JACK CURTISS REAPPEARS.
It was one Saturday night following the aquatic field day. The winter
term of hard work had commenced at the Hampton Academy, giving the Boy
Scouts less time to devote to their organization work than they had
found during the summer. Rob Blake, Merritt Crawford, and Tubby Hopkins
were on their way home through the gathering dusk from a game of Hare
and Hounds, which had wound up by the catching of the hare at a village
called Aquebogue, some distance from Hampton.
At a steady jog trot the three lads were making their way toward their
home village. A slight chill predictive of the coming winter was in the
air, but for the time of year, mid-October, the evening was unusually
calm and warm. It was this late Indian summer that had made the water
games possible.
The boys’ conversation, as they jogged along, dealt mainly with the
astonishing things that had happened to them on the Harkness ranch in
the wildest part of Arizona. All of these were related in detail in “The
Boy Scouts on The Range.” Readers of that book will recall how Rob
Blake, the son of the president of the National Bank of Hampton; Merritt
Crawford, one of the numerous family of the village blacksmith, and
Tubby Hopkins, the offspring of a widow in comfortable circumstances,
had accepted the invitation of Harry Harkness to get a taste of life on
the range.
Their strange encounter with Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender, their former
enemies, was related in that volume, together with the surprising and
clever manner in which they turned the tables on those worthies. In that
book, too, we saw the raw Easterners—Tenderfeet, as they were—become
transformed from “greenies” into good shots, capable riders, and
excellent woodsmen. During their western stay they had broadened and
developed considerably from the lads who some months before had formed
the Eagle Patrol, as related in the first volume of this series, “The
Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol.” They had returned to Hampton better,
mentally and physically, for their trip.
But like most lads who have left their native place for even a short
time, they found changes when they returned. Freeman Hunt, the son of a
well-to-do resident, had formed the Hawk Patrol, and enrolled in it as
many boys as he could. In the meantime, the Eagle Patrol had developed,
and now numbered twenty stalwart lads, in addition to the original ten
whom we know. In some way, however, instead of the spirit of
friendliness and good fellowship that should have prevailed, the Hawk
and Eagle Patrols found themselves involved in considerable rivalry.
Now rivalry is good. Nothing could be better in athletics or daily life
than a healthy spirit of emulation. It is when rivalry degenerates into
bitterness that it is time to call a halt. Under Freeman Hunt’s
leadership, the Hawks had developed such a spirit. Dale Harding, Hunt’s
boon companion, had followed his leader’s example in abetting it,
instead of trying to allay hard and angry feelings. In fact, despite all
that the scoutmasters could do, the Hawks sought every opportunity to
lure the Eagles into open hostilities.
Rob Blake and his crowd had managed hitherto to keep their men in check.
But the task was daily getting harder. Freeman Hunt had many good
qualities, but he could not bear to be beaten at anything. He was a bad
loser. Until the return of Rob and his chums from the West, he had had
things pretty much his own way. But since that time, every contest in
which the Hawks and Eagles had engaged had resulted in victory for the
latter. This galled Hunt and Harding exceedingly. They would have liked
to see and to hasten the return of Rob and his companions to the West,
or anywhere else, so long as they were left a free field for their
endeavors.
The Sturgeon Spearing Contest had proved the climax of affairs between
the two patrols. In the dressing-room, after the awarding of the pennant
to the Eagles, Hunt had bitterly assailed Rob. The latter had stood
taunt after taunt without a word. He good-naturedly ascribed it to
Hunt’s natural chagrin at being beaten. Finally, an especially bitter
remark had moved him to reply. After all, Rob was only human.
“Say, Hunt,” he said quietly, “don’t you think it would be a heap more
manly not to make so much noise about it?”
“No, I don’t,” grated out Hunt, almost beside himself with rage. He came
close up to Rob and shook his fist threateningly.
“Who are you, anyhow, to tell me what I’m to do, eh? What have you got
to say about it?”
“Just this,” had been Rob’s reply, “that I think you are a pretty bad
loser.”
“Oh, you do, eh? Well, I’m a better man than you—so take that!”
_Smack!_
The infuriated lad had actually allowed his temper to carry his judgment
away so utterly as to strike his conqueror in the face.
The other boys in the place had stood about, fairly gasping. What would
Rob do? To their astonishment, he did nothing. While an angry, crimson
mark grew upon his cheek where the blow had fallen, his countenance was
calm and composed. But he caught Hunt’s hand in a grip of iron.
“Look here, Hunt,” he said quietly enough, but every word rang home with
sledge-hammer force, “you were beaten to-day. Worse, still, you can’t
take it like a man. To cap the climax, you have struck me.
Don’t—do—it—again.”
The last words came slowly, but they made Hunt flinch. Even Harding, who
had been inclined to urge his crony on, held his breath. Would Rob
strike Freeman? That question was soon answered. Rob released the angry
boy’s wrists, and let him go. Muttering angrily, Hunt had slunk off to a
locker.
“Why didn’t you have it out with him?” Dale asked him later, after Rob
and the others had dressed and gone.
“Too many of his crowd around,” Hunt muttered in reply, “but I’ll fix
him. You watch me. He’s not going to get away with anything like that.”
“I’m with you in anything you want to do,” Dale assured him.
“I may give you an opportunity before long to show if you mean that or
not,” rejoined Hunt, but when Dale pressed him for some explanation, he
refused to enlarge on the thinly-veiled threat.
Of this conversation, the lads, however, knew nothing, and were,
therefore, considerably astonished when, as they descended a bank
leading into the road to Hampton Inlet, a stoutly built lad, accompanied
by three others of about his own age and build, stepped from behind a
hedge, where they had evidently been lying in wait for the returning
lads.
As the three figures stepped forward into the road, and blocked the path
of the homing lads, Rob recognized them:
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Freeman Hunt?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s me,” retorted the other belligerently, blocking the way, “I
want to settle with you.”
“Settle with me—what for?” exclaimed the astonished Rob.
“For what you did in the locker room at the club the other day. You have
made me the laughing-stock of the place. Take off your coat, for I’m
going to give you the worst licking you ever had in your life.”
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Tubby, pretending to quake.
“Yes, and you’ll be laughing on the wrong side of your face before I get
through with him,” grated Freeman Hunt. “I can lick Rob Blake the best
day he ever walked.”
“Do you think so?” asked Rob calmly.
“I do; yes,” pugnaciously rejoined Hunt, thrusting forward his chin in a
manner he had seen depicted in pictures of pugilists.
“Well, then,” was the astonishing reply, “let it go at that. We want to
get home.”
“Well, what do you think of that?” exclaimed Lem Lonsdale, who was one
of the lads accompanying Hunt.
“He wants to get home to his mammy,” sneered Dale Harding, Hunt’s other
companion.
“Yes, but he’s got to take his medicine first,” snarled Hunt, who had,
unfortunately for himself, as it later appeared, mistaken Rob’s
unwillingness to enter into a bruising match for timidity.
“So, you’re afraid to fight, eh?” he jeered. “Well, you’ve got to. Will
you put up your fists, and take it like a man, or will I have to trounce
you like a regular coward?”
“Yes, how will you take your licking?” sneered Dale Harding, as Hunt
sprang at Rob, thinking to take him by surprise.
“This way!”
Like a pistol-shot, the words were snapped out.
The next instant Hunt was seen to halt in his spring forward, and go
toppling backward. Rob, unwilling to hurt him, had “heeled” him. The
recumbent lad was furious. He scrambled to his feet, using a torrent of
strong language.
“No necessity for that,” remarked Rob. The only answer was another
volley of profanity.
“Here, take this coat,” said Rob, turning to Tubby, and, slipping out of
the garment, “I’ve got to give this fellow a lesson. Next to smoking
cigarettes, the worst habit a boy can get into is using bad language.”
“Oh, it is, is it? You puling, Sunday-school scholar, take that!”
Hunt crouched, and, suddenly becoming erect, aimed a terrific blow at
Rob’s head. But, to his surprise, his fist encountered thin air. The
next instant, however, something struck him under the chin that felt
like a battering-ram. Hunt shook his head and staggered a little.
“Had enough?” inquired Rob. “I’m ready to quit if you are.”
Hunt’s answer was a perfect bellow of anger. In the city he had been the
bully of his neighborhood. He had expected to occupy the same desirable
position at Hampton, but, alas for him, he had been speedily
disillusioned.
He charged at Rob, and this time managed to get in a powerful blow on
the ribs of the Eagle Patrol leader. It made Rob gasp for an instant,
but before Hunt could launch another, Rob countered, ducked, and, rising
suddenly under Hunt’s guard, like a steel-springed Jack-in-the-box, he
gave the fellow a swift lesson in boxing. Hunt was staggering about, but
still vicious and unconquered, when two figures suddenly crept through
the hedge and landed in the road. They were both rough-looking youths,
and as well as could be seen in the gloom, were about the same age, or
possibly a little older, than any of the lads in the road.
But the sight of them brought a shout to Rob’s lips. His exclamation of
astonishment was speedily echoed by Merritt and Tubby Hopkins.
In the gathering gloom he had recognized the newcomers as Jack Curtiss
and Bill Bender. They, on their part, were equally quick in recalling
the boys of the Eagle Patrol. Jack Curtiss had a thick stick, a sort of
club, in his hand. He raised it threateningly, and made at Rob with it.
“I’ll fix you,” he exclaimed, pretending virtuous indignation, “you’re
at your old tricks of bullying and plug-uglying again, are you?”