“Got the linen thread?”

“Right here in the tin cup.”

“All right, put the tin cup in the pint measure and the pint measure in the coffee-pot; now put the coffee-put in the kettle and the kettle in the duffel-bag. Then put the duffel-bag in the corner.”

“Where’ll I put the corner?” laughed Tom.

“There we are,” said Roy, “all ready before the Ravens have started to pack. They ought to be called the ‘Snails.’”

They were up at Camp Solitaire, the whole patrol, and the standing of the duffel-bag in the corner of the tent was the last act of a busy day.

“I’ll be sorry to see Camp Solitaire break up,” said Tom. “We’ve had some good sport up here.”

“There hasn’t been much ‘solitaire’ to it lately,” said Eddie Ingram.

“Well, down it comes in the morning,” said Roy. “What are we going to catch, the three-thirty?”

“I bet the Ravens won’t be ready,” said one of the boys.

“It would be just like them,” observed an-other.

“And we’ll have to wait for the five-fifteen.”

Just then Esther Blakeley came running out from the house.

“I saw Walter Harris,” said she, panting from running and excitement, “and he told me to tell you that if the Ravens aren’t at the station not to wait for them but go right along on the three-thirty and they’ll see you later at Salmon River Grove.”

“What did I tell you!” laughed Roy. “Can you beat the Snail Patrol?”

“Hurrah for the Turtles!” shouted Westy.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t show up till the next day.”

“Or next week,” said Tom.

The Ravens were not on hand for the three-thirty next day and the
Silver Foxes went without them, bag and baggage.

“They’re some rear guard, all right,” said Roy.

“Bet they’re still buying fishing-tackle,” said Westy.

“The Also Ran Patrol,” commented Dorry Benton.

“The Last Gasp Patrol,” said another boy.

“The Tardy Turtles,” ventured Tom.

“We’ll have our tent up before they leave Bridgeboro—­you see,” said Roy. “Somebody ought to set a fire-cracker off underneath that patrol—­they’re hopeless.”

Salmon River Grove was about an hour out on the train. Some of the wealthier of the Bridge-boro people had cottages there. The Bennetts had a pretty bungalow in the village and here, in a hammock on the wide veranda, Connover was wont to loll away the idle summer hours in cushioned ease, reading books about boys who dwelt in the heavens above and in the earth beneath and in the waters under the earth. They went down in submarines, these boys, and up in airships, and to the North Pole and the South Pole and the Desert of Sahara. They were all Boy Scouts and it was from these books that Mrs. Bennett gleaned her notions of scouting.

It was a dangerous season for Connover, for in the spring his fancy softly turned to thoughts of scouting, but Mrs. Bennett stood guard against these perils with a tennis racquet and a bottle of cod liver oil and a backgammon board and an automatic piano. And so by hook or crook Connover was tided over the dangerous season, and allowed to read the Dan Dreadnought Series as a sort of compromise.

But the show place at Salmon River Grove was Five Oaks, the magnificent new estate of John Temple with its palatial rubble-stone residence, its garage and hot-houses and “No Trespassing” signs, of which latter he had the finest collection of any man in the state. The latest edition of these did not say “No Trespassing” at all, but simply, “Keep out.” These signs stood about the newly graded lawns seeming to shake their fists at the curious who peered at the great tur-retted structure.

Mr. Blakeley, Roy’s father, also owned an extensive tract of woods a little way from the village and here the First Bridgeboro Troop was monarch of all it surveyed from the day school closed until almost the day it opened; and here Mr. Ellsworth spent the happy days of a well-earned vacation, going into town occasionally as business demanded.

From Salmon River Grove Station the Silver Fox Patrol had to hike it out for about three miles, and when they hit Camp Ellsworth (as the boys insisted upon calling it) there was the Ravens’ tent pitched under the trees, and the Ravens’ flag flying, and the Ravens’ fire crackling away, and the Ravens themselves gathered about it. On a tree was displayed a glaring sign done in charcoal, which read,

The Follow-Afters are cordially invited to dine with the Rapid Ravens. Supper is ready and

WAITING.

When Mr. Ellsworth came out from Bridgeboro at seven o’clpck, he declined to be interviewed as to what he might know of this affair. But whatever he knew, it was evident that the whole plan was known in another quarter, for the very next day the “mail-hiker” (who was Dorry Benton) brought up from Salmon River Village a post card addressed to Roy, which read,

“MR. SMARTY:

“Perhaps you know by this time the cause of my ‘scout smile.’ Do you still think Walter Harris is a turtle?

ESTHER.”

Scout-Pace Pee-wee got possession of this card, made an elaborate birch, bark frame for it, and hung it up in the Ravens’ tent, where it remained ostentatiously displayed until the bitter day of reckoning, which came not long after.

To Tom Slade the wretched, slum-stained boy whose whole poor program had been to call names and throw stones, the camp routine, the patrol rivalries and reprisals, the hikes, the stunts, the camp-fire yarns, the stalking and tracking, were like the designs in a kaleidoscope.

Observant persons noticed how he began to say “I saw” instead of “I seen”; “those” instead of “them,” and how his speech improved in many other ways. This was largely in the interest of the signalling, about which he had come to be a perfect fiend. It sent him to the dictionary to find out how to spell words which were to be flashed or wigwagged; and from spelling them properly he came to pronounce them properly.

When he found that it was possible to tell a piece of oak from a piece of ash by smelling it, if the sense of smell were good, why, that was a knock-out blow for cigarettes. He wasn’t going to let the Ravens get away with that species of scouting proficiency.

Next to signalling work the thing that engrossed Tom’s thoughts was tracking, which he was forever practicing and which he now looked to as the one remaining accomplishment which would advance him to the Second Class.

More than a month of scout life had passed for him and he was eligible in that particular; he was ready, though a trifle shaky, on the “first aid” business; as for signalling, he had but one rival and that was Roy; and he could jog along at scout pace with anyone except Pee-wee. He was prepared to chop his way into the Second Class with knife or hatchet, as per requirements; he could kindle a fire in the open and cook you a passable meal, though he would never be the equal of Roy as a chef.

He knew the points of the compass also, and there were but two things about which he was still in doubt. These were the tracking and the financial business. He felt that if he could do a good tracking stunt it might compensate for his lack in cooking proficiency and for his omission in another particular.

It was now the ambition of his life to be a Second Class Scout; he thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, and he wrestled with a dogged persistence with those things in which he was not skillful because they were not in his line.

It was in the interest of this ambition that he joined Mr. Ellsworth one morning as the latter was starting out from camp on one of his “auto confabs,” as the boys called his strolls, for on these he was wont to formulate new policies and schemes and, as a rule, he went alone.

“Come along, Tommy boy,” said he cheerily. “Got something you want to say?”

“Yes, sir. I think I can do that tracking stunt in Paragraph Four an’ if I do an’ make it a good one, I was wondering if—­I s’pose—­would you—­would you think those potatoes I cooked yesterday were all right?”

“Very fair, Tommy.”

“Would it pass for Test Eight?”

“Oh, I think maybe so; we all have our specialties, Tom.”

“I’m a little shaky on first aid.”

“I guess you can get away with that all right.”

“Well then,” said Tom, “there’s only one thing to prevent—­that is, if I do the tracking stunt.”

“Yes? What’s that?”

“It’s about the money.”

“So?”

“Yes, sir; I’ve got that five dollars Mr. Schmitt gave me for the extra work when he opened the branch store.”

“Where’ve you got that, Tom?”

“I’ve got it ’round my neck on a strong cord. I made a bow line knot. It’s in my membership book to keep it clean.”

It was a new bill and he had always kept it clean.

“The rule says it must be in the bank—­one dollar anyway. But I don’t want to break it. One day I was going to ask Roy to give me five ones for it and then I decided not to. I like one bill better, don’t you?”

“Yes, I don’t know but what I do, Tom,” said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling.

“Did I tell you it was a new one?”

“No.”

“Well, ’tis.”

“All right, Tommy. Don’t you worry about that. Just keep the bow line knot good and tight and think of potatoes and bandages and if you can make that tracking stunt something special so as to just knock the Commissioner off his feet, I guess it’ll land you in the Second Class. One thing has to make up for another, you know. I’ve got to stand guard because if I didn’t you fellows would be all waltzing scout-pace into the Second Class. But don’t worry about financial matters—­that’s what’s turning Mr. Temple’s hair gray. When I go into town I’ll put that five-spot in the bank for you, hey?”

“Then if I took it out of the bank would it be the same bill?”

“No, it would be a different one.”

“But would it be a new one?”

“If you wanted a new one they’d give you a new one. Now you hike it back to camp and tell Worry there are to be no leaves of absence to-night on account of camp-fire yarns, and to post a notice. Tell him to make duplicate prints of the chipmunk Eddie stalked and paste one in the Troop Book. I’ve got a call to make up toward the village.”

Tom made him the full salute and started back. That night he dreamed that the “Be Prepared” scroll was pinned upon him and that he was a Silver Fox Scout of the Second Class, having passed with much distinction.

Mr. Ellsworth had designs on the Bennett bungalow and he blew into the porch like a refreshing breeze that sultry morning.

“Hello, Connie, old boy,” he called to the youth in the hammock. “How’s the state of your constitution?”

“I’ve got a little touch of rheumatism,” said Connover.

“Yes?” said the scoutmaster. “What right have you got to have rheumatism? I thought John Temple had a controlling interest in all the rheumatism around here.”

“It gets me in the arm,” said Connover.

“So? That’s too bad. May I lift these books off the chair, Connie?”

“Surely—­sit down. Just push them on the floor.”

“Regular Carnegie Library, eh? What are they all about, Con?”

Connover quite welcomed the interruption for Mr. Ellsworth’s offhand cordiality was nothing less than contagious. He fell immediately and completely into the spirit of whatever was on the boards.

“’Bout the Boy Scouts.”

“No—­really?” said Mr. Ellsworth, running through one of the volumes amusedly. “Who’s this fellow, Dan Dreadnought?”

“He’s lieutenant of the Eureka Patrol.”

“So? I thought maybe he was a battleship from his name. And what does Dan do to pass the time?”

“This one I’m reading now,” said Connover, “is the Eureka Patrol in the Fiji Islands; Dan stabs two natives.”

“Get out! Does he really?”

“And the captain of the squad—­”

“What squad?”

“Of Boy Scouts-the captain is taken prisoner by the cannibals—­”

“You don’t say! How many of these books are there, Connie?”

“Twenty-seven—­all one series.”

“Well, Dan’s some boy, isn’t he? How would you like to be a scout, Connie?”

“My mother wouldn’t let me have a musket.”

“They all have muskets, do they?”

At this point Mrs. Bennett appeared and greeted the scoutmaster cordially. She could never find it in her heart to dislike Mr. Ellsworth.

“How’d do, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ellsworth,” she said, and added smilingly, “I hope you are not trying to contaminate Connover again.”

“Me? Oh, dear, no! A fellow who can witness the murder of two innocent South Sea natives isn’t in much danger from me!”

But Mrs. Bennett failed to see the point.

“I tell Connover,” said Mrs. Bennett, “that if it must be’scouts’ and ‘wild west’ it is better in the books than in real life.”

“Well, that’s a matter of taste, Mrs. Bennett. You can have Dan What’s-his-name up here, if you want to, but I wouldn’t allow him near my camp. No siree!”

“Yet he’s a scout boy,” said Mrs. Bennett triumphantly.

“From all I can see he’s a silly blackguard. Why, Mrs. Bennett,” added the scoutmaster pleasantly, “you’ve hit the wrong trail—­”

“I’ve what?”

“Hit the wrong trail. We don’t have ‘Eureka’ Patrols or captains or lieutenants or squads or muskets. This book has got no more to do with real scouting than it has with a Sunday School picnic. I tell you what, Mrs. Bennett, I just came up out of the woods, and I tell you it’s a shame that good trees should be cut down to get wood-pulp to make paper on which to print such stuff as this! It’s a waste of good trees!”

“I have always done everything for Connover—­” began Mrs. Bennett.

“Well, do one thing more for him and let him come and join the scouts-the real scouts. That’s what I wanted to see you about. I’m going to work up a new patrol, the Elks. Like that name, Connie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want Connie in the Elks.”

“It’s quite out of the question, Mr. Ellsworth. I am willing that he should read about them, but there it must end. We have always done everything for Connover. I have never stinted him in the matter of wholesome pleasure of any kind.”

“You don’t call murder wholesome pleasure, do you?”

“Here he is under my eye. There is no use arguing the matter. I have no thought but of Connie’s welfare and happiness, but I am not willing that he should dress up like Mrs. Blakeley’s boy—­a perfect sight—­his clothes redolent of smoke-and play with fire and sleep in a draught.”

“There aren’t any draughts outdoors, Mrs. Bennett.”

“There’s the damp air. Oh, it’s quite out of the question!”

“Don’t you think those O’Connor boys would be better out here?”

“I think a boy is better in his home, where his mother is. I have done everything for Connover—­everything, and he is ready to do this much for me. Aren’t you, dearie?”

As Mr. Ellsworth walked back to camp through the silent woods, he was puzzled at the reasoning of the fond mother who thought that Dan Dreadnought was a better companion for her son than Roy Blakeley.

Chapter IX