NOT A SCOUT
What he did, he did in a kind of impulse of reckless endeavor. He knew
that if he went down, he would not this time fall in the mud, but on the
pile of rocky debris. Clasping the rock above with both hands, he
succeeded in getting one leg upon the wall, then the other. For just two
or three seconds, his peril was frightful, until he got his whole weight
upon the wall. Then he was lying safely on top of it.
At this spot there was a sheer descent upon the outside. He might have
risked a jump, for the depth was not so great as within. But he was
chafed and sore from his frantic effort and lame from his earlier fall.
So he limped around to the point where the remains of the stone steps
were and descended there. If it had not been for the unconscious child
within, he would have experienced the exhilaration of Monte Cristo at
being out in the world once more.
But what should he do now? The nearest house, he knew, was a mile off,
and it would take him long to limp that distance. Moreover, he was now
conscious of a certain personal quality which he had always exhibited in
an insignificant way.
This was his self-reliance, destined to be the making of him. As long as
Emerson could remember, he had been the butt of ridicule by boys.
Sometimes, he had been the victim of rough usage. But he had never told
of this at home nor committed the unpardonable sin of making an ally of
his older brother; “big-brother stuff” he had eschewed. He had begun
when very young going into the city alone, and attending select
matinees, lectures and exhibitions. Very early, he had begun carrying
his wallet with the means to finance these trips. Once, when a mere
child, he had been lost, and he had gone and told a policeman.
These things, and things like them, had won him only ridicule at the
hands of boys. And his queer, adult phraseology had aroused unholy
mirth. It would hardly do to say that a boy should not be too refined,
yet extreme refinement in a boy is apt to tell to his disadvantage. At
all events, it had been so with Emerson.
But the spirit of self-reliance, if it exists, will manifest itself in
large ways as well as in small ways, given only the occasion. And
Emerson Skybrow, baffled, lame, distraught, would not go to the nearest
house and put his business into some one else’s hands. He had not
stumbled upon little Margie Garrison, he had gone seeking her. Well, he
would see this thing through or know the reason why. That was his own
phrase, “or know the reason why.” They had often laughed at him when he
said he would do this or that _or know the reason why_. Scouts are so
fond of laughing that sometimes they laugh too soon....
He limped along the road to a small bridge some hundred feet distant.
His exploit with the broken plank had given him an idea. With a plank of
adequate length he might get the child out of that hole; then he would
carry her to the nearest house; he would carry or get her there somehow.
The flooring lay loosely across the bridge; he had heard it rattle under
a speeding auto while he was in the sunken enclosure. He found that the
top layer of loose planks was supported by a still older flooring
underneath. He could remove a plank without causing peril to travelers.
These flooring planks extended out beyond the width of the bridge on
either side in disorderly, irregular lengths, and he selected the
longest. It was a heavy, thick timber and hard to manage. But it was
easily long enough for his purpose.
He tugged and dragged at this unwieldy burden, pausing at intervals to
rest, until he reached the enclosure. Here he slid it over the edge of
the wall until it dropped by its own weight into the hole. Reaching from
the bottom of one side to the top of the other, it was at an angle of
less than forty-five degrees; easy enough to ascend, he thought.
His hopes now ran high. And besides, good news awaited him as he went
cautiously down the plank, letting himself descend backward on hands and
knees. He heard the child stirring. Then he heard her speak. Her voice
sounded strangely clear and out of place in that black dungeon, calling
for her mother. “Mother, my back aches and I got a pain,” she said
weakly. It seemed like any other child awaking in the night. “It’s all
water,” she said faintly.
Then Emerson spoke to her. “It isn’t your mother, it’s Emerson Skybrow;
you fell in here and I found you. You needn’t be afraid because I’m
going to get you out of here and take you home. I guess you came here
after ivy, didn’t you?”
“You’re the boy they call Sissie Skybrow,” she said; “I know you.”
“Yes,” he said. “You needn’t be afraid.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of _you_,” she said, half noticing him as she rocked
her head in discomfort from side to side. “Nobody’s afraid of _you_.”
She was but a small child, and suffering; she did not mean to hurt him.
“I want to get you on this board,” he said; “and then maybe I can help
you up. Do you think you can sit up? I guess you’re not hurt very much,
are you?”
“There were people trying to chop me with axes,” she said, as he gently
encouraged her to a sitting posture. “They came on a ship.”
“Well, you’re better now,” he comforted.
“I like you,” she said. “I don’t care if a lot of smarties don’t.
They’re sillies calling you a girl’s name; boys don’t have girls’
names.”
“No,” he said; “I’m going to help you get on the board now.”
But this was more difficult than he had supposed, for she closed her
eyes again, seeming to hover in the borderland of consciousness. And
whatever her actual condition, he saw that she could not cooperate in
her own rescue. The angle of the plank was too steep to permit walking
up, even assuming that she could help herself. She was a dead-weight and
might remain so for hours.
What he did entailed somewhat rough handling and all the strength he
had, besides considerable risk. But he did it and succeeded in it. He
got the little body onto the shorter piece of broken plank and bound it
there like an Indian papoose bound to a board. For this purpose, he used
his own shirt and the light coat which the child wore. She was conscious
in a weak, half-interested sort of way, and made no objection to this
novel treatment. It was curious how her undirected, wandering thoughts
reverted to Emerson in his familiar role of “sissie” and “teacher’s
pet.”
“They said you play jacks,” she said, and seemed not particularly
interested in an answer.
He got his burden onto the slanting plank and pushed it up little by
little. It was hard to push and care was required to keep it from going
over sideways. But if it did not move easily, at least it did not
backslide easily. He got it forward a few inches, then rested, letting
the weight of it press against him while he straddled the plank and
locked his legs beneath it to keep from sliding. Then he advanced it a
few inches and moved up himself.
Before he had pushed his burden far, it occurred to him to slip a lead
pencil under the makeshift car and this roller enabled him to advance it
more easily. It seemed a risky business as slowly, inch by inch, he
progressed higher and higher, guiding his burden carefully to avoid side
movement. Reaching the top, he found it easier to attain the wall than
before. Now he was able to lift the child and half drag, half carry her,
down the slope of masonry which had once been a flight of steps.
To do this thing, he had strained every nerve and every muscle in his
body. He was bare to the waist, and covered with splinters, cuts and
bruises. His natty trousers were in shreds. And this was Emerson
Skybrow—“Arabella.”
As he bore his burden down the chaos of stone and ancient crumbling
mortar, away from the scene of his harrowing adventure, he breathed in
great gulps, pausing now and again to get his breath. His chest heaved,
his wet hair fell streaking over his eyes, he reeled, he staggered, he
paused exhausted, with the child clinging to his knees.
It was while pausing in this attitude some yards in from the road, with
the child clinging to him as he tried to get his breath, that he heard
voices in the distance....