PASTURES NEW
No one save Wilfred himself, and Allison Berry, knew the full story of
that rescue in the surf at Short Beach in Connecticut. Indeed Allison
Berry did not know all about it; he only knew that he was screaming and
sputtering, and sinking, when suddenly there was a grip that hurt his
arm—and he was wrenched and turned about. And he ceased to feel that he
was sinking. That way the little water-rat (as they called him)
dexterously avoided the fatal grip of the drowning boy and turned him
about and got him just as he wanted him and swam to shore. That was the
little water-rat who lived in one of the cottages up in back of the
beach.
[Illustration: SUDDENLY THERE WAS A GRIP THAT CUT HIS ARM.]
No one was surprised (least of all the little water-rat’s sister) for
had he not performed the feat of swimming out to the wreck of the old
_Nancy B._ that was going to pieces on the rocks?
The little water-rat’s sister did not know why they made such a fuss
over him since he was born that way.
Well, Allison Berry, senior, had motored down from New Haven in his big
limousine and proffered two hundred and fifty dollars, which was
promptly refused. Then he presented the scarf pin. After the little
water-rat got the scarf pin he got diphtheria, and after that the little
family of three moved to Bridgeboro. Arden Cowell wanted to go to
business school and be within commuting distance of the great metropolis
situated on the banks of the subway.
Wilfred Cowell could swim at a rate of speed that was a marvel. At
Bridgeboro he and Arden had planned to visit the thronging beaches at
week-ends and pursue their favorite pleasure at these resorts. Then had
come Tom Slade with his glowing tales of Temple Camp. And then had come
Wilfred’s collapse, the sudden sequel of the treacherous disease from
which he had suffered. Arden had sacrificed her young pal for his own
supposed welfare and pleasure.
Wilfred had never talked about his swimming to any one save Wig and only
briefly with him.
His diffidence and feeling of strangeness at camp had prevented his
doing so. It may seem odd, but the sight of all the turmoil at camp, and
the swimming and diving each day which amounted to a boisterous
carnival, almost struck terror to the sensitive boy who had spent so
much of his life alone. Surely, boys with fine bathing suits and such a
delightfully yielding springboard painted red and all the superfluous
claptrap of their pastime could swim better than he, a lonely country
boy, suddenly confronted with all this pomp and circumstance. He was
under promise not to go in, but he would probably have hesitated to do
so in any case.
As a Raven, he had not thought seriously of being entered for the
contest, though he probably would not have refused. But now he was
making a fresh start. Allison Berry had proved a greater advertising
agent than Wig, and Wilfred was resolved to redeem himself in the eyes
of Temple Camp. He did not know anything about fancy diving and such
things; he did not know how to participate in those riots of fun and
banter which occurred on the lake; and he was timorous about those
hearty boaters (good swimmers all of them) who did not leave the camp in
darkness as to what they intended to do. Since Wilfred never said he
would do a thing that he was not willing and able to do, he assumed that
other boys were the same. If the Elks asked him to swim across the lake
as fast as he could on August tenth, he would do it. And they did ask
him.
“I understand that seven patrols are entered for it so far,” said
Connie. “But the only ones I’m afraid of are our own patrols—I mean the
ones in this troop. The Rattlesnakes from Philly have a pretty good
swimmer—Stevens, his name is. That fellow that wears the red cap, he’s
pretty good too; I think he’s in an outfit from Albany, the June-bugs or
something like that. The Ravens have got Wig and he’s good. And the
Silver Foxes—that’s Blakeley’s patrol—have got Dorry Benton who’s a
cracker jack if he shows up. He’s supposed to get home from Europe in
two or three days and then he’s coming up. He’s about the best of the
lot. If you can beat Dorry, it’s ours. I should worry about these other
patrols, I’ve seen them all. Oh, boy, wouldn’t I like to put it over on
the Silver Foxes? Why, Blakeley and that bunch of monkeys are building a
table for the radio already.”
Connie and Wilfred were sitting on the sill of the cabin door. Connie
had never mentioned Wilfred’s inglorious exit from the Raven patrol; he
was quiet, tactful, friendly. He seemed to accept Wilfred upon the usual
terms, as if nothing peculiar attached to him. And all the other Elks
took their cue from Connie.
They seemed different from the Ravens, more simple, less sophisticated.
Most of them had been recruited from the poorer families of Bridgeboro.
They seemed not quite as versed in scouting as the other two patrols of
the troop. It could hardly be said that they looked up to Wilfred, yet
they seemed to recognize in him something which they did not have
themselves. Connie, alone, was of Wilfred’s own station. It may have
been that the Elks took a little pride in having this fine looking boy
with his evidence of fine breeding and his quiet humor among them.
Be this as it may, they were a patrol of one idea, and that was to win
the swimming contest. If this gentle alien among them could do that they
would gladly worship at his shrine. They had not many merit badges in
their group and they took a sort of patrol pride in Wilfred’s scarf pin.
Little Skinny McCord gazed spellbound at the changing opal, standing at
a respectful distance.
“He got it gave to him, he did,” he whispered to Charlie O’Conner. “He
got it gave to him by a rich man.”
The advent of Wilfred in this troop of plain, good-hearted boys, was
accepted as an event. He would not have found it quite such easy sailing
among the Silver Foxes. They made ready at once for the big coup—a
master-stroke of “featuring” which would throw them in the limelight and
win the smiles of that fairy princess, Mary Temple, and (what was more
to the purpose) a sumptuous radio set. Opportunity had knocked on the
door of the unassuming Elk Patrol. And Wilfred Cowell accepted his great
responsibility.
He rose to the spirit of it. He was glad that the great event was some
weeks removed. He was sorry he could not begin practising, but he
derived satisfaction from the thought that he could practise after the
first of August. August first and August tenth loomed large in his
thoughts now. He wrote home urging his mother and sister to come up for
the big event. Each day he went down and scrutinized the bulletin board
for new entries. He acquired something of the scout’s way of talking in
his familiar references to awards and troops and patrols.
“I see the Beavers from Detroit have entered that fellow Lord,” he told
Charlie O’Conner. “His name ought to be Ford, coming from Detroit,” he
added.
“We should worry,” said Charlie confidently.
“They’re all wondering what I’ll look like in the water,” Wilfred said.
“Let them wonder; maybe you’ll go so fast they won’t see you at all.”
“I’m a little bit scary about that long-legged fellow in the Seal
Patrol,” Wilfred said. “That name _Seal_ kind of haunts me. Ever seen a
seal swim?”
“We’re not losing any sleep,” said Johnny Moran.
“You haven’t noticed that we’re losing our appetites from worry, have
you?” Connie asked. “When I look at that scarf pin of yours that’s
enough for me.”
“Well,” said Wilfred, talking rather closer to his promise than he had
ever done before. “After the—oh, pretty soon I’ll start in practising a
little. After the first is time enough.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed the simple and elated Charlie O’Conner; “only I’d
practise down the creek, hey, where nobody’ll see you? We’ll keep them
all guessing.”
“Yes, but we don’t want to leave anything undone,” said Connie
cautiously. “A radio set is a radio set.” Then he added, “But don’t
think I’m worrying; all I have to do is to look at that scarf pin of
yours—and I’m satisfied. What kind of a stone is that anyway?” he asked,
scrutinizing the pin curiously.
“It’s an opal,” Wilfred said. “I guess that’s why I never had much luck;
they say they’re unlucky, opals. I got diphtheria right after I got
this. They say everything goes wrong with you if you have an opal.”
That was the first reference that Wilfred had ever made to his recent
illness and it showed, somewhat, how he was loosening up, as one might
say, in the favorable atmosphere of the unsophisticated and admiring Elk
Patrol.
“That’s a lot of bunk,” laughed Connie.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Wilfred said in his whimsical,
half-serious way. “As soon as I got that pin my mother lost some money,
and my sister put some cough medicine in a cake instead of vanilla, and
a looking-glass got broken on our way to Bridgeboro and that made things
worse, and then I started falling down——”
“Oh, nix on that, you didn’t fall down,” said Bert McAlpin. “That’s a
closed book.”
“Oh, I mean in Bridgeboro, I went kerflop,” said Wilfred; “and my jacket
got all torn and I had to stay home from school——”
“You don’t call that bad luck, do you?” Connie laughed.
“And the Victrola broke,” said Wilfred, “and I lost a collar-button and,
let’s see—I didn’t get a radio.”
“You make me weary,” laughed Connie.
“It’s true,” said Wilfred.
“Yes—you make us laugh.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something queer,” Wilfred said more seriously. He
was making a great hit with the Elks and it pleased him after all that
had happened. They seemed proud of him and amused at his whimsical way
of talking.
“Go on, tell us,” said little Alfred McCord. “Maybe he got ’rested by a
cop.”
“It happened before I was born,” said Wilfred.
“_Good night_, his bad luck began before he was born,” laughed Connie.
“My father gave my mother an opal,” said Wilfred, “and right away after
that my little brother was kidnapped and we never saw him again—I mean
they didn’t.”
Something in his voice and manner imposed a silence on the clamorous,
admiring group. He did not wait to hear their comments but drew himself
aimlessly to his feet and wandered away in that ambling manner which he
had acquired.
“Gee, I like to just listen to him, don’t you?” Charlie O’Conner
observed.
“We fell in soft all right,” said Vic Norris. “He’s so blamed
easy-going, I don’t know, it just kind of makes you feel sure of him,
he’s so kind of—you know.”
“Yep,” said Connie decisively.
“It’s like when Uncle Jeb shoots,” said Bert McAlpin. “He’s so blamed
sure he’s going to hit that he’s kind of lazy about it and he doesn’t
seem to take any interest at all when he raises his gun.”
“But _biff_,” said Charlie O’Conner.
“_Biff_ is right,” said Connie.