THE INVISIBLE BADGE
“What the dickens does he mean by an invisible badge, do you suppose?”
Westy Martin asked.
“You can go through _my_ pockets,” said Roy. “Tomasso is the Boy Scout
puzzle. They ought to give him away with a years subscription to _Boys’
Life_. I wish that hadn’t happened, though. Jiminy, who’d have thought
that kid would go up in the air like that!”
Tom had not been long in regaining his stolid composure; he appeared to
entertain no grudge against Raymond, and even offered to bait his hook
for him, for the little fellow angled continually, notwithstanding that
he never caught anything. But his offer was indignantly refused, and
Raymond would have nothing to do with him.
The _Honor Scout_ cruised leisurely up the river, held at anchor for the
scouts to swim now and then, and making shore at safe places when the
tide was full, for luncheon or supper on the wooded banks with the
precipitous mountains rising sheer above them.
Harry Stanton was hardly recognizable now as the panic-stricken,
scatter-brained youth whom they had found on the mountain. Under Mr.
Ellsworth’s eagle eye he had a chance to show his skill at swimming, but
his wish to be ever in the water was discouraged and for the most part he
contented himself with reading the Handbook and studying the second-class
tests. Already he had “backfired” which was the word they used for the
act of qualifying for a merit badge before one reached the stage where
the scout rules would permit him to receive such a badge.
This was in music. He had played a mandolin in former days and now he had
one of those Hawaiian instruments—a Ukulele—and he would sit on the cabin
locker by the hour picking out the soft South Sea airs, to the delight of
the whole troop.
The dream of his life at present was to attain to second-class, and he
would talk eagerly about tracking and signalling and first-aid. His
impulsiveness sometimes ran to the point of agitation and he seemed to
have little balance wheel when he got excited, but he was getting better
fast and as the boys came to know him for what he was they grew to like
him immensely.
In the course of their meanderings northward, they came again to Catskill
Landing and Roy, Doc Carson and Pee-wee hiked up to the camp to see how
things were and to get a sweater which Doc had left there, while the
others transferred some of the luggage from the _Honor Scout_ to the
_Good Turn_, for the Elks meant to continue in the smaller boat so as to
relieve the rather congested condition of the other.
Late in the afternoon the three scouts returned, Doc carrying the sweater
on the end of his staff like a pennant. Roy carried a large jar of
marmalade (or “motherlade” as he called it) which the chief cook had
presented to the voyagers; and Pee-wee carried an extensive scout smile.
He was Law Eight, personified.
“What’s the news?” called one of the group that was lolling on the _Honor
Scout’s_ cabin.
“The plot grows thinner,” said Roy. “Here, take this and put it in the
galley, compliments of Beefsteak Ben.... Don’t say a word, a dark and
bloody mystery has been solved. Believe _me_, they’ve got a sleuth up
there that has Tom beaten forty-’leven ways.”
“How’s everybody?” Will Bronson asked.
“Fine,” said Doc. “There’s two troops there from Boston——”
“You ought to see the beans that crowd eats,” Roy interrupted; “and mince
pie—go-o-odnight!”
“There’s a bunch came from Brooklyn——”
“Can you blame them?” interrupted Roy again.
“And a troop from Canada——”
“Daon’tcher knaow,” interrupted Roy, with an exaggerated imitation of the
English accent.
“Gee, that’s some troop,” said Doc. “They came from Montreal and they
wear trousers that don’t tuck in and show part of their legs and they
wear little silver swastika badges that they get for special service.
They look awfully different from the other fellows——”
“They showed us how to raise the English flag,” said Pee-wee, excitedly.
“Maybe you think the English flag hasn’t got any top and bottom to it.
Anybody can tell when the American flag is upside down——”
“Well, I should hope so,” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“And maybe you think because the English flag has a center design that
you can’t fly it upside down—— There’s where you’re wrong!”
“I don’t see that any of us is wrong since none of us has committed that
crime,” laughed Mr. Ellsworth. “We’re not in the habit of flying the
British flag at all.”
“I did,” boasted Pee-wee.
“Well, then, don’t blame us for your sins,” chuckled the scoutmaster.
Pee-wee subsided for the moment, but the time was to come, and that not
so far distant, when this redoubtable “good turner” should enter stores
and even public buildings, in Uncle Sam’s domain, and do the British
Empire a good turn by explaining how her proud emblem was being flown
without, upside down.
“They’ve been doing war work,” said Doc. “They built recruiting stands in
Montreal, and they sand-papered three thousand muskets that had to be
varnished, and distributed enlistment posters, and—— Oh, I don’t know
what all. They showed us a poster like the ones they distributed. It said
‘Meet me at the battle-line.’”
“Meet me at the clothes-line, that’s where I hang out!” put in Roy.
“Oh, they’re one peach of a troop!” enthused Pee-wee.
This troop of Canadian scouts had produced a great impression on the
three boys, and, from their account, had done the same on all the others
at Temple Camp. The three were full of enthusiasm for their
wide-awakeness and efficiency, to say nothing of their patriotic
activities. It started the Bridgeboro boys thinking of what part they
might be permitted to play if Uncle Sam were drawn into the great war.
These Canadian youngsters, according to Doc, had shown the greatest
friendliness toward their American brothers, standing with hats removed
when the _Star Spangled Banner_ was sung, and had become very popular in
camp, and shown an almost uncanny proficiency in tracking and the faculty
for deduction. One of their patrol leaders, indeed, was a veritable
hand-writing expert, and knew besides dozens of scout signs used in the
Canadian Rockies. But it fell out that he did Tom Slade a very bad turn.
The enthusiastic report of the boys had two very marked effects upon the
party, one of which they would be destined to recall in strenuous days to
come. These were their admiration for the fine organization and superb
proficiency of the English scouts, and for the manner in which they were
“doing their bit” for their country in these days of trial. It seemed to
bring the Bridgeboro boys very near to the war.
Garry, who sat quietly upon the combing listening to Doc’s account, with
occasional spasmodic punctuations by Pee-wee, thought regretfully of his
own efforts to form a little troop, and of how meagre and discouraging
the results had been beside these splendidly organized scout units with
which it seemed his fate to mingle.
“Well, how about the mystery?” Connie Bennet prompted.
“I thank you,” said Roy. “The mystery is all right, all right, and it
proves the good old rule that your sins are sure to find you out. I hold
here an envelope to be delivered to Tomasso Slade—main geezer of the
Elks. Stand, Tomasso, so I can get a good shot at you! _Who sent the
money for Raymond Hollister to stay at camp till September?_” he shouted,
suddenly. “And you thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you—you big
sneak! Deny it at your peril! _Now_ I know where the profits from the
_Friday Evening Pest_ went! There’s a fellow—Rolly Culver, from Montreal,
Canada—who has _your_ number, all right! Deny the allegation and denounce
the alligator, if you dare!”
Everybody stared at Tom, who was blushing right up to the roots of his
towsled shock of rebellious hair.
“What do you mean?” said he, sullenly.
“Ah, well may you ask what I mean, Sherlock Nobody Holmes!” triumphed
Roy, shaking the envelope exasperatingly in Tom’s face. “I mean that you
tried to beat Mr. John Temple to it—that’s what I mean! And Rolly Culver
from Canada FOILED you! See?”
“No, I don’t,” said Tom, glancing shamefacedly across the deck at little
Raymond and looking as if he had committed a crime.
“I mean it’s good we hiked up there,” said Roy, more seriously. “A check
got there yesterday from Mr. Temple—a check for fifty bucks—mailed in the
West Indies. It was for Raymond to stay at camp till fall.”
“Go-o-odni-ght!” exclaimed Will Bronson.
Garry stared, intensely interested.
“You ought to have heard Jeb tell about it,” said Roy. “‘When I see es
haow they follyed one anuther up,’” he went on, accurately mimicking Jeb.
“‘I sez thar’ must be sump’n wrong somewhar.’ And just by chance,” Roy
continued, “he hauled out of his old buckskin wallet the old crumpled
piece of paper that had come with the other money—the fifty buckarinos in
cash—and it’s lucky he happened to show it to that Culver kid, believe
_me_! That fellow said it was the same writing as the writing on the
bulletin board at camp. Other fellows said, no; but he stuck to it and
showed them how to compare curves and letters, and strokes and dots and
things—even straight lines—and there you are,” concluded Roy,
delightedly. “We all know who had charge of the bulletin board—— And you
thought you’d make Mr. Temple the goat, didn’t you, with your two
twenties and a ten! You thought he’d forgotten Raymond, didn’t you. And
you thought you’d get away with it! We’ve got your number, Tomasso, my
boy, and we know why you’ve been wearing old gray flannel shirts and book
straps, and things. Here you are—there’s your fifty!” he concluded,
throwing the envelope triumphantly in Tom’s face. “It would have gone
back to Mr. Temple if it hadn’t been for Rolly Culver and me!”
There was no mistaking Roy’s overwhelming delight, despite his
denunciatory tone and he watched joyously as Tom, distressed and
uncomfortable, in face of the whole troop’s stare, tore open the envelope
and took out two twenties and a ten. For Roy had asked the camp trustees
who cashed the check to return Tom’s money in just the form in which he
had sent it, when, having seen the Temples start for South America, he
had gone to the post-office at home in Bridgeboro, and with
characteristic disregard of the risk, had sent his whole savings in cash
to Temple Camp, that nature might complete the good work she had begun
for little Raymond Hollister.
“I didn’t think anybody’d find out,” said Tom doggedly.
“No, I don’t suppose you did,” laughed Mr. Ellsworth.
“John Temple spoiled it for you,” said Doc.
“You can’t get the best of that man!” shouted Pee-wee. “There’s no use
trying!”
“Tom,” said Garry, simply, “I was always glad I turned Stanton over to
you, but now I’m gladder than ever. You can see yourself what you’ve done
for Raymond.”
“Yes, and we can all see what kind of a pal Raymond has, too,” Roy shot
back. “You’ll be leader of a swell patrol some day, Garry, or I miss my
guess.”
Garry only smiled. “All things come round to him who waits,” said he.
“Come here, Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “If there was a merit badge for
this sort of thing you’d be a star scout tomorrow. Come over here, my
boy.”
There was the faintest reminder of the old hoodlum shuffle in Tom’s
clumsy gait as he went sheepishly across the deck and leaned against the
boat’s rail near his scoutmaster, speechless, almost expressionless. The
book-strap was drawn absurdly tight around his waist. The old, worn,
faded gray flannel shirt that he wore was a sight. But upon the back of
it, such as it was, Mr. Ellsworth administered a resounding slap.
“That’s what you meant by an invisible badge, hey?” said Westy, suddenly;
“a good turn kept secret.”
“I’m afraid none of us have quite understood Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth,
simply. Then he turned and looked with the winningest smile at little
Raymond. “None of us have understood him, have we, Ray?”
“No, sir,” said Raymond, timidly.
“And it shows us that being a scout means more than just wearing the
scout suit, eh?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“You see, one can be a very good scout in a very ragged shirt, and he
can, if he wishes to, be a very punk scout in full khaki. You get me,
Ray?”
“Ye-yes, sir.”
“Well, then, what are we going to do about it?” Mr. Ellsworth asked
pleasantly.
Garry understood, if Raymond did not, for he started the little fellow
over toward Tom, and Tom took the timid hand and held it.
Then suddenly, in one of those freaks of impulse that Raymond sometimes
showed, he reached with his other hand and grasped Tom’s arm. With the
arm that was free Tom encircled the small, agitated form.
Raymond was crying like a baby.