THE LOWEST EBB
Then he turned away and found that the boy who had paused behind him was
the Gray Wolf, Allison Berry.
“I didn’t know that was you,” said Wilfred abstractedly.
“Oh, I can come right close to people and they don’t know it,” Allison
said. “Anybody could tell you’re an ex-Raven, you’re asleep. Well, you
haven’t got so long to wait to see the camp eating out of your hand,
have you? You’re not going to do a thing but give this bunch a large
sized shock.”
“Shock—yes, I guess so,” said Wilfred.
“You’ve got them all guessing,” said Berry. “I guess you practise down
the creek or somewhere, don’t you? Everybody’s wondering where you go
when you wander away; they think there must be a secret lake in the
woods or something. Jiminy, it reminds me of a prize-fighter in his
training quarters—_keep away_! I told them you have a _new method_—it’s
got them lying awake nights.”
“I guess you could sneak up on them just the same, awake or asleep,”
said Wilfred abstractedly.
“Ever yours sincerely,” laughed Berry. “Now that I’ve put it over on the
raving Ravens, I can die in peace. The only thing I’m sorry about is Wig
Weigand—do you know he’s a blamed nice fellow? And he’s strong for you,
too. He’s the only one of that crew of Rip Van Winkles that won’t say
anything against you—just keeps still.”
“Yes?” said Wilfred wistfully. “I was sort of special friends with him.”
“Sure, I know you were. He’s going to swim for the Ravens (if they’re
awake) and honest I believe he hopes you win. I wish we could stay for
it, I know that. Oh, wouldn’t I like to be here to rout for the little
Short Beach water-rat!”
“You mean you fellows are going home?” Wilfred asked, surprised.
“To-morrow,” said Allison. “We just came to get the flag, you know. You
know a Yank can’t stay away from Yankeeland long; we’re going to spend
August in a camp in Connecticut. Oh, boy, won’t my folks be surprised to
hear I met you here! Anyway, I’ll see you here next summer—this is some
camp, I’ll say that. Can’t you take a run over to New Haven and visit me
at Christmas? Dad would go daffy to see you.”
“I can’t run as well as you can,” said Wilfred.
“Oh, is that so? Well, then swim to New Haven, you can do that.”
“I guess I’ll say good-by now,” Wilfred said, extending his hand, “in
case I don’t see you again to-day. I suppose you’re going on the early
bus?”
“Sure—while the Ravens are sleeping peacefully. You might have been a
Gray Wolf if you hadn’t moved away and become a Jersey mosquito.
Remember now, write and tell me about your winning the contest—and
remember you’re coming to New Haven in the holidays. And I’ll promise
not to take anything away from you while you’re asleep.”
The Gray Wolf proffered his left hand, three fingers extended, for the
scout handclasp which is known wherever scouts are known in all the
world. And Wilfred (who hardly knew whether he was a scout or not) could
not resist that fraternal advance. And so he shook hands, in the way
that scouts do, with the boy whose life he had once saved by an exploit
which had rung in the ears of the whole countryside.
“I don’t know what I’ll be doing, maybe I’ll come,” said Wilfred. He
meant that he would try to if he could afford to. “Anyway, give my
regards to your mother and father. I’d like to be living at the beach
again, I know that.”
“You remember Black Alec that sold the hot dogs? He’s still there. I’m
going to tell him I met the water-rat. Don’t you remember he’s the one
that started that name?”
“Tell him I sent my regards,” said Wilfred.
He could not bring himself to part with this old acquaintance who
recalled the happiest days of his young life, days of pleasure and
achievement and triumph. He longed for the little cottage near the beach
where he and Arden had played as children, and for the boisterous surf
in which he had been so much at home.
It seemed that with the departure of Allison Berry, the last vestige of
hope and happiness was going from him. He could not stir. So he let
Allison go first and watched him as he sped around the pavilion, turning
to display an odd conception of the scout salute and to wave his hand
gaily. Then the Gray Wolf who owed his happy, triumphant young life to
this stricken boy without hope, without even a scout suit, was gone.
Wilfred wandered up through the woods away from camp. What should he do
now? At all events he wanted to be alone. In the stillness he could hear
the sound of hammering far away, and gazing from an eminence on which he
stood, he looked across the lake where tiny figures were moving. The
sound of the hammering was spent by the distance and each stroke sounded
double by reason of the echo. He pulled out his opera-glass and studying
the farther shore made out that they were busy about what seemed to be a
rough float. It was from this float that the swimmers would start in
their race toward the camp shore. Preparations were under way.
He sat down on a rock, utterly disconsolate. His humorous, philosophical
squint did not help him now. Fate was against him—he was a failure. He
could not swim in this contest. It was curious how his mind worked. He
believed that old Pop Winters had been made to cross his path in order
to strengthen him in keeping his promise to his mother. Perhaps he would
weaken—it was only six days from the twenty-fifth to the first—so he had
been given a solemn obligation to perform on the momentous day of the
race. It was all fixed.
Well, as long as his obligation lay along the line of homely, kindly
deeds—the keeping of promises, the doing of good turns—he would renounce
all thoughts of spectacular exploits. He resented the shrewd maneuver of
Providence in giving him an extra reason for keeping his word. “I
intended to keep it anyway,” he said. He became very stubborn in his
resolution now. Nothing would induce him to break his promise, he would
keep it to the _day_, just as an honest man pays a note _on the day_.
And he would not let his bad luck bully him into going around saying
that he had “heart trouble.” He would not “play off sick” at this late
date. That was Wilfred Cowell all over.
“Anyway, there’s one thing I don’t want any longer,” he said to himself.
“One just like it brought my mother bad luck. My brother was kidnapped
and my father died and we lost our money. I don’t want this blamed pin
any more—as long as I can’t swim or do anything. I believe in bad luck,
I don’t care what fellows say. It brought me bad luck ever since I was
here, that’s sure. I believe what people say—that they’re unlucky.”
Sullenly he pulled the opal scarf pin from his tie and was about to cast
it from him into the thick undergrowth. “The only luck I’ve had,” he
said with cynical despair in his voice, “is Al Berry going away; anyway
he won’t be here to know I flopped again—that’s one good thing anyway.”
His hand was even raised to cast away the little testimonial of his
heroism when suddenly he noticed a strange thing. At first he thought it
was not his own scarf pin that he held, so changed was the opal in
color. Instead of showing its varying, elusive glints of beauty, it was
opaque and of a dull and cheerless blue, like Wilfred’s own mood. Yet
sometimes this same uncanny stone had flamed with glory. And it would
flame with glory again, all in good time, for in its mysterious depths
the wondrous opal heralds good or evil, sorrow or joy, and when it
dazzles with its myriad flickering lights, you may be sure that health
and good luck are on the way, and that all is well.
Wilfred was so astonished at its loss of color that he replaced it in
his scarf. Then he started with a kind of forced resolve for the Elks’
patrol cabin.