  A week later the camp on Long Point was only a memory—something to discuss pleasantly, perhaps, at odd moments, but of little real importance compared with the ordinary work and play of the crowd who had been there. Work decidedly predominated with most of them. Back at Wharton, where the majority lived, they took up their self imposed duties with conscientious vigor, if not with complete enthusiasm. For it must be confessed that the average youngster hates work. There are those who believe, or imagine they do, that there is nothing a boy loves more than to be out in the dewy freshness of a summer morning, turning the “fragrant earth,” or leading an enthusiastic attack on the enemy weed. Let such persons inform themselves from life. Early rising is only popular amongst the young when an adventure is on foot. Nine-tenths of our youthful population detest weeding, and to them the hoe is an implement of torture strangely and inexplicably neglected by the Inquisition. It was to their credit, therefore, that the scouts of Wharton devoted themselves so conscientiously to the tasks at hand, which happened to be mainly rural. The town itself lived principally by, and for, the great mines. But in the surrounding country were many and excellent farms, and the fact that the great bulk of unenlisted men were working in shaft and smelter made the services of boys on the land more than usually welcome. Even Harry Ritter did his part, though with a good deal of surface grumbling and complaint. And Cavvy, out on his grandfather’s farm, resolutely took his share of work as it came, finding some additional comfort in the realization that the hardening muscles and increasing girth of chest would be of no small benefit to him on the football field that fall. Of course it wasn’t all unadulterated slavery. On the contrary there were a good many relaxations. They had the weekly scout meetings to look forward to, and Mr. Wendell worked hard to make these especially attractive. Now and again they took a day off to hike through the woods in search of walnut trees. And through it all there was undoubtedly a strong feeling of satisfaction that, with the whole world working earnestly toward a single great end, they were doing something concrete to help in its attainment. In this wise came September and the opening of school. Most of the troop attended the Wharton High School, or were in the eighth grade, and saw each other every day. Cavanaugh greatly missed Steve Haddon, who had long ago returned to his home in Washington, but he found compensation in the companionship of Bill McBride, who was a near neighbor, and had many similar tastes. Besides, between lessons, football and duties connected with the troop, he had little time to waste in lamenting the absence of even so good a friend as Haddon had come to be. Cavvy, as senior patrol leader, was very keenly interested in the welfare and development of the troop. His ambition was to make it the best and biggest in the county, and to this end he worked hard and constantly, and was of no little aid to Mr. Wendell. There were times, however, when their ideas were very much at variance. Had anyone asked Cavvy what he considered the qualifications of a good scout, he would probably have enumerated “pep,” keenness to get on, interest in the troop and the work generally, and the like. But back in his mind, unvoiced perhaps even to himself, he held something of the standard by which men are picked for college fraternities. He preferred the members of the troop to be more or less of good family, to be prominent in school or athletics, to be good fellows, quick, amusing, capable, and of his own class. Perhaps the scoutmaster sensed something of this. He had a quiet way of sizing up one’s mental processes which was sometimes rather disconcerting. At all events at a meeting of the troop leaders, he brought the discussion around to that very point and ended with a little lecture on the subject. The meeting was held as usual in the scout master’s study, a room of comfortable chairs, book-lined walls, and interesting souvenirs and relics of many sorts. There were swords and daggers from the East, old flint-locks, Indian pottery, old bronzes and a multitude of other curious things which the boys were never tired of looking over. In cold weather a fire always glimmered on the broad hearth, and to-day, though this was empty, they had from force of habit gathered around it. “One of the things I’ve noticed about a good many troops,” said Mr. Wendell, leaning back in his chair, “is a tendency to be just a little clannish. It’s perfectly natural, of course. A fellow wants his own particular friends in the troop and in proposing a member he naturally picks a boy he knows, who’s in his class, or on his team or lives next door. That’s human nature, but the result is narrowing and to my mind it defeats one of the great fundamental objects of Scouting—democracy. Take our own troop, for instance. We’ve got a corking bunch of fellows who work well and play well together. But there’s a whole great class in Wharton that we haven’t even touched.” He paused and the boys glanced doubtfully at one another. Cavanaugh’s forehead was crinkled with a little frown. “You mean— You think we ought to take in fellows from the—mine families?” he asked. Mr. Wendell smiled. “Why not?” “But they’re mostly Da—er—Italians and Poles and all that,” protested Cavvy. The scoutmaster’s smile deepened. “Well, what of it?” Cavanaugh flushed faintly. “But they’re mostly an awful lot of roughnecks. Besides, they don’t know anything about scouting, and I don’t believe they’d want to belong if they were asked.” Mr. Wendell crossed his legs and linked his strong, brown fingers around one knee. “I think you’re mistaken—just a little,” he said quietly. “And even if you’re right—even if they don’t know or care anything about it, I think we ought to make an effort to take scouting to them. The majority are boys from poor families. Some of them work in the mines all day. They haven’t many pleasures or relaxations except what they find on the street corners at night. The scouting program would be a revelation, and I feel sure would save many of them from getting into idle, useless, even vicious ways.” His eyes twinkled and a smile curved the corners of his mouth. “I don’t want you to think I’m preaching. I know perfectly well that none of you look on the troop as a missionary work, or a means of reformation—and it isn’t. The normal fellow joins because he thinks he’s going to have a good time, or because he’s interested in some particular feature of the program. That’s as it should be; I’ve no kick coming there. As you get into it, you grow more and more interested, and end by doing willingly what before you’d probably have thought a beastly bore. We’ve got through a lot of hard work together this summer, and yet I think we’ve had some pretty good times. “Don’t misunderstand, either, what I’ve just said. The troop is yours, and you have the right of taking in or turning down any one you choose. I’d just like to have the doors a little wider open. Personally I don’t believe you’d find a single drawback in taking in some of these fellows. Human nature is the same everywhere, and a boy from the shaft or the smelter has in him the makings of just as good a scout as one from—High School.” He glanced at the clock and then stood up. “I guess there’s nothing else to-day. Just think over what I’ve said and discuss it amongst yourselves. Next meeting you’ll have a chance of voting on that young Tallerico chap who applied two weeks ago. I suppose it was he who put this into my head. But remember this: whatever you do, do it because you feel you want to and it’s right, and not because you think I’d like you to.” |
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