JULY TWENTY-FIFTH
On July twenty-fifth, when the camp was in gala array for the big event,
Wandering Willie walked over to the Archer farm. Standing on the same
eminence where he had sullenly resolved to throw away the scarf pin
which commemorated his one great exploit, he looked down upon the camp
which was gay with pennants and streamers.
The springboard which overhung the lake was festooned with bunting and
the lantern-post looked like a stick of peppermint candy with its
diagonal winding of red, white and blue. Far across the lake was a tiny
area of color, indicating the spot where the swimmers would start for
the swim to the camp shore. This annual event was not a race but a
contest; he who swam across in the shortest time won the prize.
Wilfred took out his old opera-glass and scanned the lake. About in the
center was a little patch of white which was always visible in windy
weather. It was only just visible now. He had seen it before and knew it
to mark the position of a hidden rock. Swimmers sat upon this concealed
resting place sometimes and looked queer, as if they were sitting in the
water. By reason of the surrounding mountains the lake was subject to
sudden gusts and at such times the black water above the rock was
churned into spray. The least dash of white was visible now, though the
day bid fair to be mild and sunny.
Wilfred had often longed to swim out and sit upon that coy, retiring
rock. It was a favorite spot and surely held no perils for swimmers and
canoeists, there in the middle of this small lake. There must have been
a crevice in that submerged mass, for some one had planted a stick there
from which flew something white, which on scrutiny Wilfred saw to be a
jacket. He thought it must have been put there to warn the swimmers
against the temptation to rest a second at the spot.
As he approached the Archer farm, Wilfred unbuttoned his shirt and
unfastened his precious five dollar bill which had been securely pinned.
The safety-pin which had been used for this purpose was no more and he
had lately fastened his little fortune in with his scarf pin. He had
found it agreeable not to display this. As he looked at it now the opal
seemed of a dozen varying hues and filled with fire. It seemed another
stone than the one he had worn in the time of his trial and impending
disgrace. What could that mean?
He was able now to do what he had always boasted he could do—fix his
mind on what he was about, to the exclusion of all other things. And he
looked forward to this good turn he was about to do with happy
anticipation. He could not have stayed at camp that day. He paid Mr.
Archer in advance and was glad to get the five dollar bill out of his
possession; the custody of it had caused him much anxiety. As he drove
leisurely along the quiet country road, his self-respect seemed to take
a jump; he felt important, elated. The consciousness of the kindly
business he was about exhilarated him.
It was midsummer, though the history of Wilfred’s ignominy at camp had
the effect of making him feel that the summer was almost over. But the
birds did not seem to think so, for they sang with a wealth of melody
amid the thick foliage, and now and then a gray rabbit paused in the
road, cocked its ears and went scurrying into the thicket. The lazy
horse jogged along at his wonted gait, the old buggy creaked, and the
steady sound of horse and carriage seemed a very part of Nature’s
soothing chorus on that drowsy summer morning.
Pretty soon a deep, melodious horn sounded, and a big red touring car,
resplendent in nickel trimmings, came around a bend. A chauffeur drove
it, and in it sat a distinguished-looking, elderly man, a lady, and a
young girl with a profusion of golden hair. The car bore a Jersey
license. They must have started early or done some speeding to reach the
festive scene of the big contest so early. The girl, being in the spirit
of the day and thinking Wilfred a country boy, waved her hand to him,
and the dishonored scout took off his hat as the ill-assorted vehicles
passed.
At Terryville, old Pop Winters was waiting and his evident misgiving
about the arrival of his young friend was not complimentary to Wilfred.
“Think I wouldn’t come?” Wilfred laughed.
“You can’t never tell with these youngsters,” said Pop.
[Illustration: WILFRED DRIVES POP WINTERS TO KINGSTON.]
At the big hospital in Kingston the doctors were examining applicants
for increase in pensions and Wilfred’s sense of humor was touched by the
presentation of ailments as credentials. It was an eloquent and pathetic
reminder of how the old veterans are dying away. Some of them, crippled
and enfeebled, had hobbled to the place unescorted. Wilfred was glad and
proud of what he had done. It was a good turn really worth while. He had
seen many that were not. No verdict was rendered by Uncle Sam’s
examining physicians (that would come later), but it seemed to Wilfred
that with the rheumatiz, “heart-ail,” sciatici, lameness, and the loss
of sight in one eye, Pop Winters ought to come off with flying colors.
“And what’s the matter with _you_?” the examining physician shot at
Wilfred by way of a pleasantry. “You want a pension?”
“I guess I’m all right,” said Wilfred. “I’m supposed to have heart
trouble—I had diphtheria.”
“You look husky enough,” said the doctor pleasantly. “When did you have
diphtheria?”
“Oh, about three months ago. I’m staying at a scout camp up this way.
Maybe you can tell me if it’s all right for me to run and jump yet—and
do things. They said around the first I better ask the doctor. I
wouldn’t run or dive or anything like that before the first anyway. But
I guess there’s no harm in my asking as long as I’m here. I couldn’t pay
you any money because I spent my five dollars to bring Mr. Winters here
in a buggy.”
The doctor seemed greatly taken by this boyish frankness. “Well, we’ll
see if you can hop, skip and jump,” said he, applying the stethoscope
which was still in his hand. Wilfred stood straight, threw back his
shoulders and down went that wavy lock of hair. He looked a fine enough
specimen of a boy, tall, slender, with a spirited pose of his head. “I
don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t live a couple of hundred years,
with careful nursing,” said the doctor.
“You mean there’s nothing the matter; I’m all right?”
“Far as I can see; you just had after effects and so you had to play
safe for a while. You’re all right now. Feel all right, don’t you?”
“Sure I do, only I made a promise I wouldn’t be lively and all that for
a month. The month is up on Tuesday. It seems kind of like Christmas.”
“Christmas, eh?” laughed the doctor.
“You’d think so if you did like I did.”
“And you didn’t jump or run once?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, you’re some boy.”
“I was thinking about soldiers,” Wilfred said. “You saw a lot of them
here to-day—veterans. They have to mind exactly, don’t they? I mean when
they were in service they did.”
“Exactly?”
“I mean do a thing just exactly like they were told to—they couldn’t get
it changed—soldiers couldn’t.”
“Oh, you mean discipline?”
“I guess—yes, that’s what I mean kind of. If you start to do a thing
you’re supposed to do it.” The doctor did not quite understand Wilfred’s
drift; he thought him an odd boy, but rather likeable. He was
good-naturedly puzzled at the odd and irrelevant thoughts that Wilfred
had tried to express.
“Anyway, you say I’m all right, do you?”
“Surely; you might as well see the doctor up there like they told you
to, though.”
“Do you think Mr. Winters will get his raise.”
“Shouldn’t wonder.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll say good-by,” said Wilfred.