed up in this
business?”
Steve obeyed, telling his story as briefly and as clearly as he could.
The officer listened intently, making an occasional note and asking many
questions. When Haddon had finished, the man bent forward and clapped
him on the shoulder.
“That was splendidly done, and I congratulate you,” he said warmly.
“You’ve rendered a great service to the country. I needn’t tell you what
an enormous amount of damage and delay would have resulted if the fire
had gotten a start; you seem to have realized that perfectly. You’re
quite certain of your identification of the man you saw in Washington?”
“Quite, sir. I’d be willing to swear to it.”
“You may have to later when the secret service men take hold,” said
Major Whitcomb. “It’s a fine bag,” he added grimly, his glance sweeping
the further end of the room where several sullen-faced men stood guarded
by half a dozen soldiers and two lay helpless on mattresses with doctors
bending over them. “We’ve got all six, thanks to you. Well, you’ll be
wanting to get back to your friends; they’ll be anxious about you. I’ll
send you over in my car at once.”
He called the sergeant and gave a crisp order. Then, with a cordial word
or two of farewell, he dismissed the boy and Steve left the building.
Five minutes later he was leaning back in the officer’s car speeding
toward Shelbourne.
Now that there was nothing more for him to do, the inevitable reaction
had come, and he could scarcely hold his head up. Every muscle ached;
the cut in his thigh and that other lesser one across his face, burned
and stung. With head back and eyes half closed, he listened vaguely to
the remarks of the soldier at the wheel, but the mere answering of the
man’s occasional question seemed like the most tremendous effort.
They had reached the outskirts of the village, and the car was just
turning into the lighted main street, when a sudden shout halted the
chauffeur, who slowed down and stopped. A moment later the car was
surrounded by a mob of excited boys and before Steve realized what was
happening, he was dragged from his seat by a dozen hands, while a score
of voices poured question after question into his dazed ears.
It was Mr. Wendell who came to his rescue and to whom he conveyed the
information that the fire was under control and everything practically
all right. Seeing the boy’s state of exhaustion, the scoutmaster did not
press him further, and the whole crowd turned back to the docks, with
Haddon in the center. It was not human nature to refrain from asking
questions, and little by little during their trip back to camp the
essential incidents of Steve’s adventures were extracted in scraps and
disjointed sentences.
The details followed next morning. A night’s rest put new life into the
boy and though he hated talking about himself, he very soon found that
he would have no peace until he had answered every question. It was
Cavanaugh, in fact, who suggested to Mr. Wendell soon after breakfast
that Haddon might as well tell his story to the assembled crowd and get
it over with.
“I guess you’re right, Jim,” agreed the scoutmaster. “We really ought to
save the yarn for the council fire to-night, but I don’t suppose the
fellows can wait that long. As a matter of fact I feel a sort of
hankering myself to know just how it all came about.”
And so, in the shade of the mess tent, with the scouts gathered about
him in a close circle, Steve told his tale. He was stammering and
embarrassed at first, but gradually he warmed to the narration, losing
his self consciousness in the interest of recalling the strenuous hours
on Loon Island and in the pursuit along the beach through the storm. To
be sure, he quite failed to do himself justice and only persistent
questioning brought out the details he slurred over. But Cavvy, who sat
beside him, saw to it that those questions were asked and answered, and
when it was over the two strolled off together.
“And to think that we laughed that night you told us about the man in
the dory,” remarked the blond fellow whimsically after a brief silence.
“I suppose it sounded awfully silly the way I put it,” said Steve
quickly.
“_We_ were the silly ones—regular nuts, in fact.” Cavvy sighed. “I wish
to thunder I’d been with you, old kid.”
Steve laughed a little. “I wish you had. I never wanted anything more in
my life when I was stumbling along that beach through the dark. I was
scared then, all right. Now, if you’d only been along—”
“We’d have been scared together, I guess,” chuckled Cavvy. “Well, I
wasn’t, and that’s an end to it. How does it feel to be a celebrity?
You’ll have your name in the paper, and be thanked by the Government,
and—”
“Slush!” Steve pounded his friend on the back and when the brief tussle
subsided, he hastened to change the subject.
This was not difficult, for there were plenty of other topics to occupy
them. With two weeks of camp gone, the third and last one seemed crowded
with various contests and scout activities for which there had not been
time before. That very afternoon an aquatic meet was scheduled, and
to-morrow would be taken up by the track events which would go far
toward deciding who was going to win the coveted camp emblem for the
year. An all day picnic to Loon Island was also being considered, and
after that the day of departure loomed disagreeably near.
It came all too soon for everyone—the end of those three golden weeks
which, at the beginning, had seemed almost as if they were going to last
all summer. Scarcely a boy in the crowd but longed to stretch them into
six, and it was no small tribute to their new-found sense of
responsibility and willingness to serve, that not one of them even made
the suggestion.
They had their work to do at home—on farms, in gardens, in the woods and
along the country roads searching out black walnut trees for the
Government. There were War Saving stamps to sell, and all those other
duties which the war had brought home to them. It had been understood in
the beginning that three weeks was the utmost which could be taken from
those tasks, and even around the council fire on that last evening there
were no complaints.
“But just think of the years when we had a whole three months’
vacation,” sighed Cavvy whimsically, after the last song had been sung
and they were moving slowly tentwards. “Those were the good old days,
all right. You never appreciate what you’ve got—till you haven’t got
it.” He sighed. “I s’pose you couldn’t change your mind, old man, and
stay a couple of weeks with me before you go home?” he added, to Steve
Haddon.
“I’m afraid not,” the big chap said regretfully. “Dad hasn’t been away
from Washington even over a Sunday. He says he’s nearly driven to death
and is counting on me to help him out with clerical work. I wish I
could, though.”
“You don’t wish it any more than I do. But if you can’t, you can’t. Lord
knows we’re doing little enough to help. Gee! but I wish I was old
enough to enlist.”
“I’m going into the Navy if this war lasts two years more,” volunteered
Haddon.
“You are? Same here. That’s funny, isn’t it? I hope— Well, no I don’t,
either. Nobody wants it to last any longer than it has to, but I would
like to get into it some way besides grubbing with a hoe and selling
Liberty Bonds. See here; if you can’t come now, will you promise to
visit me during Christmas vacation?”
“Sure—if you’ll spend part of it with me.”
“That’s a bargain.” In front of the tent their hands met in a firm
clasp. Then Cavvy groaned. “Reveille at four—and two hours’ hard work
striking tents!” he murmured. “Guess we’d better hit the hay.”