at albany a boy boarded the train with a huge basket of sandwiches, each neatly wrapped in paraffin paper, and red deer successfully negotiated with him for his entire stock. as a scout never throws papers about wantonly, either indoors or out, it fell out that these papers were held by their various possessors until gordon conceived the notion of gathering them up.
“what you up to now, kid?” asked tom langford, as gordon stopped at his seat.
“tickets, please,” said gordon, grabbing the paraffin paper and passing on.
“playing conductor, gordon?” dr. brent asked cheerfully, as gordon passed.
but it turned out that this was gordon’s first maneuver in the direction of one of his own particular, genuine, original good turns (for not even black wolf himself, with all respect to him, could stand up with g. lord in this particular phase of boy scouting). he hoped that no one but himself would remember the law which had just gone into effect in the state of new jersey, prohibiting the public drinking-cup in railroad trains and elsewhere, and he made no answer to the jocular remarks of the boys, as he carefully folded the papers and tucked them away in his pocket.
when they reached new york and boarded the oakwood train, there was the usual cooler filled with ice-cold water, but no glass. the day was very warm, and only one or two of the passengers carried drinking-cups. then gordon, in his element, went through the car, deftly rolling his paraffin papers into little cornucopias, and handing them with a word of explanation to the astonished passengers.
“i never even knew there was such a law,” remarked one old gentleman, to his companion.
“they’re a wide-awake lot—those boy scouts,” his friend replied.
“thank you so very much,” said a young lady, taking the makeshift cup. “i’m dreadfully thirsty, too—you’re a public benefactor.”
“let me fill it for you,” said gordon, grinning delightedly. as he handed it to her, the train pulled into oakwood, and before he had refilled it for her to enjoy a second draught, every member of the troop had left the car, and the train was puffing out of the station.
“hurry up, my boy, train’s starting,” the old gentleman called cheerily after him; “you’ll have to jump.”
“that’s nothing,” gordon answered, as he swung off.
thus it was that master gordon lord, scout, missed his train by stopping to do a good turn, when he started away, and almost missed his station by doing another one, when he came home. the good turns had not lessened his pleasure in the least; one of them had opened the way for a variety of adventures, and, as he later remarked to a gentleman representing the national council, who was visiting oakwood, and to whom he had “recounted his adventures,” “the more you do of them, the more fun you have, and oh, cracky, i’m glad i met miss leslie that first morning!”
the mention of the national councilman leads us, by a short cut, to an important event, but in order to get to it we must take a running jump over another one.
it was a great day when a score or more of youthful inventors and a very fair audience of adults besides gathered on the golf links of the oakwood field club to see the trials for the aviation cup which the oakwood news had offered. the golfers stopped their play in honor of the occasion, and the contestants on the tennis courts laid down their racquets and wandered over to the field. even so grouchy a character as old cobb, the club steward, had to leave his accustomed duties and loiter out to the field as if he really didn’t care what was going on, but just happened to be ambling in that direction. his half-interested manner deceived no one, and his arrival was hailed by a score of voices:
“don’t let yourself get excited, mr. cobb.”
“this is what mr. cobb has been counting on for a month.”
“give mr. cobb a front seat.”
“goin’ to have an air race with those things?” cobb finally condescended to grumble, though he knew perfectly what was afoot.
“no, we’re going to have a swimming match,” said a high school boy.
“humph,” said cobb.
mr. carson, the manual-training teacher in the high school, was on hand with half a dozen boys whose aeroplanes had been entered, and a good many more, whose aeroplanes were not entered, but whose lungs were in good condition to cheer. will garret, son of a local architect, was there with a perfect model of the van anden machine. howard brent, matthew reed, ben mcconnell, and tom langford had each entered a model. the local y. m. c. a. had its aviators too, who had brought their several machines.
there was one other contestant, besides. he sat in a big touring-car which was drawn up among several other vehicles,—an odd, pale little fellow, all nerves and excitement. he lived in the great stone mansion on the hill, and he was not very well known in oakwood yet. he seemed a very little boy to live in such a big house and to sit in such a big car.
“there are some dandy ones there,” he said to the burly chauffeur, who sat beside him.
“there’s none of ’em has flown acrost lake champlain, at all,” the loyal chauffeur answered. “has there, mister arrnold?”
harry, who sat on the long step of the car, looked up and laughed. he had gone about the field in his quiet way looking at the dainty little models, some of which were masterpieces of clever construction. he had handled will garret’s silver-painted flier and praised it. he had sized up the graceful monoplanes made under mr. carson’s competent direction. then he had walked over to the auto and ruefully examined the little aeroplane that penfield held. it was not very well finished. the sticks of the motor base were held together with the cap of a fountain pen, by way of a ferrule, and harry recognized various other results of his own suggestions. the alarm works were bound rather far forward, and several strands of live, red elastic hung slack between the little striking bar and the propeller, which was in the rear. the clockwork power was communicated to the propeller by a flat-linked brass chain. this whole mechanism was mounted beneath two planes, monoplane fashion, thirty-eight inches long and ten inches in width.
harry examined it closely. the fact is, he was anxious. he could not bear to think of penfield’s disappointment, but he feared that, after all, this novel device would prove impracticable.
suddenly, the oakwood band, which had been playing, stopped and the voice of billy carter, the club’s gardener, rose above the buzz of conversation.
“hurrah for billy carter!” shouted a dozen boys.
it took billy a few minutes to down the testimonials to his own popularity, and then he made his announcement.
“the first contestant for the oakwood news aviation cup is henry archer, flying model of santos-dumont’s monoplane, la demoiselle.”
archer stepped up to the chalk-line, winding his propeller. holding his machine steady, and pointing it slightly upward, he sent it forward. it lurched and fluttered to the ground. he picked it up and disappeared into the laughing crowd. there was no need to measure his flight.
“matthew reed, of 1st oakwood troop, boy scouts,” shouted billy, consulting a memorandum, “flying miniature reproduction of antoinette model.”
for a moment the cry of the hawks and the hand-clap of the beavers filled the air. matthew wound his propeller till the elastic band was knotted, then let it fly. amid much cheering it sailed about one hundred feet, then fluttered down. the distance was officially marked at 92? feet. then came a bleriot model; then a cody biplane, which looked as if it had been fashioned from a box kite. both fell short of matthew’s record. then tom langford stepped up with his little willow-framed, silk-covered, swallow-tailed affair, and sent it gliding over the course. it crept upward at a gentle angle, never swerving, exhausted its power in air and coasted easily downward.
“two hundred and ten feet,” called billy, and referred to his paper.
“william ormond, of oakwood high school, flying monoplane of his own design, clockwork power.”
the boy stepped up to the line, winding his motor. the graceful little craft darted forward, its propeller spinning. its flight was steady and its descent slow. it dropped about two hundred and eighteen feet from the line.
“they can’t beat that,” some one said.
“that’s very ingenious,” remarked another.
“william garret, of oakwood high school, flying modified reproduction of van anden biplane.”
william stepped up, holding high in air the neatest model that had been shown. its frame was of dowel sticks, its covering made from a silk umbrella, and the contrast of the black silk and the silver-painted frame gave it a unique and attractive appearance. it was trussed up with a veritable network of fine wiring, and its planes were flexed to perfection with the pliant ribs of a lady’s fan. its two propellers, red and highly polished, shone in the bright sunlight. it was whispered about that william’s father had had something to do with this, and the little craft looked well worthy of a skilled and practiced hand. gordon walked over to the touring-car and sat on the step beside harry.
“looks pretty slick, doesn’t she, kid?” said harry.
and she went “pretty slick,” too. when both propellers had been wound tight, the beautiful little model was started on its aerial excursion. for fully one hundred and fifty feet it cut its way upward and onward, amid loud cheering. harry watched it critically. its long strands of elastic band, fully two feet in length, extended its power over a longer interval of time than that of any craft thus far. and its rigidity and proportions gave it wonderful buoyancy. it had passed the alighting place of every previous flier when, glittering in the sunlight, its propellers slowing down and its elastics hanging slack, it coasted downward at a long angle. its course had been straight as an arrow, and it had covered four hundred and one feet.
following came several crank devices, none of which made much of a showing. then announcer billy seemed to be puzzling over his schedule.
“what’s the matter, billy?” the boys called.
“struck a snag, billy?”
“try hard, billy—there you go!”
“master penfield danforth, of the 1st oakwood troop, boy scouts, flying the—a—model of his own design—propelled by the cham—the cham—”
“once more, billy—three strikes out!”
“—the champastic—torsubber—pen—pen—”
“penwiper,” some one suggested.
“—the pen—alarm—motive system,” billy concluded triumphantly, amid much cheering and laughter.
“what kind of a wrinkle is this?” some one asked.
harry grabbed the aeroplane, as penfield got down, and taking a bottle from his pocket, doused the spring and wheels with kerosene oil. “trot over, pen, old boy,” he said. “good luck to you!”
the little fellow, smiling nervously, carried the dripping model over to the line. the crowd eyed him and his odd-looking monoplane with good-natured indulgence. one or two taunts were heard, but most of the spectators laughed amiably.
“what’s that, an ice-wagon?” said garret, who stood near the line, holding his own trim little craft. “keep still, garret!” said another boy.
“let her go!” said another.
any one could see that the hand which held the machine was trembling nervously. the boy looked back toward the touring car for harry, who smiled back reassuringly. he would not for the world have had penfield know that he felt any doubt.
the little monoplane darted from pen’s hand, silently. he watched it intently as it rose, plowing its way forward. at a distance of, perhaps, two hundred feet its propeller slowed down.
“that’s better than i thought,” some one said.
for the fraction of a second it fluttered and its rear end settled, as if to sink. then a strange thing happened. there was a sudden clicking sound in the air, and the crude little monoplane darted forward and upward, making a bee line for the cupola of the clubhouse. up it went, shaking, but rising steadily. the crowd was too dumfounded to cheer. it cleared the cupola and disappeared. and when billy, followed by a score or more of curious and excited spectators, picked it up more than six hundred feet from the starting point, it began to buzz spasmodically, as if it had forgotten all about its aerial mission and were bent on waking some tired sleeper.
“what under the sun is that, anyway?” asked a gentleman, pushing his way into the crowd. “i never saw such a thing in my life!”
“it’s guaranteed to go for ten minutes if you don’t get up and stop it,” answered penfield. “it came out of a patent alarm clock.”
when penfield went home that day, he proudly bore in his hands the silver cup.
“harry,” said dr. brent, as they wandered from the field, “i believe you’re more excited than when you won the boat-race—you’re all worked up.”
“oh, no, i’m not,” said harry, smiling.
“i bet harry goes in his blue shirt,” said mac, a week later. “you’d better trot up the hill, g. lord, and use your influence with him. tell him miss crosby went up in the danforth’s auto from the 3:30.”
“that wouldn’t faze him,” said morrel.
“i bet he doesn’t show up at all,” suggested tom. “he’s afraid somebody will offer him a prize.”
“honest, i wish i were like that fellow,” said matthew reed, earnestly. “he isn’t afraid of anything in the world except being praised.”
“he looked like a regular coward when red deer was telling mr. wade about the glider feat,” commented roy.
“kid says it took mr. danforth about five minutes to size him up.”
“it took him only one minute,” corrected gordon.
“he’ll kill us when he hears of that letter we all signed.”
“well,” concluded roy, “as red deer says, he was just born that way; he can’t help it.”
“it’s great to have a character like that,” mac added. “everybody seems to catch a little of it.”
“he’s all to the good, is harry boy.”
“only he doesn’t know much about maidens,” said gordon.
“well, i guess i’ll toddle over home and fix up,” said matthew. “see you to-night.”
it was a large audience that gathered in the town hall to see and hear the well-known gentleman representing the national scout council, whose visit to oakwood had been duly heralded in the oakwood press. but they were not gathered wholly to hear him, either, for oakwood was proud of its scout troop. the wholesome, cheery, chivalrous, khaki-clad boys who flitted about her shaded streets were a part of her local charm. if there is any one who is not attracted by boy scouts, he must be either blind or crazy. they have made the scout smile epidemic. quietly they come and go, picking up your parcel for you, or opening the shop door for you to pass in or out. in oakwood they had planted flowers along the public way. they had raised a flagpole on the green. they had made tall baskets and placed them at intervals along the streets for scraps of paper and other refuse. not a resident of the town but had paused, smiling, in his walks abroad and listened to their bugle or patrol calls in the neighboring woods. not a lady but had seen some slouch hat, cocked jauntily up at the side, pulled quickly off in deference to her as she passed.
no wonder a line of autos stood outside the town hall that night. no wonder the field club dance had been postponed till the little flurry blew over.
the troop sat on the stage, one patrol occupying each side, with chairs in the center for the scoutmaster and the members of the local council. the corporal of each patrol held its banner on the end of a scout staff. on two pedestals in the background were mounted a stuffed hawk and a beaver—the gifts of mr. lord. on a rustic, rough-hewn board, suspended above the center of the stage by ropes tied in the standard knots which every scout must know, was printed the scouts’ motto,
be prepared
most of the boys had already taken their seats when harry came quietly in and dropped into the chair reserved for the beavers’ patrol leader, next to corporal greer, who held the banner staff. he actually wore his khaki suit.
“doesn’t he look fine?” said tom langford, in an audible whisper.
“su—perb!” answered charlie, turning.
“harry, your beautiful, willowy form—”
“keep still, will you!” said harry.
“say, harry boy,” said george conway, leaning forward, “do look at those girls in the second row! do, please look, harry, they simply can’t take their eyes off you!”
“go on, harry, look,” bert waring urged.
the hawk patrol smiled significantly, across the stage, and mac opened his eyes and drew a long breath in pantomimic admiration, which was not wholly lost on the audience. it was fortunate for harry that red deer and the local council came on at this critical and embarrassing juncture, escorting the gentleman from headquarters. both patrols rose, making the full salute. then some one in the audience called, “three cheers for dr. brent!” the doctor stood, smiling and wiping his gold spectacles, while three cheers were given that made the rafters ring, the troop doing their full share. then both patrols took their seats.
“i thank you all, heartily,” said dr. brent, “scouts and audience alike, and if i could make a speech i would, but i am not prepared—” at this, the whole house laughed and applauded.
“it may seem strange for a scoutmaster to have to stand up and make such a confession, but you will admit that i am not wholly deficient in the scout law, and that i, at least, know how to smile and look pleasant.” (roars of laughter.)
“ladies and gentlemen, and fellow-scouts, i have had the time of my life—” (he put on his gold specs and immediately took them off again.) “i have had my reward—the privilege of being with these splendid boys all summer.” (applause.) “there is nothing coming to me.” (voice, “that’s all you know about it!”) “i would rather have these boys for friends—i would rather have them believe in me—than to have the friendship of the most influential man in the united states.” (voice, “you’ve got your wish, doctor!”) “i would rather have seen and heard what i have seen and heard this summer than to have my college training.” (cheers for red deer.) “but i am not here to talk. you will be glad to know that three of our troop, daniel swift, john walden, and gordon lord, are to be enrolled as first-class scouts, and howard brent as second-class scout. we are also glad to welcome penfield danforth into the ranks of the tenderfeet. you may be slightly interested to know that i myself have won the archery badge.” (voice, “bully for you, doc!”) “and that matthew reed, our troop jester,” (laughter) “is to wear the badge for marksmanship. i could win this badge myself if i tried.” (laughter and applause.) “you all know brick—er—i mean, winfield parks. he has used up every photographic film in upper new york and he has a snapshot menagerie. we are going to give him the stalker’s badge to keep him quiet.” (applause.) “you all know ki—that is, gordon lord. he is good to take three times a day, after meals, especially if you have the blues.” (broad scout smile from gordon.) “i have been authorized by the committee of awards of the national scout council to tender to gordon lord the bronze medal. this medal is given for helping to save or preserve life. those of you who have read the history of our troop’s summer, as printed in the local press, know of the circumstances which led to this award, and it is not necessary for me to rehearse the details of how this boy discovered an injured fellow-scout, bleeding and unconscious, in a ditch, bandaged his wounds in the darkness of night, and sent him aid. if he had not discovered the boy and sent help to him, the injured scout would have died—there is little doubt of that. i am glad, gordon,” he said, “that you have passed the first-class tests, for it makes the awarding of this badge possible. come here, my boy.”
gordon never looked quainter, more original, more jaunty, than when he stepped forward to receive the badge. there was not a person in the hall but smiled to see his round head cocked sideways and looking up at red deer. he wore a brand-new scout suit in honor of the occasion, and as he waited he gave his stocking just the suggestion of a hitch, which brought down the house.
as the audience burst into applause and laughter, gordon joining in charming bewilderment at the great hit he was making, the national councilman beckoned to him and cordially shook his hand. he was so delightfully confused when he went to take his seat that he marched plunk into the hawk patrol, to the great amusement of the beavers opposite. it was too late to correct his mistake; the hawks hung on to him and there he sat wedged between mac and tilford morrel, who glared triumphantly at their brother scouts across the stage.
then red deer introduced the gentleman representing the award committee of the national council. he was a very well-known man, and the oakwood people greeted him enthusiastically.
“ladies and gentlemen, and scouts,” he said, “the sight of this genial audience watching and applauding these fine boys and their beloved scoutmaster was worth coming a long way to see. it is easy to understand why they worship him and why he is proud of them—why you are all proud of the scouts and their leader. i thank you for giving me such a welcome, but i am not here to make a speech. rather, will i speak to you in the words of others, for i bring back to you words which have come to us from your own town. and i am to perform a duty which cannot be performed by your scoutmaster. it is a duty which i am not accustomed to, as it has only twice been performed before in this country. the national council is in receipt of a letter signed by all you boys save one,” he went on, turning to the troop, “but the action which you requested had been already decided upon. you are acquainted with mr. e. c. wade, scoutmaster of the 1st albany troop.” (applause from the boys.) “a letter of similar purport was received from him, signed by every member of his three patrols.” (“vile redcoats!” mac whispered in gordon’s ear.)
harry looked about, puzzled. charlie greer pounded him on the knee, and winked across at the hawks’ corporal.
the little flurry of excitement among the troop was abruptly ended by the councilman’s next words. “a complaint has been received against one of your number,” said he. a dead silence prevailed. even red deer took off his glasses and stared. then he smiled.
“the national council is in receipt of a letter signed by a name which cannot be ignored, a name which is widely known in the realm of commercial enterprise and of public charity. it appears that one member of your troop has occasioned this gentleman a considerable annoyance.” you could have heard a pin drop, as he unfolded a typewritten letter and read:
“gentlemen:
“on the 29th day of june, of this year, a boy of your organization—harry arnold by name—living in oakwood, n. j., rescued my little son from drowning in lake champlain. he appeared to deprecate his performance and refused a trifling reminder of my gratitude on the ground of some law which he says governs your members. i understand that this same code of by-laws requires strict obedience to superiors. will you kindly correct what, i am sure, must be an erroneous conception of his duty in this particular matter, and have the proper authorities instruct him that it is his duty to accept the trifling gift which i offered. i will add that the gift was not of money.
“the saving of my son’s life and his subsequent acquaintance with his rescuer has brought great happiness into a rather frail little life, which has not escaped the notice of two anxious parents, and the whole occurrence has directed my interest to the organization which can produce or at least bring such boys to the front. it has been the greatest pleasure of my summer sojourn in the country to fall in with this boy, to watch his activities, and to talk with him (to say nothing of his interesting companion). he is in all ways a splendid, noble boy, and it is gratifying to think what a man such a boy will make.
“it has occurred to me that many of the companies of scouts in this part of the country are less favored by fortune than the troop to which this boy belongs, and that they lack the advantages which a rural life affords. the country where these oakwood boys have spent their summer is healthful and historic. if the gentlemen interested in your very worthy enterprise are disposed to accept some testimonial of my good wishes and interest, i should be pleased to talk with them as to the idea of erecting a pavilion with grounds and all camping facilities, suitably endowed, where troops of these less fortunate boy scouts may camp.
“i shall be glad to arrange some plan by which a summer outing, transportation, etc., included, might be made feasible for many companies of boys where the same is not possible now, and i should like the name of this particular boy to be identified in some way with it.
“awaiting your views upon the matter, i beg to remain,
“very sincerely yours,
“r. e. danforth.”
every eye was upon harry as the gentleman refolded the letter, and he was blushing scarlet. charlie greer, sitting next him, patted his shoulder, saying, “you’ll have to stick it out, old man.” harry’s nervous, embarrassed glance caught gordon among the hawks opposite, who was grinning with delight and satisfaction. then the audience broke into applause, and some enterprising enthusiast called for mr. danforth. this started the ball rolling. they dragged him down the aisle to the stage. red deer was there to haul him up, aided by the sturdy warriors of the local council. he emerged from the tumult into the center of the stage, somewhat the worse for his experience and rather abashed to be brought into such prominent notice, but with a genial smile on his wrinkled face. they tried to make him speak, but he laughed and shook his head. so they ordered him into one of the vacant chairs among the local councilmen. and there he sat, with a genial twinkle in his shrewd eyes, his scanty gray locks shining under the electric lights.
then the speaker asked harry arnold to stand. it looked for a moment as if there were going to be no response—a kind of awkward suspense. then he rose, holding the back of his chair with one hand, as if he would resume his seat the first minute he got a chance. roy carpenter, leader of the hawks, made a motion and every member of both patrols rose. this was too much for harry. in a kind of daze he saw the councilman holding a small plush box. he saw the hawk patrol opposite, standing with their hands raised in the full salute. he caught the glitter of red deer’s spectacles. he saw mr. danforth smiling at him. he felt a hand on his shoulder from behind. “brace up, harry boy,” whispered tom langford; “it’s only a minute.”
“come here, my boy,” he heard, and stepped forward reluctantly, standing before the speaker with a kind of bewildered, startled expression, with one hand against his hip in an attitude that was characteristic of him.
“my boy, you have heard this gentleman’s letter. it is said of him that he is very good at reading character. that letter was answered, others were passed, and his generous, big-hearted offer has been accepted. a great good turn has been done to the boy scout organization. in summers to come, many poorer boys will enjoy the freedom of the open woods; many troops from the heat and turmoil of the great cities will be taken to the beautiful country whence you have lately returned, to track and stalk and study nature; and they must thank not only this kindly gentleman, but you who gave him the incentive.
“he has asked you to receive a gift at his hands in grateful acknowledgment of a deed of heroism. this you saw fit to decline. we have told him that your own will must govern this case. there is no reason why you should not, under the peculiar circumstances, accept his gift, my boy. your scoutmaster hopes that you will do so. i hope you will do so. but we cannot order you to accept. perhaps you have some friend, learned in the scout law, who will influence you.” (side glances at gordon from the troop.)
“there sits among your patrol now the boy whose life you saved. among those other boys” (indicating the hawks) “there sits another boy whose life you saved at imminent hazard of your own. i will not embarrass you by rehearsing the circumstances. your whole summer has been filled with exhibitions of resource, with credit and honor. your fellow-scouts have asked that you be awarded the highest honor we can give you. there is an award, my boy, the highest possible award for service and heroism, which may be granted to a scout who has saved life at the greatest risk to himself.
“i have come here, arnold, to award to you this medal, the golden cross. it is the highest testimonial you may win, the highest that any scout may win.”
as he spoke, a white ribbon glittered in his hand. this he pinned on harry’s right breast. it formed a spotless, snowy background for a golden cross with the full badge of the scouts superimposed upon it.
red deer stepped forward and grasped harry’s hand. and it was plain to see why the boy had stood slightly turned from the audience, for his eyes glistened. he shook hands with them all as they crowded about, delighting to honor him, but he was too overcome to speak. brick parks pushed swift and waring aside, landing a cordial pound on harry’s shoulder. gordon worked his way in and grabbed both his hands.
“come with me just a minute, my boy,” said mr. danforth. he put his arm over harry’s shoulder, and guided him through the throng and out of the building. “i want you to see my daughters. i saw them go out—to escape the crowd, i suppose—oh, yes, here they are.” he led the way to a big red touring-car, where a familiar voice greeted harry.
“i suppose he deduced that we were waiting out here. oh, i want to congratulate you—do let me see it!” he handed the medal to her, and it was passed about and examined by all the occupants of the auto. “it’s no more than you deserve” miss crosby said, and added, whispering: “you will accept the boat, won’t you? oh, please do!”
“perhaps i’ll walk up to-morrow and we’ll fight it out on the tennis court,” said harry.
“oh, yes, do come, and bring your sister. i want so much to meet her. but you must take the boat.” she lowered her voice and glanced about, as if to communicate some dark secret. “you might as well give in right now, you are no match for mr. danforth—he’s a perfect ghoul for thinking up ways of doing things and getting the best of people!”
during this conversation, gordon, with terrific exertion and with the full strength of his two arms, was keeping half a dozen scouts from approaching the car. “can’t you see he’s talking to a maiden?” said he.
among the autos was a comfortable surrey, with two stamping, impatient black horses. it belonged at the old family mansion on the hill, for the arnolds had kept their horses, which looked odd among all the paint and brass glitter of the autos. into this vehicle harry jumped. his mother and father sat in front, and beside him on the rear seat was his sister, a girl of fifteen, who threw her arms impulsively about his neck as the horses started.
“what’s the matter?” said harry.
“nothing. can’t i kiss you if i want to?”
“certainly—seen anything of gordon?”
“he was standing guard near that auto a minute ago.”
“hey, kid!” harry shouted back. “coming up?”
a small figure darted out from the crowd and after the carriage. some one called, “it’s going too fast for you, kid,” and the boy answered, “that’s nothing.” presently two hands grabbed the back seat and the small figure came tumbling in between brother and sister.
the loud, hollow hand-clap of the beavers, mingled with the piercing cry of the hawks, sounded vociferously from the hall entrance, as the team of blacks, trotting briskly, disappeared around a turn of the road.
