[Frontispiece: HE GROPED BLINDLY FOR THE PROJECTING TREE.
_Skinny McCord_. _Frontispiece_ (_Page_ 61)]
SKINNY McCORD
_By_
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
_Author of_
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
THE WESTY MARTIN BOOKS
ILLUSTRATED BY
HOWARD L. HASTINGS
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I Skinny Loses Something
II Shadows
III Ears that Hear
IV By the Dead Fire
V Face to Face
VI In the Dim Light
VII Dark Plans
VIII Stealth
IX For Danny
X Won
XI If
XII Scout Law Number Two
XIII Alias Danville Bently
XIV The Pioneer Scout
XV The Serenade
XVI The Accused
XVII The Masquerader
XVIII To Pastures New
XIX The New Arrival
XX Skinny's Protégé
XXI Temple Camp Takes Notice
XXII Partners
XXIII Henny's Cave
XXIV Missing
XXV From Above
XXVI With the Smoke
XXVII Skinny's Hero
XXVIII It Runs in the Family
XXIX Just as Easy--
XXX Fixed
XXXI Holly Hollis
XXXII The Night Before
XXXIII Victory and Then--
XXXIV The Price
SKINNY McCORD
CHAPTER I
SKINNY LOSES SOMETHING
There was great excitement around the camp-fire. Skinny McCord had
lost his compass. He had dropped it and it had rolled away, and all
the boys were making a great show of helping him to find it. They
did this not wholly from kindness.
Skinny was a sensitive boy and it gave his comrades great delight to
see him embarrassed, as he always was when made the subject of group
talk or the center of interest. Not that they would have hesitated a
moment to assist Skinny. For they liked him immensely and would have
done anything in the world for him. But they were a mirthful lot,
these scouts of Temple Camp, and felt a certain bantering enjoyment
in seeing him uneasy, as he always was when the spotlight was thrown
on him. They liked that diffident way of his--that bashful smile.
This was his second summer at camp and still he was shy; he would
probably always be shy....
It was not much of a compass that he had lost; just a little tin
affair. He was sorry that he had chosen to transfer it from one
pocket to another, for now he found himself the star attraction of
the camp-fire throng. "It--it isn't much good anyway," he said;
"don't bother."
But they did bother. They had Skinny where they wanted him and they
could not let the occasion go by. He would have to go through with
this torture. He often suffered such torture at the hands of these
scouts who would have knocked any one down who dared to harm him.
"Everybody hunt for Skinny's compass!" called Roy Blakeley. (He was
easily the worst of the lot.) "Get out of the way," he said as he
rolled Pee-wee Harris over on the ground, and made great pretense of
scrutinizing the spot. "Don't sit around gaping when Skinny's
compass is lost. Correct imitation of boy scouts hunting for a lost
compass that didn't know which way it was rolling."
"Would you mind getting up, Uncle Jeb, so we can look under that log
for Skinny McCord?" said another boy. Poor Skinny looked almost
frightened to see the old western trapper, master of woods lore in
camp, smilingly arise while a dozen scouts searched under the log
seat, to the accompaniment of a clamorous chorus.
"All fall to and hunt for Skinny's compass!"
"Hey, Skinny, we'll find it!"
"Go and get a couple of scoutmasters and a few councilors."
"Tell them Skinny McCord lost his compass."
"We'll form a posse," said Roy.
"Don't worry, Skinny, we'll find it."
"Everybody hunt for the compass of Skinny McCord."
"Sit still, Skinny; your thousands of friends will find it for you."
He sat still, his face as red as the end of the big iron poker which
lay in the fire. He might have served as a model for a statue of
embarrassment as he sat on his old grocery box fearfully
contemplating the rumpus he had caused. Timidly he glanced at
Councilor Barrows as if to assure that smiling official that he had
not intended to interrupt the proceedings with all this hubbub.
In company Skinny never permitted himself to occupy a whole seat. He
sat on the edge of a chair or box or boat seat; this was the
invariable sign of his embarrassment. "Sit back and make yourself at
home, Skinny," they would say. But that was the one thing poor
Skinny could never do--make himself at home. His getting into the
scouts was the great thing in his young life and he had been in a
sort of trance ever since. He had never got over the shock. They
had told him that pretty soon he would be a patrol leader. His
elevation to that height would certainly have killed him.
A scout from Indiana (one of those robust jolliers who enliven camps)
jumped upon a rough seat, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted
like a fish pedler, "Ooooooh! Everybody! Scout McCord of
Bridgeboro--First Bridgeboro Troop--has lost his compass! Come one,
come all, and help find it!"
They were all crawling about on their hands and knees, fifty or more
of them, upturning boxes and throwing camp stools about in hilarious
exaggeration of helpfulness. And there sat poor Skinny smiling
bashfully. If a pack of lions had suddenly taken it into their heads
to roar their tribute to a kitten as a member of their family, the
kitten's attitude would have been comparable to that of poor Skinny.
But the spasm of raillery was soon over. They were more concerned
with Skinny's discomfiture than with finding the fugitive compass.
And they did not find it; it had rolled gayly off and baffled all
these trackers and pathfinders. Skinny did not let his uproarious
comrades know how much he really did want to find it. He was even
glad when the excitement was over. He hoped they would resume
camp-fire yarns and forget all about it. He had suffered quite
enough this agony of being in the public eye.
But the fire was burning low now and there were no more camp-fire
yarns. There was a continuous exodus from the spot. Sitting there
one might see scouts, singly and in groups, moving into the darkness,
up the hill or along Cabin Lane or toward Tent Village, as they
called it, to their quarters. Slowly the reflection of the fire in
the lake near by diminished until there was nothing but a tiny red
glow on the black water.
"So long, see you in the morning," was repeated again and again as
patrols went their several ways off into the solemn stillness of the
big scout community, It was more than a camp, this lakeside
foundation started by Mr. John Temple; it was a sort of scout city in
the wilderness. One could be quite alone and unnoticed there, if he
so chose, even as one may be a hermit in the metropolis.
Soon only half a dozen or so of the merry, lolling throng remained,
and these sat meditating as they waited for the fire to die. There
were always a few to linger like this; a few who had that gentle
sentiment that likes to see the old year go out, or watch beside a
dying fire. Old Uncle Jeb and Tom Slade, camp assistant, always
waited to trample out the last embers. With them sat two or three of
the older boys.
"Poor kid, it's a lot of fun to see him all flustered," one said.
"He's even got a regular scout suit," said another. "He drove down
to Kingston with Curry in his Ford and bought it and now he's afraid
to wear it. Somebody told me he's been saving up for it ever since
last summer. And now he's afraid to wear it."
"Curry told me it's about forty-'leven sizes too big," drawled lanky
Brent Gaylong. "But I s'pose Skinny figures on growing up to it.
Probably he means to wear it when he's National Scout Commissioner.
A scout has to be prepared as I understand."
"Look out, you'll burn your shoe," said Tom. "If _you_ dressed more
like a scout it wouldn't hurt you any."
"I have the soul of a scout," drawled Brent. "I don't need the
tinseled regalia. What do you suppose would happen," he said
meditatively after a pause, "if Skinny were to be awarded the Gold
Cross and all the high dinkums of scouting were here to pull the
presentation stuff to the plaudits of the multitude! What do you
think he'd do if old man Temple made one of his speeches about him!"
"I think he'd drop dead," said Tom. "But Skinny is no coward; he's
just bashful and sensitive."
"Huh, funny," mused Brent. "He doesn't seem to be any more at home
with the Elks than when he first joined them."
"He's happy," said Tom.
"Thar's cowardly animals, and thar's timid animals," said old Uncle
Jeb, "n' they ain't the same by no manner o' means. That thar
youngster's all right, I reckon. On'y he's shy."
Two of those who had lingered went away; they were silhouetted as
they passed the big lighted window of Benson Dormitory, then were
swallowed by the darkness. Still the trio waited by the dying fire,
silent, meditative. Tom was watching a particular patch of embers as
one by one little particles went out and the tiny area of red
diminished. He could have stamped this out with one foot, but he
took a certain idle pleasure in waiting till it vanished in the black
night. "Why don't the Elks get after Skinny about his new suit?" he
mused aloud.
"I suppose they don't know anything about it," drawled Brent.
"Hmph, poor kid," said Tom.