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THE BOY SCOUTS OF LAKEVILLE HIGH
* * * * * *
BY LESLIE W. QUIRK
The Wellworth College Series
THE FOURTH DOWN
THE FRESHMAN EIGHT
THE THIRD STRIKE
ICE-BOAT NUMBER ONE
The Boy Scouts Series
THE BOY SCOUTS OF BLACK EAGLE PATROL
THE BOY SCOUTS ON CRUSADE
THE BOY SCOUTS OF LAKEVILLE HIGH
* * * * * *
[Illustration: "Sit tight," he called, "and I'll have you out in a
jiffy."
FRONTISPIECE. _See page 96._]
THE BOY SCOUTS OF LAKEVILLE HIGH
by
LESLIE W. QUIRK
With Illustrations by William Kirkpatrick
[Illustration]
Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1930
Copyright, 1920,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE NEW BOY 1
II TRACK TROUBLE 14
III THE RELAY RACE 23
IV SCHOOL ELECTIONS 32
V NOBODY 40
VI BEFORE THE WIND 49
VII TWO YARDS TO GO 59
VIII THE PEACE PICNIC 74
IX THE TENDERFOOT 87
X HALLOWE'EN 100
XI THE TOUCHDOWN 111
XII THE ICY HILL 124
XIII APRON STRINGS 137
XIV THE LAST GOAL 150
XV AN ALARM OF FIRE 164
XVI ALONG THE FLOOR 174
XVII TOUCH AND GO 184
XVIII DEAD WIRES 194
XIX ON THE HANDCAR 203
XX BUSTED! 212
XXI BORROWERS' LUCK 222
XXII ONE CAR AND THREE COWS 234
XXIII LOST: ONE BASEBALL TEAM 244
XXIV MOLLY INSISTS 255
XXV SUBSTITUTES' DAY 260
XXVI THE TWENTY-FIFTH BOY 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
"SIT TIGHT," HE CALLED, "AND I'LL HAVE YOU OUT IN
A JIFFY" _Frontispiece_
JUST AS HE REACHED A POINT A FOOT OR TWO SHORT
OF BUNNY, HE TRIPPED SUDDENLY AND FELL PAGE 27
TO HIS LEFT, BEARING DOWN UPON HIM, WAS A GREAT
MONSTER OF IRON AND STEEL " 135
ABOVE THE CLATTER-CLATTER OF THE HAND CAR, A
VOICE SHOUTED FROM BELOW " 207
THE BOY SCOUTS OF LAKEVILLE HIGH
THE BLACK EAGLE PATROL
BUNNY PAYTON PATROL LEADER
BI JONES ASSISTANT PATROL LEADER
NAP MEEKER NO. 3
SPECS MCGREW NO. 4
S. S. ZANE NO. 5
ROUNDY MAGOON NO. 6
JUMP HENDERSON NO. 7
. . . . NO. 8
THE BOY SCOUTS OF LAKEVILLE HIGH
CHAPTER I
THE NEW BOY
"Help!"
As though snipped off short by one of its own whirling blades, the lawn
mower in the next yard stilled abruptly. Almost on the echo, a mop of
red hair popped above the garden fence.
From her perch on the turning-pole, which jutted out of the big
butternut tree in the Sefton back lawn, Molly Sefton watched the
brick-red thatch and the serious face beneath it. She wondered whether
the boy were fifteen years old or sixteen, and whether these new
neighbors who had moved in only the day before would prove as "nice" as
she had found the rest of the little village of Lakeville. Then a sharp
twist of pain made her forget everything except her right foot.
"Please help me loose," she called. "I was climbing up to get my
kitten, and my foot slipped in here. Now I can't get it out."
By this time, the red-headed boy had drawn himself to the top of the
fence. Almost before she had finished explaining, he had dropped
on the other side. Scrambling up to the horizontal bar beside her,
he squinted thoughtfully at the imprisoned foot, wedged between the
tree-trunk and the wooden strip that held the end of the bar.
"Pull your foot straight up."
She made the effort and winced. "It's too tight."
The red-headed boy frowned. "You're wearing thick, outdoor shoes," he
said. "If I just unlace this one, you can wiggle your foot out as easy
as pie."
While she remained standing on the bar, balancing herself by the tree,
the boy straddled the pole and began switching the shoe lace out of the
stops.
"It was my kitten I wanted to get," she said slowly. "That's how it
happened. And he's up there yet."
The red head looked up. Two feet out of the girl's reach, clinging to a
tiny limb, hung a black and white kitten. From time to time, it opened
its mouth and let out a whimpering cry that sounded like "_Me-e-e!_"
"How did it get up there?"
"The Claxton's dog pretty nearly scared it to death; it started
climbing and was afraid to stop."
"I see," nodded the boy. "Well, you jerk your foot out of that shoe,
and we'll get the kitten easy enough. Are you all ready? Now!"
Molly made the effort to free herself.
"I can't!"
"It's just as easy as falling--if you'll only try."
"It's not easy." She was beginning to lose her temper. "I'm stuck just
as fast as I ever was. You haven't done a bit of good." Before she
finished the sentence, she was ashamed of her words, for a hurt look
overspread the face beneath the red hair.
"Are you sure you can't yank it free?"
"I know I can't."
Very deliberately, he bent down and pulled from his own right foot the
white tennis slipper.
"I'm sorry I can't get you loose, but I know how to get your kitten
down."
"What are you going to do?"
Without answering, he drew back his slipper in a position to hurl it at
the helpless kitten. He measured the distance with his eye, poising the
shoe for the most accurate throw possible.
"What--what are you going to do?" She was very close to screaming.
"Hold tight. That kitten might come down right on your head."
"You horrid, _horrid_--"
"I'll count three slowly, and if your foot isn't out by that time--"
"You--you mustn't do such a thing! You shan't!" Molly gasped her
indignation, meanwhile clinging to the tree with both hands.
"Just the same, I'm going to. Get your arm out of the way."
He pulled back his tennis slipper to aim at the kitten. "One!-- Two!--
Thr--"
A little half-scream interrupted him, and behold! Molly's stockinged
foot rested beside its booted mate as she lunged forward to prevent the
outrage upon the little black and white kitten.
Strangely enough, the red-headed boy was merely grinning good-naturedly.
"I knew you could," he said. "I knew, if you really wanted to--"
For a little moment, Molly stared sternly at him, before she bit her
lower lip with an expression that was somewhere between vexation and
relief.
"Why, I--I don't believe you meant to throw your slipper at all," she
reproved him.
With a little broader grin, he nodded his head frankly.
"Of course, I didn't. I wouldn't throw anything at your kitten any more
than I'd throw anything at ours, and we've got an awfully funny little
fellow. All I wanted to do was to get your foot loose." Molly smiled
in spite of herself. "Now, if you'll get down on the ground, so I can
shinny up the tree a bit, I'll catch the kitten, and then I'll get that
shoe of yours."
With her stockinged foot cushioned on the soft grass, Molly watched the
boy struggle up the tree and clumsily but gently rescue the kitten from
its roost. Afterwards, when the animal lay safely in Molly's arms, he
pried loose the shoe from its wedged nook and dropped a bit heavily, to
the ground.
"It was splendid of you!" Molly began, and then stopped,
horror-struck. "But look at your clothes!"
The red-headed boy glanced down, but continued to smile, in spite of
the dark stains that had spread where he gripped the tree-trunk and
sundry leaf and nut clusters between his knees.
"I'm always doing something like that. I wish it wasn't the first day
of school, though," he added a little ruefully. "It's most schooltime,
too."
But now Molly was her practical self once more. "You get your books,"
she ordered, "and I'll take you down in our automobile. Horace Hibbs
(he's an inventor with the Fair Play Factory) has his workshop near the
school, and he mixes a sort of patent stuff that just takes any kind of
a spot out of your clothes. He's the Scout Master of the Black Eagle
Patrol of Boy Scouts, too. See, father's getting the car ready now. You
come right over."
While Mr. Sefton drove the car, Molly and the red-headed boy sat side
by side on the rear seat. After deftly finding out his name (which was
Rodman Cree) and his age (fifteen) and his grade (first-year high)
Molly began telling him all about Lakeville and about the new high
school, which had resulted from the combined efforts of Horace Hibbs,
the Fair Play Sporting Goods Factory, and, most of all, the Black
Eagles, Lakeville's patrol of Boy Scouts.[1]
"I came pretty near being a Scout last year myself," Rodman said
suddenly. "I was all ready to pass my tenderfoot examinations when we
moved out on a farm and staid there till we came to Lakeville."
"Oh, that's fine!" Molly assured him briskly. "You'll be taken in
with the Black Eagles. You see, Handy Wallace moved to Beloit almost
a year ago, and Sandy Anvers was sent East to school; so that leaves
only seven. And the patrol is going to do things this year," she went
on warmly. "There will be high-school football teams and baseball and
basketball teams and everything else, and there will be lots of Black
Eagles on every team, too. I just know so."
The boy's face lost its smile. "I'm not sure whether I'd be taken
into that bunch or not," he confessed slowly. "I'm not much good at
athletics."
"Nonsense! Of course you are!" nodded Molly reassuringly. "And,
besides, even if you aren't, you'd be good in just a little while. You
only have to try."
"I--I'd like to," he agreed, as the car stopped in front of the Fair
Play Factory's annex. "I'd certainly like to."
A round, jolly face showed at the window to the right of the door,
and presently Horace himself, Scout Master of the Black Eagle Patrol,
middle-aged and good-natured, greeted him from the entrance.
"What can we do for you this morning, Mr. Sefton?" smiled the inventor.
"Do you want to buy a pair of skates or some hockey sticks, or shall
you wait for the cold weather?"
Molly's father laughed. "We have a young man here who has been
climbing a butternut tree, and Molly tells me you own a special brand
of stain remover that can handle even accidents like this one."
Horace Hibbs raised his right hand. "Don't say another word. We will
send those stains to the Happy Hunting Ground in about two minutes."
By the time Rodman Cree came back to the waiting car, not only was
his clothing free from the blemish of the butternut, but his wish
to join the Boy Scouts had grown from a very moderate desire to one
truly giant-sized. Never before, he thought, had he met anybody who
understood boys as did Horace Hibbs; and what the Scout Master told
him about the patrol made him wish that he knew scouting from A to Z,
and, in addition, could run the hundred in ten seconds, and broad-jump
across a river.
"Of course he's fine," agreed Molly, "but just wait till you know the
boys in the patrol--Bunny Payton, the patrol leader, and Bi and Nap and
S. S. and Jump and Specs and Roundy; and, oh, just wait till you've
seen our new high school!"
Up Elm Street the car turned, and down Freemont, pulling to a stop in
the middle of the block.
"Look!" cried Molly.
Artistically centered in a big lot, the building stood, with a scrub
ball game already in progress on the new diamond. The gray rock side
walls, that seemed to be more window than anything else; the graceful
lines that rose in exquisite proportion; the main door, with its
roofed, stone-pillared veranda on each side,--all made a structure
that savored more of a home than a school. It was the sort of place
you would enjoy going to, if the teachers only lived halfway up to the
building. And the crowd of pupils already gathering for the first day
proved how deeply Lakeville's first and only high school had stirred
the little village and the country roundabout.
As Molly looked over the young people grouped at the door or watching
the game of "work-up," she recognized not only every Lakeville boy
and girl of high school age, but as many more from farms and villages
within ten miles. By automobiles, by train, a-wheel and on pony-back,
they had gathered for the opening session. Peter Barrett, his patched
suit neatly brushed and pressed, stood by his father's farm wagon; ten
yards away, Royal Sheffield, son of the wealthy, real estate man of
Charlesboro, was just climbing from a new eight-cylinder car. "Buck"
Claxton, who for the past two years had worked at the local flour
mill, was playing a noisy game at first base, while on the side-lines,
Clarence Prissler, his nose out of a book for once, was explaining the
fine points of the sport to Marion Genevieve Chester, who tilted her
nose, smoothed her hair, and looked very bored.
But the Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol were neither watching from
the side-lines nor bored. Heart and soul, they were playing the game,
from Specs McGrew, taking a lead off third, to Bunny Payton, thumping
the palm of his catching glove with his other hand and signaling to Bi
Jones, out in the pitcher's box. Handling the bat itself, Roundy Magoon
waved the stick back and forth, while Bi, with maddening slowness, made
ready to pitch.
"Hurry it up!" shouted Bunny. "This fellow is as good as gone, and I
want a crack at the ball before the bell rings."
Herbert Zane, whose nickname of "Spick and Span" had been shortened to
"S. S.", was creeping as far off first as he dared, with an occasional
glance at his clothes, as if wondering whether or not it would pay to
risk the gorgeousness of a brand new suit by sliding into second.
"Let the next one go!" he called to Roundy, apparently having made up
his mind that it would be better to wallow in the dust, and thus perch
on second, than be forced out or made the victim of a double play.
Roundy nodded. Very likely, too, he intended to do just that thing. But
the ball floated over so slowly, so tantalizing "right", that at the
very last instant he swung hard enough to drive it over all the roofs
of Lakeville. But Bi had put his muscle into the heave, and Roundy had
started his swing a fraction of a second too late. Though all his stout
body went into the blow, only the handle of the bat made connection,
and the ball hit in front of the plate and dribbed toward first.
Like a flash, Bunny leaped forward, scooped it up, tagged Roundy
before that slow-moving youth had stirred into full action, and, with a
bluff toward Specs, pegged to second.
It was a good throw, although high, and Jump Henderson took it with
one of his old circus leaps, touching S. S., who slid nobly but too
late, and relaying the ball back to Bunny in time to prevent Specs from
making an attempt to score.
"Don't mind me! I'm nobody!" Specs howled mournfully, scampering back
to third; while Roundy and S. S. trotted out to the field, Buck Claxton
stepped into the pitcher's box, Nap Meeker put on the catcher's glove,
and Bi and Bunny came in to bat.
"Leave me here," wailed Specs. "That's right! Leave me here! I'm having
a lot of fun on this base. Yes, I am! I've watched eight of you fan or
hit pop-ups or easy grounders; and here I am waiting yet."
"You won't be there long, Specs," Bunny promised cheerfully, picking up
the bat.
"That's what they all say," Specs growled. "But nobody brings me in."
"Nobody will bring you in, either, old socks," observed Nap. "You're
licked in this war. All right, Buck. Give him one right here."
The ball was shoulder high. Too eager to wait for a good one, Bunny
swung lustily, managing to foul it off over Nap's head, past the Sefton
automobile and across the road, where the ball lodged under the high
fence of the Anvers yard.
"Tell my folks to send my dinner out here," groaned Specs, plumping
himself down on third base and burying his head between his knees.
It was just as Nap started after the lost ball that Bunny spied the car
with Molly and Rodman in the rear seat.
"Oh, Bunny!" shouted Molly.
A moment later, the new boy and the leader of the Black Eagles had
formally shaken hands.
"And he can pass the tenderfoot tests, and he's awfully good at
athletics, and--"
"But I'm not _any_ good at athletics," protested Rodman, laughing. "I'm
no good at all in that sort of thing."
"He's just too modest to say so. You ought to have seen how he saved
the kitten."
"Have you ever played baseball?" demanded Bunny suddenly.
"Sure--a little. But I'm no good. I can't bat decently, or catch or
field."
Bunny held out his bat. "Come on over and take my place," he invited.
"I doubt if I can hit Buck, and poor old Specs has been perched on
third for hours. Everybody who comes to bat knocks a baby grounder or a
pop-up or something, and Specs stays right there."
"All right, Bunny!" Nap broke in, crossing back to the school yard with
the ball.
Molly dropped her hand on Rodman's arm. "Go and try," she urged. "I
know you can do it."
"Hurry up, Bunny! Pretty near time for the bell!" Nap flung over his
shoulder.
Rodman was plainly wavering. "But--but--"
"Try it, anyhow."
"Oh, you must!" Molly commanded.
The new boy climbed out of the car, smiling. "I'm no good, but I'll
give you a chance to see just how bad I am."
"This Claxton," Bunny confided, as they jogged to the diamond, "pitches
a hard ball, and he has a sure-enough out-curve; but if you stand up
to the plate and don't let him bluff you back, it will be all right.
Remember, though, you have only two strikes left."
From the car, Molly watched Rodman and Bunny join the others. For
a little while, there seemed to be some objection to Rodman's
substituting, but Buck Claxton ended the argument.
"Let him come to bat," observed Buck loudly. "He can't hit. I can see
it in his eye."
"I'll bet he can't," assented Specs sadly. "None of 'em can."
Rodman touched the plate with his bat. Buck wound up with an
exaggerated movement to deliver the pitch. It was a hard, straight
ball, with just the hint of a drop in it, but the bat met it over the
very center of the plate.
_Spang!_
The ball was off like a shot; off and up and over the fielder's head
in center, till it struck a tree twenty yards beyond and rolled and
bounded to the left.
Specs loafed in from third, and before the fielder had finished
juggling with the ball, the red-headed boy had rounded the three bases
and touched home. Then, while Specs was slapping Rodman on the back,
and a little scattered applause was rising from the crowd, the school
bell added its share to the celebration.
"He's a dandy!" chuckled Bunny enthusiastically, as Molly met him
hurrying to the building. "He's going to be a Black Eagle, all right."
"Won't that be fine!" agreed Molly, quite as pleased as though she were
a Scout herself.
And that was the way the new-comer to Lakeville High School--the new
high school that would never have been built if it had not been for the
Black Eagle Patrol--began his first day.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] See "The Boy Scouts on Crusade."