ON THE SHELF
Mm, _mmm_, that was good! I remind myself of Pee-wee Harris, eating
three helpings. Now I’m going to start.
When I went up to Temple Camp this summer about the first scout I saw
was Hervey Willetts. I guess you know that fellow all right. He comes
from Massachusetts—as often as he can. That’s the place he goes away
from.
I’ll tell you just where he was sitting. You know how the cooking shack
is—it’s right at the edge of the lake. Chocolate Drop, he’s cook. He’s a
kind of a whitish black. He’s the color of the middle of the night.
There’s a big window facing the lake and it’s got a kind of a big board
shutter with hinges on top. The first thing in the morning, Chocolate
Drop opens that and props it open with a stick so it sticks out like a
kind of a shelf.
Hervey Willetts was sitting on that board shelf. If Chocolate Drop had
taken the prop away Hervey Willetts would have gone into the lake. But
that was just what he wanted. He was just sitting there waiting for
Chocolate Drop to let down that shutter. Then he could say that he
didn’t go into the lake after five o’clock because that’s against the
rule. He could say he was sitting on shore and Chocolate Drop dumped him
into the lake. That way he could get a swim in the evening. He didn’t
say so, but I know that fellow. He would get a swim accidentally on
purpose.
He was sitting there with nothing on but an old pair of khaki trousers
and a khaki shirt and that crazy hat he always wears with the brim all
gone and the crown all full of holes and campaign buttons and things.
Gee whiz, you can always tell him by that hat. I could see him sitting
there as we rowed across the lake from the trail side—that’s the way we
always go.
I shouted, “Look who’s here.”
He called back, “I’m looking; it’s just as unpleasant for me as it is
for you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” I told him. “I suppose you think you’re going to
get a swim after hours without getting called for it.”
“That shows your evil mind,” he said. “I was watching the sun go down.”
“Yes, and waiting to go down yourself,” I told him. “I’m waiting to see
the scout go down. I always hated geography but there’s one thing I like
about Massachusetts and that is that you’re away from there. I suppose
you’ve got some new stunts this summer.”
“Hurry up and land,” he said, “and get through with your suppers. Supper
was over an hour ago.”
He said that because he knew that Chocolate Drop wouldn’t let down that
shutter till the last supper was over and everything was cleared up in
Cooking Shack. Then he would be dumped into the lake accidentally.
_Christopher_, but the trustees never seemed to get wise to Hervey
Willetts. He looked awful funny sitting up there on that kind of a shelf
all ready to be, you know, preciprocated or precipitated or whatever you
call it, I should worry.
All of a sudden there was a voice from the Mammoth Cave in the other
rowboat. “Let’s foil him,” said Pee-wee. “Just for fun let’s keep on
eating for a couple of hours till he’s called to camp-fire. That’ll keep
Chocolate Drop in the shack.”
“Listen to the famine talking,” I said.
“He can even hold a heavy shutter up an hour or so with a half a dozen
pieces of pie,” said Warde Hollister.
“You should worry about our suppers,” I told him. “We always take our
time eating. We expect to spend a couple of hours at the board and you
can spend a couple of hours on _that_ board.”
“Maybe even we’ll eat four desserts,” Pee-wee shouted.
“We’ve got to unpack our baggage first,” I called, “and then wash up and
go and say hello to Uncle Jeb and in about half an hour we’ll get around
to eating.”
“After that we don’t know how long we’ll take,” Pee-wee yelled.
“Sure, a scout is thorough,” shouted Westy from my boat.
“What’s that got to do with me?” Hervey asked.
“Oh, positively, absolutely nothing,” I said. “Far be it from me to say
you have any——”
“Exterior motives,” shouted Pee-wee.
“Ulterior motives,” I said. “Only I’m just telling you that maybe it
will be a large collection of hours before the window of the cooking
shack is closed up for the night. So don’t worry about falling into the
water—yet. We’ll tell you in time.”
“What do you mean, you’ll tell me in time?” said Hervey, very innocent
like.
Jiminy, he looked awful funny sitting up there on that window board with
his knees drawn up, staring at us just as if he was puzzled to know what
we were driving at. Insulted, kind of. That was him all over. Sort of
careless like. You’d never think he had any plans at all. He never broke
any rules on purpose—oh, far be it from it!
“Got any new songs this summer?” Warde Hollister shouted at him. Because
he always had a lot of crazy stuff that he was always singing and that’s
why everybody called him the wandering minstrel. None of us ever knew
where he got all the stuff he sang.
He’d come wandering into camp late for supper twirling that funny cap of
his on the end of a stick and singing, and the trustees or Uncle Jeb or
maybe his scoutmaster who would be all ready with a good calling-down
would just kind of smile and say nothing. The stormy petrel, they called
him that too. Gee whiz, nobody could help liking that fellow. He was an
odd number, I’ll say that.
“All right, Hervey,” Westy called kind of good-natured like. Westy never
breaks any camp rules, but just the same he likes Hervey. “Go on, give
us a song.”
So then Hervey started singing that crazy song that got us into so much
trouble that summer. We couldn’t hear the end of it, because pretty soon
we were at the landing and everybody was crowding there to meet us.
Anyhow this is the way it started:
“When you go on a hike just you mind what I say,
The right way to go is the opposite way.
If you come to a cross-road don’t make a mistake,
Choose a road and the _other’s_ the one you should take.
Don’t bother with sign boards but follow this song,
If you start on the right road you’re sure to go wrong.
You can go on your feet, you can go on a bike,
But the right way is wrong when you start on a hike.”