  He stopped abruptly in the hall. But that was their fund! That was what they lay up, and to the spending of which they had looked forward with such enthusiasm. For a moment the thought of its being suddenly swept away, of having to start all over again in that slow, painful piling up of dimes and nickels, seemed an intolerable, an impossible thing. But it was only for a moment. After all, what were chairs and tables, dishes, pots and pans, against the hunger of a mother’s love or the bitterness of parting? The boy’s face cleared and his lips straightened. It was the only way. And as he dashed through the coatroom, deftly flinging cap and sweater on a hook as he passed, and slid into his seat just in time for roll-call, his mind was busy working out details. The thing must be put through swiftly or it would be too late. Mrs. Wright really ought to leave on the four o’clock train that afternoon to reach Jim in time for dinner the following day. In the meantime the whole troop had to be won over to the scheme, and as Micky considered the situation it seemed to him as if Fate had conspired to make it especially difficult. Mr. Wendell was out of town for a few days. Cartwright, the assistant scoutmaster, worked in a neighboring city and would not be home until after six. And finally Cavanaugh, whom he felt sure would have backed him to the limit, had gone off that very morning to spend Thanksgiving with a relative in the country. “It’s up to me,” thought the boy dubiously. “I’ve got to handle the whole thing. I wonder if I can put it over.” He glanced speculatively around the school room. Champ Ferris would be easy. He was assistant patrol leader of the Eagles and usually followed in Micky’s lead. Tallerico could also probably be won over; so could Furn Barber. But there was Clay Marshall and one or two others who had made the fund almost their religion. There was also Harry Ritter! And finally one never knew how the smaller kids would take a thing like this. But McBride had a stubborn streak in him which made difficulties things to be surmounted instead of stumbling blocks. It is to be feared that lessons were much neglected that morning, but before the noon recess he had passed around word to everyone that there would be a special meeting of the troop in one of the empty class rooms at twelve sharp. In the absence of the other officials, McBride would have to conduct the meeting besides acting as principal speaker. “What the deuce is up, Micky?” Two or three spoke at once, as they crowded around the teacher’s low platform. “Has Mr. Wendell got back already?” “Not that I know of. This has nothing to do with him. It’s about something I found out this morning.” McBride hesitated an instant, his back against the desk, his eyes shifting swiftly from one face to another. “Jim Wright’s sailing for France on Saturday,” he explained briefly, “and they won’t give him home leave before he goes.” There was a momentary pause. “They don’t, generally,” commented Ted Hinckley. “It’s hard luck though. Still, he’s mighty keen to go.” One or two murmured perfunctory agreement, but most of the boys were silent, looking with puzzled expectancy at McBride. Champ Ferris’ question seemed to voice the feeling of the majority. “But what can we do, Micky?” he asked at length, in his slow, drawling manner. “What’s up to us—to give him a farewell present, or something?” Micky stared; then laughed oddly. “Yes, you might call it that,” he agreed. “You’d call it a farewell present, I suppose, though it isn’t the sort any of you have in mind. Listen!” He bent forward abruptly, his face suddenly serious. “Jim can’t come home, but his mother could go to him. She wants to; she’s dying to. But she hasn’t any money. You know how poor they are. Jim’s pay is about all she has to get along on. And so it seemed to me—Jim’s an old scout and used to be in the troop—it’s up to us to send her there.” He stopped and there came another pause. Several of the boys looked blank. “But it costs an awful lot to go to Camp Merrill,” said Clay Marshall doubtfully. “It does; the fare there and back is nearly fifty dollars. And we’ve no time to pass the hat even if there was a chance of getting that amount. She’s got to leave at four this afternoon to reach Jim on Thanksgiving. But if you fellows are willing, we won’t have to do that. We’ve got more than enough—in the treasury.” It took a moment for the idea to seep in. Then a sudden murmur of protest came from the group. “Oh, I say, Micky!” objected Marshall. “Why, that’s our fund!” “I know it is.” The boy leaned back against the worn edge of the desk, eyes sparkling, bright color heightened. “But what was the fund for? Chairs, tables—junk! What do such things matter when maybe it’s the last time she’ll ever see Jim again? Fellows, if you’d seen her face when she told me this morning, I wouldn’t have to say a single word.” He blinked an instant and then glared at them defiantly. “You’d be falling over yourselves to do what’s really the only decent thing—what any scout would know was just—his duty.” His eager, compelling gaze flashed from one doubtful, dubious face to another. Suddenly Ted Hinckley stepped over and thumped him on the back. “I’m with you, old scout,” he said briefly. “Let’s send her to Jim and make a good job of it.” “Same here,” echoed Furn Barber. “I guess we can live a little longer without the stuff we wanted,” drawled Champ Ferris. “A while!” protested Harry Ritter, frowning. “But look at the time it’s taken us to earn that money. Why, it’s months, almost. And it’ll go in a minute and we’ll have to start all over from the beginning. Suppose she didn’t see him again. Lots of other—” “Suppose it was your mother, and you were going to France and couldn’t come home, like Jim!” flamed Micky, his hands clenching. “Would you get any comfort knowing there were other men in the same fix?” He paused. His face relaxed in a whimsical, appealing smile. “I can’t say any more, fellows,” he went on quietly. “I’m no talker anyway. It’s up to you. If you’d rather keep the money to furnish the cabin, all right. But if you’d rather—” “Sure we would, Micky!” interrupted Midge Willett shrilly. Midge had the reputation of being rather tough, but he was undeniably a leader with the younger crowd. “We ain’t made out of no stone. Jim’s one dandy fellow, and I move we let the old furniture go and send his mother to him for a Thanksgiving present. How about it?” The shrill chorus of approval which burst forth left no doubt as to the feelings of the majority. Even Clay Marshall joined in, and though Ritter said nothing, he made no protest. “That’s great!” exclaimed McBride delightedly. “I knew you fellows would do it. Now it’s up to us to get a hustle on. Chase home for the money and buy the ticket and berth and take ’em up to Mrs. Wright. If we turned over the coin she might balk. I’ll be late, I s’pose, this afternoon, but I should worry!” He pushed briskly through the group, but at the door, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned. “Come ahead, Rit,” he urged abruptly. “I’ll want somebody to hold the change.” Ritter flushed, hesitated, and then, almost reluctantly, came forward. Together they left the school and sped toward the McBride house. There the canvas bag containing their hard earned “fund,” mainly in dimes, nickels and quarters, was secured and they headed for the station. |
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