AT THE STANTONS’
The return of Harry Stanton to his home was a nine days’ wonder in the
village. Poor Mrs. Stanton seemed almost unable to comprehend the
wonderful reality of his actual presence and she kept him by her
constantly, even to the point of accompanying him back and forth from the
river. The boys noted these affectionate attentions with dismay, for they
wished to make a cruise in the beautiful boat, with its proud owner as
their companion.
“You leave it to me,” said Pee-wee. “I know how to handle mothers; we’ve
got to wait for the something or otherological moment.”
The days which followed were days of stress but of happiness to all
concerned. Mr. Stanton lost no time in going to Poughkeepsie where he got
all the information that could be obtained from Mr. Waring’s executor and
friends as to how the eccentric but kindly old gentleman came into
possession of the so-called nephew on whom he had showered wealth and
sympathetic attention.
Because he _had_ been eccentric, his intimates knew but little of his
affairs, but the facts, as Mr. Stanton was able to piece them together,
were that Mr. Waring had lost his wife and only son and that he had never
been the same afterward. He lived the life of a recluse in his lonely,
luxurious home. Two years before he had started up the Hudson in his
beautiful boat, accompanied by a valet and a man to run the craft,
intending to visit some remote spot where he had enjoyed the trout
fishing in his early years.
All that his business friends knew in addition to this was that he had
returned almost immediately, bringing with him an apparently weak-minded
boy whom he called his nephew and whose self-appointed guardian and
benefactor he became.
Mr. Stanton tried to find the two men who had accompanied their employer
on that mysterious cruise. The valet had died, but he located the other
man working in a munitions plant not far from Poughkeepsie. From this
man, who spoke only broken English, he learned something of his son’s
rescue.
While cruising upstream at night, he said, they had heard a cry from the
water and throwing the searchlight about had located a drowning person,
whom they pulled aboard. It was a boy, the man said, whose head had been
frightfully injured, the skull being cracked, as was discernible through
his plastered, soaking hair. He was bruised in several other places and
lost consciousness as soon as they got him aboard the launch.
They had turned the boat at once and returned home, where the victim,
still unconscious, was attended by “great doctors.” The man had not lived
at Mr. Waring’s house and he knew very little more except what he had
heard indirectly. The boy jabbered, he said, and did not know who he was
and talked nonsense. Then he had heard that an operation was performed,
that the edges of the broken skull were lifted up into place, and that
the boy was better but “nutty.” He had later heard a rumor that the boy
was dead. That was all he knew.
Mr. Stanton had had no difficulty in locating James, the chauffeur, whom
Jeffrey Waring had mentioned in connection with his pigeons, and from him
he had received a more coherent account of Mr. Waring’s second cruise,
which was destined to have a fatal sequel for himself and momentous
consequences for his ward.
James had, he said, entered Mr. Waring’s employ the year before and found
the old gentleman’s nephew to be a “queer lad” who, he understood, had
once had a dreadful accident of some sort. He got excited easily, the man
said, and at such times said the most extravagant things. He had pigeons
and dogs and lived an odd sort of life by himself.
In the early part of the summer Mr. Waring had again planned a trip to
his favorite fishing retreat, believing that the quiet and remoteness of
the place would help the boy, who was already greatly improved. The
doctors, so the man said, had recommended the camping trip.
They had made an uneventful but pleasant trip up the river in the
_Rambler_ and after they had moored her near Catskill Landing Mr. Waring
had sent James back to Vale Centre to attend to his regular duties there.
That was all that Mr. Stanton could learn and he returned home somewhat
puzzled as to whether Mr. Waring had ever tried to locate Harry’s people,
or whether he intended to do so when the boy should have regained his
health and mental poise. He had lavished wealth and kindness on the
stricken lad, that was certain; the last days of his life had been spent
in a sojourn to a remote spot dear to his own memory in the hope that it
might hasten the boy’s recovery; and the Stantons could not think
otherwise of him than as one, peculiar indeed, but of the purest motive
and overflowing with kindness. Nor did they ever learn exactly what had
happened to Harry while in the water, though they held to the belief that
he had been injured by the paddlewheel of some steamer.
That Garry Everson, scout, had completed the work which the old gentleman
had begun was now realized by all and with it the boys realized the quiet
patience with which he had borne their coldness and even their taunts.
“He’s a real hero,” said Pee-wee.
“All others are imitations,” agreed Roy.
During Mr. Stanton’s absence, Mr. Ellsworth had made a flying trip to
Bridgeboro to arrange for the troop’s absence for another week or two,
and meanwhile the scouts camped on the boat, spending much of their time
at the Stanton place, where they played tennis and basket-ball and taught
the parrot to say “I’m a scout,” and “Poor Pee-wee.”
Those were days of great delight to Ruth Stanton. In contemptuous
defiance of Pee-wee’s proud assertion that “boys could do things that
girls couldn’t do” she beat him again and again at tennis, and beat the
rest of them, too, for she was an old hand at the game.
For the first time, too, her brother showed his interest and skill in
outdoor games; his fondness for tennis seemed to come back on him in a
rush, and though he sometimes got rattled and did not think quickly
enough, his playing was rapid and accurate in the main and he and Ruth
came out first in the tournament in which they all joined.
“And wait till you see Harry swim!” she said proudly, as, racket in hand,
she sank onto a garden bench; “he can swim across the river and back; do
you know how far that is?”
“I know how far it is over; I don’t know how far it is back,” said Roy.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you!”
“I’ll give you a correct imitation of a boy scout raising a racket,” Roy
said, holding his racket high in the air. “Next imitation, that of a boy
scout following a trail,” he added, going on his hands and knees and with
an absurd air of scrutiny and stealth following the chalk mark around the
tennis court.
“Isn’t he too silly!” laughed Ruth.
Roy resumed his seat beside her. “Did you hear about the Germans
bombarding a man’s garden and shelling all his peas?”
“Really—” began Ruth. “Oh, nonsense, it’s a joke!”
“Why is a boy scout?” he persisted.
“What’s the answer?”
“There isn’t any. Here’s another. What’s the aim of a scout?”
“Well?”
“A correct aim. Did you hear about the scout that went camping without
any duffel bag or baggage, yet he carried fifteen good-sized articles in
his back pocket?”
“He couldn’t! How could he?”
“He had a copy of _Boys’ Life_ with fifteen articles in it. Which has the
most stories, _Boy’s Life_ or the Mutual Life? Here’s another. If _Every
Boys’ Library_ caught fire, how would the smoke come out?”
“Silly!”
“In volumes, of course. Say, if it’s cowardly to strike a person who is
on the ground, is it all right to hit the trail? Here’s another——”
“You seem to know so much about them,” Ruth interrupted. “Tell me what an
Honor Scout is?”
“Is it a riddle?”
“No, it isn’t a riddle; I really want to know.”
“An Honor Scout is a scout that has a sense of honor. There’s only one
scout in our troop that has any sense of honor—that’s Honorable Tomasso
Slade alias Sherlock Nobody Holmes. He has the gold cross. Honorable
Garry Everson has the silver cross. That means he has some sense of
honor, but not so much.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re telling me,” she said.
Roy looked at her through the strings of his racket. “Boy Scout behind
prison bars,” said he, teasingly.
“_You_ tell me,” she said, turning to Doc Carson.
“_I’ll_ tell you,” said Pee-wee; “you’ve got to look out for him, he’s a
jollier. An Honor Scout is one that has saved somebody’s life—and gets an
honor medal—see? If he takes a big chance and—and—kind of plunges into
the jaws of death—kind of—”
“How?” said Roy.
“Then he gets the gold cross. If he—”
“Lands just outside the jaws,” interrupted Roy.
“Shut up!” said Pee-wee. “If he doesn’t take quite such a big chance but
a _pretty_ big one, then he gets the silver cross. And if he takes a
small chance—”
“About the size of Pee-wee,” Roy put in.
“Then he gets the bronze cross,” Pee-wee finished. “See?”
They were lolling on and about the bench near the tennis court, laughing
at each other’s nonsense, when Harry Stanton jumped up suddenly. Garry
and Ruth watched him keenly, as they always did when he became excited.
“Oh, I’ve got an idea, a fine idea!” he cried. “I got it from what
Pee-wee said——”
“All right, take your time, Stan,” said Garry.
“I tried to think of a name—a new name—for the _Rambler_ but I couldn’t
think of any. I told my mother I’d name it for Tom Slade only that
wouldn’t be fair to Garry, and it would be the same if I named it for
Garry—see? Anyway—anyway—she said a boy’s name wouldn’t be good, anyway.
But if I name it _Honor Scout_, it will be naming it for both of
them—won’t it?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, crinkums, you hit it!” shouted Pee-wee, enthusiastically. “It’s an
insulation—”
“Inspiration, you mean,” corrected Connie.
“What’s the difference?” demanded Pee-wee.
“Nothing—only insulation is the covering around a wire and inspiration is
a good idea.”
“Otherwise they’re the same,” said Roy.
“Oh, it’s one peach of a name!” repeated Pee-wee, undaunted, and pounding
the back of the bench. “It’s a piperino!”
Harry Stanton was delighted.
“It _is_ a bully name,” said Westy Martin.
“And—and _I_ thought of it—didn’t I,” said Harry, with the touch of
childishness that still showed itself at times.
“You sure did,” said Garry.
“It’s sort of two names in one,” said Will Bronson.
“I—I thought of it just this minute,” repeated Harry, nervously.
“You’re all right, Stan,” said Garry. “Sit down and watch the game
now—watch your sister trim Roy.”
“I wouldn’t play with him, he’s too silly,” said Ruth.
“You’re afraid of being beaten,” challenged Roy.
“By _you_? You don’t even know how to volley.”
“I know how to jolly,” Roy came back.
They played much to Harry’s amusement, which was just what Garry wanted,
and Roy was ignominiously vanquished.
“Now you’re supposed to say ‘Deuce’!” Ruth called to him.
“I don’t use such language,” answered Roy.
“Bat it over there, silly, and then say ‘My advantage!’”
“I wouldn’t take advantage of a girl,” he answered.
It was no wonder he was beaten.
Roy and one or two of the others stayed for supper and Ruth took him into
the kitchen (to the consternation of her mother and the colored cook) and
taught him to make popovers. Being the troop’s chef, he was greatly
interested and wore a huge kitchen apron on which he was continually
tripping.
Upon Mr. Stanton’s return a slight cloud was cast upon the rosy plans for
a cruise, partly from his hesitancy to let Harry go with them and partly
because of his doubts as to whether his son ought to keep the boat at
all. Of these latter misgivings he was cured by an elaborate argument of
Pee-wee’s. Or, in any event, he surrendered—and Pee-wee took the credit.
“I’ve got a peach of an argument I’m going to give him,” said Pee-wee, as
he and Roy and Garry were hiking it to Shady Lawn for a set of tennis.
“It’s what the lawyers call a teckinality. Don’t you remember he used one
last year when he gave us the boat?”
He found Mr. Stanton on the porch, and perched himself upon the railing
near him, swinging his legs.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Stanton, when Pee-wee broached the subject,
“whether I shall let Harry keep the boat or not. Mr. Waring was rather a
queer man, and I don’t know whether we ought to take his will too
seriously. I shouldn’t wish you boys to be disappointed,” he added,
thoughtfully.
“Well, I’ll tell you how it is,” said Pee-wee. “You’re a lawyer, kind of,
aren’t you?”
“Kind of,” Mr. Stanton conceded.
“I thought it all out last night. Now you gave us a boat, didn’t you? And
I’m not saying that wasn’t a dandy thing to do.”
“I’m glad you have found pleasure in it.”
“Only the trouble was the fellow that owned the boat was alive all the
time and so you really didn’t have any right to give it to us. That’s a
teckinality, isn’t it?”
Mr. Stanton laughed.
“So if Harry didn’t have a boat of his own, why, then, of course, we’d
have to give the _Good Turn_ back to him—’cause it’s his, see? But, of
course, as long as he _has_ a boat of his own, it’s all right. Anyway,
you couldn’t stop us from leaving the _Good Turn_ at Nyack Landing if we
wanted to. Even if you were a—a—judge, you couldn’t do that, could you?”
“I seem to be at your mercy,” said Mr. Stanton.
“And there’s another dandy argument, too—a peach!”
“If it’s one of your own, I should like to hear it.”
“Well, you want Harry to get well, don’t you? Maybe you don’t know all
that Garry Everson did to make him—to help him get better. And then he
gave him up so’s Tom could have a full patrol. Gee, even _we_ didn’t know
what kind of a fellow Garry was—we didn’t. But we know now, you can bet.
Maybe Harry would get worse again if you took that boat away from him.
He’s just thought of a dandy name for it—the _Honor Scout_.”
“Hmmm,” mused Mr. Stanton.
“Isn’t that one pippin of a name?”
“I think we may let him have the boat,” said Mr. Stanton, thoughtfully.
“The whole circumstance is so very strange——”
“And can he make the cruise with us to Plattsburg?”
“We will see what Mr. Ellsworth thinks—and the doctor. I don’t quite
see,” Mr. Stanton added, after a thoughtful pause, “how Harry can become
a member of Tom Slade’s patrol, much as I should like to see him the
companion of you boys. We live so far from Bridgeboro——”
“It seems that way to you because you’re not a scout,” interrupted
Pee-wee, patronizingly. “But we’ve thought it all out and we’ve decided
that twenty-three miles isn’t so far. You see, when you’re a scout
distance doesn’t amount to anything, because we hike. And if you go
scout-pace, you don’t get tired at all. Did you ever try scout-pace?”
“No, I never did.”
“Well, you’ve missed something. You ought to try it. Would you like me to
show you?”
“I think I’ll stick to the automobile,” said Mr. Stanton, dubiously.
“Well, you know, when Harry gets all well he could paddle down and he
could run the machine, and besides they have two autos at Roy’s and he
runs them, and they’ve got one at Westy’s—of course, it isn’t exactly an
automobile, it’s a Ford—and in the summer it would be easy going back and
forth and in the winter we only have one meeting a week, and he could
come down Fridays and stay at my house till Sunday. Oh, gee, I hope
nothing will happen now to stop him from joining Tom’s patrol. Tom would
be awful disappointed.”
Nothing did happen, and Pee-wee took his full measure of glory. The
doctor proved his staunch supporter, and even Mrs. Stanton said
reluctantly that she supposed Harry might go, but that they must be very
careful to bring him safely home to her again.
“Didn’t we bring him home once?” Pee-wee demanded. “You leave it to me.”