[Illustration: The Balmy Afternoon Passed Rapidly]
THE BOY PATROL SERIES
The Boy Patrol On Guard
BY
EDWARD S. ELLIS
Author of “The Flying Boys Series,”
“The Launch Boys Series,”
“The Deerfoot Series,” etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
EDWIN J. PRITTIE
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1913, by
The John C. Winston Company
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
Dedication
Without asking permission, and as a partial recognition of the
example set by them in their daily lives, walk and conversation,
I have taken the liberty of dedicating these volumes to
George Albert (“Bert”) Hall Scout Master of Blazing Arrow
Patrol, Troop 2 and his Boy Scouts, Charles A. Chase, Patrol
Leader; George Robe, Corporal; Kenneth Henke, Kenneth Mitchell,
Robert Snow, Ernest Oberlander, Colgate Craig, Robert Rice,
Hubert Wood and Harold Hopkins.
CONTENTS
I—A Prospective Tenderfoot
II—Lost In the Woods
III—The Hermit of the Woods
IV—The Training of the Tenderfoot
V—How “Knot” to Do Several Things
VI—How Two Millionaires Did a Good Turn
VII—On Gosling Lake
VIII—The “Instructor In Woodcraft”
IX—The New Tenderfoot
X—A Few Native Trees
XI—A Lesson In Trailing
XII—How It Was Done
XIII—A Bit of Detective Work
XIV—The Story of Johnny Appleseed
XV—Other Neighbors
XVI—The Sunbeam of Gosling Lake
XVII—An “Injin” Story
XVIII—The Echo of a World Tragedy
XIX—A Queen And Her Subjects
XX—What Did It Mean?
XXI—How It Happened
XXII—Sunshine
CHAPTER I—A Prospective Tenderfoot
One bright sunshiny day in the summer of 1912, a boy some seventeen
years old awoke to the fact that he had lost his way in the depth of the
woods of southern Maine.
He was a sturdy Irish youth, with red hair, freckled face, a fine set of
teeth, an exhaustless fund of good nature, humor and wit, of pugnacious
temperament, like so many of his people, but so truthful and chivalrous
that every one with whom he came in contact speedily grew to like him.
Now, if you have _idled_ your time in reading my “Launch Boys” stories,
you will recall this lad, Mike Murphy by name, for they gave a pretty
full record of his adventures on the Kennebec and along its shores. In
order to make clear the incidents that follow I must add a few words of
explanation.
Mike, as you may recall, was gifted with a voice of marvelous purity and
sweetness. His singing of several Irish songs on the steamer crossing
the Atlantic enthralled the listeners and so roused the admiration of a
famous prima donna that she offered to prepare him for the operatic
stage, but there was nothing attractive in such a career to the modest
lad. He preferred the simple life with its invigorating ozone and
freedom. During the winter months he was one of the most regular
attendants at the school in Boothbay Harbor, where, under the skilful
tutelage of Professor Herbert E. Bowman, he made rapid progress in his
studies. So with warm thanks to the distinguished songstress, he passed
up the proposition.
Mike’s father was caretaker for the millionaire capitalist, Gideon
Landon, of New York, who had built a fine bungalow on the southern end
of Southport Island, where the Irishman, his wife and the son Mike dwelt
in a cottage near the large structure. A little way to the south was the
home of Chester Haynes in a bungalow less pretentious than the other.
Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes were chums, the former being the owner
of a splendid launch, the _Deerfoot_, in which the three boys met with
more than one stirring adventure. Although Mike knew nothing about the
management of a boat, Alvin made him his first mate, and thus opened the
way for the experiences that have been related elsewhere.
Hardly had the summer’s sport begun for the three boys with their motor
boat, when the machinery broke down disastrously. It was plain that the
craft would have to go to the repair shops in Portland before it could
be of any further use to them. Accordingly, it was towed to that city,
with the natural request that work should be rushed. The reply came back
that there was such a congestion in the shops that it would require two
or three weeks to complete the job. You know what that always means. The
time is sure to be much longer than named, and it may be said the boys
knew such would be the fact. It was a keen disappointment to them, but
there was no help for it and they accepted the situation like true
philosophers.
This incident, trifling of itself, brought consequences to our young
friends of which none of them dreamed. Alvin and Chester while at home
had become interested in the admirable Boy Scout organization, and had
joined the Blazing Arrow Patrol, of which their old friend “Bert Hall”
was Scout Master. He was arranging for an outing in the Adirondacks with
the Stag and Eagle Patrols, when the plan was changed for reasons that
will soon be explained. Their destination became Gosling Lake in
southern Maine, a few miles back in the woods from the Kennebec River.
Alvin and Chester decided to bear them company as tenderfeet. They
provided themselves with natty uniforms, and, knowing the size required
for Mike, sent a suit by express to him with the request that he should
join them in the hike to the cool twilight of the pine woods.
“It would never do to go without him,” said Alvin; “he will be the life
of the camp and will make a model Boy Scout.”
“The hardest task will be to cure him of his love for fighting,” added
Chester; “he can get up a first class shindy in ten minutes, no matter
where he is placed.”
“There won’t be anything of the kind with the Scouts, for it is
impossible; they are taught to detest fighting and Mike is always so
chivalrous that he is never the aggressor. I prophesy there won’t be a
more peaceable boy in camp than he.”
“It is to be hoped so,” commented Chester with a dubious shake of his
head.
When the garments arrived Mike was mystified. He lifted them out of the
box and held them up for the inspection of himself and parents. His
father took his pipe from his mouth, squinted an eye as if aiming a gun
and gravely remarked:
“It’s a Sunday suit meant fur _me_,—there’s no doubt of the same.”
“Ye’re mistook, dad, as much as ye were last night whin ye picked up
that red hot coal thinking it was a cold pratie. The garments are
intinded either for mither or mesilf, as will be told whin we try ’em
on.”
It cannot be denied that Mike looked “nifty” in his uniform, which
fitted him as if he had been melted and poured into it. The hat was of
olive-drab felt, with eyelets in the crown for ventilation and enough
stiffness to keep its shape; breeches of olive-drab khaki cut full and
with legs laced below the knee and with belt guides and pockets;
leggings or puttees of waterproof army duck; poncho; shirt of olive-drab
flannel with two bellows pockets, open front, coat style; coat of same
material as breeches, with four bellows pockets, straight collar, dull
metal buttons with Boy Scout emblem; an ordinary belt; shoes, broad,
high and strong and of soft tan leather; a haversack of waterproof
canvas, with leather straps, buckles and separate pockets, scout emblem
on the flap—these were the chief garments in which Mike Murphy
carefully arrayed himself. He turned slowly around as if on a pivot for
his parents to admire. At the same time, he strove to twist his head
about so as to gain a view of the rear, but it cannot be said his effort
was successful.
“It is sthrange that the lad didn’t sind any word of explanition,”
remarked the father, after a search in the box and the different pockets
failed to bring anything in the nature of a letter to light.
“He may have sint it through the mail—begorrah! how come I to furgit
it?”
“What’s the matter wid ye?” asked the mother as her son leaped to the
chair over which he had hung his discarded clothes and began a vigorous
fumbling of them. From the hip pocket of his trousers he drew a creased
and soiled envelope, glanced at it and handed it to his father.
“Is that yer name writ on the same?”
The astonished parent turned it over, held it off and then drew it
closer.
“If me name is Pathrick Murphy the letter is for me, fur that is what is
writ on the outside. How long have ye been toting that about the
counthry?”
Mike reflected for a moment.
“To-day is Wednesday; let me think,—yes, it was last Monday morning
that I was handed the letter by the postmaster at Boothbay Harbor,—he
being afeard to trust ye wid the same, fur fear ye would not give it to
yersilf.”
“Why didn’t ye hand it to me before this?”
“I forgot, dad, as Tim O’Shaughnessy said after moving back the well
curb and then slipping down the well. Shall I spell out the words fur
ye?” asked Mike as his father ran his stubby finger under the flap of
the letter and ripped it apart.
“If ye think ye’re able to know writing, ye may thry yer hand.”
Mike unfolded the slip and read aloud the contents. The letter was from
Alvin Landon and had been mailed before the uniform was sent. All would
have gone right had the missive been addressed to Mike, but Alvin, with
his fine sense of propriety, had written directly to the parent, asking
consent for his son to spend several weeks with the Boy Scouts in camp
on Gosling Lake. There was no question in the writer’s mind as to such
permission being granted.
Following this request were some sentences for Mike himself. After
directing him how to reach the sheet of water, Alvin added:
“Chester and I have become ‘Tenderfeet’ as they are called, which is the
lowest grade among the Boy Scouts. Your name has been proposed by us and
we see no reason why you should not be accepted. But before that can
take place, you must pass the examination, which with some studying I am
sure you will be able to do. It isn’t likely you can find any one at
Southport or Boothbay Harbor to help you, nor is it necessary. What you
must know is:
“The Scout law, sign, salute and meaning of the badge (Chester and I can
teach you that in a few minutes); the composition and history of our
country’s flag and the usual forms of respect due it. (This is learned
as easily as the other); and you must be able to tie four of the
following knots: square or reef, sheet-bend, bowline, fisherman’s,
sheepshank, halter, clove hitch, timber hitch or two half-hitches.
“I think you told Chester and me that on your trip across the ocean you
made friends with several of the sailors, who taught you how to tie a
number of knots. If this is so, you will have no trouble on that score.
So you see you have not much preparation to make. I tell you, Mike, this
is the finest thing of the kind in the world and is just what you need.
You will have plenty of fun, which you know is your chief aim in life,
with a fair prospect of becoming a gentleman (I trust).
“We expect to reach Gosling Lake in time to get into our quarters on
Wednesday and shall look for you to be there to help us with our work.”
“And this is Wednesday morning!” repeated Mike in dismay; “what have the
poor byes done widout me to give them suggistions?”
“They have done a good deal better than had ye been wid them,” replied
his mother; “being ye have delayed so long, it’s best ye bide at home.”
With a start Mike looked at her, but the twinkle in her blue eyes showed
from which parent the son inherited most of his waggishness.
“I must be off,” said he, springing to his feet. He would have been out
of the house the next minute had not his father checked him.
“Show a little sinse even if ye niver had any; ate a big maal, which ye
can do at any time no matter if it be in the middle of the night; put
some money and yer knife, watch and compass in yer pocket. Take that
buckthorn shillalah, with which I have cracked many a hid at Donnybrook;
then hie ye to Boothbay Harbor and hire some one to take ye to the right
spot up the Sheepscott and then thramp through the woods, as ye have
been towld to do to Gosling Lake, comporting yersilf like a gintleman,
and not make yer father and mither ashamed of ye as ye have done many a
time.”
This counsel was so wise that the impulsive youth could not object.
Despite the completeness of his uniform and equipments more than one
thing was lacking. He needed toilet articles, a change of underclothing,
needles, thread and a number of trifling conveniences, which a
thoughtful mother never forgets.
Thus it came about that early in the afternoon Mike walked to Southport
and there boarded the little steamer _Norman II_, and soon thereafter
landed at Boothbay Harbor, full of eager expectancy, and little dreaming
of the remarkable experience that awaited him.