THE BOY SCOUTS’ VICTORY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Call of Home 4
II An Impressed Soldier 22
III Only a Stoker 42
IV A Struggle in the Sea 62
V Into Service 79
VI A Letter Home 95
VII A Bit of Romance 111
VIII Happiness for Helen 132
IX Visions 152
X Victory 171
XI Days of Waiting 190
XII Greater Things 209
[Illustration: They sent the message quickly, accurately.]
THE BOY SCOUTS’
VICTORY
By
GEORGE DURSTON
[Illustration]
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO
Made in U. S. A.
Copyright, MCMXXI
By
The Saalfield Publishing Co.
[Illustration]
THE BOY SCOUTS’ VICTORY
CHAPTER I
THE CALL OF HOME
Reveille was over at the military school, and the three boys on the end
of the line nearest the mess hall walked slowly toward the broad steps
of the big brick building ahead. They differed greatly in type, but of
this they were unconscious, for all were deep in thought.
“I am going home,” said the tallest boy abruptly. “Had a letter from
my sister last night. My word, they are having some ripping times over
there!”
“Your father won’t let you,” said the second lad. “How can _you_ go to
England when _I_ can’t get back to Mexico?”
“I can jolly well go,” said the tall boy. “I’ve been planning for
this. Mid-term is over, and I haven’t told you chaps, but I’ve been
hoarding every cent of my allowance all winter. I have enough and to
spare for second cabin.”
“But your father wants you here out of harm’s way,” urged the Mexican.
“He _thinks_ he does,” said Nickell-Wheelerson smiling, his blue eyes
flashing. “He _thinks_ he does, but I know he is just trying me out.
Here’s the way it is. Dad’s in the field and my second brother; you
know my oldest brother was shot in the trenches in France two months
ago. I’m nineteen. There are two little chaps to carry on the name and
take care of the title, if the rest of us go. I’ve just _got_ to get
over there! Don’t you see how it is?”
“Of course!” said the Mexican, his dark eyes glowing gloomily. “Of
course you feel you’ve got to go! And here I must stay. I want to go
home too.”
“It’s different with you,” said Nickell-Wheelerson, patting his
companion on the back. “You keep out of that mess! Mexico is going to
need you worse later on.”
“How about you?” demanded Morales, the Mexican. “I should think England
would need you when that mess, as you call it, is finished.”
“She needs me now, and I know it, and dad knows it,” Nick assured him.
“I’m going _home_! You’d better be glad you are not mixed up in this
thing,” he said, turning to the third boy. “You are safe awhile yet,
you old Greece-spot, you!”
“There are some Greeks fighting; a few on the European border of the
Dardanelles,” said the boy addressed.
“Oh, of course you will get into it sooner or later,” said Nick, “but
I’m banking on that queen of yours to stall things along as far as she
can. She can’t put it off forever, though. You will be in it.”
“As sure as my name is Zaidos,” said the young Greek, “you are quite
right! We will have to fight sooner or later.”
“Well, don’t cross bridges,” said Nick. “Sit tight, and I’ll go over
there and help clean up things.”
Light-heartedly they raced up the steep hill leading from the parade
ground to the mess hall.
A slim young orderly came out of the Adjutant’s office onto the terrace
and looked about. Seeing the three boys, he called in a high, clear
voice, “Oh, you Nosey!” and as the Greek approached added formally,
“Corporal Zaidos is wanted by the Adjutant.”
“What’s he going to get ragged for now, I wonder,” mused
Nickell-Wheelerson as he and Morales joined the crowd and went into the
mess hall.
Zaidos did not come back. Nick watched the door anxiously. They were
room-mates, and Nick was well aware of Nosey’s tendencies in the way
of breaking minor rules. As soon as he could get out of the mess, he
hurried down past the Adjutant’s office, and hastily framing an errand,
went in. The room was empty.
Nick hurried over to the barracks to their room. Sitting on the side of
his narrow bunk, his hands clenched, his face white, was Zaidos.
“What’s the row, old top?” Nick sang out cheerfully as he made a great
pretense of picking up his books and stuffing a couple of pencils in
the top of his pigskin puttee.
The young Greek shook his head, and Nick realized that it was something
indeed very serious with him.
“What _is_ the row, old man?” he said again, coming over and sitting
beside his friend. “What has the Adjutant got in for you this time?”
“Nothing,” said Zaidos. “He had a cablegram from home. It is pretty
bad, Nick....” He paused. “My father is sick; fact is, he is dying; and
I’ve got to leave to-night.”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Nick. “That’s too bad! I’m more than sorry!”
“Yes, it’s bad,” said Zaidos. “And the queer thing is that I don’t
seem to feel as sorry about my father dying as I do to think that I
don’t _know_ him any better. Think of it, Nick, I came over here to
school when I was not quite seven. My mother died when I was six, and
since that I have seen my father twice; once when he came over here,
and the year I went home. And it is not as though there was not plenty
of money. I suppose my father is the richest man, or one of the richest
men, in Greece. He’s just--Oh, I don’t know! He never seemed to be like
a lot of fathers I have seen. I never could get _next_ to him. And
I’ve been pretty lonely most all my life. I have always planned to go
back as soon as I finished school, and get acquainted with my father.
I thought if I tried, I could make him like me. I suppose he does well
enough, but I wanted to be chummy with him. I thought I could if I
tried.”
“You bet you could, Nosey!” said Nick, an arm over the bowed shoulder
beside him. “You could warm up a wooden Indian, you old live-wire, you!
I jolly well know you! You would get under the crust if anyone could!
Perhaps it isn’t as bad as they think. You go home, and perhaps your
father will get better, and you will get to be the best chums in the
world. Cheer up, old chap! It will come out all right. Do you really go
to-night?”
“Yes, I go to-night. They have got my tickets, and now they are
telephoning for my passage.”
Nickell-Wheelerson sat thinking hard. Then he rose and bolted for the
door.
“Wait!” called Zaidos. “I want you to help me pack, Nick.”
But the big English boy had disappeared. In half an hour he returned,
looking triumphant. He flung his trim military jacket on the bunk.
“That’s done for!” he cried. He jerked a trunk into the middle of the
floor and, opening it, commenced to turn out its cluttered contents.
“Come on, Nosey!” he cried. “As our American brothers put it, ‘get a
move on!’ We have about half a day to get packed.”
“Are you crazy?” demanded the Greek, staring at him.
“Not crazy, Nosey, dear chappie! Not crazy; merely going home!”
“Home?” repeated Zaidos feebly. “_Home?_”
“Home!” said Nick jubilantly. “With you! At least on the same steamer.
So if they blow us up on the way over, we can soar hand in hand, old
chum!”
“Well, when you get through raving, I wish you would tell how you did
it.”
“I simply reminded the Adjutant that the arrangement was that I was
remaining here at my own discretion, as per Pater’s written agreement.
I said I had decided to go with you, although I had been thinking for a
week that I might leave at any time. They mentioned money, and I showed
my little roll. There is plenty. So I am going to-night with you. They
have telephoned about a stateroom. That’s all! I’m going to give all my
stuff away: I won’t come back.”
_Nickell-Wheelerson never did come back. But that is another story._
There were a lot of poor marks made that afternoon. With the two
most popular fellows in the school going off, there couldn’t be much
studying. Everybody tried to help, and everybody got in the way and
had to be stepped over or pushed over. But time passed, and good-byes
were said, and the night on the swift train passed, too; and when they
looked back, the following day in New York was a hurried whirl. And
then they smelt the unchanging smell of the docks; sea salt and paint
and tar.
They watched the last person down the gangplank, a weeping woman it
was. Then they shouted farewell to the kindly shores, and the steadfast
Lady of Liberty on Governor’s Island. She seemed to salute the passing
ship with her uplifted torch, and the boys felt that peace and safety
and prosperity lay behind them.
Then some nights and days went swiftly by, and one morning the boys
clasped hands and gruffly spoke their farewells. Nickell-Wheelerson
went home to find that his older brother slept in a lowly grave
somewhere in France. His father, dead of his wounds, lay in the castle
hall, and the boy Nick answered wearily when sorrowing footmen called
him “My Lord.”
_But that is really the beginning of the other story._
Zaidos hurried on his way alone, and one bright morning, after many
adventures, stood once more in Saloniki.
A porter came up to him, and at the same moment a man in the livery of
his father’s house approached and saluted him. “Your father urges you
to hasten, Excellency,” he said.
“Is my father very ill?” asked Zaidos.
“Very ill indeed, sir,” said the man.
They started through the station and as they left the building a man
approached. He spoke to Zaidos, but the boy, having spent years of his
life in America, failed to catch the rapidly spoken words.
He turned to the house-servant, who stood with bulging eyes.
“What does he say?” he asked.
The man was speaking violently, then beseechingly, to the stranger, who
was in uniform.
“What is it?” again demanded Zaidos. He began to get the run of the
conversation, but as he made it out, it was too preposterous to
consider. The officer laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
“You will _have_ to come,” he said. “YOU ARE WANTED FOR THE ARMY.”
“But my father?” said Zaidos, alarmed.
The man shrugged his shoulders. “He will die the same whether you come
or not. Come!”
A grim look came into the boy’s face. It alarmed the servant.
“Go, go, master,” he begged. “You do not know. They take everyone.
What is to be must be. Go, I entreat you, without violence. I do not
want to go and tell your father that I have seen you slain before my
eyes. I will tell him you are here, and that you will come later.” He
drew back and bowed to the officer, who kept a hand on Zaidos’ shoulder.
“Yes, tell him I will come soon,” said Zaidos. “Go to him quickly.”
The man turned and hurried away.
“Give up all thought of going,” said the officer. “It is a pity--one
owes a great duty to one’s father; but we need you now. And the need of
country comes first.”
“But Greece is not in the war!” said Zaidos as they hurried along the
street.
“No, not yet; but there are places enough to guard, so we need more men
than we dreamed. But I talk too much. Here is the headquarters. Let me
advise you not to bother the Colonel with demands to visit your home.”
They entered the big, dingy room of the police station which had been
transformed into a sort of recruiting station. The officer in charge
was an overbearing First Lieutenant who was overworked, tired and
irritable. He had come from a distant part of Greece, and the name of
Zaidos carried no weight with him. He shook his head when Zaidos made
his request. He even smiled a little. “Too thin, too thin!” he said. “I
should say that all the mothers and fathers, and most of the uncles and
aunts and cousins in the world are ill,” he sneered. “No, you can’t go.
Get back there in line and wait for your squad to be outfitted.”
Zaidos shrugged his shoulders and obeyed, well knowing that, once in
uniform, even that display of feeling would be absolutely out of order.
He had been too long in a military school to misunderstand military
procedure, and he knew that whatever queer chance had placed him in his
present position, the thing was done now. He was to see real fighting.
Zaidos had a lion’s heart and was absolutely ignorant of fear, but he
worried when he thought of the possible effect on his father. He, poor
man, would feel that his natural wish to behold his only son once more
had placed the boy in a position of the gravest danger; indeed, in the
path of almost certain death. What the effect of this knowledge would
be on his health, Zaidos trembled to consider. But he was powerless to
avoid the shock to his father, and once more shrugging his shoulders he
stepped into line.
After a tedious delay, during which the men and boys who were
unaccustomed to any sort of drill shifted uneasily from foot to foot,
shuffled, twisted, and fretted generally, while Zaidos alone stood
easily at attention, the order was given for the squad to go into
another room.
Here they were registered, examined physically, and equipped with
uniforms. Then they were finally taken to the mess hall and provided
with a wholesome, plain meal which they proceeded to enjoy to the
utmost. Zaidos could not eat. He toyed with the food, his quick brain
ever planning some way by which he could get to his father. The more he
thought of it the more it seemed to be his duty to do so at _any_ cost.
But he seemed surrounded by barriers. He could not see a way clear. So
he resigned himself for the present, and marched to the dormitory where
his squad was quartered. It had been a trying and exhausting day for
everyone and his peasant companions, accustomed to bed-time at sunset,
soon threw themselves down and slept.
The sleeping quarters were on the ground floor. Zaidos found his pallet
behind a great door opening on the street. It was open a trifle, but a
heavy chain secured it from opening any further. Zaidos stuck his head
out. There was enough space for that. It was the blackest night he had
ever seen, if one could be said to _see_ anything as dark.
A sentry padded up and down in the blackness. Zaidos smiled. The man
could certainly not see five feet ahead of him. All the city lights
were out for safety’s sake. As he approached, Zaidos drew back, and lay
staring at the ceiling.
A stifled sob startled him. He turned. On the next pallet a young
fellow lay face downward, and muffled his weeping in the coarse
blanket. For an hour Zaidos listened. The shaken breathing and
occasional sobs continued. Zaidos could stand it no longer. He reached
over and let a friendly clasp fall on the heaving shoulder.
“What is it?” he whispered in his best Greek.
The young fellow turned to him eagerly, glad of sympathy. In a rush
of words that made it hard for Zaidos to understand, he whispered his
story. There was a wife and a little, little baby, “Oh, _so_ little!”
far up on the mountain-side; they would starve; surely, _surely_ they
would starve! They did not know what had become of him. Zaidos tried
in vain to calm the man. He could not do so and finally dropped into a
restless sleep with the man’s stifled sobs ringing in his ears.
Zaidos had to concede that the man’s fate was a hard one. He was only
nineteen years of age. The girl-wife was seventeen. As Zaidos dropped
asleep he was reflecting that no doubt nine-tenths of the men sleeping
in that room carried burdens as well as the young mountaineer and
himself.
He was wakened awhile later by a touch on the shoulder nearest the
door. A voice addressed him. For a moment Zaidos was unable to locate
it. Then he discovered that it was coming from the partly open door. It
was the young husband who had sobbed in the dark.
“Waken, friend!” said the low whisper. “Waken! Farewell! I go! There is
a small packet under my pallet. I forgot it. Will you hand it quickly
before the sentry turns?”
“Don’t do a fool stunt like that,” said Zaidos in English.
The deserter repeated, “Quickly, quickly!” and as Zaidos handed him
the packet he disappeared, the night swallowing him in its blackness.
Zaidos crawled to the door and, flat on the floor, put his head out
the opening into the street. All was quiet. The sentry marched up and
down the long block with the dragging slowness of a weary man. The
mountaineer had escaped!
Somewhere a clock struck eleven booming strokes. Zaidos could not
believe that it was so early, but immediately another faint chime
verified the first. Here and there in the room heavy snoring or
muttered words sounded. There were no guards in the room as the door
was locked.
Eleven o’clock! Five hours before daylight. A daring thought flashed
into Zaidos’ head. He knelt and once more leaned through the opening of
the door. He thanked his schoolboy leanness. There _was_ enough space!
He waited until the sentry’s heavy footfall dragged to the end of the
block; then with a struggle he twisted through the door and stood in
the open, deserted street.
In the years of his absence he had forgotten the city, but he
remembered the general directions, and only yesterday he had seen in
the distance the gleaming white marble walls of his home standing on
the beautiful headland overlooking the blue waters of the bay. He heard
the sentry approaching and, trusting to instinct, turned into the
nearest street and hurried away.
It seemed to Zaidos that the journey was endless, yet he went like the
wind. He found himself searching the east for dawn. His instinct did
for him what sight and reason would have failed to do. In daylight he
would have been lost, but in that black darkness he kept his course,
and finally the great white building where his fathers for generations
had lived loomed mysteriously before him. He hurried up the broad
stairs and besieged the massive doors with heavy blows. A startled
footman opened it, and with a curt word Zaidos entered and demanded his
father. The man bowed and led him up to a closed door. Here he knocked
softly and a stout old woman answered. She looked hard at the young man
in uniform, then with a little cry clasped him in a warm embrace. It
was his old nurse.
“Ah,” she cried, “God has answered my prayers! You are in time!”
A chill of apprehension swept over the boy. “Is he so ill?” he asked.
“He has waited for you,” she answered. “I told him you would come. I
knew it. He has been dying for many days, but he would not go until he
saw you.”
“Let me come,” said Zaidos. He dashed past the old woman, the nurses
and the doctors, and was clasped in his father’s arms.