SHATTERED DREAMS
Wilfred’s path to the Elks’ cabin took him past the main pavilion where
there was always much life. Here scouts sat lined up on the long
veranda, tilted back in their chairs, looking out upon the lake. This
was the center of camp. It was difficult for any scout to pass this spot
without subjecting himself to mirthful comment. It was the spot most
dreaded by Wilfred. Here he seemed always to be passing in review.
Here were still to be heard the faint echoes of those slurring gibes
which rang in his ears after the Gray Wolves had captured the emblem of
the Single Eye. Sometimes a loitering group would hum a derisive tune in
time with his footsteps. And now and then he could hear, as he passed,
the name Willie Cowyard, which was as close to his more degrading
nickname as they cared to venture.
As he approached this spot now, he noticed a clamorous group before the
bulletin board. Among the voices he could overhear disconnected phrases.
“Suits us all right.”
“Have it over with.”
“Have it over with is right.”
“By-by, baby.”
“The sooner the quicker.”
Wilfred’s sensitive nature construed these stray bits of comments to
mean something about himself; he thought that perhaps he had been
dismissed from camp.
“Any time,” he heard a laughing voice say.
“A lot we care!”
“Willie or won’t he?”
“He ought to be named _Won’t he_.”
This was enough for Wilfred—he had been dismissed from camp. He had not
fulfilled the requirements of the “scholarship” of which Tom Slade had
spoken. He had not made good as a non-pay scout. He could not pass that
spot now, unconscious of the mocking throng. His sensitiveness overcame
his common sense. He took a circuitous route and avoiding his own cabin
strolled up through the woods to the road. The habit of ambling had
become second nature to him and “taking it easy” gave him an appearance
of aimlessness which put him in strange contrast with the strenuous life
all about him. There was something pathetic in his self-imposed
isolation.
At the roadside was a crude bench where the camp people waited for the
Catskill bus, and Wilfred seated himself on this. Soon the bus came
along bringing a “shipment” of new scouts. Doc Loquez, the young camp
physician, alighted too, hatless and conspicuous in his white jacket; he
had evidently been to Catskill.
Wilfred lived in perpetual dread of this brisk young man, fearing that
if he encountered him he would be ordered to bed or given a big bottle
of medicine which people might see at the “eats” boards or in patrol
cabin. But he was in for it now. The doc gave him a quick, inquiring
glance and sat on the bench beside him.
“What’s the matter with you? Not feeling right?”
“Sure, I am,” Wilfred said.
“Let’s look at your tongue.”
The doc scrutinized him curiously with friendly brown eyes. He was so
prompt in waiving professional formality that it seemed to Wilfred as if
he had known him all his life. How foolish he had been to avoid this
boyish, fraternal, offhand young fellow.
“Whenever I see a scout wandering around by himself,” said the doc, “I
always waylay him. Let’s see, you’re the chap that’s going to win the
Mary Temple contest? One of your—Elks, is it?—he was telling me you’re
going to give the camp a large sized shock.”
“I guess they’re shocked enough already,” said Wilfred.
“You’re the boy they mean, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to swim for it; I don’t know if I’ll win it.”
The young doctor threw his head back with fine spirit and as he arose
gave Wilfred a rap on the shoulder as if to say that the contest was won
already. “You’ll win,” he said cheerily.
There was something in that spirited look of friendly confidence which
went to Wilfred’s heart; all the more because the young doctor had no
reason for his generous faith. In the quick sparkle of those brown eyes
had spoken defiance, triumph, inspired approbation. It reminded Wilfred
of his sister’s look bespeaking a kind of challenge to any one who
mistook his diffidence for weakness.
And that made him remember that his mother and Arden were coming up for
the tenth. And that reminded him that he was a fool to think that the
crowd around the bulletin board meant anything in his young life. As if
a guest at camp would be dismissed in any such way—by announcement on
the public bulletin! The brisk young doctor with his hearty confidence
had awakened Wilfred. As if the guest of Tom Slade were not secure at
camp! Silly....
Why, of course, he was going to swim in the contest. And was not
everything bright ahead? There was no patrol at camp, and he knew it,
that idolized one of its members as the Elks idolized him. It was not
one of the crack patrols, but it idolized him. And he was proud and
elated. He was sorry he had not joined those boys and read the new
entries or whatever was posted on the board.
He strolled back that way again, affecting a sort of easy nonchalance.
This was easy because the group had melted away; even on the pavilion
veranda only two or three boys remained, sitting in a row in tilted
chairs and beguiling themselves by knocking each other’s hats off.
Wilfred stood alone before the bulletin board, observing the several
notices fixed to it by thumb tacks. He glanced at the list of visitors
to camp, scout officials, parents. There was an announcement of a movie
show to be given in the pavilion. His eye fell upon a notice typewritten
on the Temple Camp stationery and he stood transfixed as he read it:
Owing to the departure of John Temple and family for Europe
on August Second, the date of the Mary Temple swimming
contest has been changed to July Twenty-fifth. The
management feels certain that the Scouts of camp will be
agreeable to this change of date and make their preparations
accordingly, in order that Mr. Temple and his daughter may
be present at the event. Miss Mary Temple is anxious to
tender the award in person as heretofore.
A boy sauntered up behind Wilfred and paused, half-interested, to read
the latest news. But Wilfred did not turn, and heard him only as in a
dream. The sounds of merrymaking on the lake seemed like sounds out of
another world. He heard the discordant voices of the boys on the veranda
who were knocking off each other’s hats; yet those voices seemed vague,
like sounds not human, in which no one is interested. He gazed
transfixed—aghast. “_July twenty-fifth_,” he repeated in a kind of
trance.