A PLEA ON THE ROAD
Dinner was almost over when Don reached home. Barbara brought his food
from the kitchen where she had kept it warm.
"Didn't you hear me say twelve sharp?" she scolded.
Don told of Bobbie's message, of his interview with Tim, and of his
fruitless trip to Mr. Wall's house. Barbara, engrossed in the tale,
dropped into her own seat and listened intently. Mr. Strong shook his
head soberly.
"Going to Danger Mountain will be a foolhardy trick," he said.
"I wish Mr. Wall were home," said Don. He had lost appetite for his
dinner and pushed his plate away. "I did right to go to him, didn't I,
dad?"
"You'd have been foolish not to go," said his father.
Don stared hard at the tablecloth. He had entered joyously on his duties
as patrol leader, but one disagreement after another with Tim had
roughened his road. And now--now that he seemed powerless to stay this
latest folly--he suddenly felt very, very tired.
"Why will Tim be so headstrong?" cried Barbara.
"It's a way some boys have," Mr. Strong explained. "Tell them not to do a
thing, and immediately that is the one thing they want to do. As for
Tim--Well, I fancy he's disgruntled because Ted Carter dropped him. He
doesn't want to sit around and watch baseball today. He probably figured
that the best way was to go off and pretend he didn't care. If he could
add spice to the going off, it would make it seem all the more as though
he was really having a good time."
"And won't he have a good time?" Barbara asked.
"No boy really enjoys himself, when he knows he's doing wrong," Mr.
Strong answered.
Don roused himself from his dull, discouraged mood. "Is there anything I
could try, dad, to stop him? Just one more trial?"
"You might take him by the back of the neck and tell him you're boss."
"I would," Don said slowly, "if I were able."
He went upstairs and got into uniform--all except his spiked shoes. He
would put those on on the porch where there was no carpet to rip and
tear. He went over to the window and looked down at the yard. Nothing was
there but grass, and hedge, and a small bed of flowers. And yet he saw a
steep side of Danger Mountain, and khaki-clad boys climbing that steep
side and missing their steps.
"Twenty minutes of two, Don," Barbara called.
He carried the spiked shoes down to the porch. He was angry now. Why
should he worry when he had done the best he could? He _wouldn't_ worry.
He'd pitch his game and have a good time. If Tim wanted to get hurt, that
was his funeral.
In this mood he walked to the field. The practice had already started. He
gave the Little Falls players a casual glance. Visiting teams no longer
worried him--not before the umpire's cry of "Play ball!" anyway. He had
had his baptism of fire. He was a veteran.
"I was just going to send somebody to look you up," said Ted. "Everything
all right? Good! Shoot away."
Thoughts of Tim came, but Don thrust them aside and shook his head
stubbornly. What had happened was no fault of his. He had done his best.
Now he was going to enjoy himself.
"Great stuff," said Ted when the warm-up was over. "Sting them in like
that during the game and there'll be nothing to it."
Don laughed and walked toward the bench. His eyes scanned the spectators.
It was just possible that Tim had changed his mind--
"I don't care whether he did or not," the pitcher muttered hotly. He drew
on a sweater and took a seat on the bench, and stared out toward center
field.
By and by it was time to start the game. Ted cried, "Come on, now;
everybody get into this." Don dropped his sweater on the bench and walked
out toward the mound.
The Little Falls coachers began a sharp rattle of talk. Don glared at
them coldly. Up went his arm--and down.
"Strike one!"
Don pitched again. The batter hit a twisting, difficult fly, but Marty
Smith ran back and caught it deftly.
"Yah!" cried Ted. "That's getting them."
It was clever fielding. Don seemed to catch the contagion of its worth.
Why, with support like that a pitcher ought to do wonders. He pitched
again.
"Strike!" ruled the umpire.
"Wow!" Ted said softly. "He surely has stuff on the ball today."
Two more pitches, and the batter was out on strikes. The next player
fouled to Ted. Little Falls' first turn at bat had been a sorry failure.
Cheers came from the spectators as Don walked to the bench. Somebody
yelled, "Take off your hat, kid." He flushed, and doffed his cap, and sat
down with crimson face.
"Come on," cried Ted. "Give Don a run and this game will be sewed up."
But it wasn't until the third inning that Chester tallied. Then she
scored three runs in a rush. Ted led off with a three-bagger. After
that came a single, an out, a base on balls, another out, and a long
two-bagger. Marty Smith, with the crowd imploring him to keep up the good
work, struck out on three pitched balls, and not one of them was worth
offering at.
"Too bad," said Ted. "If that fellow could only hit he'd be a star."
Meanwhile, Little Falls had not yet scored. Nor did she tally in the
fourth. Don, today, was master of the situation.
He came to the bench. Up to this point, the touch and go of battle had
held him at a tension. Now, with the game comparatively safe, he relaxed.
He paid attention to things he had been too busy to notice before--the
afternoon shadows, for instance.
The shadows told his practiced scout eyes that it was about four o'clock.
Unconsciously he began to figure. If Tim had started at one o'clock, he
should have reached Danger Mountain an hour ago--
"Here!" Don told himself abruptly. "I must stop thinking of this."
Chester scored two more runs. He went out, jauntily, to pitch the fifth
inning. Before he had hurled three balls he knew that something was
wrong. He had lost the razor edge of pitching perfection.
He staggered through the fifth inning without being scored on, but it was
ticklish work. Little Falls hit him hard. With the bases full and two
out, Marty Smith sprang sideways, made a blind stab, scooped the ball and
touched the bag for the third out.
Cries of chagrin came from the Little Falls bench. "Oh, you lucky dubs,"
called one of the coachers. "That was horseshoes."
Don smiled mechanically. It was his turn to go to bat; and after he was
thrown out he came to the bench and fought stubbornly to keep his
thoughts on the game and away from Tim.
Grimly he stuck to his task. When it came time to start the seventh
inning, he was almost master of himself. He found his drop ball working
again.
"Yah!" cried Ted. "Here's where we get in the game again."
Little Falls, following that turbulent sixth inning, expected to go right
on with her hitting. Instead, her batters found themselves once more
helpless. Three players stepped to the plate and were thrown out in
order.
Don's spirits had risen. He walked toward the bench with a springy
stride. The spectators in back of third base began to cheer. He glanced
at them with a smile--and then his face sobered.
Bobbie Brown was pushing his bicycle hurriedly along in the rear of the
watchers. His attitude said plainly that he had come with a message.
Don walked past the bench and waited. Bobbie came directly to him.
"Tim just started," he said. "He had to do chores for his mother and
couldn't get away earlier."
"It will be almost dark when he gets there," Don cried.
"Tim went just the same," Bobbie answered. "He told the fellows they
could hurry and get there before sunset, and then start back after taking
a little look around."
Don could understand harum-scarum Tim refusing to give up a plan. But as
for his companions--
"What fellows are with him?" he asked. "Not scouts?"
Bobbie nodded,
"Any from our patrol?"
"Ritter."
Don caught his breath.
"There's a scout from the Foxes and one from the Eagles, too," said
Bobbie.
But Don could find no consolation in the fact that other than Wolf patrol
scouts were derelict.
"I think they wanted to quit," Bobbie went on, "but Tim jawed them--you
know--and they went along."
Don could find no comfort in that, either. The inning was over. It was
Little Falls' turn to go to bat. He took a few steps toward the diamond,
and paused.
"Come on, Don," called Ted.
He turned back. "Wait here with your bike," he said quickly. "Have you a
wrench? Raise the seat."
There was no use pretending that he did not care. And his duty, he
thought, was clear. He could ride after Tim and overtake him before he
had gone very far. What sort of patrol leader would he be to let two of
his scouts break faith with the Scoutmaster and not fight to the very
last to bring them back? For it was breaking faith. Mr. Wall had not
dreamed that they would do anything like this.
He was on fire now for the game to end. In his eagerness he began to
pitch wildly. The first batter got a base on balls.
Ted walked down to him. "Steady, there; you're pitching too fast."
Don saw that if he gave bases on balls he would prolong the struggle.
Though it was torture for him to go slow, he fought his desire to hurry.
But it was impossible to lose himself in the game. The edges of his skill
were blunted. Little Falls began to hit freely again.
Two runs came over the plate before the third player was out. The score
was now 5 to 2.
"Arm tired?" asked Ted.
Don shook his head. Why wouldn't the batters hurry? When the third
Chester boy was thrown out he sprang to his feet and strode to the mound.
Desperately he worked, trying to retire Little Falls' batters in order.
But Little Falls, in that last inning, had tasted blood. Now she would
not be denied. Three runs were scored. The game was a tie.
Ted came to the bench with puckered eyes. Here was something he couldn't
understand. It was a common thing to see pitchers gradually weaken, but
Don had lost his effectiveness all in a moment. He dropped down on the
bench and motioned for Don to sit beside him.
"What's wrong?" he demanded.
"Nothing," said Don. What was the use of worrying Ted, he thought.
He had not deceived the captain in the least. Ted leaned back and sighed.
He knew that here was a ball game that was lost.
The ninth inning was a slaughter. Little Falls scored four times. Each
hit, each run, made the game last that much longer. Don labored grimly to
reach the end.
Ted asked him no questions when he came in from the mound. In fact, the
captain only half-heartedly urged his players to make a rally. The
leaderless, dispirited team fell easy victims to the rival pitcher's
curves.
The moment the last player was out, Don hurried to where Bobbie waited
with the wheel. He threw one leg over the frame. His foot found the
toe-clip.
"Got your scout whistle?" he asked.
Bobbie handed it over. Don thrust it in his pocket and was off.
Shading his eyes, Bobbie watched wheel and rider fly down the road. A
hand touched his shoulder.
"What's Don rushing off for?" Ted asked.
Bobbie told about Tim's journey to Danger Mountain. Ted's eyes snapped.
"Think Don'll catch him?" he asked.
"Sure he will."
"I hope," said the captain, "I hope he gives him a beating to remember."
But Don, as he pedaled down the road, was not thinking of fight. Into the
Turnpike he raced at an angle of forty-five degrees. The dry dust sifted
up from under the spinning tires. It powdered his legs, and burned his
eyes, and parched his throat.
Half an hour later he came to where Christie's Brook crossed the Pike. It
was clean water, and safe. He threw himself on his stomach and reached
down with his lips. His whole body cried out to him to drink, drink,
drink. But he was too wise a scout not to know the dangers of such a
course. He rinsed his mouth and throat, and swallowed a few drops,
mounted again and rode off.
Another twenty minutes, and he came slowly to the top of a ridge. Down
below dark forms moved along the road. He gripped the handle-bars hard
and coasted.
A few minutes later he had almost reached them. They heard the whir of
his chain and looked back. Then they stopped.
"It's only Don," Tim said carelessly.
Ritter shrank back as though he wanted to hide.
Up to this point Don had thought only of overtaking the hikers. Now he
was face to face with the problem of what he should say to them. He laid
his bicycle at the side of the road and advanced with fast-beating
heart.
"How many of you scouts told Mr. Wall you were going on this trip?" he
demanded.
"Wasn't necessary," Tim answered promptly. "Mr. Wall didn't say we
couldn't go."
"Mr. Wall didn't expect that any scout would go."
"How do you know what Mr. Wall expected? Did he tell you?"
It was a losing argument. Don could see the other scouts looking at Tim
and nodding their heads as though agreeing with his logic--all except
Ritter, who was looking at the ground.
Don's mind worked feverishly. They were scouts. They were breaking the
scout law that said that a scout was trustworthy. He tried to grasp words
that would make them feel what he felt, but the words would not come.
"We can't stay here all day," Tim hinted.
The sound of a locomotive came faintly. Perhaps it was the train bringing
Mr. Wall back from the city. All at once Don's mind, groping, searching,
caught the first vague outline of an idea.
"Wait a minute, fellows." His eyes were on fire. "If you thought Mr. Wall
would have no objection to a Danger Mountain hike, why did you wait until
you got him out of the village?"
"What do you mean by that?" Tim asked suspiciously.
"Why did you wait until he went away for the day and then sneak off on
this hike?"
Indignant cries broke from Tim and from the scouts. They had not known
that Mr. Wall had gone to the city. Ritter caught Don's arm.
"Is Mr. Wall away today, Don? Honest?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?" Tim asked.
"I went to his house at noon to tell him about this hike."
Silence fell over the group. The scout from the Eagle patrol took off his
hat and fanned his face.
"Mr. Wall won't think we sneaked off just because he was away," he said
uneasily.
"Why shouldn't he think it?" cried Don. One of the party was weakening,
anyway. He pressed his advantage. "You fellows know what he said on the
last hike--that Danger Mountain was a bad place. And the moment he leaves
town, a bunch of scouts start for the mountain. How does that look?"
It looked distinctly bad. Tim's carelessness vanished.
"Well," he demanded of Ritter angrily, "what are you looking at me for?
_I_ didn't know he had gone to the city."
The hikers were demoralized and leaderless. The right word now--
"Fellows," said Don, "let us show Mr. Wall that he can leave the village
as often as he pleases and not have to worry about a single scout of
Chester troop."
Ritter took a step toward him. But the others were still just a bit
uncertain.
Don almost held his breath. There was nothing more for him to say. He ran
a nervous hand into the pocket of his sweater. His fingers closed on some
cord, and something round and hard. Bobbie's whistle!
He put it to his lips and blew a long, shrill blast.
It was the voice of authority--the scout signal for attention.
Instinctively the boys straightened and looked alive.
"We're going home," said Don. "We're going to show that a scout is
trustworthy. Forward!"
An air of suspense seemed to come down over them there in the road. Don's
pulse throbbed. Would they obey?
"March!" he ordered. The die was cast.
Three of the boys swung forward. Tim stood with his feet spread apart,
frowning and glum. Presently, when the others had gone several hundred
yards, he hunched his shoulders sheepishly and slowly followed after.