THE CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL

When Pee-wee spoke about his good turn guest he referred to a sort of small bank balance which he had standing to his credit up at Temple Camp.

Once upon a time there was a tragedy at Temple Camp; a scout lost his life in trying to save the life of a comrade. Both went down in the shadowy waters of a lake. They had both come from the same town; in fact, had been members of the same troop. The fathers of these two scouts resolved to perpetuate their memories at the camp by an appropriate memorial which should exemplify at once the idea of heroism and of comradeship. Temple Camp was full of endowments of various sorts; special privileges could not be bought but could be won. Heroism bore interest at Temple Camp.

But there was something peculiarly gentle in the idea underlying this Carlson-Bates Memorial. For it perpetuated not only the strong quality of heroism but the gentler quality of friendship. And this quality of friendship was insisted upon. It was quaint and unique because it was a living memorial. The memory of those two who had gone was ever perpetuated by the scouts themselves in a continuous exemplification of scout comradeship.

The actual monument itself was simple enough. It was a little rustic cabin in a quiet grove, removed from the turmoil of the camp. Birds sang in the trees about it and squirrels poked their inquisitive eyes in and about its interior, sometimes even availing themselves, uninvited, of its open hospitality.

Within its one rustic apartment were two comfortable bunks, a tiny library with Carlson-Bates Memorial stamped on every book, a rough writing table, a cupboard for provisions, and even a fireplace of field stones, with two primitive high-backed chairs facing it. These looked as if they might have belonged to Daniel Boone.

Flanking this rough fireplace were pictures framed in unbarked wood, one on either side, of Horace Bates and Danny Carlson, scouts who had gone down together in Black Lake.

In both of these portraits the boys seemed to be looking straight at the beholder, and it was customary when showing a visitor over this tiny, hallowed reservation, to ask him to guess which of the two pictures was that of the would-be rescuer. There was nothing on either picture or anywhere else about the spot which hinted at this, for the place was as much a memorial to friendship as to heroism. Outside was another rough fireplace, also built of field stone, and intended for cooking.

The Carlson-Bates Memorial was everything that a rustic abode for two scouts should be. Money had not been spared to make it so, but care had been taken that the power of money should not overstep itself by making the place pretentious and modern. Over the fireplace, between the portraits, was a rough-hewn board in which were burned the familiar words which had a certain pathos there, TWO’S A COMPANY. On the center table were writing paper and envelopes, appropriately coarse and ragged on the edges, bearing the heading:

Down at camp there was a rough sign on one of the trees with an arrow pointing; TO CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL, it read. You followed a beaten path up through the woods, across a little brook, to a spot as dim and solemn and remote as any hermit’s cave. And there you were. Visitors, whose casual expectations had pictured a marble monument, were wont to pause in silent astonishment on reaching the spot. Girls usually said they could live there for the rest of their lives.

Tom Slade, camp assistant, who usually took visitors to the quaint little outpost, would snap his fingers at the squirrels and whistle at the birds while the others gazed about captivated and enraptured. Sometimes a squirrel would scurry up his khaki trousers and perch upon his shoulder and he would tease it with some morsel or other while he answered questions.

“Is it ever occupied?” visitors would ask.

“Oh yes, sometimes, but a scout has got to go some to win the privilege,” Tom would answer. Then to the squirrel he would say in his offhand way, “How ’bout that, Pete?”

“And does he live here all alone?” they would ask.

“No, he can invite a friend to stay all summer with him here. Can’t he, Pete? Two’s a company, read that? Only the friend must be some one who isn’t at camp. Pete usually steals all their food from them. Don’t you, Pete?”

“And which is the one who tried to rescue the other?” would be another query as the visitor gazed about.

“You’re not supposed to ask that,” Tom would laugh.

“But it must be known,” a girl was almost sure to ask.

“Oh, it’s known,” Tom would say. “Danny, that one on the left, he was the boy. But they were friends, that’s the point, hey, Pete?” he would inquire of the squirrel.

“It isn’t true that the place is haunted, is it?” was another question. “That colored cook you have says their ghosts come here in the dead of night.”

“Chocolate Drop?” Tom would smile. “Oh, you’re likely to hear all sorts of things from him.”

On the way back through the woods, Tom would usually be more communicative. “You know scouts have to do good turns, don’t you? Well, if any scout does six good turns, big ones, that are passed on by the trustees, he can live there for the rest of the summer and invite one other boy to spend the summer there with him. See? Provisions for two are sent up from cooking shack—the kids have no expenses. You see it’s a memorial of one great big good turn that didn’t work out, and of the friendship those two fellows had for each other.

“Let’s see, this summer it wasn’t occupied at all. Last summer a scout from Boston was up there and he invited a poor little shaver from his home town to share it with him. They lived on beans, those two. Did their own cooking mostly. Summer before that, let’s see—nobody. You see a scout has got to put over six big ones, then after that he’s got to be a friend to one particular fellow. He has to be host. Pretty good idea, huh? Private cabin, stationery, all primeval inconveniences, and everybody coming up with kodaks to take their pictures.”

“Oh, I should think it would be bliss living there,” one girl remarked after a visit to the hallowed spot, “and the idea of two’s a company, I think that’s just wonderful.”

“That’s the idea,” said Tom as they followed the trail down.

“Friendship means just two, don’t you think?” the girl asked, edging her way into a line of talk which girls delight in. “Just two, alone, together. Isn’t the idea sweet? Friendship!”

“That’s the dope,” said Tom.

“And is any one going to live there next summer?”

“Oh goodness, yes,” laughed Tom; “very muchly. I suppose I ought to be very proud, he’s a scout from my own home town in New Jersey.”

“Isn’t that wonderful! And he did six heroic deeds?”

“Good turns,” said Tom; “real ones. He specializes on those. He eats them raw.”

“Oh, and who is he going to invite up?”

“Now you’ve got me,” said Tom. “All I know is he sprang six stunts and went home with the Carlson-Bates certificate. He can invite whoever he pleases. He usually blows in about the Fourth of July; he goes off on the Fourth, they say home in Bridgeboro.”

“I should think you would be proud,” the girl said. “Is he tall?”

“Tall? Oh yes, he’s about six feet three inches or three feet six inches, I forget which. But he’s a great hero, in fact, he’s eight or ten heroes.”

“I never know whether to believe you or not,” the girl said. “Will you tell me his name?”

“Positively,” said Tom. “His name is Harris—Walter Harris.”

“Oh, how proud he must be,” said the girl. “Just to think how he’ll live up there all alone with some poor—oh, I think it’s wonderful. And his summer will be consecrated to friendship. Do you know how I picture him? I picture him as tall, and—and—sort of slender and athletic. Not exactly dignified but—you know—kind of quiet and reserved. Like a—oh, you know what I mean—like a—kind of aloof and silent. That’s the word—aloof. I picture him as being different from other boys. Isolated.”

“Oh, he’s different,” said Tom.