“WHAT IS SCOUTING FOR?”
A week later the camp on Long Point was only a memory—something to
discuss pleasantly, perhaps, at odd moments, but of little real
importance compared with the ordinary work and play of the crowd who had
been there.
Work decidedly predominated with most of them. Back at Wharton, where
the majority lived, they took up their self imposed duties with
conscientious vigor, if not with complete enthusiasm. For it must be
confessed that the average youngster hates work. There are those who
believe, or imagine they do, that there is nothing a boy loves more than
to be out in the dewy freshness of a summer morning, turning the
“fragrant earth,” or leading an enthusiastic attack on the enemy weed.
Let such persons inform themselves from life. Early rising is only
popular amongst the young when an adventure is on foot. Nine-tenths of
our youthful population detest weeding, and to them the hoe is an
implement of torture strangely and inexplicably neglected by the
Inquisition.
It was to their credit, therefore, that the scouts of Wharton devoted
themselves so conscientiously to the tasks at hand, which happened to be
mainly rural. The town itself lived principally by, and for, the great
mines. But in the surrounding country were many and excellent farms, and
the fact that the great bulk of unenlisted men were working in shaft and
smelter made the services of boys on the land more than usually welcome.
Even Harry Ritter did his part, though with a good deal of surface
grumbling and complaint. And Cavvy, out on his grandfather’s farm,
resolutely took his share of work as it came, finding some additional
comfort in the realization that the hardening muscles and increasing
girth of chest would be of no small benefit to him on the football field
that fall.
Of course it wasn’t all unadulterated slavery. On the contrary there
were a good many relaxations. They had the weekly scout meetings to look
forward to, and Mr. Wendell worked hard to make these especially
attractive. Now and again they took a day off to hike through the woods
in search of walnut trees. And through it all there was undoubtedly a
strong feeling of satisfaction that, with the whole world working
earnestly toward a single great end, they were doing something concrete
to help in its attainment.
In this wise came September and the opening of school. Most of the troop
attended the Wharton High School, or were in the eighth grade, and saw
each other every day. Cavanaugh greatly missed Steve Haddon, who had
long ago returned to his home in Washington, but he found compensation
in the companionship of Bill McBride, who was a near neighbor, and had
many similar tastes. Besides, between lessons, football and duties
connected with the troop, he had little time to waste in lamenting the
absence of even so good a friend as Haddon had come to be.
Cavvy, as senior patrol leader, was very keenly interested in the
welfare and development of the troop. His ambition was to make it the
best and biggest in the county, and to this end he worked hard and
constantly, and was of no little aid to Mr. Wendell. There were times,
however, when their ideas were very much at variance.
Had anyone asked Cavvy what he considered the qualifications of a good
scout, he would probably have enumerated “pep,” keenness to get on,
interest in the troop and the work generally, and the like. But back in
his mind, unvoiced perhaps even to himself, he held something of the
standard by which men are picked for college fraternities. He preferred
the members of the troop to be more or less of good family, to be
prominent in school or athletics, to be good fellows, quick, amusing,
capable, and of his own class. Perhaps the scoutmaster sensed something
of this. He had a quiet way of sizing up one’s mental processes which
was sometimes rather disconcerting. At all events at a meeting of the
troop leaders, he brought the discussion around to that very point and
ended with a little lecture on the subject.
The meeting was held as usual in the scout master’s study, a room of
comfortable chairs, book-lined walls, and interesting souvenirs and
relics of many sorts. There were swords and daggers from the East, old
flint-locks, Indian pottery, old bronzes and a multitude of other
curious things which the boys were never tired of looking over. In cold
weather a fire always glimmered on the broad hearth, and to-day, though
this was empty, they had from force of habit gathered around it.
“One of the things I’ve noticed about a good many troops,” said Mr.
Wendell, leaning back in his chair, “is a tendency to be just a little
clannish. It’s perfectly natural, of course. A fellow wants his own
particular friends in the troop and in proposing a member he naturally
picks a boy he knows, who’s in his class, or on his team or lives next
door. That’s human nature, but the result is narrowing and to my mind it
defeats one of the great fundamental objects of Scouting—democracy. Take
our own troop, for instance. We’ve got a corking bunch of fellows who
work well and play well together. But there’s a whole great class in
Wharton that we haven’t even touched.”
He paused and the boys glanced doubtfully at one another. Cavanaugh’s
forehead was crinkled with a little frown.
“You mean— You think we ought to take in fellows from the—mine
families?” he asked.
Mr. Wendell smiled.
“Why not?”
“But they’re mostly Da—er—Italians and Poles and all that,” protested
Cavvy.
The scoutmaster’s smile deepened.
“Well, what of it?”
Cavanaugh flushed faintly.
“But they’re mostly an awful lot of roughnecks. Besides, they don’t know
anything about scouting, and I don’t believe they’d want to belong if
they were asked.”
Mr. Wendell crossed his legs and linked his strong, brown fingers around
one knee.
“I think you’re mistaken—just a little,” he said quietly. “And even if
you’re right—even if they don’t know or care anything about it, I think
we ought to make an effort to take scouting to them. The majority are
boys from poor families. Some of them work in the mines all day. They
haven’t many pleasures or relaxations except what they find on the
street corners at night. The scouting program would be a revelation, and
I feel sure would save many of them from getting into idle, useless,
even vicious ways.”
His eyes twinkled and a smile curved the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t want you to think I’m preaching. I know perfectly well that
none of you look on the troop as a missionary work, or a means of
reformation—and it isn’t. The normal fellow joins because he thinks he’s
going to have a good time, or because he’s interested in some particular
feature of the program. That’s as it should be; I’ve no kick coming
there. As you get into it, you grow more and more interested, and end by
doing willingly what before you’d probably have thought a beastly bore.
We’ve got through a lot of hard work together this summer, and yet I
think we’ve had some pretty good times.
“Don’t misunderstand, either, what I’ve just said. The troop is yours,
and you have the right of taking in or turning down any one you choose.
I’d just like to have the doors a little wider open. Personally I don’t
believe you’d find a single drawback in taking in some of these fellows.
Human nature is the same everywhere, and a boy from the shaft or the
smelter has in him the makings of just as good a scout as one from—High
School.”
He glanced at the clock and then stood up. “I guess there’s nothing else
to-day. Just think over what I’ve said and discuss it amongst
yourselves. Next meeting you’ll have a chance of voting on that young
Tallerico chap who applied two weeks ago. I suppose it was he who put
this into my head. But remember this: whatever you do, do it because you
feel you want to and it’s right, and not because you think I’d like you
to.”