GOODFELLOW
He liked rowing in the choppy water. It meant the first energetic work
he had done all day. For just ten or fifteen minutes he put all his fine
vigor into his encounter with the wind-blown river. It would be easier
rowing back, he thought.
It was dusk when he tied the skiff to the _Goodfellow’s_ rail and
climbed into the cockpit. The gay, striped awning which had covered this
at the time of his first visit was blown to shreds which fluttered in
the breeze like a dozen or more forlorn pennants. One faded remnant had
wound itself like a bandage around one of the nickeled stanchions.
The boys of the neighborhood had evidently used the boat to fish from,
for several rusty bait cans rolled about the deck as the _Goodfellow_
rode the choppy water. The noise they made was emphasized by the
surrounding stillness. A little leaden sinker hurried back and forth and
here and there in a kind of bewildered way, rolling under seats and out
again, as if it had lost its way.
Tom rested on the long seat which ran around the deck with the rail for
its back. The little sliding cabin door was closed and its rusty rollers
creaked as the boat rocked. On the bulkhead at either side of this tiny
door hung a circular life preserver. On each of these was printed
_Goodfellow_. In his abstraction and distress of mind, he thought
wistfully how Pee-wee Harris had once likened such a life preserver to a
doughnut. It is odd how such irrelevant thoughts flit through a troubled
mind.
As he gazed at the name printed in black letters, he recalled how he had
first been captivated by it. _Goodfellow._ Not good scout, not good
citizen. But just goodfellow. He mused upon the name. And from musing
upon the name he came to think of Whal—Anson Dyker. He had been a mere
boy when he did that rash, insane thing. Tom’s heart went out to him
now. There was something touching about the man. Must he die? _Die!_ He,
Tom’s rescuer and friend? Must he sit in a chair and....
He tried to think, tried to think all by himself. With his simple,
honest mind, he tried to think—out there in the boat that he loved. He
had no book knowledge to help him, no fine spun principles. He had gone
to Audry in his trouble and perplexity and she had shown him the way.
And now, in the deepness of his sorrow, he had braved the rising wind
and come out here to his first love—just to be alone.
And she, too, helped him. Here in the little cruiser, where Audry would
not have dared to venture on such a night, surrounded by the dark water
and enveloped by the solemn twilight, Tom Slade found himself. With the
mighty mountains flanking him on either shore, the towering, rugged
heights clothed in the dim silent forests that he loved, he thought—in
his own simple, boyish way. These things, the water, the woods, the
mountains, were _his_ books....
“There is a law—capital punishment,” he mused. “But if a man, a citizen,
doesn’t believe in that, they can’t make him serve on a jury. It—it
isn’t just the same—maybe—but I won’t—I _can’t_ do anything that makes
me feel _mean_. They can’t make a man testify against his wife. Or a
woman testify against her husband. That shows that love and all things
like that are stronger than citizenship—that shows they admit it
themselves. They make allowance for human nature. We didn’t send German
Americans to the front—I know because I was there. They let people think
they did, but they didn’t. Stern duty—yes. Talk is cheap. _Goodfellow_,
that’s—that’s one good word—if—if anybody should ask you....”
Tom Slade could lift any small scout at Temple Camp by the collar and
hold him out straight with one arm. And the squirming youngster would
always wriggle his neck afterward from that iron clutch. The hand which
was accustomed to doing this now tightened on the rail against which he
leaned. And the power of a resolution which Audry Ferris dreamed not of,
was in that brown hand. And his eyes, inscrutable and grim, looked
straight at the name _Goodfellow_, on one of the life preservers before
him. Half-closed, grimly determined, they looked.
And the frowning mountains on either side of the darkening river were no
stronger nor more immovable than Tom Slade, scout. No maid (unless it
were the _Goodfellow_) and no scout organization with all its fine
program of character building and citizenship could feel the blame, or
perchance take the credit, for his towering, defiant resolve.
It was just Tom Slade of Barrel Alley who once upon a time had knocked a
city marshal flat with a quick right-handed violation of the law,
because that dignitary had set a beer can on his mother’s picture. It
was that same right hand which struck the railing now. Tom Slade of
Barrel Alley.
“If anybody thinks,” said he, “that I’m going to squeal on a friend,
_they’ve got—one—more—good—long—think_. Maybe I might give away the one
that saved my life—some day—maybe I might. _But not while I’m
conscious!_”
Thus this good fellow came through the storm, just as the gallant little
_Goodfellow_, his first love, had braved so many storms out there in the
wide river, neglected and alone.