FOR DANNY
He would have been proud of his achievement in any case, but he was
doubly elated now, for it simplified the matter of Danny. With this
"really and truly" scouting triumph to his credit, the Elks could not
take him otherwise than seriously. They would escort him in his swim
for the Hiawatha Prize and perhaps that very next morning Danny, his
secret hero, would be on his way. The criminal and dangerous
character of what Danny was going to do at Temple Camp impressed
Skinny, but his conscience was not troubled about Danny's final
exploit at the reform school.
When he reached the Elks' cabin, he found his patrol leader, Connie
Bennett, waiting for him. It was well that he returned with the
white pennant for this saved him the embarrassment of explaining his
absence. The white pennant was always an excuse. It was a midnight
passport even with the powers of Administration Shack.
"_I got it, I got it!_" he said excitedly. "_Look what I got!_"
"You little demon," said Connie. "So that's what you went after."
"_I got it, I got it!_" was all that Skinny could say.
"They didn't chase you?"
"They didn't hear me--even."
Connie softly closed the cabin door so as not to awaken the sleepers
and together he and Skinny stood outside.
"Calm down," said Connie; "you're all excited. Bully for you, but
calm down."
"Wait--wait a minute and I'll calm down. I--can't do it all of a
sudden. Now--now I'm going to do something else--wait till I tell
you----"
Connie put his arm over the quivering form of the little Elk mascot
who seemed now to be launched upon a wild debauch of heroism. "Hsh,
all right, Shorty. You did fine; gee, I have to laugh. The patrol
won't believe you did it."
"Now you got to help me do something else," said Skinny, gulping with
excitement and satisfaction.
"Surest thing."
"You got to--to-morrow morning early I'm going to swim across the
lake and get the Hiawatha Prize."
"Goodness me!"
"Yop--I'm going to swim across and get it. So will you get all the
patrol up early so some of you can row across while I swim?"
"Listen, Shorty," said Connie. "You did one peach of a stunt; the
patrol will go crazy when they hear it. Why Hunt Ward tried for
that; you remember. The Silver Foxes tried for it--Roy Blakeley.
That was the time he didn't do all the laughing."
"And maybe now they won't make fun of me, hey?"
"Listen, Shorty; go in and go to sleep now. And don't be thinking
you can do everything just because you did this."
"I'm going to, I'm going to----"
"No you're not. You're not going to try for the Hiawatha canoe,
because that isn't in your line. See? You little sneaky devil, you!
Went in your bare feet, huh? Go on in and go to bed now and don't
talk ragtime. What's the matter, aren't you satisfied?"
"I got to go----"
"Yes, you _got to go_--to bed. To-morrow we'll go over to
Administration Shack and have them take your picture. You can put on
your new togs, dress up in your regular scout suit, all dolled up
like a Christmas tree. You know they want pictures for _Boys' Life_,
fellows that win awards and do stunts and all that. You go to bed
now and when you get up in the morning put on your new scout duds.
What the dickens are you afraid of? Nobody's going to kid you. And
we'll go over and let Mr. Wainwright take a snapshot of you holding
the pennant. _Alfred McCord of the Elk Patrol, Bridgeboro, New
Jersey, holding the white pennant taken from a cabin where it was
supposed to be guarded at Temple Camp, New York_. How does that
sound? Go on in now, and remember when you get up in the morning put
on your scout suit. That's your patrol leader's order. You're all
right, Shorty, you're a little winner!"
So this was the sequel of his triumph. "_Put on your scout suit._"
A fine mess he had made of it. He knew Connie Bennett for a sober,
sensible boy, who more than most patrol leaders had some notion of
leadership and discipline. So Connie had known about the scout suit
and had just not pushed him in the matter of wearing it. But now
there was to be no more nonsense. Here was the penalty of heroism.
What was he to do? It was clear from the way Connie spoke that the
try for the Hiawatha Prize was quite out of the question; they did
not regard him as a swimmer. What he would be expected to do, would
be compelled to do, was put on his new scout suit and go to
Administration Shack with his patrol and have his picture taken as
the capturer of the white pennant. And all his fine plan of helping
Danny to get out from the shadow of fearful peril would go for
naught. This was Skinny's first experience in being a "really truly"
hero.
There was a vein of something running in the McCord family. I don't
know whether you would call it a vein of the heroic or just a vein of
recklessness and rebelliousness. Diffident and sensitive little
Skinny had a touch of it. Perhaps it was this that bound him to
Danny. At all events there was this about him. His temperament was
one of sweet diffidence, of a smiling shyness which made him a
subject both for banter and affection. At the other extreme in his
strange make-up was the capacity for utter frenzy. I suppose you
might say that he was highly strung and afraid to show it until
something tipped the scales of his delicate nature. There was no
such thing as authority then.
They would not take this capturer of the white pennant seriously.
Well then, he did not care. There was only one person in the world
who could have dominated him then, and that was Danny. But it was
for Danny that he was now possessed by a will so strong that it made
his poor little body tremble. Danny could not help him; he was going
to help Danny. He was possessed, inspired, this little fellow who
smiled quaintly when they made fun of him. He did not sleep that
night; he lay trembling with a towering resolve.
Early in the morning, while still his comrades were sleeping, he
crept out of bed, pulled on the only clothes he had and started out.
The grass was all covered with sparkling dew; the air was crisp and
clear, the birds were making a great chorus in the trees as if they
had over-slept and were in a hurry. Skinny had a queer little trot,
something between a walk and run, that boys took delight in
imitating. He did not look in the least like the scout on the cover
of the Handbook.
He went down the hill on which the memorial cabins stood, casting a
glance up through the woods to the point where the little shanty was.
So clear was the morning that he might even have glimpsed it through
the trees, only it was in the overgrown cut and below the line of
vision. He wondered what sort of a night Danny had spent. The
thought recurred to him (it had recurred many times in that eventful,
sleepless night) that maybe bloodhounds had found him--found his
half-brother who had knocked Kinney senseless--and had barked their
beastly exultation to human pursuers. But that could not be;
Blythedale Reform School was too far way for that sort of pursuit.
Nevertheless Skinny's blood tingled at the thought.
He was barefoot, for the business he was on required no shoes. He
trotted down around the main pavilion, cut through the big open
"grub" shed and pattered along the board walk to Administration
Shack. This was the holy-of-holies of Temple Camp, sanctum of
officials, where there was a safe and a counter and a young man
forever playing away at a typewriter machine. Skinny had never
before ventured upon the veranda of this official lair, and he trod
with reverence. Above the bulletin board near the door was a framed
set of rules for the information of guests. Skinny wanted to confirm
his knowledge by one of these and he read it with delight:
XI The office will be open for the
transaction of general business
from 10 to 11 o'clock A.M. and
from 2 to 3 o'clock P.M.
So Danny could not enroll as Danville Bently until ten o'clock. He
hoped that Danny had not yet destroyed the letter and that it might
still reach the office. He went around to the side of the building
and tried to look through the window, but it was too high. So he
dragged a bench over from the "grub" shed and stood on that.
Within was a large glass case filled with forest trophies. And there
in a corner (he had seen it before) stood the Hiawatha Prize canoe.
He just wanted to make sure that it was there. Down he jumped and
off he ran toward the float where the boats were knocking and
clanking their chains. The water was rough and looked cold. He
pulled off his faded shirt and shabby trousers and walked out to the
end of the springboard. Even his light weight caused its metal parts
to squeak; it always squeaked in the morning owing to the dampness of
the night and the few hours of disuse. For just a moment he paused,
then plunged into the lake.