ROBIN HOOD
They emerged into the road at North Bridgeboro where other scouts were
already straggling after their fruitless quest. None of the parties had
anything to report except that they were tired. Pee-wee reported, also,
that he was hungry. They gathered on the dark platform of the little
North Bridgeboro station, considering what to do next.
Across the road from the station were the country store, the grain and
feed yard, and several other stores and buildings, locked and in
darkness. In all that rural solitude only one bright spot was to be
seen, the dirty stained-glass windows of Hamburger Mike’s “eats” wagon.
“Let’s go over and get some pie and coffee,” one of the disheartened
searchers suggested.
“Let’s follow the road back to town,” another proposed.
Some who did not care to regale themselves thought it would be well to
do that in the forlorn hope that some clew or information might come to
them along the road. Since they had no clew, one way was as good as
another.
Roy, Pee-wee, Connie and several others decided to get something to eat
at Mike’s before returning through the woods, where they would make a
supplementary search. What else could they do? The whole thing seemed so
hopeless. It was in Hamburger Mike’s that Pee-wee’s party encountered
Toby Ralston.
Toby lived in North Bridgeboro. He was a quiet, easy-going, country boy,
familiar in the thoroughfare of the larger town some two or three miles
below; one of those boys who seemed never to go home, notwithstanding
that he was not in the least adventurous or wayward. He was the kind of
boy (and there are many such) who attaches himself to some place of
doubtful interest and makes it his accustomed headquarters.
Now and then, a boy is found who likes to hang out in a garage, or
perhaps at a fire house, and identify himself with the place as a cat
does. Usually he renders much gratuitous service for no comprehensible
reason. Such boys may be said to have the local habit.
Toby Ralston was one of those boys. Why he had never joined the scouts
is an interesting question. The scene of his altogether innocent
lounging was Hamburger Mike’s lunch wagon. Hamburger Mike never closed
up. Trains might come and trains might go, the stores might close, the
villagers go to bed, the neighborhood of the station become a deserted
wilderness; but the light always burned in the dirty stained-glass
windows of Hamburger Mike’s lunch wagon. Surely, on the day of judgment,
Hamburger Mike would be the last to turn out his lights.
It is not on record that Mike ever gave Toby Ralston a cent for helping
to wash dishes and drawing coffee out of his nickel cylinders, or
putting new menu cards in the greasy menu card frame. But Toby did these
things every day and usually until midnight. And while he was thus
engaged his side partner, Robin Hood, waited patiently for him.
Robin Hood was a magnificent police dog. His noble posture as he sat in
the dingy place made the lunch wagon look squalid and mundane enough.
Robin Hood disdained the place with the disdain of a true aristocrat. It
was perfectly evident that he did not approve of his young master’s
attachment to this greasy, smoky, stuffy emporium. Hour in and hour out,
he would lie waiting patiently, and when his lord went forth, he would
slowly rise, stretch his legs and go too.
Robin Hood’s gray wolfish hair and wild eyes and upright ears were
familiar on the streets of Bridgeboro and the staring admiration which
he aroused seemed a matter of no concern to him whatever. He was
oblivious to every one but Toby. He received petting from others as if
it bored him; and occasionally, when it was excessive, he showed
resentment.
He paid not the slightest attention to these scouts as they entered and
lined up on the row of revolving stools before the greasy counter.
“Here’s your chance to join the scouts, Toby,” said Connie Bennett.
“There’s a vacancy in the animal cracker’s patrol.”
“What’s up?” Toby asked, as he slid a plate of pie along the counter so
that it came to a stop directly before Connie. “Want coffee—you
fellows?”
Hamburger Mike himself waited on the others, then went back to his
corner and resumed the reading of a newspaper.
“Here’s your chance,” repeated Connie. “Do you know what brings us up
here this late? You know Margie Garrison, don’t you? Red-headed? She
hasn’t been seen since four o’clock this afternoon—lost. We’ve been
combing the woods for her. Nothing doing. You’re always saying you’re
going to join and you never do—_gee williger_, this coffee’s hot. She
was seen in Westover’s field this afternoon and nobody saw her after
that. Bring Robin Hood along and we’ll trail her; what d’you say? Say
you’ll join the scouts and we’ll keep the job in the family. If we find
her, won’t it be some tall sensation?”
“Robin Hood could never trail her,” said Roy, drinking coffee.
[Illustration: “ROBIN HOOD COULD NEVER TRAIL HER!” SAID ROY.]
“Oh, is that so?” Toby sneered.
“Yes, that’s so,” said Westy Martin.
“Now, you tell one,” said Toby, turning to Pee-wee.
It was half a minute before Pee-wee was able sufficiently to get the
upper hand of the pie he was eating to speak coherently. But he was able
to think meanwhile. And a great light suddenly burst upon him. What a
glorious acquisition to his patrol Toby and this magnificent dog would
be. He had heard about dogs tracking fugitives. He had seen them thus
employed in _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. He had seen them in the movies. But the
idea of a dog attached to his own patrol, leading the way to a poor,
little lost girl in the dead of night—this was something beyond the
range of his fondest dreams. Here would be adventure and glory. That was
some inspiration of Connie’s, he thought.
When he was able to speak it was Roy, who sat next to him, whom he
addressed. His conscience may have troubled him a little, for he spoke
in an undertone. Roy, despite his habit of victimizing Pee-wee with
unholy banter, was after all his friend—his closest friend.
“Do you mean—do you really think he won’t—that when it comes down to it
he won’t join?”
“Who, Arabella?”
“Do you mean it?”
“_Good night_, kid, have some sense on your birthday. Why didn’t he come
with us if he was willing to be one of us? What did he do? Turned around
and walked home. There you are; what more do you want?”
Pee-wee was thoughtful. As he could not decide what he wanted to do or
say, he fell back on doing something which he was absolutely positive he
wanted to do. He bespoke two sugar crullers with which to finish his
coffee.
And meanwhile, the talk went on.