THE APPEAL
He stopped abruptly in the hall. But that was their fund! That was what
they lay up, and to the spending of which they had looked forward with
such enthusiasm. For a moment the thought of its being suddenly swept
away, of having to start all over again in that slow, painful piling up
of dimes and nickels, seemed an intolerable, an impossible thing. But it
was only for a moment. After all, what were chairs and tables, dishes,
pots and pans, against the hunger of a mother’s love or the bitterness
of parting?
The boy’s face cleared and his lips straightened. It was the only way.
And as he dashed through the coatroom, deftly flinging cap and sweater
on a hook as he passed, and slid into his seat just in time for
roll-call, his mind was busy working out details. The thing must be put
through swiftly or it would be too late. Mrs. Wright really ought to
leave on the four o’clock train that afternoon to reach Jim in time for
dinner the following day. In the meantime the whole troop had to be won
over to the scheme, and as Micky considered the situation it seemed to
him as if Fate had conspired to make it especially difficult.
Mr. Wendell was out of town for a few days. Cartwright, the assistant
scoutmaster, worked in a neighboring city and would not be home until
after six. And finally Cavanaugh, whom he felt sure would have backed
him to the limit, had gone off that very morning to spend Thanksgiving
with a relative in the country.
“It’s up to me,” thought the boy dubiously. “I’ve got to handle the
whole thing. I wonder if I can put it over.”
He glanced speculatively around the school room. Champ Ferris would be
easy. He was assistant patrol leader of the Eagles and usually followed
in Micky’s lead. Tallerico could also probably be won over; so could
Furn Barber. But there was Clay Marshall and one or two others who had
made the fund almost their religion. There was also Harry Ritter! And
finally one never knew how the smaller kids would take a thing like
this.
But McBride had a stubborn streak in him which made difficulties things
to be surmounted instead of stumbling blocks. It is to be feared that
lessons were much neglected that morning, but before the noon recess he
had passed around word to everyone that there would be a special meeting
of the troop in one of the empty class rooms at twelve sharp. In the
absence of the other officials, McBride would have to conduct the
meeting besides acting as principal speaker.
“What the deuce is up, Micky?” Two or three spoke at once, as they
crowded around the teacher’s low platform. “Has Mr. Wendell got back
already?”
“Not that I know of. This has nothing to do with him. It’s about
something I found out this morning.” McBride hesitated an instant, his
back against the desk, his eyes shifting swiftly from one face to
another. “Jim Wright’s sailing for France on Saturday,” he explained
briefly, “and they won’t give him home leave before he goes.”
There was a momentary pause. “They don’t, generally,” commented Ted
Hinckley. “It’s hard luck though. Still, he’s mighty keen to go.”
One or two murmured perfunctory agreement, but most of the boys were
silent, looking with puzzled expectancy at McBride. Champ Ferris’
question seemed to voice the feeling of the majority.
“But what can we do, Micky?” he asked at length, in his slow, drawling
manner. “What’s up to us—to give him a farewell present, or something?”
Micky stared; then laughed oddly.
“Yes, you might call it that,” he agreed. “You’d call it a farewell
present, I suppose, though it isn’t the sort any of you have in mind.
Listen!” He bent forward abruptly, his face suddenly serious. “Jim can’t
come home, but his mother could go to him. She wants to; she’s dying to.
But she hasn’t any money. You know how poor they are. Jim’s pay is about
all she has to get along on. And so it seemed to me—Jim’s an old scout
and used to be in the troop—it’s up to us to send her there.”
He stopped and there came another pause. Several of the boys looked
blank.
“But it costs an awful lot to go to Camp Merrill,” said Clay Marshall
doubtfully.
“It does; the fare there and back is nearly fifty dollars. And we’ve no
time to pass the hat even if there was a chance of getting that amount.
She’s got to leave at four this afternoon to reach Jim on Thanksgiving.
But if you fellows are willing, we won’t have to do that. We’ve got more
than enough—in the treasury.”
It took a moment for the idea to seep in. Then a sudden murmur of
protest came from the group.
“Oh, I say, Micky!” objected Marshall. “Why, that’s our _fund_!”
“I know it is.” The boy leaned back against the worn edge of the desk,
eyes sparkling, bright color heightened. “But what was the fund for?
Chairs, tables—_junk_! What do such things matter when maybe it’s the
last time she’ll ever see Jim again? Fellows, if you’d seen her face
when she told me this morning, I wouldn’t have to say a single word.” He
blinked an instant and then glared at them defiantly. “You’d be falling
over yourselves to do what’s really the only decent thing—what any scout
would know was just—his duty.”
His eager, compelling gaze flashed from one doubtful, dubious face to
another. Suddenly Ted Hinckley stepped over and thumped him on the back.
“I’m with you, old scout,” he said briefly. “Let’s send her to Jim and
make a good job of it.”
“Same here,” echoed Furn Barber.
“I guess we can live a little longer without the stuff we wanted,”
drawled Champ Ferris.
“A while!” protested Harry Ritter, frowning. “But look at the time it’s
taken us to earn that money. Why, it’s months, almost. And it’ll go in a
minute and we’ll have to start all over from the beginning. Suppose she
didn’t see him again. Lots of other—”
“Suppose it was _your_ mother, and _you_ were going to France and
couldn’t come home, like Jim!” flamed Micky, his hands clenching. “Would
_you_ get any comfort knowing there were other men in the same fix?” He
paused. His face relaxed in a whimsical, appealing smile. “I can’t say
any more, fellows,” he went on quietly. “I’m no talker anyway. It’s up
to you. If you’d rather keep the money to furnish the cabin, all right.
But if you’d rather—”
“Sure we would, Micky!” interrupted Midge Willett shrilly. Midge had the
reputation of being rather tough, but he was undeniably a leader with
the younger crowd. “We ain’t made out of no stone. Jim’s one dandy
fellow, and I move we let the old furniture go and send his mother to
him for a Thanksgiving present. How about it?”
The shrill chorus of approval which burst forth left no doubt as to the
feelings of the majority. Even Clay Marshall joined in, and though
Ritter said nothing, he made no protest.
“That’s great!” exclaimed McBride delightedly. “I knew you fellows would
do it. Now it’s up to us to get a hustle on. Chase home for the money
and buy the ticket and berth and take ’em up to Mrs. Wright. If we
turned over the coin she might balk. I’ll be late, I s’pose, this
afternoon, but I should worry!” He pushed briskly through the group, but
at the door, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned. “Come ahead, Rit,” he
urged abruptly. “I’ll want somebody to hold the change.”
Ritter flushed, hesitated, and then, almost reluctantly, came forward.
Together they left the school and sped toward the McBride house. There
the canvas bag containing their hard earned “fund,” mainly in dimes,
nickels and quarters, was secured and they headed for the station.