The body of water referred to, which for certain reasons I shall call
Gosling Lake—though that is not its real name—is of irregular form,
about two miles long from east to west, and somewhat less in breadth. It
is surrounded by pines, balsams and firs, which in most places grow
quite close to the water’s edge, with here and there a grassy stretch of
moderate extent, bordering the lake.
On the southern shore stands the bungalow or clubhouse, to which more
than one reference has been made. It is a low, log structure of one
story with a piazza in front, is strong and secure and has no
pretensions to elegance or luxury. It was intended merely to afford
sleeping and dining quarters for the occupants. When a party of wealthy
men plunge into the wilderness for what they call an outing, they make a
great ado over “roughing” it. They announce that they will sleep in the
open, work strenuously for their own meals, and live the simple life, as
did the wood rangers in the olden times. But the chances are ten to one
that the campers out will bring a professional cook and one or two other
servants with them, will sleep in the beds prepared by other hands, and
spend most of their time in luxurious idleness.
The bungalow which we have in mind is fifty feet in length and is
divided into two rooms,—the smaller for dining and social communion on
stormy afternoons and during the evenings. This room has an
old-fashioned fireplace and is provided with cooking utensils, a large
table, several chairs and other simple articles of furniture. The larger
apartment is furnished with rows of bunks along each side, where spruce
tips or pine boughs serve as mattresses upon which pillows and blankets
are spread. The floor is of smooth planking, and without rugs. Large
wooden pegs driven into the walls take the place of closets. In short
the aim is to yield solid comfort, yet encourage the belief among the
campers that they are actually roughing it.
Drawn up on the grassy slope in front of the clubhouse were two Indian
canoes, each large enough to carry a half dozen full grown persons. The
single paddles required for propulsion were kept within the building and
the craft when not in use were turned over with the bottoms facing the
sky. Such is an imperfect glimpse of the clubhouse that was to serve as
headquarters of the Boy Patrols during the last month of that summer.
One of the striking attractions of the rivers, lakes and streams of
Maine is their crystalline clearness. I have looked down at the boulders
and pebbles twenty feet and more below the surface, where they were as
clearly visible as if only the atmosphere was between them and my eyes.
Maine lies so far north that its waters are generally cold and the
bather who plunges into their depths gasps and feels like scrambling out
again; but let him persevere for a brief while and the bath becomes
invigorating and gives the body a glow and reacting warmth that thrills
with exquisite pleasure.
At six o’clock on that memorable morning in early August, you might have
looked at the clubhouse and believed it did not contain a living person
or creature,—so quiet and free from stir was everything connected with
it; but a few minutes later, the broad door opened and a young man
walked a few steps toward the lake and then halted and looked around, as
if expecting some one. He had dark curly hair, large clear eyes, black
mustache, fair complexion somewhat tanned, a lithe, active figure rather
below the medium stature, and an alert manner. His dress was such as is
worn by the Boy Scouts. On the upper part of his left sleeve was a badge
in blue, green and red, consisting mainly of an eagle with spread wings
and shield, and the motto “Be Prepared” in gilt metal. This is the
official insignia of the Scout Master, Scout Commissioner, Assistant
Scout Master and of the First Class Boy Scout.
The gentleman who thus stepped upon the stage of action was Bert Hall,
who, although a family man, is as much a boy as he was a dozen years
ago. In fact, he can never be anything else, though in his activities no
one is more mature than he. He is always doing something for the benefit
of others, so it was inevitable that when the scout movement was
originated it caught his attention and engaged his sympathy and
co-operation.
The Scout Master’s second glance at the door showed mild surprise. He
drew out his watch and then smiled, for he saw he was a few minutes
ahead of time.
“I have tried to teach the boys that it is better to be too early than
too late, but better than either to hit the nail exactly on the head.”
He kept his eye on the face of the watch until the minute and hour hand
formed a straight line from the figure XII to VI. Then he slipped it
back in his pocket.
Almost in the same instant, the door was drawn inward, and with a shout,
a Boy Scout, his face aglow with eager expectancy, dashed down the slope
like a deer, ran a few paces into the lake, splashing the water high,
closed the palms of his hand above his head and dived out of sight. He
was Charley Chase, the Blazing Arrow Patrol leader. Right behind him on
a dead run, came Corporal George Robe, followed by Scouts Kenneth Henke,
Kenneth Mitchell, Robert Snow, Ernest Oberlander, Colgate Craig, Robert
Rice, Hubert Wood and Harold Hopkins.
After a brief wait, other members of the troop streamed laughing after
the leaders, among them being our old friends Alvin Landon and Chester
Haynes. The clothing of each consisted of a pair of tights, whose length
from the extreme northern boundary to the remote southern edge, was
perhaps twelve inches. It was a proper concession to the aesthetic
demands of the occasion.
How they frolicked and disported themselves! A party of boys can no more
keep from shouting than so many girls can refrain from screaming at
sight of a mouse whisking about their feet. They dived, swam, splashed
one another, darted under the surface like so many young submarines, and
reveled in the very ecstasy of enjoyment. The first thrilling sting of
the cold element caused all to gasp, but a few minutes ended that and
none would have had it a degree milder.
Scout Master Hall moved a little to one side, so as to be out of the
way, stepped close to the water, folded his arms and smiled in sympathy
at sight of the joyous abandon of boys,—one of whom he had often been
and meant to be again. His present duty was to oversee his charges. He
knew all were good swimmers, but some one might be seized with cramp,
because of the sudden plunge, and accident always threatens everybody. A
person can be drowned with such awful suddenness that the Master never
took any chances that could be averted. He held himself ready to leap
into the lake on the instant his services were needed.
As the minutes passed, he felt how slight the danger was of anything of
that nature, but as has been said, he was ever on his guard. He was
watching Alvin Adams and Corporal Robe, who were engaged in the
rollicking sport of ducking each other. Suddenly Alvin slipped below the
surface, when his friend was not looking, seized the corporal’s ankle,
and yanked him under. The next instant, Robe bobbed up, blew the water
from his mouth in spray, glanced around and seeing Alvin swimming
desperately away, made after him. Both were equally skilful in the water
and it could not be seen that the pursuer was gaining. Alvin might have
escaped by heading for shore or where the water was shallow, but that
would have been an admission of the superiority of the other, and no
healthy youngster will do _that_ until it is fairly demonstrated and
even then will hesitate.
Suddenly Alvin dropped out of sight. It looked as if he did so to escape
his pursuer who stopped over the spot where he had gone down, ready to
seize him the instant he came within reach. Scout Master Hall laughed
and watched the fun.
Up shot the head of Alvin a little way off, and Robe was about to make
after him, when the youth called out:
“I’ve got a cramp!” and down he went.
Hall gathered himself for the run and jump, when with one foot in the
water, he saw the necessity had passed. In a few seconds, Alvin’s head
showed again, but the corporal with one resolute stroke was beside him.
“All right, old fellow; put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.
Despite his predicament, Alvin was cool and did as directed. As he
rested his left hand on the shoulder of his friend, he said with a
laugh:
“Gee! but my legs seemed to be tied up in knots; that’s the first time I
ever was caught; thanks; I’m all right, with your help.”
Chester and several other boys had hastened to his help, but they saw
all danger was over. Robe swam with moderate stroke toward shore. The
water quickly shallowed, and when his feet touched the hard bottom,
Alvin tried awkwardly to walk, but he had to have support before he
could stumble to land, where he sank down and began vigorously working
his legs, while Robe and the Scout Master massaged the corded muscles.
“The next time you go in bathing, try the Indian preventive of cramps,”
said Hall.
“What’s that? I used to wear an eelskin tied about one of my ankles.”
“No good. Before entering the water, rub the pit of your stomach hard
with the dry palms of your hands. When the skin grows red, dash cold
water over the stomach and rub dry; after that you need have no fear of
cramps. You seem to be all right.”
“I am; I should like to try it again; I owe the corporal the biggest
ducking he ever had.”
“No; you have had enough swimming for this morning, and so have all the
boys.”
The Scout Master gave the signal and the whole party obediently came
ashore, ran into the building and hurriedly donned their clothing.
The next thing in order was breakfast and you may be sure every lad was
ready for it. Although the old-fashioned implements in the clubhouse
would have served well, yet with the score of sharp appetites to
satisfy, the delay would have been trying. Moreover, the Scout Master
wished to drill the youngsters in preparing their meals, as if they were
on a hike through a long stretch of wilderness. So the three Patrols set
to work under his eye, doing so with a system and intelligence that
called for slight suggestion from him.
“Remember,” he cautioned; “_you_ must use no more than two matches in
starting a fire and a single one ought to answer.”
The team with supplies had arrived from Boothbay Harbor the day before,
so there was no lack of food. The first step was to build a fireplace or
primitive stove. This was done by rolling three or four large stones in
position near one another. Into the open space between them were
arranged some dry shavings from a dead limb of cedar, including leaves,
twigs, pine cones and pieces of heavier wood,—all set so loosely that
there was plenty of room for draught. Then a Vulcan match, carefully
shielded from the slightest breath of wind, was applied to the feathery
stuff at the base of the pile. It caught at once, climbed over and
through the more solid wood, and in a few minutes a vigorous, crackling
blaze was going. Resting on top of the irregular stones—which gave many
openings for the flames to circulate through—the big round griddle was
placed in position. As it caught the heat, the smooth surface was
smeared with a piece of salt pork, and then the batter of self-raising
flour was poured out. Almost immediately the upper side of the mixture
broke into numerous little holes or openings, proving that the hot iron
was doing its work. The cook slid his round flat turner under the circle
of batter, flopped it over, revealing the rich golden brown of what had
been the lower side. Two griddles were kept going until it seemed the
pancakes were beyond counting. When after a long, long while a
sufficient number had been prepared, thin slices of bacon were fried on
the griddle and in the surplus fat, shavings of raw potatoes were done
to a turn.
I am sure you need no instruction in the most modern methods of making
griddle cakes, frying bacon, preparing canned salmon or trout, roasting
potatoes, baking fresh fish, grilling frogs’ legs, the different ways of
cooking eggs, and making coffee, cocoa and tea. If you feel you need
training in those fields of industry, apply to your mothers or big
sisters and they will teach you far better than I can. I advise campers
out, however, not to try to bake biscuits or bread. The results are not
satisfactory and it’s easier to carry it.
The most destructive scourge to which all wooded sections of our country
are exposed is that of forest fires. The last report of the Forestry
Commission is that the loss in one year has amounted to five million
dollars. A vast amount of property is thus annually destroyed, and the
lamentable fact remains that in many instances the conflagrations are
due to carelessness. A party of campers go into the woods, start a fire
for cooking purposes and leave the embers smouldering, thinking they
will die out in a little while and cause no harm. These embers, however,
may stay alive for days, be fanned into a blaze by a gust of wind, and,
scattering among the dry leaves and withered foliage, swell into a
varying mass of flame which sweeps everything before it.
Many states thus exposed employ fire rangers who use incessant vigilance
in saving their forests. Notices are posted throughout the Maine woods
warning all against this peril. A few years ago, Congress passed a law
imposing a fine of five thousand dollars or imprisonment for two years
or both as a penalty for maliciously firing any tract, and a lesser
punishment for causing a fire through carelessness.
When the morning meal was over, the Boy Patrols promptly extinguished
every ember by pouring water over it until not a spark remained. Then
the dishes were washed, dried and piled away on the shelves in the
clubhouse; the bedding was aired and fuel gathered for the midday meal.
By that time the sun was well up in the sky. Scout Master Hall put the
troop through a brisk military drill, and then asked them to express
their wishes.
The propositions offered almost equaled the number of boys. Some wished
to paddle around the lake in the two canoes. True, most of them knew
little about the management of such craft, but every one was sure he
could quickly learn.
“All you have to do is to sit still and swing the paddle first on one
side and then on the other,” was the self-complacent assertion of
Kenneth Henke.
“That may be so,” assented the Scout Master, “but there is a right and a
wrong way of doing everything, and, as a rule, a boy can be depended
upon to begin with the wrong way. You never saw a quadruped which when
thrown into the water will not swim on the first trial, as well as if he
had spent months in training, but whoever heard of a man or boy who did
it?”
“I have,” was the surprising reply of Alvin Landon.
In answer to the inquiring looks of the party, Alvin said:
“Chester and I have a friend, an Irish boy about our age, named Mike
Murphy, that we expected would meet us here, who had never been able to
swim a stroke. We have watched him try it many times, but he always
failed. One day when he was asleep he was pitched overboard where the
water must have been twenty feet deep, and straightway he swam like a
duck to land.”
“I have heard of such instances, but they are exceedingly rare. It was
not the case with me and I think with none of you.”
There was a general shaking of heads. Then a proposal was made to fish
along shore, or to break up into small parties and ramble through the
woods, studying the different species of trees and plant life, birds,
and possibly some small animals, trailing, and what may be called the
finer points of woodcraft.
It was Chester Haynes who struck fire by shouting:
“Let’s have a game of baseball!”
“That’s it! hurrah!” and a dozen hats were flung in air; “there’s more
than enough of us to make two nines and all know the game.”
“A good idea,” said Scout Master Hall, who could not forget that it was
only a few years before that he won fame as one of the best batters and
short-stops on the team of his native town.
The enthusiasm of the boys was not dampened by the discovery of several
facts which, in ordinary circumstances, would have been discouraging. In
the first place, there was only one ball in the whole company. Not only
were there grave doubts about its being of the regulation make, but the
seams had been started, and it looked as if the cover would be quickly
knocked off. No use, however, of crossing a bridge till you reach it.
That no one had brought a bat mattered not. It was easy with the sharp
hatchets to cut and trim a limb to the proper size, or near enough for
practical purposes. When Bobby Rice, with many suggestions from the
others, had completed his task, all agreed that it was an artistic piece
of work, and might well serve as a model for the regular outfitters.
No one referred to the lack of gloves and chest protectors, for only
mollycoddles would mind a little thing like that. The German students at
Heidelberg are proud of the scars they win in duels, and any reputable
ball player is equally pleased with his corkscrew fingers and battered
face.
But one obstacle for a time looked unsurmountable: where were suitable
grounds to be found?
The grassy slope which borders Gosling Lake is comparatively narrow,
though of varying width. Of necessity the players would have to restrain
their ardor when it came to batting balls. If these were driven too far
to one side they would drop into the water, the fielders would have to
swim after them and home runs would be overwhelming. If batted in the
other direction they would disappear among the trees and undergrowth,
and what player can send the ball in a straight line in front of the
plate?
A hurried search brought to light a tract which it was decided would do
better than had been expected. The slope was perhaps fifty feet wide in
the broadest part, while lengthwise it extended mostly round the lake.
In this place the diamond was laid out. A big flat stone served for home
plate. Scout Master Hall paced off the right distance to first base,
where another stone was laid. Second base was in the wavelet which
lapped the beach, with third base opposite first. If a runner should
slide for it, the chances were that he would keep on sliding into the
lake, and he would care very little if he did. It may be said that the
alleged diamond, while substantially of the right length, was very
narrow and shut in on one side by water and on the other by forest.
Bobby Snow captained one nine and Harold Hopkins the other. As the
batting order was arranged, Alvin Landon was to lead off for his side,
which was the first to go to the bat. Bobby was proud of his skill as a
pitcher. There is a legend that on one occasion when pitching for his
school nine, he struck three men and was hit for nine bases and a home
run in one inning. He indignantly denies the charge when it is made, and
I don’t believe it myself. Be that as it may, there can be no criticism
of his style when he sends them over. His pose is impressive and leads
the spectators to expect great things.
Scout Master Hall generally acted as umpire. Every one knew he was fair
in his decisions and if he hadn’t been nobody dare say anything. It
wouldn’t pay.
All being ready, Alvin stepped to the plate, with his bat firmly
grasped. He spat on his hands, rubbed them up and down the rough
surface, tapped the stone home plate, spread his feet apart and waited
while every eye was fixed upon him.
Meanwhile, Bobby Snow, the pitcher, wound himself up. Standing erect to
the towering height of nearly five feet, he swung his left foot around
in front of his right, with the toe resting on the ground, and clasped
the ball in his two palms which were held as high above his head as he
could reach. He and the batter grinned at each other.
“I dare you to give me a good ball,” said Alvin tantalizingly.
“Do you want an outcurve or incurve or dip or a spit ball?”
“I didn’t know you had ever heard of those things; do your worst.”
Bobby with the sphere still held aloft, gravely looked around at his
out-fielders. The three almost touched elbows.
“Ty Cobb,” he shouted, “move further to the left.”
“I can’t do it,” was the mutinous reply, “without going out into the
lake.”
“Well, go there then.”
“I’ll see you hanged first; you do it.”
“Don’t get sassy; I’m not one of the spectators. Hans Wagner, shift to
the right.”
“If I do,” said the other fielder, “I’ll have to get behind a tree.”
“You’ll be of as much use there as where you are.”
“Go ahead and pitch the ball, if you know how to do such a thing.”
Bobby pretended not to hear this slur, but drawing back his right arm,
hurled the ball toward the plate. It was wide, but Alvin struck at it,
missing by about three feet. It went past the catcher as he clawed at it
and he had to hunt several minutes before finding the elusive object,
which he tossed back to Bobby, who without any more remarks shot it
forward and Alvin swung at it. He hit it fairly too, though harder than
he intended. It rose some fifty feet and flitted like a flash among the
trees. Alvin hurled his bat aside, narrowly missing the umpire, and ran
for first base. Arrived there, he glared around.
“Where’s second base?” he called; “Ty Cobb, you moved it!”
“It got in the way of my feet; I flung it into the lake.”
“That’s what I call dirty ball,” commented Alvin, making a dive ahead
and arriving by a roundabout route at the home plate.
Meanwhile, the ball remained missing. One player after another plunged
into the woods and joined in the search. Finally the umpire followed and
then all the other players took a hand. You know how contrary inanimate
things—as for instance a collar button—can be. That ball to this day
has not been found, and the declaration of the umpire was justified:
“The shortest game of baseball on record; two balls pitched, one swipe
and that’s all.”