THE SERENADE
Danny was nervous, but he did not show it. He had never before been
summoned to the office. He had thought that by keeping out of scout
activities he would be safe in the refuge of self-imposed obscurity.
Lost in the nondescript company of the big dormitory, and keeping as
much as he could out of touch with the management he had hoped and
believed that his daring stunt of impersonation would succeed.
Now, as he made his way up toward the main body of the camp, he
wondered, almost tremblingly, what was amiss. Had poor little
Skinny's conscience given way under the strain? No, he knew better
than that. The thin cord would never break. Would he find himself
face to face with the warden of Blythedale School? Or perhaps with
the real Danville Bently? There is many a slip....
The usual group was lolling about the steps of the official building.
From his place on the railing, Roy Blakeley called, "Hey what are you
doing up here at the hole of holes? (meaning holy of holies). And
how are things down in Pie Row? How is Sophomore, Senior,
Post-graduate Sharpe these beautiful days! I hear he's going to hire
a bookkeeper. Hey Bent, why don't you come up to camp once in a
while so we won't forget what you look like? Don't remember to do
your good turn daily."
In the office the young clerk in khaki showed Danny into the sanctum
of the powers, where he waited nervously while Councilor Wainwright
finished reading a letter. "Well my boy," said that official,
glancing up pleasantly; "how do you think you like camp?"
"It's one camp, all right," said Danny. "It's big enough, I'll say."
"We thought perhaps we'd hear from you--see your name up on the board
or something, glorifying Florida."
Danny winced a bit at this. "We've got a scout down there that takes
care of all those things for us," said he. It was this good-humored
nonchalance of his which drew people to him. Discerning men
construed his slightly sneering attitude to mean that he was
impatient of little people and little things. The councilor chuckled
appreciatively. "It takes all kinds to make a square mile of camp,"
he said.
"Now, Bently," he continued, deliberately going to the matter in
hand, "this is what I wanted to see you about. Sometimes things get
around to headquarters rather late. I understand you punched a boy
the first day you were here."
"Did he tell you?"
"Of course he didn't. That was a good scout you punched."
"It was a good punch I gave him."
"I heard it was. But, of course, he had just lost his temper."
"I did a good turn, I helped him to find it."
"Well, my boy, we won't go into that now. We usually find up here
that a boy who is free with his fists is--well, it's a kind of a
habit with him. There are those who hit and those who don't. I
think I can't recall a single instance up here of a boy hitting
another boy who didn't before the season was over do the same thing
again. Now, honor bright, you've slugged fellows before, haven't
you?'
"Sure, a guy named Kinney back in----"
"So you see. Now I just want to warn you not to do that sort of
thing again. If you do, you'll go right back to Florida, Bently.
This camp isn't the Madison Square Garden or the Chicago Stadium. We
don't expect our guests to take the law in their own hands--ever. Of
course, what I say to you applies to every boy here, and there's
going to be a notice out there on the board so none of you young Jack
Dempseys can come back at us. Any boy that uses his fists leaves
this camp--quick. Just you read what it says in the Handbook on
being a gentleman. You ever get any hints out of the Handbook?"
"There's some pretty good dope in that," said Danny.
"I'll say there is."
"And there's a lot of play-in-the-backyard stuff too."
Councilor Wainwright laughed heartily at this frank young critic.
"Well, let's hear from you on some of the good stuff," said he. "You
scouts down in the dormitory,--we hardly know you're alive up here.
All right, my boy, no hard feelings."
Danny went out, greatly relieved. More than that, he inhaled a kind
of fresh assurance that everything would be all right. Loyal little
Skinny was like the Rock of Gibraltar. Blythedale Reform School was
so far away. Danny felt more secure than ever in this woodland
refuge. And Danville Bently, the real Danville Bently was--why, by
this time he was in Europe with his people. The only person that
Danny had to fear was himself. Well, that would be all right, he
would keep his fists where they belonged. No danger. He even felt
that he had gained something; Councilor Wainwright seemed to like him.
But there was a black cloud on the horizon. You would not think of
calling Roy Blakeley a black cloud, yet he was the black cloud in
this instance. He was a boy who would sit contentedly on a fence
thinking of nothing in particular, then suddenly be aroused to
mirthful enterprise as by an inspiration. Surely he was one of the
spirits of Temple Camp. Boys returned home in the autumn and talked
of him all winter. His patrol, the Silver Foxes, shone by his own
reflected light. They were (to quote the voice of Temple Camp) a
bunch of jolliers.
If Danny had not been called to the office it is probable that Roy
would never have conceived the mischievous idea of descending with
his bantering cronies upon the defenseless Pioneer Row. But his
piquant sallies to Danny upon his visit to the seat of the powers
reminded him that he had neglected Pie Alley, which was his name for
that lowly suburb. Roy invariably acted upon every random
inspiration.
"Come on, let's go down to Pie Alley and kid the life out of
Sophomore Senior, the Student Prince of scouting," said he.
"We'll tell him he's awarded a typewriter machine," said Warde
Hollister.
"We'll tell him all the tests for merit badges have been changed,"
said Ralph Warner.
They would have been accompanied by a clamorous escort except that it
was rest hour and most scouts were either asleep or reading in
reclining postures in their cabins. So no one went upon this
memorable expedition but Roy and two of his patrol, Ralph Warner and
Warde Hollister. Reaching the big, sprawling, shingled dormitory,
they serenaded the subject of their call like knights of old. They
knew that Holman Sharpe would be resting. Holman did everything that
was on the scout program. He was getting his money's worth.
Roy was something of a balladist and he saluted the victim with a
minstrel lay:
"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, come out of the door
The badge list is changed and there's ninety-six more."
This failing to arouse him they tried again.
"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, get up and come out
And the fourth test on plumbing we'll tell you about."
Still again they tried to lure him with soft melody.
"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, come out with scout stealth
And we'll hand you the medal for personal health."
Holman Sharpe did not come out, but he looked out through the open
window.