BY THE DEAD FIRE
Of course no one suspected him of trying to steal. He had just had a
glimpse of a little nocturnal game that was popular in camp. Whoever
could remove this pennant was welcome to it and might plant it in
front of his patrol cabin. These midnight raids were very common and
not infrequently successful. Our stealthy visitor had chanced to
pause before the pennant cabin.
He now came to the main body of the camp and saw the whole expanse of
the dark lake with the great bulk of wooded hills beyond. He glanced
about at the cluster of rustic buildings, the main pavilion, the
storehouse and cooking shack, the "eats" pavilion, Administration
Shack. Cautiously (for now he was fearful of the slightest sound) he
approached the lake and stood on the float looking off across the
black water. Close by him the rocking boats knocked one against
another; there was the metallic sound of clanking oar-locks now and
then. How strange seemed all these evidences of life when deserted
and wrapped in darkness!
The diving board pointed out into the lake like a big, ghostly
finger. Slanting upward as it did, it seemed to be pointing at the
precipitous hills across the lake which cast their inverted shadow in
the water, making the dark surface still darker. At night there
seemed always to be two shades of blackness on that enclosed lake,
caused by the vast shadow of the rugged heights beyond. Scouts had
tried to row out to where this deeper gloom in the water began, but
they could never find it.
The prowling stranger examined one of the boats to see if it was
locked. He lifted the chain as gingerly as one would handle a snake.
No, the boats were not locked. He might take one, if he could find
the oars, and row across and baffle pursuit among those
wilderness-clad hills. He could push the boat back into the lake
again and they would just think it had drifted away from its mooring.
He was altogether too clever, this strange boy.
But just now he had business in the camp; then he would consider how
best to proceed on his fugitive way. This was a ticklish matter that
he had now to transact. Then all would be well. So far he believed
he had done well--if you call it doing well to do what he had done.
At least good luck had smiled upon him.
He must now find the camp-fire spot. From this point (according to
the only hint he had) he would see a hill and up that hill _to the
left_, would be the Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. But how to find
and awaken a particular sleeper in that group was a puzzle. If these
boy scouts (he called them boy scouts notwithstanding that he was
himself a boy) were all like the one who had appeared in the cabin
doorway, he would have to practice super-human stealth. He could do
that. He had, in perverted form, every physical quality dear to
scouting.
If he had not been absorbed by very pressing business, he might have
spared a moment to flatter himself that not many boys could prowl
around a sleeping scout camp undiscovered. He was beating them at
their own game. But his only thought about this remote scout
community was that it was to serve his purpose. Two days previously
he had never thought about it. Then he had had an inspiration, two
days hence he would forget that there such a place as Temple Camp.
He found the camp-fire spot, a circle of low masonry, about eight
inches high and ten feet in diameter. It was well removed from the
nearest building. As he looked at it, it reminded him of a tiny
circus ring. It was all strewn with gray ashes and charred bits of
log. He was in the very heart of Temple Camp. For as the camp had
grown larger and extended up the wooded hillside away from the lake,
this nightly gathering place had come to be more than just a
camp-fire. Scouts who seldom met at other times, met here. It was
the market-place of camp.
The roaring blaze which nightly painted its counterpart in the dark
lake, embodied the very essence of scouting. And the romance of this
enchanted spot lingered in the daytime when only ashes remained
within the stone circle, and only upturned boxes and ramshackle
benches and pieces of canvas lay about outside, giving silent
testimony of the throngs that gathered there when the day was done.
The roaring fire is a feature of every camp. At Temple Camp it was
an institution.
But our stealthy visitor had no sentiment about this merry ceremonial
of scouting. He approached the hallowed spot with caution and
glanced about. There seemed to be a hill, or spreading knoll, rising
from the neighborhood, but he could see no cabins on this rising
ground. There was a trail, however, which seemed to come from around
the cooking shack and peter out on this slight eminence. He hardly
knew what to do. He had not fancied the camp to be anything like
this, a community made up of cabin groups and rustic avenues and tiny
isolated abodes far removed from the body of the original camp. It
was like a little city with tiny suburbs. Even with the information
he had, he was hunting for a needle in a haystack.
His foot caught in a loop of rope attached to a square of old tent
canvas on which several scouts had sprawled. He stumbled, fell over
a bench, scrambled to his feet, and was instantly aware of a dark
figure on the opposite side of the circle. It seemed to have risen
simultaneously with him, almost like his shadow. He was startled,
every nerve on edge. Was this another of those uncanny beings
appearing to challenge him? The dark figure said not a word, only
stared at him.