  Stout Harry Ritter gave a sudden chortle of glee and looked up from the copy of the “Long Point Snort” he was languidly perusing in the shade of some cedars behind Tent Four. “Say, fellows, have you seen this stuff about Bull Taggart?” he demanded joyously. “How could we when you hog the paper the minute it comes out?” inquired Ted Hinckley sarcastically. He had sent in a poem the day before and for ten minutes or so had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience to see whether it had found favor with the editors. “Well, what is it?” he went on impatiently. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? What kind of bull has he been throwing now?” “He’s been chased by a shark,” chuckled Ritter fatly. “Monster fifteen feet long pursued his boat for over a mile out in the Sound. Tried to upset him by bumping its nose against the keel. This is rich! Four rows of teeth sharp as razors.... Gleaming white belly—stomach would have been more refined, seems to me. Remember Dolly Wade, who called ’em blue-stomach crabs. Where was I? Um-um. Oh, yes. Monstrous dorsal fin cutting the water like a knife. Gee-whiz! Bull will kill me dead one of these days. I s’pose he’s training to be an author when he grows up. You can have it, Ted; I’m through.” He tossed the sheet lazily to Hinckley and lounged indolently against the trunk of the cedar. “Does he pretend he really saw it?” asked Steve Haddon, linking brown, muscular fingers about an equally brown knee; “or is it meant to be just—er—fiction?” “Oh, he saw it, of course,” said Ritter with a giggle. “No fiction about that. Recognized it as a regular man-eater, too, by something or other about its expression, didn’t he, Ted?” “Eh?” Hinckley started guiltily and hurriedly shifted his gloating eyes from the five-line verse which, even in crude mimeograph, thrilled him with the pride of authorship. “What’s that? Oh! Why, sure! It—its teeth, it was.” “Showed ’em in a glistening smile, I s’pose,” chuckled Ritter. “I shouldn’t think any self-respecting shark would lick his chops over Bull Taggart. Even served up on toast, he wouldn’t make a good, respectable bite.” There was a responsive chuckle from the half-dozen fellows lounging in the shade; then Haddon glanced questioningly at the tall, striking-looking chap whose handsome head lay pillowed on Billy McBride’s knee, while his well-knit body stretched out comfortably on the sand. “There aren’t any—man-eating sharks as far north as this, are there, Cavvy?” he asked. “Of course not. I should think you’d know better than that.” Jim Cavanaugh’s tone was positive and a little impatient. “They’re only found in the south. The sharks around here are nothing but big dogfish; I don’t believe Bull even saw one of those. He’s the most unmitigated— Well, Midget, what’s your trouble? Don’t you know any better than to come in without knocking?” An exceedingly small boy with snapping blue eyes, a shock of sunburned hair and an amazing self-possession of manner, darted around the tent and paused in their midst, somewhat heated with his haste. “Trouble?” he repeated, scowling. “There’s plenty of trouble, let me tell you. What do you know about their cutting us out of the Sound and making us swim in the kid’s place?” “Wa—hat!” came in an incredulous chorus; and then: “Cut out the fancy touches, Midge. You’ll be as bad as Bull Taggart if you’re not careful.” “Fancy touches!” snorted the infant with cold scorn. “That’s what you think, is it? Huh! Well, it’s up on the bulletin board in black and white. ‘Until further notice all swimming will be restricted to the north side of the point,’ and signed J. P. Wendell as big as life. That’s the kid’s place, ain’t it? And because why? It’s that nut Taggart shooting off a lot of bull about seeing a shark in the sound. He—makes—me—sick!” If it was his purpose to stir up the group so comfortably taking their ease in the heat of early afternoon, Midge Willett was entirely successful. With one accord six boys sat up abruptly, their faces expressing varying degrees of surprise, incredulity and indignation. And for a space the air resounded with shrill question, heated comment and fragments of argument which satisfied even the small Willett’s inordinate fondness for attention. “It’s true, all right,” he declared, spreading his feet apart and rocking back and forth on his heels. “The stuff’s all in the Snort; you must have seen it.” “So we have, Shrimp,” admitted Cavanaugh. “We’ve also seen yarns of his before. You don’t mean to tell us that Mr. Wendell takes any stock in it?” “That’s what Marshall says. He heard ’em talking in Headquarters tent. Bull sticks to it that it’s true. He says he really saw a shark and that it bumped into his boat.” “What if it did?” demanded Cavanaugh, irritably; “though I don’t believe it for a minute. Why, the sharks up north here are as harmless as kittens. They’d no more tackle a man than—than one of those stupid blow-fish.” “Well, the chief don’t seem to think so. Bob says he didn’t know whether to believe Bull or not, but he and Mr. Cartwright talked it over and decided to cut out swimming in the Sound till they find out something for sure. And then they stuck up that notice, and now we’ve got to go into that rotten hole where you can’t dive and it takes half an hour to wade out to any decent depth. I—I’d rather stay ashore.” A concerted groan went up in which stout Harry Ritter joined heartily. Exertion of any sort was distasteful to him, and it made little difference whether he undertook his languid splashings in the shallows, or in the wider, more varied waters of the Sound. But he liked to criticize and seldom lost an opportunity. As for the others there was some excuse for their annoyance. The scout camp was located at the base of Long Point, which thrust its sandy nose diagonally out into the Sound. Off the southern side lay the open water, wide, deep, and full of interest and variety. Here the older fellows and proficient swimmers had always gone, while the novices were limited to the wide, shallow cove on the other side into which the tide had swept such quantities of sand that for over a hundred feet from shore it was not more than waist deep. “Midge is about right,” sniffed Hinckley, as the diminutive Willett departed to spread his news. “A lot of fun there’ll be wallowing around over there. Bull ought to have his head punched.” “The big chump!” exclaimed Cavanaugh bitterly. “He’ll get his if I have anything to say about it.” He stood up abruptly and shook off the sand. The khaki shorts and sleeveless gym shirt he wore showed off his fine figure and well-developed muscles to uncommon advantage. Even the scowl failed to detract noticeably from his good looks, which were remarkable—the good looks of clean-cut features, clear skin, glowing red under the tan, blue eyes set wide apart, and wavy blond hair. Haddon watched him for a moment or two in silence, his rough-hewn face oddly wistful. “I suppose he—he might have thought it was true,” he said hesitatingly. “Whatever he saw he might have thought—” “Oh, gee whiz, Steve!” interrupted Cavanaugh impatiently. “Don’t try to make excuses for the nut. He just naturally can’t tell the truth. Who’s coming for a walk? I’m tired of sitting here.” They all arose briskly, even Ritter bestirring himself. Walking was no particular pleasure to him, but he rarely declined an invitation from Jim Cavanaugh. “We may as well stroll around by the bulletin board and see if Midge got things straight,” remarked Hinckley as they moved away. “Nothing to it!” declared Cavanaugh decidedly. “I haven’t seen the beastly thing, and I’m not going to know anything about it till I have to. At least we can get one more decent swim before the lid’s clamped on.” “You mean you’d go in anyhow?” asked McBride interestedly. “Why not? There hasn’t been any official announcement. Willett’s no town crier that we should take everything he says as gospel. If we should happen to go over on the sound side at three-thirty and went in there as usual, they couldn’t very well call us down.” “We’re supposed to undress in the tents and wait for the whistle,” remarked Champ Ferris doubtfully. “They’ll think it’s sort of funny if—” “Oh, well, if you’re looking for trouble you’ll find it,” cut in Cavvy shortly. “You don’t have to come, you know. But if we hang around here much longer some other busybody is sure to come along and tell us about the notice. I’m going to start.” |
|
