AN ODD NUMBER
If Wilfred Cowell felt unscoutlike with his prosaic old opera-glass, he
might have derived some comforting reassurance from the various and
sundry equipment of Pee-wee Harris, Raven. Though he had seen Pee-wee in
Bridgeboro, he saw him now in full bloom and his multifarious
decorations could only be rivaled by those of a Christmas tree. He
carried everything but his heart hanging around his neck or fastened to
his belt. His heart was too big to be carried in this way. Jack-knife,
compass, a home-made sun-dial (which never under any conditions told the
right time) and various other romantic ornaments suggestive of primeval
life dangled from his belt like spangles from a huge bracelet.
It was this terrific cave-man whose frown was like a storm at sea, who
brought forth Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of the Ravens. With him
came the rest of the patrol, Doc Carson, Grove and Ed Bronson, Wig
Weigand and Elmer Sawyer. Wilfred had seen most of these boys in
Bridgeboro.
Wilfred had beguiled his enforced leisure at home by memorizing the laws
and the oath and by learning to tie all the knots known to scouting. So
he was ready to enter the patrol as a tenderfoot and the little ceremony
took place the next morning with one of the resident trustees
officiating.
I have often thought that if Mr. Ellsworth, Scoutmaster of the First
Bridgeboro troop, had been at camp that season, the events which I am to
narrate might never have occurred. Tom Slade said that with Wilfred
Cowell what he was, they had to occur. And Wilfred Cowell always said
that whatever Tom said was right. So there you are. Tom Slade said that
Wilfred was out and away the best scout he had ever seen in his life.
Wilfred could not have believed that Tom was right when he said that,
for he claimed that Tom was the greatest scout living. So there you are
again. You will have to decide for yourself who is the hero of this
story. You know what _I_ think for it is printed on the cover of this
narrative. I shall try to tell you the events of that memorable camp
season exactly as they occurred.
But first it will be helpful, as throwing some light on Wilfred Cowell’s
character, to show you the first letter which he wrote home. He had
promised his anxious mother to write home, “the very first day,” and he
kept his promise literally as he did all promises.
Dear Mother and Sis:—
I got here all right and had a good drive with Tom Slade. I
guess I won’t see so much of him now. I’m writing the first
day because I said I would, but there isn’t much to tell
because not much happens before a fellow gets started.
Anyway I’m not writing this till evening so as I can tell
you all there is and still keep my promise. I’m sorry you
didn’t say the second day because there’s a contest or
something to-morrow and I’m going to see it.
I’m in the Raven Patrol and they’re all Bridgeboro fellows
and I like them. I guess I ought to be in a patrol called
the Snails, the way I take it easy going around. Anyway I’m
thankful I don’t have to keep from laughing because that
little fellow named Harris is in my patrol. “My
patrol”—you’d think I owned it, wouldn’t you? This troop is
sort of away from the rest of the camp and has three cabins
in the woods. It’s pretty nice.
I went on a walk alone to-day, the rest of my patrol had a
jumping contest, they asked me but I said no. I guess maybe
they thought it was funny. I went along a kind of a trail in
the woods trying to sneak near enough to see birds. That’s
what they call stalking. I saw one bird all gray with a
topknot on. Gee, he could sing. I looked at him through my
trusty opera-glass and he flew away. Guess he thought I
thought he was an opera singer. I made too much noise, that
was the trouble. I’m too quiet for the scouts and too noisy
for the birds. I wish I had a camera instead of an
opera-glass, we’re supposed to get pictures of birds. Don’t
worry, I’ll take it easy. A fellow up here says I walk in
second gear—that’s when an auto goes slow. He asked me if
I’d hurry if there was a fire. He’s not in my patrol but he
likes to go for walks so we’re going to walk to Terryville
some night when there’s a movie show there. Little Harris
says I should write letters on birch bark with a charred
stick so if you get one like that from me don’t be
surprised.
Lots of love to both of you,
Wilfred.
You will perceive from this letter how Wilfred’s promise to avoid all
violent exercise dominated his mind; he never forgot it. He construed
his easy-going life rather whimsically in his letters, but there seemed
always a touch of pathos in his acceptance of his difficult situation.
One effect his very limited scouting life had, and that was to take him
out of his own patrol. He might not do the things they did so he
beguiled his time alone, wandering about and stalking birds in a
haphazard fashion. Having no camera all his lonely labor went for
naught. Still, he directed his deadly opera-glass against birds,
squirrels and chipmunks and found much quiet pleasure in approaching as
near as he could to them. It was a pastime not likely to injure his
health.
Yet he was proud of the vaunted prowess of the Ravens and the boys of
the patrol liked him. They thought he was an odd number and they did not
hold it against him that he was quiet and liked to amble here and there
by himself.
He soon became a familiar figure in the camp, sauntering about, pausing
to witness games and contests, and always taking things easy. He made
few acquaintances and did not even “go and talk” with old Uncle Jeb as
Tom had suggested that he do. He tried but did not quite manage it. Just
as he was about to saunter over to Uncle Jeb’s holy of holies (which was
the back step of Administration Shack) several roistering scouts
descended pell-mell upon the old man and that was the end of Wilfred’s
little enterprise.