Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Emmy and the
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The Boy Scouts'
First Camp Fire
OR
Scouting with the Silver Fox Patrol.
BY HERBERT CARTER
Author of "The Boy Scouts In the Blue Ridge," "The Boy
Scouts On the Trail," "The Boy Scouts In the Maine
Woods," "The Boy Scouts Through the
Big Timber," "The Boy Scouts
In the Rockies."
[Illustration: A. L. BURT COMPANY
NEW YORK]
Copyright 1913
BY A. L. BURT COMPANY
* * * * *
THE BOY SCOUTS' FIRST CAMP FIRE.
[Illustration: The announcement of the bear by Davy Jones was succeeded
by a mad scramble of every boy to reach a place of safety. Page 48.
_The Boy Scouts' First Camp Fire._]
THE BOY SCOUTS'
FIRST CAMP-FIRE.
CHAPTER I.
A HALT BY THE ROADSIDE.
"Tara--tara!"
Loud and clear sounded the notes of a bugle, blown by a very stout lad,
clad in a new suit of khaki; and who was one of a bunch of Boy Scouts
tramping wearily along a dusty road.
"Good for you, Bumpus! Can't he just make that horn talk, though?" cried
one.
"Sounds as sweet as the church bell at home, fellows!" declared a
second.
"Say, Mr. Scout-Master, does that mean a halt for grub?" a third called
out.
"Sure, Giraffe. Brace up old fellow. You'll have your jaws working right
soon, now. And here's a dandy little spring, right among the trees! How
shady and cool it looks, Thad."
"That's why we kept on for an hour after noon," remarked the boy called
Thad, and who seemed to be a person of some authority; "when all you
scouts wanted to stop and rest. You see Davy, Allan here, and myself
made a note of that same spring the other day, when we came along on
horseback, spying out the lay of the land."
"Well, now," remarked the boy called Davy, as he threw himself down to
stretch; "that's what our instruction book says,--a true scout always
has his eyes and ears open to see and hear everything. The more things
you can remember in a store window, after only a minute to look, the
further up you are, see?"
The boy called Thad not only wore a rather seedy and faded scout khaki
uniform; while those of all his comrades were almost brand new; but he
had several merit badges fastened on the left side of his soft shirt.
These things would indicate that Thad Brewster must have been connected
with some patrol, or troop of Boy Scouts, in the town where he formerly
lived before his father, dying, left him in charge of the queer old
bachelor uncle who was known far and wide among the boys of Scranton as
plain "Daddy Brewster"--nobody ever understood why, save that he just
loved all manner of young people.
In fact, it was a memory of the good times which he had enjoyed in the
past that influenced Thad to start the ball rolling for a troop of
scouts in Scranton. In this endeavor he had found energetic backing;
and the Silver Fox Patrol of the troop was now starting out upon its
first hike, to be gone several days.
Several of the eight boys forming this patrol were lagging more or less
along the dusty road; for the brisk walk on this summer day had tired
them considerably.
At the cheery notes of the bugle, blown by "Bumpus" Hawtree, the stray
ones in uniform quickened their pace, so as to close up. Of course the
stout youth had another name, and a very good one too, having been
christened Cornelius Jasper. But his chums had long ago almost forgotten
it, and as Bumpus he was known far and wide.
He was a good-natured chap, clumsy in his way, but always willing to
oblige, and exceedingly curious. Indeed, his mates in the patrol
declared Bumpus ought to have been born a girl, as he always wanted to
"poke his nose into anything queer that happened to attract his
attention." And this failing, of course, was going to get Bumpus into a
lot of trouble, sooner or later.
His one best quality was a genuine love for music. He could play any
sort of instrument; and had besides a wonderfully sweet high soprano
voice, which he was always ready to use for the pleasure of his friends.
That promised many a happy night around the camp-fire, when once the
Silver Fox Patrol had become fully established.
And this love of music which the fat boy possessed had made the
selection of a bugler for Cranford Troop the easiest thing possible. He
actually had no competitor.
Presently the entire eight lads had thrown themselves down in such
positions as seemed to appeal to them. Some lay flat on their stomachs,
and drank from the overflow of the fine little spring; while others
scooped up the water in the cup formed by the palms of their hands.
One rather tall boy, with flaxen hair, and light dreamy blue eyes, took
out his handkerchief, carefully dusted the ground where he meant to sit,
then having deposited himself in a satisfactory manner, he opened the
haversack he had been carrying, taking out some of the contents very
carefully.
"My! but they're packed smartly, all right, Smithy," remarked the fellow
who had responded to the name of Davy Jones; "you certainly take a heap
of trouble to have things just so. My duds were just tossed in as they
came. Threatened to jump on 'em so as to crowd the bunch in tighter.
What are you looking for now?"
"Why, my drinking cup, to be sure," replied the other, lifting his
eyebrows in surprise, as if he could not understand why any one would be
so silly as to lie down and drink--just like an animal, when nice little
aluminum collapsible cups could be procured so cheaply.
And having presently found what he wanted, he deliberately returned each
article to its proper place in the carryall before he allowed himself
the pleasure of a cooling drink. But at least he had one satisfaction;
being the possessor of a cup allowed him the privilege of dipping
directly into the fountain head, the limpid spring itself.
They called him just plain "Smithy," but of course such an elegant
fellow had a handle to the latter part of his name. It was Edmund
Maurice Travers Smith; but you could never expect a parcel of American
boys to bother with such a tremendous tongue-twisting name as that.
Hence the Smithy.
While the whole patrol, taking out the lunch that had been provided, and
which one of them, evidently from the South from the soft tones of his
voice, called a "snack," were eating we might as well be making the
acquaintance of the rest.
The Southern lad was named Robert Quail White. A few of his chums
addressed him as plain Bob; but the oddity of the combination appealed
irresistibly to their sense of humor, and "Bob White" it became from
that time on. Sometimes they called to him with the well-known whistle
of a quail; and he always responded.
There was a very tall fellow, with a remarkably long neck. "Giraffe" he
had become when years younger, and the name was likely to stick to him
even after he got into college. When his attention was called to
anything, Conrad Stedman usually stretched his neck in a way that gave
him a great advantage over his fellows. He was sometimes a little
touchy; but gave promise of proving himself a good scout, being willing
to learn, faithful, and obliging.
Another of the patrol had a rather melancholy look. This was Stephen
Bingham. He might have gone to the end of the chapter as plain Steve;
but when a little fellow at school, upon being asked his name, he had
pronounced it as if a compound word; and ever since he was known as
Step-hen Bingham. Whenever he felt like sending his companions into fits
of laughter Step-hen would show the whites of his eyes, and look
frightened. He could never find his things, and was forever appealing to
the others to know whether they had seen some article he had misplaced.
Step-hen evidently had much to learn before he could qualify for the
degree of a first-class scout.
The one who seemed to be second in Command of the little detachment was
a quiet looking boy. Allan Hollister had been raised after a fashion
that as he said "gave him the bumps of experience." Part of his life had
been spent in the Adirondacks and in Maine; so that he really knew by
actual participation in the work what the other lads were learning from
the books they read.
He lived with his mother, said to be a widow. They seemed to have
plenty of money; but Allan was often sighing, as though somehow his
thoughts turned back to former scenes, and he longed to return to Maine
again.
Here then was the complete roster of the Silver Fox Patrol of Cranford
Troop, as called by the secretary, Bob White, at each and every meeting.
1. Thad Brewster, Patrol Leader, and Assistant Scout-Master.
2. Allan Hollister, upon whom the responsibility rested after Thad.
3. Cornelius Hawtree.
4. Robert Quail White.
5. Edmund Maurice Travers Smith.
6. Conrad Stedman.
7. Davy Jones.
8. Stephen Bingham.
Of course, as the rules of the organization provided, there was a
genuine scout-master to accompany the boys when possible, and look after
their moral welfare; as well as act as a brake upon the natural
exuberance of their spirits. This was a young man who was studying
medicine with Dr. Calkins in the town of Cranford. Frequently the clever
young M.D. could not keep his appointments with his boys; at such times
he had to delegate to Thad his duties. And to tell the truth when they
learned that as the elder doctor was sick himself, their scout-master
would be unable to accompany them on this, their first real hike and
outing, none of the scouts felt very sorry.
"Pretty near time we started again for the lake, isn't it, Thad?"
demanded Step-hen, something like an hour after they had stopped to
break the march with a bite and a cool drink.
"Oh! please let me finish this little grub," called out Giraffe, who was
tremendously fond of eating; "it's a shame to waste it. You stopped me
from making a fire you know, Thad; and I fell behind the rest of you
that way."
"I never saw such a fellow, always crazy to set fire to things,"
remarked Davy Jones. "He'll burn the whole world up some day."
"I expect to set the river on fire when I get in business," grinned
Giraffe.
"Give the signal to fall in, Mr. Bugler--but I say, where _is_ Bumpus
anyway?" asked the acting scout-master, looking around.
"Oh! he went wandering away some time ago," remarked Davy. "But here's
his horn; let's see if I can blow the old thing."
He put the shining instrument to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and
emitted a frightful groaning sound. The rest of the scouts had just
started to laugh when there came a strange, rattling noise from the
woods near by, as though a landslide might be in progress. And
accompanying the racket they heard a feeble voice that must belong to
Bumpus, though no one recognized it, calling out:
"Help! help! Oh, somebody come quick, and save me!"
With that call every member of the scout patrol leaped erect, staring at
one another in dismay.