Less than half a mile farther brought the troop of Boy Scouts to the
home of Elkanah Sisum, their Instructor in Woodcraft. Naturally he took
the lead, with Scout Master Hall next and the youths straggling after
them.
Expressions of pleased surprise followed the sight of the log structure
in the midst of the neat patch of cultivated ground. Mike Murphy was the
only lad who was familiar with the place and he held his peace. While
his waggishness was generally irrepressible, he knew when good taste
suggested that others do most of the talking.
The party had stood only a few minutes feasting their eyes, when Mr.
Hall asked:
“How long have you lived here, Uncle Elk?”
“Some fifteen years, which have been years of quiet meditation and
serene enjoyment. While I do not wish to cut myself wholly off from the
society of my fellow men and I make occasional visits to Boothbay Harbor
and even to Portland, yet my comfort is here among my books with my own
thoughts and in communion with my Maker, tending the piece of ground,
fishing, and hunting for the smaller game that is found in this part of
Maine.”
A slight but significant fact must be recorded. It was at this time that
Scout Master Hall noticed a vague peculiarity in the manner of the old
man which he would have found it hard to describe. It appeared in his
manner and very faintly in his voice. The leader was the only one who
detected it and he made no reference to it until long afterward.
The survey was brief when their guide walked forward to the open space
in front of his dwelling, where he again halted and spoke to those
gathered about him:
“When I finished building my cabin, the only lock I placed on the door
was the old-fashioned latch. I shoved the leathern string through the
auger hole above it, so that it hung outside, and never since then by
night or day, in sunshine or storm, through winter or summer, has it
been drawn inside. I keep open house and every one who chooses to honor
me with a call is welcome.”
“Do you have many visitors?” asked Alvin Landon.
“Weeks have passed without bringing one; then I have had as many as two
in twenty-four hours. I have lately had that number. The first was
Michael last night and the second a stranger whom I have never seen, but
who called this forenoon after I left home.”
The old man enjoyed the astonishment of his visitors.
“If you have never seen him how do you know he has been here?” was the
natural question of Patrol Leader Chase.
“I saw the proof in the same moment that I reached the clearing. He came
across the lake in a canoe, walked up the path, entered the house,
stayed a little while and then left. You being strangers in this section
could hardly be expected to discover the shadowy impressions of his shoe
here and there, especially since your failure a little while ago to find
the trail of the wild animal prowling in your neighborhood.”
“Ye will not forgit, Uncle Elk, that it was mesilf that told ye about
the beast that took a promenade by the spot,” reminded Mike Murphy.
“No; I am not likely to forget that, but I _am_ forgetting the claims of
hospitality. I can’t offer you the elbow room you have at the clubhouse,
but you are none the less welcome.”
He twitched the latchstring, the door being so balanced on its hinges
that it swung inward of itself. He stepped across the threshold to the
mantel where Scout Master Hall was sure he saw him take a small article,
glance at it and then shove it into his pocket. Facing about he called
to his friends to enter.
They crowded into the room. The host did not draw aside the curtain
which shut off the other half of the lower floor and which was his
sleeping quarters.
You have read a partial description of the home of the hermit,—the most
surprising feature of which was the well-thumbed volumes of scientific
and scholarly works, in addition to several high class magazines and
publications. Mr. Hall noticed that while the visitors were gazing
around with natural curiosity, Uncle Elk stopped for a moment in front
of his book shelf, glanced at the volumes and then quickly stooping,
picked up what seemed to be a speck of dust from the bare floor. It was
all done so quickly that the Scout Master would never have recalled it
but for that which followed.
There were not enough seats for a third of the company and the youths
kept their feet. Perhaps it was a harmless touch of vanity, with which
all of us are more or less endowed, that led Uncle Elk to make a display
of his skill as a detective.
“Yes,” he added a few minutes later; “there has been a caller here
during my absence this forenoon.”
Scout Master Hall had the tact to humor the harmless weakness of the old
man.
“Can you tell me whether he was an Indian or a white man?”
“He was of the same race as ourselves and is about forty years old. He
carried no weapon,—nothing more than a fishing tackle. He is well off
in the world’s goods, has been three days in the neighborhood and is
friendly toward me.”
“I could have told ye the last, Uncle Elk,” said Mike, “for there isn’t
anybody who doesn’t feel that way.”
“Well said,” commented Scout Master Hall, “and it is true.”
The old gentleman bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“You may suspect I am guessing, but I am not. When the man entered and
saw that the owner was absent, he made himself at home, as I wish every
one to do while awaiting my return. I suppose it was natural that he
should be struck by my little library. He examined some of the books,
and while doing so used the fingers of his right hand to scratch his
beard, as a man often does unconsciously. He withdrew four of the
volumes from the shelf, but was not much interested in them, for he
replaced them, lighted a perfecto cigar, sat down in my easy chair,
smoked a little while, with the chair gently rocking, then with his
cigar half consumed, he passed out of the door and down the path to
where he had left his canoe and paddled across the lake.”
Even with the assurance given by Uncle Elk, some of his listeners found
it hard to credit all he said. He looked calmly into the array of faces,
well aware of what was in the minds of his callers. He expected a
question and Mr. Hall asked it:
“We know that all you have told us is true, because you said it was.
They recall so vividly some of the ‘deductions’ of Sherlock Holmes that
I hope you will enlighten us as to your methods.”
“What doubt has occurred to you?”
“You detected the faint disturbances made by the visitor’s feet, where
he did not keep to the middle of the path. These told you the shoes were
those of a white man, because, I presume of their fashionable make, and
they showed that he came from and returned to the lake, but what warrant
have you for saying he carried a rod?”
“He leaned it against the front of the house at the side of the steps
where the imprint plainly shows. It was natural for him to do that
instead of carrying it inside.”
“Why do you decide that he is a man in middle life?”
Uncle Elk was manifestly pleased by the chance to display his ingenuity.
“Let me explain several deductions of rather evident facts. At the right
hand end of the upper shelf of books are four volumes: Fiske’s ‘Cosmic
Philosophy’; James’ ‘Pragmatism’ and ‘Pluralistic Universe,’ and Henri
Bergson’s ‘Creative Evolution.’ These books are a trifle out of
alignment,—just enough so to show it was caused by some one else.
Therefore he took them from their places. In returning the books to the
shelf, he changed the places of Prof. James’ two works,—another proof
if it were needed of the accuracy of my deduction. He must have stood
exactly in front of that side of the book shelves, for on the floor to
the right of such position are several short hairs, some black and some
gray. They would not have fallen of themselves and must have been
displaced by his fingers. They tell me his beard was grizzled or mixed
and consequently he was in middle life.”
“Your explanation is based on the theory that he is right handed,” said
the Scout Master; “are you not guessing there, Uncle Elk?”
“No; standing directly in front of the four volumes, the few threads of
hair fell still further to the right. Their texture shows they came from
his beard and not the crown of his head. They would not have fallen as
they did unless they were displaced by the hand on that side of the
man.”
“It seems to me,” continued the Scout Master, “that in so trifling a
matter a person would make no distinction in the use of his hands.
Besides, some persons are ambidextrous.”
“In certain circumstances he would use either hand, but the position of
the outermost volume shows that it was shoved back by the same hand that
loosened the two or three strands from his beard. When a man uses the
same hand to do both of those things, it is good proof that he is right
handed.”
“I am at a loss to understand how the position of the books shows that
your visitor employed his right hand in restoring them to their places.”
Uncle Elk’s eyes twinkled as he grew more subtle.
“You may think my explanation fine spun, but it is absolutely logical.
It happens that ‘Pragmatism’ is the least interesting volume to me. I
have not opened it for several weeks. A slight film of dust has gathered
on the upper gilt edges. In withdrawing the book I rest my thumb against
the upper part of the back and my first two fingers on the top; so every
one does. Observe.”
Uncle Elk illustrated his words. With the book in his hand he shifted it
about so that the sunlight was reflected from the bright yellow.
“There are the marks made by the first two fingers of a man’s hand, but
the disturbance of the fine layer of dust clearly shows that the finger
to the right was longer than the other. That is to say, it was the right
hand: do I make myself clear?”
“You do how do you know the man sat down in your chair and rocked back
and forth?”
“That is the simplest matter of all. I suppose that living as I do I
become more or less a crank. One of my notions is never to leave the
house without seeing that the left rocker of my chair is exactly over
and in a line with that crack in the floor. Notice now and you will see
that it rests diagonally across the crack. Do you ask anything plainer
than that?”
It was Bobby Rice who made the natural remark:
“I don’t see why a rocking chair should shift about.”
“Arrah now, have ye no sinse?” asked Mike Murphy reprovingly; “Uncle Elk
didn’t say _why_ a rocking chair kicks up its heels, but ye ought to
know that the craturs always do so without giving any raison or excuse.
Haven’t I tried to use me mither’s chair at home wid the result that it
always hitches through the dure whin I’m not thinking and gives me a
back somersault? Ye surprise me by your stupidity, as Jim Hooligan said
whin his taycher remarked he could not see what plisure a lad found in
fighting two ither lads.”
“Why were you so quick to say your visitor is a man in good
circumstances?” asked Scout Master Hall.
“Because he smokes fifteen-cent cigars. Most campers out are fond of the
brier-wood pipe, but when they use cigars they don’t buy expensive ones
unless they can afford it, and not always then.”
“What fact gives you so much confidence in their quality?”
“I know the brand, for I have smoked them myself; I caught the fragrance
the moment I opened the door; the silken ashes which he flipped off in
the fireplace is another proof if you wish it. Michael, are you
satisfied?”
“I couldn’t do better mesilf, but ye haven’t completed yer rivelations.”
“What is lacking?”
“I demand that ye give us the name of the gintleman that ye niver met or
heard of and that spint a part of to-day at yer risidence.”
“He is a physician named Wilson Spellman.”
The boys stared at one another, with expressions of incredulity. It
sounded as if Uncle Elk was presuming too far upon their simplicity. By
way of answer he drew a card from his pocket and held it up so that
those nearest readily read the name engraved thereon. Below it were the
pencilled words:
“Come and see me at my camp on the upper side of the lake.”
Scout Master Hall recalled the crossing of the floor by Uncle Elk, when
he opened the door, as well as his quick scrutiny of the book shelves.
“The message written below shows the doctor’s friendly disposition, and
is a further proof—which was not needed—that he is a white man. Since
he has waived ceremony and called upon me, I shall not wait long before
returning the courtesy.”
“He has been in the neighborhood for three days?” said the Scout Master
inquiringly.
“Yes; I saw the smoke of his camp-fire three mornings ago. We should
have seen him paddling across the lake this morning, had we not all been
so far in the woods.”
The Boy Scouts now wandered over the grounds, under the direction of
their owner, who suggested that as it was near noon, they should use
their lines and prepare a fish dinner as his guests. The Scout Master
thanked him but amended by proposing that they should all go back to the
clubhouse, where they had abundant supplies and every needed
convenience, and that he should favor them with his presence. He finally
decided to stay in his own home until late in the afternoon, when he
would join them for supper. He agreed to this the more readily since it
was understood that Mike Murphy was to be initiated as a Tenderfoot
Scout,—that is provided he could pass the necessary examination. No one
except he and Uncle Elk knew the thorough instruction he had received
and the boys, including the Scout Master, thought it hardly possible for
the youth to answer the questions, unless they were made specially easy.
It was the self-confidence of Mike himself that permitted the test to go
on.
“Don’t let up aither,” he said to the leader; “soak it into me the best
ye know how. If I’m to be squashed, I want to be squashed fair and
square, as Pat Rooney said whin three automobiles ran over him.”
The balmy afternoon passed rapidly, with several of the boys fishing
from the canoes along shore and others wandering through the woods,
brightening their knowledge of the different trees and studying the
birds, of which only a moderate number were observed.
Scout Master Hall saw in Mike Murphy the making of a model Boy Scout. It
may be said that when the troop convened that evening, chiefly by the
glow of the oil lamp suspended overhead from a beam in the middle of the
ceiling, the meeting was a special one, called for the purpose of
helping a young tenderfoot along the trail. The proceedings may not have
been strictly regular, but no criticism could be made upon their spirit.
Uncle Elk was invited to occupy the seat of honor as it may be called,
but he preferred to remain in the background as observer and listener.
The night was cool enough to make enjoyable the crackling logs on the
broad hearth and to add to the illumination of the spacious apartment.
There was considerable rain and cool weather in August that year.
At about eight o’clock, Scout Master Hall opened the session with a
commendation of the Boy Scout organization and a compliment to those who
wished to join it. As it was impossible to have the examination
conducted as prescribed by the Court of Honor, the Scout Master assumed
the duty himself.
The second step would have been the collection of observation lists for
future use, but this was omitted, as was the call for drill formation.
The National Flag was displayed and the scout salute and sign followed,
winding up with two good yells which made the rafters of the bungalow
ring.
Mike was now questioned as to his knowledge of our banner. He was
entitled to a written examination, but declined it and again urged his
examiner to show no mercy. Standing in the middle of the room the
candidate amazed his listeners. Not only did he promptly answer every
prescribed question, but he interjected many facts that were new to
nearly all who heard them. I have already hinted of several, such, for
instance, as that our flag throughout the War of 1812 bore fifteen
instead of thirteen stripes, and that Congress restored the original
number in 1818, knowing that otherwise the beautiful symmetry of the
emblem would be destroyed by the increase in the number of States.
“Michael,” said the Instructor from where he was sitting; “can you tell
us to whom the credit belongs for the present pattern of our flag?”
“To Captain Samuel C. Reid—God bless his memory!”
“And who was Captain Samuel C. Reid?”
“He commanded the American privateer, _General Armstrong_, which knocked
the iver-lasting stuffing out of a British squadron of three vessels and
two thousand men, while he had liss than a hundred heroes. Worra, worra,
what a shindy that must have been!”
And then Mike impressively repeated the lines that Uncle Elk had taught
him:
“Tell the story to your sons
Of the gallant days of yore,
When the brig of seven guns
Fought the fleet of seven score.
From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night—
Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight—
In the harbor of Fayal in the Azore.”
By this time, the Scout Master and everyone of the boys were convinced
of the truth. They knew the theme that had engaged Uncle Elk and Mike
the evening before, and had they felt any doubt on that point it would
have been quenched by the sly glances that flitted between the couple.
The next requirement was for the candidate to step to the table in the
middle of the room, where two pieces of hempen cord had been laid, and
to tie at least four of the eight knots which have been already
explained. He held up the pieces, like a magician about to give an
exhibition of his skill, and tied every one with a deft quickness that
brought a hum of admiration.
Then he took the scout oath, explaining all its provisions in his own
language or rather in that of his brilliant teacher, not forgetting the
significance of the scout badge and that which is worn by the
tenderfoot. The Scout Master pinned the badge over the left upper pocket
of his coat. The whole company clapped their hands.
“I am delighted, Mike,” said Mr. Hall; “I never knew any one to acquit
himself so admirably. If the opportunity presents itself, you will make
as creditable a Second Class and finally a First Class Scout, with no
end of merit badges. You know you must serve a month before you are
eligible for the next grade. Our stay in Maine will be no longer than
that and I shall not have the pleasure, therefore, of witnessing your
advancement. Your home is in this State and you will probably demit from
our Patrol and join some other more convenient. I understand that Rev.
Mr. Brown, the Methodist minister at Boothbay Harbor, has organized a
fine company of Boy Scouts, and they will be glad to welcome you to
their ranks. I wonder, even when I know the circumstances, how you
acquired such a knowledge of the duties of a tenderfoot.”
“Begging yer pardon,” replied Mike with a grin; “there’s no cause fur
wonder. The knowledge of which ye spake and which passed through me
noddle, come from _him_.”
And he pointed at Uncle Elk, sitting behind the others, who so far as
his beard permitted one to see, smiled and said nothing.