TOM SLADE
ON THE RIVER
BY
PERCY K. FITZHUGH
Author of
“TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT OF THE MOVING PICTURES,”
“TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
WALTER S. ROGERS
PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROVAL OF
THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1917, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The First Arrival 1
II. Tom Surprises the Camp 17
III. Roy’s Campfire Yarn 25
IV. The Old Trail 42
V. Adventure of the Rescue Party 53
VI. The Mountain Shelter 63
VII. “Under Which King?” 80
VIII. Jeffrey Waring 87
IX. A New Kind of First Aid 107
X. The Birthday of the Elk Patrol 113
XI. Garry’s Story and Harry Stanton’s 127
XII. Pee-wee Triumphant 138
XIII. At the Stanton’s 148
XIV. First Bridgeboro B.S.A. Becomes a Full Troop 164
XV. Cruising in the “Honor Scout” 170
XVI. The Invisible Badge 180
XVII. Lost! 192
XVIII. The Tragic Adventure of the Freckled Scout 201
XIX. “So Long—See You Later!” 222
TOM SLADE
ON THE RIVER
CHAPTER I
THE FIRST ARRIVAL
“But suppose they shouldn’t come.”
“Son, when I wuz out in Colorady, in a place we called Devil’s Pass, I
gut a grizzly backed up agin’ a ledge one day ’n’ heving ony one bullet
’twas a case uv me or him, as yer might say. My pardner, Simon Gurthy,
who likewise didn’t hev no bullets, ’count uv bein’ stripped b’ the
Injins, he says, ‘S’posin’ ye don’t fetch him.’ ’N’ I says, ‘S’posin’ I
do.’”
Jeb Rushmore, with methodical accuracy, spat at a sapling near by.
“And did you?” asked his listener.
Jeb spat again with leisurely deliberation. “’N’ I did,” said he.
“You always hit, don’t you, Jeb?”
“Purty near.”
The boy edged along the log on which they were sitting and looked up
admiringly into the wrinkled, weatherbeaten face. A smile which did not
altogether penetrate through the drooping gray mustache was visible
enough in the twinkling eyes and drew the wrinkles about them like sun
rays.
“They’ll come,” said he.
The boy was satisfied for he had absolute confidence that his companion
could not make a mistake.
“But suppose you _hadn’t_ hit him—I mean fetched him?”
“Son, wot yer _got_ to do, yer do. When I told General Custer onct that
we’d get picked off like cherries offen a tree if we tried rushin’ a pack
uv Sioux that was in ambush, he says, ‘Jeb, mebbe it cain’t be done, I
ain’t sayin’, but jest the same, we _got_ ter do it.’ Some on us got
dropped, but we done it.”
“Did General Custer call you by your first name?”
“Same’s you do.”
This was too much for the little fellow. “Gee, it must have been great to
have General Custer call you by your first name.”
“Wal, now, I ben thinkin’ ’twas purty fine this winter hevin’ _yew_ call
me by my fust name, ’n’ keep me comp’ny here. We’ve got ter be close
pards, me an’ you, hain’t we, son?”
“Gee, I’m almost sorry they’re coming—kind of.”
They were certainly coming—“in chunks,” as Roy Blakeley would have said,
and before night the camp would be a veritable beehive. All summer troops
would be coming and going, but just now the opening rush was at hand, and
the exodus from eastern towns and cities, following the closing of
schools, would go far to fill the camp even to its generous capacity
before this Saturday’s sun had set.
The Bridgeboro Troop, from the home town of the camp’s generous founder,
Mr. John Temple, would arrive sometime in the afternoon “with bells on”
according to the post card which little Raymond Hollister had brought up
from the post office the day before.
They were cruising up the Hudson to Catskill Landing in their cabin
launch, the _Good Turn_, and would hike it up through Leeds to camp. The
card was postmarked Poughkeepsie, and read:
Desert Island of Poughkeepsie,
Longitude 23, Latitude 40-11.
“Put in here for gasoline and ice-cream soda. Natives friendly. Heavy
gales. Raining in sheets and pillow-cases. Mutiny on board. Pee-wee
Harris, N. G. Mariner, put in irons for stealing peanuts from galley.
Boarded by pirates below Peekskill. Coming north with bells on. Reach
camp Saturday late. All’s well with a yo-heave-ho, my lads.”
“That sounds like Roy Blakeley,” Raymond had said to his companion.
“Does sound kinder like his nonsense,” the camp manager had answered.
All through the long winter months Raymond had lived at the big camp with
no other companion than Jeb Rushmore. They had made their headquarters in
Jeb’s cabin, the other cabins and the big pavilion being shut tight.
Raymond had often thought how like the pictures of Valley Forge this
vacant clearing in the woods looked in its covering of snow, and
sometimes when Jeb was busy writing letters (it was a terrible job for
Jeb to write letters) the little fellow had been lonesome, but he had
gained in weight, he had slept like a bear, he had ceased entirely to
cough, and he ate—there is no way to describe how he ate!
In short, a great fight had been fought out in the lonely camp that
winter, and little Raymond Hollister had won it. He could trudge into the
village and back without minding it now and he could raise the big flag
with one hand. Just the coming summer to top off with and he would be
well.
Raymond lived down the Hudson a ways and he had come to Temple Camp with
his troop the previous summer. His patrol leader, Garry Everson, had won
the Silver Cross, which, according to the rule of the Camp, entitled him
and his companions to remain three extra weeks, and when Mr. John Temple
had heard of Raymond’s ill health from the Bridgeboro boys on their
return from camp, he had called his stenographer and sent a couple of
home-runs over the plate in the form of two letters, one to Raymond’s
grandmother telling her that she had guessed wrong when she had “guessed
that Ray would have to go to an orphan asylum when he came back,” and the
other enclosing a check to Jeb Rushmore and telling him that Raymond
would stay with him for the winter and to please see to it that he had
everything he needed.
That was in the previous autumn. Jeb had gotten out his bespattered,
pyramid-shaped ink bottle and his atrocious pen and laboriously scrawled
his signature on the back of the check and had it cashed in Leeds. He had
kept the little roll of bills carefully in his pocket all winter, buying
such things for Raymond as were needed, and as the roll grew thinner
Raymond had grown stouter, until now, in the spring, he weighed
ninety-one pounds and the roll was all gone except the elastic band.
It seemed a pity that just at the opening of the new season he should
have to think of going home and perhaps to an orphan asylum, but if he
had entertained any wild hope that some fortunate circumstance might
prolong his stay into the open season it had been dissipated when word
had come that the Temples had gone to South America. Either John Temple
had forgotten about the boy up in the lonely camp or else he felt that he
had done as much for him as could be expected. Raymond might still remain
for two weeks of the new season as any scout might do, but then he would
be at the end of his rope. For the rule of Temple Camp was that any scout
or troop of scouts might spend two weeks at the camp free of all cost. If
a scout won an honor medal it entitled his whole troop to additional
time, the time dependent on the nature of the award. No scout might
remain at camp longer than two weeks except in accordance with this
provision, but permission might be granted on the recommendation of one
of the trustees for a scout to _board_ at camp for a longer time if there
were good reason.
One day, however, a registered letter had come for Jeb. It contained
fifty dollars and a slip of paper bearing only the words: _For Raymond
Hollister to stay until September first_.
“So he remembered ’baout yer arter all,” Jeb had said, as pleased as
Raymond himself. “I kinder knowed he would. If _he_ ain’t a trusty (Jeb
always said _trusty_ when he meant _trustee_) ’n’ got rights, gol, I
dunno who has. They wuz jest goin’ on th’boat, I reckon, when it popped
inter his head like a dose uv buckshot ’n’ he sent it right from
th’wharf.——’ N’ I dun’t hev ter get out my ink bottle ’n’ my old
double-barrelled pen ter _in_dorse, neither.”
There they were—two twenties and a ten; to Raymond they seemed like a
fortune as he watched Jeb fold them up and slip them into his home-made
buckskin wallet.
All this had happened before this auspicious Saturday, but the dispelling
of Raymond’s fears had given rise to new apprehensions.
“Even if they come,” said he, “maybe Garry won’t be with them—maybe they
won’t stop for him.” Garry Everson was all that was left of the little
troop he had striven to keep together the previous summer and the
Bridgeboro troop had promised to stop for him and bring him along.
“An’ then agin, mebbe they will,” laughed Jeb.
“Who do you think will be the first to get here, Jeb?”
“Mebbe them lads from South New Jersey, mebbe the Pennsylvany
youngsters,” said Jeb, consulting his list from the home-made buckskin
wallet. The trustees kept these lists in the neatest and most approved
manner, but Jeb had a system of record keeping all his own. “Let’s see,
naouw, thar’s thet troop with the red-headed boy from Merryland—’member
’em, don’t ye? They’ll be comin’ all week, more’n like. Seems ony like
yist’day, thet that ole hill over thar wuz covered with snow—’member how
me an’ you watched it? We had a rough winter of it, didn’t we. Here,
lemme feel yer muscle agin now. Gee-williger! Gittin’ ter be a reg’lar
Samson, ain’t ye?”
“Now that it’s time for them to come,” said Raymond, slowly, “I’m almost
sorry—kind of. It was dandy being alone here with you.”
Jeb slapped him on the shoulder and smiled again that smile that drew the
wrinkles like sun rays around his twinkling eyes, and went about his work
of preparation. Perhaps he, too, rough old scout that he was, felt that
it had been “dandy” having little Raymond alone with him through those
long, cold winter months.
All day long Raymond kept his gaze across Black Lake, for he knew that
the Bridgeboro boys, hiking it from the Hudson, would come that way; but
the hours of the afternoon passed and there were no arrivals. The hills
surrounding the camp began to darken in the twilight, save for the
crimson tinge upon their summits from the dying sun; the dark waters of
the lake grew more sombre in the twilight and the still solemnity of
evening, which was nowhere more gloomy and impressive than at this
lakeside camp in the hills, fell upon the scene and cast its spell upon
the lonely boy as it always did. But no one came.
Jeb Rushmore strolled down to where Raymond sat on the rough bench
outside the provision cabin, facing the lake.
“Still watchin’? If yew say so, I’ll light a lantern and we’ll tow a
couple uv skiffs across and wait on ’tother side.”
“I wasn’t thinking about them just now, Jeb; I was looking at those
birds.”
High up, through the fading twilight, a bird sped above the lake, toward
the south. Its course was straight as an arrow. Above it a larger bird
hovered and circled but the smaller bird went straight upon its way, as
if bent upon some important mission.
Then, suddenly, the larger bird swooped and there was only the one object
left in the dim vast sky where, a moment before, there had been two.
“Get me my rifle,” said Jeb.
As Raymond hurried back with it, he could see the wings of the big bird
flapping in the fury of its murderous work. What was going on up there he
could only picture in his mind’s eye, but the thought of that smaller
bird hurrying on its harmless errand—homeward to its nest, perhaps—and
waylaid and murdered up there in the lonely half darkness, troubled him
and his hand trembled perceptibly as he handed the weapon to Jeb.
“You always hit ’em—fetch ’em—don’t you?” he asked, anxiously.
“Purty near.”
The sharp report rang out and echoed from the surrounding hills. Even
before it died away there lay at Raymond’s feet a hawk, quite dead, while
through the dim light in a pitiably futile effort to fly, the smaller
bird, a vivid speck of white in the fading twilight, fluttered to the
ground.
It proved to be a white pigeon, its feathers ruffled and stained with
blood and several of the stiffer feathers of the tail were gone entirely.
One wing drooped as the bird stumbled weakly about and an area of its
neck was bare where the feathers had been torn away. It seemed odd to
Raymond that the poor stricken thing should resume its clumsy strut,
poking its head this way and that, even in its weakness, and after such a
cruel experience.
But what he noticed particularly was a metal ring around the bird’s leg
from which hung a little transparent tube, like a large medical capsule,
with something inside it.
“Look, Jeb,” said he. “What’s that?”
Jeb lifted the bird carefully, folding the drooping wing into place, and
removed the little tube.
“You fetched him anyway, didn’t you, Jeb?”
“’Cause I _had_ ter—see?”
“We won’t have to kill it, will we, Jeb?”
“Reckon not. He don’t seem to be sufferin’ much uv any. Jes’ shook up, as
the feller says. Lucky he fell amongst friends. Let’s see wot he’s
brought us—he’s one of them carriers, son.”
Raymond said nothing, but watched eagerly as Jeb, leisurely and without
any excitement, opened the tiny receptacle and unrolled a piece of paper.
The boy knew well enough what carrier pigeons were and he was eager to
know the purport of that little roll of script. But even in his
excitement there lingered in his mind the picture of that faithful little
messenger, intent upon its errand, struck down by the ruthless bandit of
the air. He was glad the hawk was dead.
“Let’s hear wot he’s got ter say fer himself, son. You jes’ read it.”
The paper was thin and about the size of a dollar bill; it had been
folded lengthwise and then rolled up. It read:
“Come right away. Governor hurt. Serious. Can’t leave. Will try to get
to nearest village but am afraid to leave now. He fell and is bleeding
bad. Think there’s something else the matter, too. Spotty died or would
send.
Jeff.”
Raymond gazed for a moment at Jeb, then down at the dead hawk, then at
the pigeon which Jeb still held, stroking it gently.
“It’ll never be delivered now, son, ’cause nobuddy ’cept this here little
feller knows whar he come frum nor whar he wuz goin’—do they, Pidge?”
“But somebody’s dying,” said Raymond.
“Sure enough, but we don’t know who ’tis nor _whar_ he is—nor whar his
friends is neither. An’ this here messenger here won’t tell us—he’s got
his own troubles. That thar hawk done more mischief than he thought for.”
For a few moments there was silence and Raymond gazed up into the
trackless, darkening sky through which this urgent call for help had been
borne. Where had it come from? For whom was it intended? Then he looked
down at the limp body of the bird whose cruel, bloody work had snatched
the last faint hope of succor from someone who lay dying.
“I—I’m glad you kil—fetched him, anyway——” said he.
The thought of those two unknown persons, the stricken one and his
frightened companion, waiting all in vain for the help which that
faithful messenger of the air should summon, and of that steadfast little
emissary, on whom so much depended, fallen here into strange hands,
sobered and yet agitated the boy, and he was silent in the utter
helplessness of doing anything.
“Naow, if yer could ony tell whar yer wuz goin’ or whar yer wuz comin’
frum, Pidge, we’d be much obleeged,” said Jeb; “but you wouldn’t, would
yer,” he added, stroking the bird, “’n’ I ain’t much uv a hand at pickin’
trails in th’air, bein’ as I growed up on th’hard ground.”
“Nobody can follow trails in the air,” said Raymond by way of comforting
Jeb. “Gee, nobody could do that. But it’s terrible, isn’t it?”
He looked up into the sky again as if he hoped it might still show some
sign of path or trail, and as he did so a loud bark, a sort of harsh
_Haa-Haa_, came through the growing darkness from across the lake, and
reverberated in swelling chorus from the frowning heights roundabout.
Then there was a long, plaintive bellow which died away as softly and as
gradually as the day itself dies, and this again was followed, as it
seemed, by the happy music of applauding hands, as if in acknowledgment
of the long echoed refrain.
“Oh, they’re here! They’re here!” cried Raymond. “That was the Silver Fox
call—and the Elks—and Garry’s with them—he made that Beaver call to let
me know——”
Just at that moment the dense brush across the lake parted and a boy,
bareheaded and wearing a grey flannel shirt, emerged on the shore.
“Oh, Tom! It’s Tom Slade!” cried Raymond, forgetting all else in his
ecstasy. “Hello, Tom, you big—you big——” But he couldn’t think of any
epithet to fit the occasion.