A PROMISE
Westy Martin was a scout of the first class. He was a member of the
First Bridgeboro Troop of Bridgeboro, New Jersey. Notwithstanding that
he was a serious boy, he belonged to the Silver Fox Patrol, presided
over by Roy Blakeley.
According to Pee-wee Harris of the Raven Patrol, Westy was the only
Silver Fox who was not crazy. Yet in one way he was crazy; he was crazy
to go out west. He had even saved up a hundred dollars toward a
projected trip to the Yellowstone National Park. He did not know exactly
when or how he would be able to make this trip alone, but one “saves up”
for all sorts of things unplanned. To date, Westy had only the one
hundred dollars and the dream of going. When he had saved another
hundred, he would begin to develop plans.
“I’ll tell you what you do,” Westy’s father had said to him. “You go up
to Uncle Dick’s and spend the summer and help around. You know what
Uncle Dick told you; any summer he’d be glad to have you help around the
farm and be glad to pay you so much a week. There’s your chance, my boy.
At Temple Camp you can’t earn any money.
“My suggestion is that you pass up Temple Camp this summer and go up on
the farm. By next summer maybe you’ll have enough to go west, and I’ll
help you out,” he added significantly. “I may even go with you myself
and take a look at those geezers or geysers or whatever they call them.
I’d kind of half like to get a squint at a grizzly myself.”
“Oh, boy!” said Westy.
“I wish I were,” said his father.
“Well, I guess I’ll do that,” said Westy hesitatingly. He liked Temple
Camp and the troop, and the independent enterprise proposed by his
father was not to be considered without certain lingering regrets.
“It will be sort of like camping—in a way,” he said wistfully. “I can
take my cooking set and my rifle——”
“I don’t think I’d take the rifle if I were you,” said Mr. Martin, in
the chummy way he had when talking with Westy.
“Jiminies, I’d hate to leave it home,” said Westy, a little surprised
and disappointed.
“Well, you’ll be working up there and won’t have much time to use it,”
said Mr. Martin.
Westy sensed that this was not his father’s true reason for objecting to
the rifle. The son recalled that his father had been no more than
lukewarm when the purchase of the rifle had first been proposed. Mr.
Martin did not like rifles. He had observed, as several million other
people had observed, that it is always the gun which is not loaded that
kills people.
The purchase of the coveted rifle had not closed the matter. The rifle
had done no harm, that was the trouble; it had not even killed Mr.
Martin’s haunting fears.
Westy was straightforward enough to take his father’s true meaning and
to ignore the one which had been given. It left his father a little
chagrined but just the same he liked this straightforwardness in Westy.
“Oh, there’d be time enough to use it up there,” Westy said. “And if
there wasn’t any time, why, then I couldn’t use it, that’s all. There
wouldn’t be any harm taking it. I promised you I’d never shoot at
anything but targets and I never have.”
“I know you haven’t, but up there, why, there are lots of——”
“There’s just one thing up there that I’m thinking about,” said Westy
plainly, “and that’s the side of the big barn where I can put a target.
That’s the only thing I want to shoot at, believe me. And I’ve got two
eyes in my head to see if anybody is around who might get hit. That big,
red barn is like—why, it’s just like a building in the middle of the
Sahara Desert. I don’t see why you’re still worrying.”
“How do you know what’s back of the target?” Mr. Martin asked. “How do
you know who’s inside the barn?”
“If I just tell you I’ll be careful, I should think that would be
enough,” said Westy.
“Well, it is,” said Mr. Martin heartily.
“And I’ll promise you again so you can be sure.”
“I don’t want any more promises about your not shooting at anything but
targets, my boy,” said Mr. Martin. “You gave me your promise a month ago
and that’s enough. But I want you to promise me again that you’ll be
careful. Understand?”
“I tell you what I’ll do, Dad,” said he. “First I’ll see that there’s
nobody in the barn. Then I’ll lock the barn doors. Then I’ll get a big
sheet of iron that I saw up there and I’ll hang it on the side of the
barn. Then I’ll paste the target against that, see? No bullet could get
through that iron and it’s about, oh, five times larger than the
target.”
“Suppose your shot should go wild and hit those old punky boards beyond
the edge of the iron sheet?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Good night, you’re a scream!” laughed Westy.
Mr. Martin, as usual, was caught by his son’s honest, wholesome
good-humor.
“I suppose you think I might shoot in the wrong direction and hit one of
those grizzlies out in Yellowstone Park,” Westy laughed. “Safety first
is your middle name all right.”
“Well, you go up to Uncle Dick’s and don’t point your gun out west,”
said Mr. Martin, “and maybe we can talk your mother into letting us go
to Yellowstone next year.”
“And will you make _me_ a promise?” asked Westy.
“Well, what is it?”
“That you won’t worry?”