THE CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL
When Pee-wee spoke about his good turn guest he referred to a sort of
small bank balance which he had standing to his credit up at Temple
Camp.
Once upon a time there was a tragedy at Temple Camp; a scout lost his
life in trying to save the life of a comrade. Both went down in the
shadowy waters of a lake. They had both come from the same town; in
fact, had been members of the same troop. The fathers of these two
scouts resolved to perpetuate their memories at the camp by an
appropriate memorial which should exemplify at once the idea of heroism
and of comradeship. Temple Camp was full of endowments of various sorts;
special privileges could not be bought but could be won. Heroism bore
interest at Temple Camp.
But there was something peculiarly gentle in the idea underlying this
Carlson-Bates Memorial. For it perpetuated not only the strong quality
of heroism but the gentler quality of friendship. And this quality of
friendship was insisted upon. It was quaint and unique because it was a
living memorial. The memory of those two who had gone was ever
perpetuated by the scouts themselves in a continuous exemplification of
scout comradeship.
The actual monument itself was simple enough. It was a little rustic
cabin in a quiet grove, removed from the turmoil of the camp. Birds sang
in the trees about it and squirrels poked their inquisitive eyes in and
about its interior, sometimes even availing themselves, uninvited, of
its open hospitality.
Within its one rustic apartment were two comfortable bunks, a tiny
library with _Carlson-Bates Memorial_ stamped on every book, a rough
writing table, a cupboard for provisions, and even a fireplace of field
stones, with two primitive high-backed chairs facing it. These looked as
if they might have belonged to Daniel Boone.
Flanking this rough fireplace were pictures framed in unbarked wood, one
on either side, of Horace Bates and Danny Carlson, scouts who had gone
down together in Black Lake.
In both of these portraits the boys seemed to be looking straight at the
beholder, and it was customary when showing a visitor over this tiny,
hallowed reservation, to ask him to guess which of the two pictures was
that of the would-be rescuer. There was nothing on either picture or
anywhere else about the spot which hinted at this, for the place was as
much a memorial to friendship as to heroism. Outside was another rough
fireplace, also built of field stone, and intended for cooking.
The Carlson-Bates Memorial was everything that a rustic abode for two
scouts should be. Money had not been spared to make it so, but care had
been taken that the power of money should not overstep itself by making
the place pretentious and modern. Over the fireplace, between the
portraits, was a rough-hewn board in which were burned the familiar
words which had a certain pathos there, TWO’S A COMPANY. On the center
table were writing paper and envelopes, appropriately coarse and ragged
on the edges, bearing the heading:
CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL
TEMPLE CAMP
Two’s a Company
Down at camp there was a rough sign on one of the trees with an arrow
pointing; TO CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL, it read. You followed a beaten path
up through the woods, across a little brook, to a spot as dim and solemn
and remote as any hermit’s cave. And there you were. Visitors, whose
casual expectations had pictured a marble monument, were wont to pause
in silent astonishment on reaching the spot. Girls usually said they
could live there for the rest of their lives.
Tom Slade, camp assistant, who usually took visitors to the quaint
little outpost, would snap his fingers at the squirrels and whistle at
the birds while the others gazed about captivated and enraptured.
Sometimes a squirrel would scurry up his khaki trousers and perch upon
his shoulder and he would tease it with some morsel or other while he
answered questions.
“Is it ever occupied?” visitors would ask.
“Oh yes, sometimes, but a scout has got to go some to win the
privilege,” Tom would answer. Then to the squirrel he would say in his
offhand way, “How ’bout that, Pete?”
“And does he live here all alone?” they would ask.
“No, he can invite a friend to stay all summer with him here. Can’t he,
Pete? Two’s a company, read that? Only the friend must be some one who
isn’t at camp. Pete usually steals all their food from them. Don’t you,
Pete?”
“And which is the one who tried to rescue the other?” would be another
query as the visitor gazed about.
“You’re not supposed to ask that,” Tom would laugh.
“But it _must_ be _known_,” a girl was almost sure to ask.
“Oh, it’s known,” Tom would say. “Danny, that one on the left, he was
the boy. But they were friends, that’s the point, hey, Pete?” he would
inquire of the squirrel.
“It isn’t true that the place is haunted, is it?” was another question.
“That colored cook you have says their ghosts come here in the dead of
night.”
“Chocolate Drop?” Tom would smile. “Oh, you’re likely to hear all sorts
of things from him.”
On the way back through the woods, Tom would usually be more
communicative. “You know scouts have to do good turns, don’t you? Well,
if any scout does six good turns, _big ones_, that are passed on by the
trustees, he can live there for the rest of the summer and invite one
other boy to spend the summer there with him. See? Provisions for two
are sent up from cooking shack—the kids have no expenses. You see it’s a
memorial of one great big good turn that didn’t work out, and of the
friendship those two fellows had for each other.
“Let’s see, this summer it wasn’t occupied at all. Last summer a scout
from Boston was up there and he invited a poor little shaver from his
home town to share it with him. They lived on beans, those two. Did
their own cooking mostly. Summer before that, let’s see—nobody. You see
a scout has got to put over six big ones, then after that he’s got to be
a _friend to one particular_ fellow. He has to be host. Pretty good
idea, huh? Private cabin, stationery, all primeval inconveniences, and
everybody coming up with kodaks to take their pictures.”
“Oh, I should think it would be _bliss_ living there,” one girl remarked
after a visit to the hallowed spot, “and the idea of two’s a company, I
think that’s just _wonderful_.”
“That’s the idea,” said Tom as they followed the trail down.
“Friendship means just two, don’t you think?” the girl asked, edging her
way into a line of talk which girls delight in. “Just two, alone,
together. Isn’t the idea _sweet_? _Friendship!_”
“That’s the dope,” said Tom.
“And is any one going to live there next summer?”
“Oh goodness, yes,” laughed Tom; “very muchly. I suppose I ought to be
very proud, he’s a scout from my own home town in New Jersey.”
“Isn’t that _wonderful_! And he did six _heroic deeds_?”
“Good turns,” said Tom; “real ones. He specializes on those. He eats
them raw.”
“Oh, and who is he going to invite up?”
“Now you’ve got me,” said Tom. “All I know is he sprang six stunts and
went home with the Carlson-Bates certificate. He can invite whoever he
pleases. He usually blows in about the Fourth of July; he goes off on
the Fourth, they say home in Bridgeboro.”
“I should think you _would_ be proud,” the girl said. “Is he tall?”
“Tall? Oh yes, he’s about six feet three inches or three feet six
inches, I forget which. But he’s a great hero, in fact, he’s eight or
ten heroes.”
“I never know whether to believe you or not,” the girl said. “Will you
tell me his name?”
“Positively,” said Tom. “His name is Harris—Walter Harris.”
“Oh, how proud he must be,” said the girl. “Just to think how he’ll live
up there all alone with some poor—oh, I think it’s _wonderful_. And his
summer will be consecrated to friendship. Do you know how I picture him?
I picture him as tall, and—and—sort of slender and athletic. Not exactly
dignified but—you know—kind of quiet and reserved. Like a—oh, you know
what I mean—like a—kind of _aloof_ and _silent_. That’s the
word—_aloof_. I picture him as being _different_ from other boys.
Isolated.”
“Oh, he’s different,” said Tom.