then he turned away and found that the boy who had paused behind him was the gray wolf, allison berry.
“i didn’t know that was you,” said wilfred abstractedly.
“oh, i can come right close to people and they don’t know it,” allison said. “anybody could tell you’re an ex-raven, you’re asleep. well, you haven’t got so long to wait to see the camp eating out of your hand, have you? you’re not going to do a thing but give this bunch a large sized shock.”
“shock—yes, i guess so,” said wilfred.
“you’ve got them all guessing,” said berry. “i guess you practise down the creek or somewhere, don’t you? everybody’s wondering where you go when you wander away; they think there must be a secret lake in the woods or something. jiminy, it reminds me of a prize-fighter in his training quarters—keep away! i told them you have a new method—it’s got them lying awake nights.”
“i guess you could sneak up on them just the same, awake or asleep,” said wilfred abstractedly.
“ever yours sincerely,” laughed berry. “now that i’ve put it over on the raving ravens, i can die in peace. the only thing i’m sorry about is wig weigand—do you know he’s a blamed nice fellow? and he’s strong for you, too. he’s the only one of that crew of rip van winkles that won’t say anything against you—just keeps still.”
“yes?” said wilfred wistfully. “i was sort of special friends with him.”
“sure, i know you were. he’s going to swim for the ravens (if they’re awake) and honest i believe he hopes you win. i wish we could stay for it, i know that. oh, wouldn’t i like to be here to rout for the little short beach water-rat!”
“you mean you fellows are going home?” wilfred asked, surprised.
“to-morrow,” said allison. “we just came to get the flag, you know. you know a yank can’t stay away from yankeeland long; we’re going to spend august in a camp in connecticut. oh, boy, won’t my folks be surprised to hear i met you here! anyway, i’ll see you here next summer—this is some camp, i’ll say that. can’t you take a run over to new haven and visit me at christmas? dad would go daffy to see you.”
“i can’t run as well as you can,” said wilfred.
“oh, is that so? well, then swim to new haven, you can do that.”
“i guess i’ll say good-by now,” wilfred said, extending his hand, “in case i don’t see you again to-day. i suppose you’re going on the early bus?”
“sure—while the ravens are sleeping peacefully. you might have been a gray wolf if you hadn’t moved away and become a jersey mosquito. remember now, write and tell me about your winning the contest—and remember you’re coming to new haven in the holidays. and i’ll promise not to take anything away from you while you’re asleep.”
the gray wolf proffered his left hand, three fingers extended, for the scout handclasp which is known wherever scouts are known in all the world. and wilfred (who hardly knew whether he was a scout or not) could not resist that fraternal advance. and so he shook hands, in the way that scouts do, with the boy whose life he had once saved by an exploit which had rung in the ears of the whole countryside.
“i don’t know what i’ll be doing, maybe i’ll come,” said wilfred. he meant that he would try to if he could afford to. “anyway, give my regards to your mother and father. i’d like to be living at the beach again, i know that.”
“you remember black alec that sold the hot dogs? he’s still there. i’m going to tell him i met the water-rat. don’t you remember he’s the one that started that name?”
“tell him i sent my regards,” said wilfred.
he could not bring himself to part with this old acquaintance who recalled the happiest days of his young life, days of pleasure and achievement and triumph. he longed for the little cottage near the beach where he and arden had played as children, and for the boisterous surf in which he had been so much at home.
it seemed that with the departure of allison berry, the last vestige of hope and happiness was going from him. he could not stir. so he let allison go first and watched him as he sped around the pavilion, turning to display an odd conception of the scout salute and to wave his hand gaily. then the gray wolf who owed his happy, triumphant young life to this stricken boy without hope, without even a scout suit, was gone.
wilfred wandered up through the woods away from camp. what should he do now? at all events he wanted to be alone. in the stillness he could hear the sound of hammering far away, and gazing from an eminence on which he stood, he looked across the lake where tiny figures were moving. the sound of the hammering was spent by the distance and each stroke sounded double by reason of the echo. he pulled out his opera-glass and studying the farther shore made out that they were busy about what seemed to be a rough float. it was from this float that the swimmers would start in their race toward the camp shore. preparations were under way.
he sat down on a rock, utterly disconsolate. his humorous, philosophical squint did not help him now. fate was against him—he was a failure. he could not swim in this contest. it was curious how his mind worked. he believed that old pop winters had been made to cross his path in order to strengthen him in keeping his promise to his mother. perhaps he would weaken—it was only six days from the twenty-fifth to the first—so he had been given a solemn obligation to perform on the momentous day of the race. it was all fixed.
well, as long as his obligation lay along the line of homely, kindly deeds—the keeping of promises, the doing of good turns—he would renounce all thoughts of spectacular exploits. he resented the shrewd maneuver of providence in giving him an extra reason for keeping his word. “i intended to keep it anyway,” he said. he became very stubborn in his resolution now. nothing would induce him to break his promise, he would keep it to the day, just as an honest man pays a note on the day. and he would not let his bad luck bully him into going around saying that he had “heart trouble.” he would not “play off sick” at this late date. that was wilfred cowell all over.
“anyway, there’s one thing i don’t want any longer,” he said to himself. “one just like it brought my mother bad luck. my brother was kidnapped and my father died and we lost our money. i don’t want this blamed pin any more—as long as i can’t swim or do anything. i believe in bad luck, i don’t care what fellows say. it brought me bad luck ever since i was here, that’s sure. i believe what people say—that they’re unlucky.”
sullenly he pulled the opal scarf pin from his tie and was about to cast it from him into the thick undergrowth. “the only luck i’ve had,” he said with cynical despair in his voice, “is al berry going away; anyway he won’t be here to know i flopped again—that’s one good thing anyway.”
his hand was even raised to cast away the little testimonial of his heroism when suddenly he noticed a strange thing. at first he thought it was not his own scarf pin that he held, so changed was the opal in color. instead of showing its varying, elusive glints of beauty, it was opaque and of a dull and cheerless blue, like wilfred’s own mood. yet sometimes this same uncanny stone had flamed with glory. and it would flame with glory again, all in good time, for in its mysterious depths the wondrous opal heralds good or evil, sorrow or joy, and when it dazzles with its myriad flickering lights, you may be sure that health and good luck are on the way, and that all is well.
wilfred was so astonished at its loss of color that he replaced it in his scarf. then he started with a kind of forced resolve for the elks’ patrol cabin.
