harry arnold sat on a rock by the roadside, eating raisins out of a small pasteboard box. on the ground lay his canvas pack, and against it leaned his rifle. the air was brisk, for the night was well along, but he wore no jacket, and the double row of pearl buttons on his blue flannel shirt shone occasionally in the fitful gleams of moonlight. the moon was working like a suffragette for its rights, but was continually being effaced by the clouds which were rapidly coming to monopolize the sky. if the breeze continued to increase harry would, perhaps, compromise with it by getting out a thin sweater, but under no circumstances would he so far yield as to put on a coat. the matter of attire was his weak point, and his total absence of any interest in the scout regalia was the source of a great deal of sorrow to gordon.
once he tightened the thin book-strap which he used for a belt and put his belt ax into his canvas bag. once he leaned and fastened the laces in his mooseskin moccasins. he was as slender as a boy could be without being noticeably thin,—gracefully slender, one would say.
at the present moment he was just passing from the stage of mild curiosity into that of anxiety for his young friend. for, making full allowance for delays caused by inquiries and for gordon’s independent propensity to amble along in search of treasure, he was already very much overdue.
“i bet he shows up with a fifty-cent piece that he’s found, or a lady’s buckle, or a rusty jack-knife,” said harry.
but gordon did not show up with any of these things, and when an hour and a half had gone by and still he did not come, harry became seriously anxious. he knew gordon’s tendency to jump the track, as he called it, and he thought it not at all improbable that he would any minute hear, from the thicket, the hollow hand clap, merging into a rubbing sound, which so accurately simulated the noise made by a four-footed beaver. it had cost the patrol some trouble and not a little expense to get this sound from first sources, and learn to make it, and you might practise it a week and not fool a beaver; but gordon had it pat.
so harry did not think it wise to leave the spot for long at a time. at length, however, he tied a wisp of grass around a sapling, and concealing his bag in the undergrowth started down the road along which gordon should come. a walk of fifteen minutes brought him to a house where a dog barked at him vociferously. he did not waken the inmates, for he knew that if gordon had passed or called at the house, he would have heard the distant barking. another fifteen or twenty minutes brought him to a ramshackle building, the home of one of the unprosperous farmers of the district. here he made inquiries, but the farmer, roused from his sleep, was very brief and surly and had seen no one. harry thanked him with unaffected courtesy and went on.
what surprised him most was that the occasional moonlight showed him no footprints. after a few minutes he came to a little opening at the left of the road and, straining his eyes, looked down through a vista of trees which ran through the woods at a direct right angle from the road. this reminded him that he had looked through a similar vista on the west side of the straight road on which he had gone north. so there was evidently a woodland track connecting the two roads he and gordon had taken, which did not show on the map. turning rather abruptly into this woodland byway were two wide concave tracks. he walked a little farther down the road and in a flare of moonlight discovered a perfect carnival of footprints. they faced in every direction, north, south, east, west. there were scoopy indentations showing the heel counter of a shoe, and little points in the ground, indicating the downward thrusts of a toe.
“there’s only one thing lacking,” said harry; “i wonder where she waited.” he walked over to the stone wall and picked up a little reticule containing, on hasty inspection, sixteen cents, a handkerchief, and a bottle of smelling salts. this he thrust into his pocket. he also thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled.
“i bet he enjoyed this,” he soliloquized; “i can just see him standing here watching—and waiting for a chance to spring a good turn.”
he was perfectly satisfied that an auto had broken down. he picked out where a man had lain on his stomach, had knelt, had lain on his back. he put big prints and little prints together, like a picture puzzle, and made human attitudes out of them. and he concluded that this interesting exhibition, right in gordon’s line, was accountable for the boy’s delay. the auto had evidently turned down the wooded byway in order to get into the better road. that gordon should have abandoned his investigations to be carried to his destination in an auto seemed hardly probable, except on the theory that he was on the trail of a good turn. but what other explanation was there?
acting on this theory, he turned back, sure that he would find gordon waiting for him. when he was within hailing distance of the point where the roads converged he made the beaver call, and was surprised that it was not answered. presently he reached the spot. the rock was empty, the wisp of grass was as he had left it on the sapling. the moon was behind a cloud now, so he lit a match and examined the eastern road. there were the auto tracks, but running along one of these with lighted matches for fifty yards or so (covering the spot where the two roads met), he could find no interruption in the concave line. the auto had not stopped. it had gone straight on along the road which skirted dibble mountain.
now, harry was truly alarmed and more than perplexed. it was late at night, the moonlight was fitful and uncertain, it was more often pitch dark than not. he did not like to give up and rig his shelter for the night. idly he picked up the empty raisin box. above him rose almost sheer the grim, black side of the mountain. soon he must eat something, at any rate, for he was cruelly hungry.
“kid,” he said aloud, “where are you, anyway?”
and then, on the minute, the answer came. over in the west—a mile—two—three,—he did not know,—there flickered a tiny light in the darkness. presently it grew larger, then disappeared, then came again. half interested, in his preoccupation, he waited for it to reappear. now it came and went, rapidly, in alternate flashes. he looked behind him into the east to see if there were any answering light, but the flame came jumping out faster and faster, as if to say, “look here, you—i have something to say—wait.” he waited, and when it came again it stayed, one, two seconds. instantly he was on his feet. it disappeared and showed again for just a fraction of a second, then flared steadily, then showed for another fraction of a second. he watched it intently as it came and went. now came a longer pause between the flashes.
and on the bottom of the little raisin box that harry held he had written with the lead of a rifle cartridge the letters camp.
he did not write the arbitrary signs for translation later; he took the message in plain english, with never doubt or hesitancy, and in good time he had it all.
“all right, kid,” he said, smiling; “glad to hear from you,” and dropped the cartridge into his pocket.
he was much relieved, of course, and very curious. taking his pack and rifle, he ran up the road until he came to the first turn. the distant fire now burned steadily, though not as high as before, and he could see that the road he had reached must lead in its direction. he was to go down this road and watch any one he met. he hid his pack near the roadside, took his rifle, and crept stealthily along through the trees which bordered the road. his toes, free and pliant in their soft moccasins, pinned and held the twigs on which he stepped and he made no sound. now and then a low, sudden scurrying told him that he had disturbed some smaller creature of the wood, but save for these trifling sounds he walked in perfect silence.
the moon edged slowly from behind a cloud. “that’s right,” he whispered, “bully for you—be a scout—come on out and help.” perhaps the moon was influenced by his persuasive words and felt that such a boy on such a business and against such odds was entitled to all the help that she could give. in any event, she sailed majestically clear of her encumbrances and, as sure as you live, smiled a broad scout smile down upon harry arnold. “now you’re talking,” commented harry. “keep it up and i’ll see you get the bronze medal—only keep it up.”
he crept up to the road and looked for footprints, but found none of recent making. his information was pitiably meager. a scout had been robbed, and it was evidently suspected that the robber or robbers had taken this road. that was all he knew. no one had passed here lately, that was sure. he assumed that the signalers had good reason to believe that some one had taken this direction. he figured that he could get to the vicinity of the fire inside of an hour. so it would work the same the other way. he would conceal himself and watch the road for an hour. if he saw no one, he would simply assume that the robber had not taken the open road.
now, if he had carried out this plan, he would shortly have seen the two boys who had set out to find him. but harry arnold, scout, was a mile off the road when these boys passed, and this is how it happened.
before settling down to watch the road, he noticed a small bridge a few yards farther along under which a stream flowed. you could canoe from the albany scouts’ camp to lake champlain on this stream, but harry knew nothing of the albany camp. for all he knew, the morse message had come from the oakwood scouts. in quest of a draught of water, he went stealthily down the bank. he knelt, looked at the water, felt of it, and shook his head. then he stood on the brink of the stream with his two hands resting on the bridge, which was about level with his shoulder. thus he craned his neck, looking up and down the road. satisfied, he vaulted silently up to the planking. his spring was as graceful and agile as a panther’s. instinctively, he looked down to see if he had left any sign, for it is part of the a b c of scouting to leave no clue behind, whatever your business, except what you leave for a purpose. there on the edge of the planking were the wet prints of his two hands. “humph,” said he, and studied them closely. then he knelt, felt of one, daintily, softly, and brushed his two hands together. “dried quick,” said he. he leaped down to the bank and felt of the water.
“tisn’t so muddy, either.” he placed his hands on the planking over the two marks. they did not match his. “i didn’t think i had a paw like that,” he said.
he looked beneath him on the bank where the dank grass was flattened. “too clumsy to vault it,” was his comment. “one of those big gawking country jays, i guess.” he crept up the bank to the road, where the moonlight flickered down through the branches of a willow tree. reaching up, he wriggled a broken limb, then smilingly kicked a small twig that lay in the road. crossing, he found a ruffled place, half in the road and half in the bordering growths, where the brush seemed to be trampled down. all this he examined in an amused, half-careless way. presently he took a short run and leaped across the road. “easy enough,” he said. stooping, he carefully examined the ground and rose triumphant, holding a small, flat paper package in his hand. “maunabasha!” he whispered to himself. (maunabasha was the good indian spirit that occasionally smiled on his endeavors.) he lighted a match and read the lettering on the package:
farmer’s friend plug cut
the tobacco of quality
a solace to the tired toiler
the aroma of the harvest field
harry took a whiff of the aroma of the harvest field. “the harvest field could sue for damages on that,” he thought. but despite his scout prejudice against tobacco, he was forced to admit that this little package had done him a good turn. here was the unmistakable proof of a human presence, and it had not been here long, for it was fresh, unstained, and dry.
he put it in his pocket and went down the bank into the long meadow grass that skirted the river. it was easy enough for him to see where some one had preceded him here. the tall bent grass showed the trail plainly. he plodded on through this marshy patch till presently he found himself on the dry, abrupt shore of the river. naked roots projected here and there, worn smooth with the friction of feet, and he was able to pick out a beaten path which ran along the stream’s edge. but the earth was hard and there was no sign of footprint. stooping, he examined the ground carefully and presently discovered something which brought him to his hands and knees. this was a little mark in the earth about two inches long, knobby at one end and pointed at the other, as if some one had attempted to draw a pollywog in the sand. but harry knew it for the imprint of a nail. he took an ordinary stride and found another one—then another. there was no sign of shoeprint, for the earth was too hard, but he found the nail impressions, printed crosswise for, maybe, half a mile. then one appeared lengthwise and he turned up from the path.
so far, so good. but here was a stubbly field with never sign of trail or footprint. he tied his handkerchief to a branch of a tree where the trail ended and walked straight ahead for a few feet until he discovered a dim light flickering through the trees, which proved to come from the upper window of a small, dilapidated house. under the trees in the little grove which surrounded it, he saw a stooping figure. he advanced stealthily to the edge of the grove and watched. by the light from the window he could see clearly a burly country fellow of, maybe, twenty-five years, who drew something from his pocket and, lifting the edge of a flat stone from the ground, placed it underneath. harry skirted the grove without making a sound and reached a point in front of the stranger and about fifty feet from him. here he stood behind a tree, watching the fellow as he packed some loose earth under the edge of the stone. then, gliding noiselessly from one tree to another, he presently stood before the stooping figure, now pressing the stone down with all the strength of both arms. he spoke in the low, nonchalant, half-interested tone that was characteristic of him:
“hello, what are you doing?”
“hello, what are you doing?”
the fellow sprang to his feet, amazed at this apparition which seemed to have dropped from the clouds.
“m-me?”
“yes, you—what are you doing?”
“who are you, anyway—what are you doing here?”
“i’m standing here,” said harry, quietly. his manner was easy and his voice low, almost sociable. “what are you doing, digging a hole?”
the fellow instantly became as excited as harry was calm, and tried to hide his confusion under a torrent of abuse.
“i guess you’re one of them scout fellers that’s always puttin’ their noses in other folks’ business. do ye know ye’re on private land? i thought them scout fellers had a rule not to trespass. you get out of this double quick, or i’ll fix yer. you can’t prowl round this farm in the middle of the night—you nor none of yer hifalutin crew. what are ye doin’ here, anyway—where d’ye come from?”
“how do you know ‘them scout fellers’ have a rule not to trespass?” asked harry, gently.
“that’s all right, how i know.”
“you’ve met some of them?”
“none o’ your business!”
“you’ve seen one or two of them quite lately?” harry asked, with just a touch of sharpness in his voice.
the fellow saw that he had fallen into a trap.
almost in his first sentence he had admitted a knowledge of the boy scouts, and he stood embarrassed before harry’s rather contemptuous smile.
“are you goin’ ter clear out o’ this or not?”
“not,” said harry.
the fellow stooped and picked up a rock. harry did not move. he dropped the rock and put his hand around to his hip pocket. harry also put his hand in his hip pocket, and the fellow started back.
“here, is this yours?” said harry, tossing him the package of tobacco. “what’s the matter—did you think i was going to shoot you?”
they stood contemplating each other, harry quietly amused, the other afraid to speak lest he say too much.
the countryman put the package in his hip pocket.
“i thought you had plenty of room there,” said harry; “no pistol after all, eh? you see, you shouldn’t have picked up the rock. that was a bad move, because men with pistols in their pockets don’t pick up rocks. and i have nothing but this rifle and i’m not going to use it. i’d no more think of using it than i would of using that tobacco. the only dangerous thing you have about you is your ‘farmer’s friend plug cut,’ and it’s no friend to you either, for it gave you dead away.”
“you think you can come up here with your city gab, don’t you, and scare honest folks on their own land, that don’t trespass, nor ask no favors, neither.”
“the scouts been asking for milk—or maybe water?” harry asked, smiling. “what made you think you might be tracked? because you knew there were scouts about?”
“who said i thought i’d be tracked? i ain’t a-scared to have my spoor follered—”
“where did you learn that word—spoor?”
harry’s voice and manner were now a little sharp. every time the fellow spoke he was tripped up. the more he said, the more he gave himself away. the active mind of his inquisitor balked and confounded him, and he had no resource except in a tirade or an attack, and these he wished to avoid, partly from genuine fear of this strange boy, and partly because he had no wish that the altercation be heard in the house. harry saw that he had him. and he went on, speaking in short, choppy sentences, looking the other right in the eye, and sending each word straight to its mark like an arrow. he had no more fear or hesitancy than if he were talking to an infant. the great creature who stood before him looked at him as a grizzly bear might look at its keeper.
“look here now. in the first place, you didn’t come down the road. why not? when you had to cross it, you tried to vault up to the bridge and went down like a bag of oats. then you tried to swing across the road like a monkey and went down again like a bag of meal. why were you so anxious not to leave a footprint, eh? then, after all that trouble, you left the ‘farmer’s solace’—or whatever you call it—plug cut, and went down the bank marking out a trail as clear as broadway. then, when i show up, the first thing you tell me is the rules of the boy scouts? what do you know about the boy scouts? you’ve been trying to imitate them with your smattering about ‘spooring.’ who said anything about spooring? hold on, now—i know what you’re going to say. of course, there’s no crime in all that. you can come down the road standing on your head for all i care, but just the same i’m going to see what’s under that stone.”
“i thought a scout feller was supposed—”
“oh, a scout fellow is supposed to put this and that together,” harry interrupted with some impatience; “and if you think i came here for the benefit of my health you’re mistaken.”
he stepped toward the stone and saw the other look apprehensively at the house. his predicament was a sore one, and harry had foreseen and counted on it. if he precipitated a scuffle, it would rouse the inmates of the house. if he didn’t, the game was up. he fell back on the only course open to him—a weak attempt at explanation.
“haven’t i got a right to pick up what i find, hey? what business have you got to trac—follow me, anyway? haven’t i got a good right to bring home anything i find?”
harry disdained to answer. kneeling, he raised the edge of the stone. but the wretched boy who watched him could not quite stand by and see that done. he put his big hand on arnold’s shoulder, and roughly thrust him back. like lightning harry’s hand was on his ankle. he tripped, staggered clumsily, and went down with a thud. when he had pulled himself together harry was standing a few feet away examining his find, but keeping a weather eye on his new acquaintance. there was a wallet containing money and a letter. the wallet and the money he thrust into his pocket; the letter he read as best he could by the light from the window. it was dated several days before, and read:
dear walter,—
i have no objection to the canoe if mr. wade approves. you say several others have them. you had better take al wilson to ticonderoga with you and be sure you are getting a good one. i should say the one you mention would be a bargain if it is in good condition.
your examination papers are here and i want to talk over this matter of the mathematics with you. suppose you run down home over sunday. you could go back monday or tuesday, and i’ll give you the money while you are here.
yours,
father.
all this was a puzzle to harry, for there was no walter in the oakwood troop. but he betrayed not the slightest surprise as he spoke to the other boy.
“so you stole walter’s canoe money, eh?”
“i found it in the road,” was the sullen answer. “i was going to—”
“sure you were—you were going to hide it. what’s the matter—afraid to let your folks know you found something in the road?” his tone was full of contempt now, and he paused, in a quandary what to do. he knew he could not arrest the farmer boy, and he was not sure that he wanted to. he did not know that the crime had been all but murder. his only feeling was that of disgust, and he surveyed the great, clumsy figure before him from head to foot.
“go on into the house,” he said impatiently. “who’s in there, your mother and father?”
“my mother.”
“well, go on in and go to bed.”
“what are you going to do?” the wretched fellow asked desperately.
“i don’t know what i’m going to do, if you mean about you. i’ve got to consult my scoutmaster. go on in and go to bed—how old is your mother?”
“she’s nearly seventy.”
harry surveyed him slowly, contemptuously, from head to foot. he did not understand dishonesty. “well, go on in,” he repeated, “and don’t wake her up. i guess you’re about through for to-night.” he paused, looking steadily, curiously, at the other, as one might look at a strange animal. then he wheeled about and went silently off across the field.
“blamed if i know who al wilson is, or walter, either, but if they buy a second-hand canoe in ticonderoga they get stuck. jiminy, but that kid’s the greatest! i wonder what he’s been pushing into now.”
gordon squatted before the dying signal-fire, an occasional gape of stupendous dimensions distorting his round face. below him the camp slept peacefully. the dim light glimmered in the invalid’s tent, occasionally blurred by the shadow of the “first aid” boy moving to and fro. gordon knew now that his mind’s-eye picture of arnold arriving like a conquering hero was an extravagant vision. he knew that the albany scouts knew it, too.
“al wilson could not have done it,” said he, “nor any of the rest of ’em. nobody can do impossibilities. these fellows think it’s easy to bring a ca-a-a-a—” he was trying to say canoe and gape at the same time.
“hello, kid,” said a low, careless voice, almost in his ear. “what are you doing here?”
“harry!”
“sure—who’d you think? where’ve you been, anyway?”
“but harry—”
“who the dickens is walter?”
the younger boy clutched his friend by the arm. “harry—i—he’s a boy here—they—did you—why—”
“i’ve got forty dollars belonging to him. what’s the news, anyway?”
