  He led the way around the back of the tent, which was the last one in the row, and struck into a clump of cedars bordering the clearing. The others followed closely; Cavvy was somehow the sort others generally did follow. Steve Haddon, bringing up the rear, found himself thinking about this, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance he was a little troubled. “I suppose he just doesn’t look at it in that way,” the big chap said to himself as they came out into the open and turned along the shore. “Maybe I’m too fussy. He’s really a corking fellow—corking!” In this fashion he tried to excuse the other and dismiss the subject from his mind, but during the stroll which followed he was conscious of a vague discomfort that made him even more silent and repressed than usual. From the first day at camp, little more than a week ago, he had been attracted by the handsome, accomplished fellow and in his shy, awkward manner had even “made up” to him a little. To his surprise Cavanaugh responded to a certain extent, and the two became friends as well as tent-mates. Steve could not understand what there was about himself to interest a chap so brilliant and so generally a favorite. It never occurred to him that his own sturdy, steadfast strength might have been the magnet which, consciously or unconsciously, attracted Cavvy’s more mercurial personality. He would have laughed incredulously had anyone suggested such a thing. As it was he speedily gave up trying to make head or tail of it and accepted gratefully the thing which at first had seemed incredible. There was always, to be sure, just the faintest touch of tolerance in Cavanaugh’s manner toward the big, black-browed, quiet fellow whose admiration he could not help but notice. It was the sort of attitude which said, almost as plainly as words, “Of course, I know he’s dull and heavy and not thrillingly interesting, but he’s a good hearted chap, and I like him.” If Steve noticed this he gave no sign. To him Cavvy was a hero who could do no wrong. His allegiance had never wavered until this moment; and even now, troubled as he was and seeking excuses and explanations for Cavanaugh’s behavior, he could not find that his liking had in any way lessened. Following the shore line, with the wide, glinting stretch of water spread out before them, the talk of the boys almost inevitably turned on sharks, and presently waxed so argumentative that none of them seemed to notice Haddon’s silence. Nobody knew very much about the subject, but that did not prevent them from taking side and debating hotly. Hinckley and Champ Ferris supported Cavanaugh’s argument that the species found in Northern waters was entirely harmless, and probably there were none in the neighborhood of the camp anyway. Taggart had seen something else, or made up the whole story, they declared. Ritter and McBride opposed them as a matter of principle, and upheld their side with such hair-raising anecdotes of things they had heard and read that they actually succeeded in scaring themselves, besides arousing a certain amount of nervous apprehension in the minds of the other two. Cavanaugh alone laughed them to scorn. When they returned to the forbidden bathing beach, which was hidden from the camp by a thick screen of evergreens, it was plain that he meant to carry out his purpose. “Guess we won’t have time to go back to camp,” he remarked seriously, but with a twinkle in his eyes, “so we might as well peel right here. Funny there’s nobody else around.” Hinckley chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. Haddon felt a little sting go through him. Was this the sort of thing Cavvy meant to get off when they were discovered, as they surely must be? He would rather have had his friend openly break the camp rules. “Well, I hope you’ve thought of the risk you’re taking,” said Ritter, settling himself comfortably on the sand. In spite of his airy tone there was a touch of seriousness in his voice. “Not going to join us?” queried Cavanaugh, kicking off one sneaker. “You would make an awful tasty morsel for a shark, that’s a fact. If you’d only go in the rest of us would be quite safe. What’s the matter, Steve? You haven’t got cold feet, too, have you?” “N—o; I just don’t feel like it, that’s all.” Cavvy paused, one stocking half off, and stared intently at the boy’s serious face. Suddenly his color deepened and his lips curled a little at the corners. “Oh!” he murmured. “I see.” And then he laughed unpleasantly. “I forgot we had with us the only really perfect Scout in captivity. I’m surprised you could bring yourself to associate with such a bunch of hardened sinners—or did you hope by your virtuous example to win us back to the straight and narrow path?” Steve shrank back as if he had been struck. His face turned white and then a dull crimson. “I don’t—” he stammered. “I didn’t say—” “Of course not,” sneered Cavanaugh. “You didn’t have to say anything. You’re so goody-goody it sticks out all over you.” He yanked off his stockings petulantly and dropped the rest of his clothes in a heap on the sand. “Better stick around awhile till you’ve made sure we’ve broken the rules and then you can hustle back to camp and report us.” “Cavvy!” cried Haddon sharply. “You’ve no right— You know I wouldn’t—” He broke off suddenly, biting his lip. Without replying, Cavanaugh had turned his back and was trotting out on the narrow spring board. For a moment the shapely white body stood poised against the deep blue sky. Then it flashed out and downward, cleaving the water in a perfect dive. Steve watched him with blurred eyes and a dull hurt in his heart. The onslaught had been so brutal and so unexpected that it dazed him. He did not realize that Cavanaugh’s own mental discomfort might have had much to do with the flare-up. Conscious that he wasn’t doing the right thing, but too stubborn to draw back, it was not unnatural to vent his irritation on the fellow who seemed to be showing more strength of character than himself. Haddon did not think of this. In that moment it seemed to him as if the friendship which had meant so much to him had toppled into ruins like a fallen house of cards. Rather, it had never existed save in his own mind. If Cavvy really cared for him, even in his careless, tolerant fashion, he could never have deliberately hurt him so without a shadow of reason or excuse. Surely Steve had not shown himself the prig Cavanaugh made out. He had not said a word against the others going in. He had even been conscious of an awkward sense of embarrassment at not joining them himself. Suddenly, out of the turmoil of hurt and longing and regret, came the desire to win back at any cost what he had lost. If he went in with the rest wouldn’t Cavvy realize that he had been too hasty, and perhaps make amends? It wasn’t too late. McBride and Hinckley, who had stripped more leisurely, were even now moving slowly toward the spring-board. If he hurried— Instinctively the boy bent down and untied his shoe laces with a jerk. Then he straightened slowly, face flushed and jaw squaring. He couldn’t do it. Something within him made the thing impossible—the action of a coward and a weakling. What sort of a Scout would he be to deliberately fling overboard his principles and do a thing he felt to be wrong for the sake of winning another’s approval? And what was that approval worth which could be won in such a fashion? Downcast, motionless, the boy stood fighting out his brief mental battle. He was unaware of the curious glances and low-voiced comment of Ferris and Ritter, sitting together a little to one side. For a space he did not even notice the three fellows in the water save to be conscious of their splashings and sputterings and occasional peals of laughter—laughter which grated somehow, and made him feel like one apart. Then Cavanaugh’s voice, still sharp and a little pettish, brought his head up and his troubled gaze sought out the fellow who had been his friend. “I’m sick of this fooling,” he heard Cavvy say. “I’m going for one last decent swim.” “Better not go out too far,” advised Hinckley joshingly. “Remember the shark.” Cavanaugh disdained reply. Already he was heading out from the shore, cleaving the water with a swift, overhand stroke. Steve watched him wistfully, and presently a faint touch of uneasiness began to grip him. Spectacular as he was at diving and other water “stunts,” Cavvy had never showed up very well when it came to long distances. He explained this once to Haddon by saying that several times he had been attacked by cramps and had learned to be careful. Suppose a cramp should seize him now with scarcely anyone around to help, thought Steve, and instantly his uneasiness changed to acute worry. In troubled silence he watched the fellow draw further away from shore until at length he could not restrain himself. “Why doesn’t he turn back?” he exclaimed aloud. “He’s crazy to go out so far.” “He’s got more nerve than I’d have,” commented Ritter. “Suppose that shark should show up now? Where would he be then, I’d like to know.” “I wasn’t thinking of that,” returned Haddon, who had been inclined to agree with Cavvy’s side of the shark argument. “But he’s liable to cramp, and if he should be—” He broke off with a sharp intake of his breath. Out in the Sound Cavanaugh had turned suddenly about and was making for shore with a wild splashing haste which told instantly of something wrong. For a second Steve stood rooted to the spot. Then he ran toward the spring-board, pulling off his shirt and jerking at the buckle of his belt. As he paused a moment to kick off his shoes and slide out of the scanty shorts, a shrill, inarticulate cry of horror from Ritter urged him on. It was the cramp, then, just as he had feared. But Cavvy was still keeping up. He was even making progress shoreward in spite of that frantic splashing which wasted so much strength. If he only kept his head— “The shark!” screamed Ferris suddenly behind him. “The shark!” |
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