VOICES
When Wilfred mentioned to Tom Slade that there were “two of them” whom
he blamed, he referred, of course, to Edgar Coleman. The other was
Charlie O’Conner. He bitterly resented Charlie’s origination of the
nickname Abandon Duty Cowell, because it seemed to involve his sister.
But he realized that from the standpoint of the Elks he _had_ abandoned
his duty and he could not (indeed he did not have it in his heart)
subject Charlie to the same bizarre style of discipline that the
astonished Coleman had suffered. So he kept away from the Elks.
Wilfred had no desire to win prestige through the vulgar medium of
fighting and he loyally refrained from mentioning the little episode in
Tent Lane to any one. In this, he was as characteristically faithful as
he had been in keeping that harder promise to his mother. If any one had
put this and that together and found a connection between Edgar’s ear
and the respectful notice that appeared upon the bulletin board, no one
mentioned it.
The apology was skilfully couched in such terms as to make it seem
voluntary, as if a scout’s conscience (or perchance an autocratic
scoutmaster) rather than a scout’s fist, had been at work. So Wilfred,
as usual, achieved no prestige from his triumph, and was still Wandering
Willie, a misfit and a joke in camp. But he kept his promise to Edgar
Coleman.
All that day it rained and the auspicious date in Wilfred’s life passed,
leaving him only a secret triumph. Among the trustees and scoutmasters
and “parlor scouts” it was thought that Edgar Coleman was a very nice
boy to prostrate himself in expiation of a harsh word thoughtlessly
uttered. And so on, and so on.
But there was one other thorn that stuck in Wilfred’s side, and now that
he had his long-awaited legacy of freedom, he resolved to remove it.
There was one person in camp, and only one, to whom he was willing to
confide the reason of his long-standing disgrace. That was young Doctor
Loquez. He believed now that the seeing of the doctor was merely
perfunctory, but it was an incidental part of his promise, and he would
terminate his ordeal in the way he had been instructed to.
Besides, he remembered the incident of meeting the genial young doctor
at the roadside and of how Doc had said, “You’ll win,” in that cheery,
confident way of his. Well, he had not won, he had not even swum, or
been present at the big event, and he would like this cordial young
champion of his to know why. In point of fact, the young doctor had not
borne the episode of their meeting in mind at all, he had told a dozen
boys that they would win, and he surely had not held Wilfred to any
obligation. But Wilfred, sensitive and of a delicate honor, felt that he
must explain his failure to take care of this responsibility. Perhaps it
was because no one ever praised him or expressed any hopes for him that
he cherished the doctor’s casual compliment. Poor Wilfred, it was all he
had.
I am to tell you this just as it occurred, as I heard it from Uncle Jeb,
and later from Tom Slade—when he was able to talk. And from Doctor
Anderson, father of the Anderson boy in the Montclair outfit, who
chanced to be visiting camp. I exclude the highly colored narrative of
Pee-wee Harris, he being a warrior rather than a historian.
It was a little after six o’clock on that tempestuous night that Wilfred
strolled over to Administration Shack to see the doctor. Where he had
been throughout that gloomy day of driven rain and creaking tent poles,
and banging shutters, no one knew. He was certainly not with any of the
groups nor in the main pavilion where the more philosophically disposed
had spent the long day in reading and playing backgammon and checkers.
Brent Gaylong, long, lanky, and bespectacled, who had no prejudices nor
active dislikes, said afterward that he saw Wandering Willie standing in
the woods during a freakish hold-up of the rain and that he had paused
to speak to him. He had pulled up the boy’s shabby necktie to glance at
the opal pin which seemed all out of place in Wilfred’s poor attire. And
he had noticed how lustrous was the stone, darting fiery colors like
something magical. “That’s some peach of a pin,” he said he had observed
to Wilfred.
It was not until afterwards that a scoutmaster at camp declared he had
heard that an opal becomes pale and lusterless simultaneously with its
owner’s ill-health or misfortune, and that it flames with glory as the
soul is fired with sublime inspiration or heroism.
Be this as it may, Wilfred went through the misty dusk toward
Administration Shack, immediately before supper-time. The boys sitting
in a row in the shelter of the deep veranda saw him.
“What’s Willie Cowyard doing out in the rain?” one asked.
“Don’t you know he’s a fish?” another answered.
“At home in the water—_not_,” another commented.
Then their attention was diverted to something else that they had been
watching.
No one was in the doctor’s apartment when Wilfred entered it. It was the
little bay window room in Administration Shack. As he sat waiting, the
rain beat against the four rounded adjoining windows affording him a
wide view of the dismal scene outside. He felt nervous and expectant, he
did not know just why. The cold, white metal furniture, the narrow,
padded top, enameled table jarred him.
Hanging on its iron rack in a corner the skeleton, used for athletic
demonstration, grinned at him, as if in ridicule of his application for
full athletic privilege. The boisterous wind, wriggling through some
crevice about the windows, stirred the bony legs ever so slightly; it
seemed as if the thing were about to start across the room.
If Wilfred had not already received assurance that he was sound and
well, he would have been troubled by the gravest apprehensions now. Even
as it was the paraphernalia of the little room made him feel that
something must be the matter with him. He waited anxiously, fearfully.
But the young doctor did not come. And meanwhile the wind and rain beat
outside.
Fifteen minutes, half an hour he waited, but the doctor did not come.
Outside things became less tangible. The part of the lake that he could
see seemed dissolving in the misty gloom and he could not distinguish
the point where the opposite shore began. It seemed as if the lake
extended up the mountainside.
Nervous from waiting, he removed his pin to adjust his scarf. The opal
shone with a score of darting, flaming hues. The marvelous little gem
looked the only bright thing in all the world; its mysterious depth
seemed consumed with colorful fire. As he waited there flitted into
Wilfred’s mind the old couplets that Allison Berry’s father had
laughingly repeated when he presented the pin:
When it grows pale
Grief will prevail.
When it turns blue
Peace will ensue.
When it turns red
Great things ahead.
At all events the prophetic little gem was not in sympathy with the
weather. Wilfred stuck it back in his scarf.
Just then he could hear voices upraised outside; he thought supper must
be ready, though there was no summoning horn. One voice shouted, “Come
ahead, hurry up.” There was nothing particularly significant about this
since they always “hurried up” at meal-time. He thought he might as well
go to supper and see Doc afterward. He always dreaded going to meals,
for at those clamorous gatherings his loneliness and unattached
character were emphasized. When the boys spoke in undertones he always
fancied that they were speaking of him. He often construed their casual,
bantering talk as having some vague reference to himself. But he
rendered himself less conspicuous by going in with the crowd, so for
this reason he gave over waiting and started for the “eats shack.”
Scarcely had he emerged into the rainy dusk when he saw that it was not
the summons to supper that was causing all the commotion. Something
unusual was evidently happening.