GRAY WOLF
Not a light was to be seen when they reached camp, only a few dying
embers in the camp-fire clearing. Even as they glanced at the deserted
spot, one, then another, of these glowing particles disappeared as if
they too were retiring for the night. Out of the darkness appeared
Sandwich, the camp dog, wagging his tail and pawing Wilfred’s feet,
welcoming the late comers home without any sound of voice. Somewhere a
katydid was humming its insistent little ditty; there was no other
sound. The black lake lay in its setting of dark mountains like a great
somber jewel. They talked low, for the solemn stillness seemed to impose
this modulation.
They paused before the main pavilion where, for one reason or another,
many scouts were housed in the big dormitory. Before this was the
bulletin board at which Hervey Willetts had on a memorable occasion
thrown a tomato which was old enough to be treated with more respect. A
pencil hung on a string from this board. Wilfred lifted it and, in
obedience to the rule, wrote on a paper tacked there for such purpose,
his name and that of his companion and the time of their late arrival.
They had overstepped their privilege by half an hour or so, but Wilfred
wrote down the correct time by his companion’s gold watch.
“We could say my watch stopped,” Archie suggested hesitatingly.
“Only it didn’t,” said Wilfred.
“Do you want me to walk up the hill with you?”
“Sure, if you’d like to.”
This seemed chummy and redeemed Archie a trifle in Wilfred’s rather
dubious consideration of him.
They started up the hill back of the main body of the camp and entered
the woods which crowned the eminence on which the three cabins of the
First Bridgeboro troop were situated.
“Your troop has got a pull to be up here,” said Archie. “That’s ’cause
they come from where Tom Slade comes from. They get things better than
the rest of the——”
“_Shh!_” Wilfred whispered, stopping short and clutching his companion’s
arm.
“What?” gasped Archie.
“Did you hear something?”
“No.”
“Stand still a minute,” Wilfred whispered; “_shhh_.”
For a moment neither spoke nor stirred.
“Look—_shh_—look at that tree,” Wilfred scarcely breathed. “Is that a
big knot or what? _Shh, will you!_ I think it’s somebody behind the
tree. Let’s have your flash-light Now step quietly.”
The tree Wilfred had indicated was some yards distant and beyond it they
could see the dark bulk of the three cabins. As they advanced, Archie
felt his heart thumping like a hammer. Wilfred felt no such sensation,
but it did not occur to him that perhaps his own treacherous heart was
at its job again, making itself ready to be worthy of his fine spirit,
ready to back him up and stand by him when the world should seem to be
falling away under his feet, and the future should look black indeed.
They advanced a few feet stealthily. Then, suddenly a dark figure glided
silently from behind the tree and as it moved a little glint of
something white (or at least it was light enough to be visible in the
darkness) fluttered close to it. In his first, quick glimpse, Wilfred
thought it looked like a bird accompanying the spectral figure.
“He’s got your flag! He’s got your flag!” Archie whispered in great
excitement. “I know what it is, _go on after him, hurry up and catch
him!_”
Wilfred stood spellbound. There, in the darkness of the night he stood
at the parting of the ways, aghast, speechless. And he heard in his
heart a silent voice, while two hands rested on his shoulders. “_You
promise then? Honor bright?_ You won’t run or....” Then the scene
changed and his ready and troubled fancy pictured Wig Weigand sprawling
on the grass with him while they gazed at that captured banner....
Then the petulant chatter of his companion recalled him quickly to the
world of actual things.
“You’re afraid to run after him! Ain’t you going to chase him and get
it? You got a right to—go on, run after him, quick; he’s half-way down
the hill!”
Wilfred did not move.
“Ain’t you going——”
“Go on down to bed,” said Wilfred quietly, “go on, Archie.”
“Do you want me to tell? I got a right to tell you wouldn’t get it.”
“You don’t have to, but you can. Go on down to bed, Archie.”
“I don’t want to stay here and talk to you anyway,” said Archie.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Wilfred kindly; “it’s the best thing
you said to-night. Here’s your flash-light, Archie, go on down to the
pavilion now.”
The outraged spectator of this complacent treason did not linger to be
told again. He was not built for dignity and as he limped down the hill,
his contempt, as expressed in his bearing, suggested only the sudden
pique of a silly girl. In trying to be scornful he was absurd.
But Wilfred did not see him nor think of him, any more than he thought
of the ants near his feet. He did not even ponder on the warning that
duty must be done and the thing made public. He stood there alone in the
darkness watching that black figure until it became a mere shadow and
was then swallowed up in the still night. Still he watched where it had
gone. Then he nervously brushed his rebellious lock of wavy hair up from
his forehead and held his hand there as if to gather his thoughts. Then,
in his abstraction and from force of habit, he felt his pocket to make
sure the old opera-glass, his one poor possession, was there.
Still he stood, rooted to the spot, bewildered at fate, but accepting it
as he accepted everything, tolerantly, kindly. He could not bear now to
enter the cabin. So he stood just where he was; it seemed to him that if
he moved he would make matters worse, he knew not how....
Came then out of the darkness Sandwich, the camp dog, wagging his tail
and pawing Wilfred’s feet and uttering no sound. How he knew that
Wilfred was a scout it would be hard to say for the boy had no uniform.
He did not linger more than long enough to pay his silent respect, then
was off again upon his nocturnal prowling.
Wilfred stole up to the cabin but not quietly enough, for all his
stealth, to enter unheard.
“It’s just I,” he said.
“Billy?” one asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought it was somebody after the flag,” said the voice.