THE STRANGER
If Tom Slade owned that boat he would make a cruise down the coast in
it. As he hiked back to Temple Camp he thought of what he would do and
where he would go and who he would take along—if he only owned that
boat. He would rechristen it the—the—the—no, he wouldn’t rechristen it
at all; _Goodfellow_ was a crackerjack name, he would call it
_Goodfellow_.
And now as he thought of the name it seemed a particularly happy name
for a boat, an inspiration, as Pee-wee Harris would have said. It meant
trusty and fair and square, with a true sportsman’s broad code of honor.
_Goodfellow_. Tom mused upon the name. It suggested pal, it suggested
daring, and just a touch of blithesome recklessness. Above all it seemed
to Tom to suggest pal. Good scout, good citizen, good pupil, good son,
good brother; all good, no doubt, but such names for a boat!
“_Goodfellow_,” said Tom, “that’s one peach of a name.” Could it be that
being a good fellow was really better than being any of these other
things? Or was it just that the name was blithesome and sportive?
And just then he came upon the stranger. He came upon him at a little
crystal spring by the wayside where hikers from Temple Camp often paused
for a cooling drink. Out of deference to this little spring, the stone
wall which bordered the road had been made to form a semicircle at the
spot, leaving the water free to bubble up.
And at this spot, where the cold, hard wall respectfully stepped aside,
to allow the spring to make its kindly presence known to the thirsty
wayfarer, some flat stones projected from the rough, loose masonry, to
form several seats. The Temple Camp boys never used these stone shelves,
for by instinct they preferred the top of the wall. Therefore, it looked
the more peculiar to Tom to see sitting on one of these hospitable
projections the queerest, most wizened looking little old man that he
had ever seen.
The little shelf on which he sat was so unobtrusive that he seemed to be
sitting on nothing at all, in the very center of the small semicircle of
stone wall. He looked like some whimsical statue sitting there with his
two shrivelled hands resting on his crazy cane. His old-fashioned
steel-rimmed spectacles rested at such a rakish angle on his nose that
one of his eyes looked over one lens, while the other looked under the
opposite one. And there was a strange, bright stare in his eyes which
might once upon a time have suggested shrewdness. The whole whimsical
aspect of this funny little old man was emphasized by the fact of his
looking straight ahead of him the while he talked; his interest in Tom’s
presence seemed quite impersonal.
Tom was nothing if not personal and hearty and, seating himself near
this queer personage, he stretched his legs out in front of him, clasped
his hands in back of his head, and said, “Well, you taking a rest?”
“It’s all right to drink this water if you want to,” said the old man in
a crisp, choppy voice.
“You said it,” laughed Tom; “no germs here, you can bet.”
Then having rested momentarily he kneeled down, drinking out of his
cupped hands while the little old man looked straight ahead of him, his
withered hands clasped upon his cane.
“You needn’t be ashamed to drink that water,” he said, “it’s honest
water; all water that comes out of springs is honest.”
“Well,” laughed Tom as he lifted his cupped hands for another cooling
draught, “this water certainly needn’t be ashamed to look anybody in the
face.”
The water, indeed, seemed carefree and of a good conscience. It trickled
down off Tom’s face and neck as if it had a clean record and not a care
in the world. He arose not only refreshed but cleansed. “You bet it’s
good, pure water,” he said.
The little old man continued looking straight ahead of him and when he
spoke it was with a kind of crisp finality, like an oracle speaking. It
amused Tom, and he sat on the ground with his hands clasped around his
drawn-up knees, listening to the queerest tirade he had ever heard.