I wish not to intrude into this narrative. Of the extraordinary
adventures which I am now to record, Tom was unquestionably the hero.
But since I am a trustee of the new camp and was present there in the
exciting season of its formation, I suppose I am the logical one to
group these remarkable incidents into a story. As for Tom, he cannot
remain seated long enough to write a letter.
You must bear with me a little time while I tell briefly the somewhat
humdrum details incident to the launching of this enterprise. Yet even
here was a spice of mystery. I went up that very evening to see our
town’s most benevolent and distinguished citizen, Mr. John Temple. I
know him, as every one in town knows him; perhaps a little better than
some, for I have met him on the golf course. He is none of your
open-handed story book philanthropists, tossing princely sums here and
there, one of those scout angels who rewards the juvenile hero with a
thousand dollars for a brave deed. But he is a very rich man, and a
vastly generous one. I have always believed that the conspicuous success
of Temple Camp is to be ascribed, not only to his liberal endowment of
it, but to his wise and painstaking oversight. It is his pet and his
pride.
Well, I went up to see him and on my way there a rather singular thing
happened. Scarcely had I reached the first corner when I was accosted by
a man whom I thought to be the same one that I had noticed loitering (or
at least pausing) in front of my house during Tom’s call. To this day, I
do not know for a certainty whether or not he was the same man. If he
was, he must have put on an overcoat in the interval. Notwithstanding
his scraggly beard he appeared rather more presentable than the man I
had noticed near Tom’s car. Yet I thought he was the same man.
Be that as it might, he addressed me by name and asked me if I knew
whether the Adirondack camp property, as he called it, had been sold.
“May I ask who you are?” I said with intentional curtness.
As I did not pause he fell in step with me. “No offense,” he said. “I
heard young Mr. Slade was interested in buying it. I’d like to get a job
up that way; my health ain’t so good.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be much of a recommendation,” I said rather
coldly. “And what makes you think that I should know anything about it?”
“I heard it was for sale,” he stammered confusedly.
At the corner I paused just long enough to say, “You had better consult
those who are interested. The matter is none of my business, and none of
yours. Do you belong here in town?”
The man was obviously embarrassed; he had evidently counted on a better
success in chance acquaintanceship. He fell behind me and soon I hit on
an explanation of his presumption. I came to the conclusion that he was
an aggressive real estate man who was after information about a
transaction from which he might squeeze a profit. I thought he might
represent interests which would be keen to make a quick purchase of the
camp property if a prompt resale were assured.
I did not mention this incident in my talk with Mr. Temple, for I wished
not to give him the impression that I was trying to urge him to a quick
decision. But I was very glad indeed that he seemed really interested in
the property and disposed to act promptly. I had thought of my call as
in the nature of a favor to Tom, but had feared it would be unavailing.
But I was quite reassured. Tom thinks it was I who did the trick, but
frankly, I believe that Mr. Temple had the matter in mind when I called
on him.
Well, to make an end of this business phase of the story, Mr. Temple
told me he intended to get in touch with his broker at once, and also
with the national scout people. Mr. Gerry and Mr. Donaldson, of our
local council, went up with Tom and had a look at the property. And
later, Mr. Temple himself went with old Uncle Jeb Rushmore, the good old
scout of Temple Camp. I kept out of the business until the new camp was
actually opened and then I became a trustee.
As soon as the deal had gone through (that was in January) Tom went up
to the property with a couple of young men from this town to stay there
through the spring and try to get the place in some sort of shape for
the summer. One of these young men was the fellow they call Skipper Tim
who is steward down at the boat club during the boating season. He was
well chosen. The other was Totterson Burke--Tot Burke, they call him.
He’s freight agent here in town and used to be in the life saving
service along the coast. I may say here that I think Tom Slade’s circle
of available friends represents every out-of-the-ordinary and
adventurous calling on the face of the earth. They went up in Tom’s
flivver, of course, stopping at Temple Camp to get some tools needed in
felling trees and building cabins. Here they picked up Piker Pete, who
is fire-lookout up on Cloudburst Mountain in back of Temple Camp, and
took him along. I understand he is called Piker because he scans the
country and not because he is in any sense stingy.
As for myself, I did not go till later, when I went up with Brent
Gaylong. That was in the summer. And before that something very
startling happened.