THE NEW BOY

"Help!"

As though snipped off short by one of its own whirling blades, the lawn mower in the next yard stilled abruptly. Almost on the echo, a mop of red hair popped above the garden fence.

From her perch on the turning-pole, which jutted out of the big butternut tree in the Sefton back lawn, Molly Sefton watched the brick-red thatch and the serious face beneath it. She wondered whether the boy were fifteen years old or sixteen, and whether these new neighbors who had moved in only the day before would prove as "nice" as she had found the rest of the little village of Lakeville. Then a sharp twist of pain made her forget everything except her right foot.

"Please help me loose," she called. "I was climbing up to get my kitten, and my foot slipped in here. Now I can't get it out."

By this time, the red-headed boy had drawn himself to the top of the fence. Almost before she had finished explaining, he had dropped on the other side. Scrambling up to the horizontal bar beside her, he squinted thoughtfully at the imprisoned foot, wedged between the tree-trunk and the wooden strip that held the end of the bar.

"Pull your foot straight up."

She made the effort and winced. "It's too tight."

The red-headed boy frowned. "You're wearing thick, outdoor shoes," he said. "If I just unlace this one, you can wiggle your foot out as easy as pie."

While she remained standing on the bar, balancing herself by the tree, the boy straddled the pole and began switching the shoe lace out of the stops.

"It was my kitten I wanted to get," she said slowly. "That's how it happened. And he's up there yet."

The red head looked up. Two feet out of the girl's reach, clinging to a tiny limb, hung a black and white kitten. From time to time, it opened its mouth and let out a whimpering cry that sounded like "Me-e-e!"

"How did it get up there?"

"The Claxton's dog pretty nearly scared it to death; it started climbing and was afraid to stop."

"I see," nodded the boy. "Well, you jerk your foot out of that shoe, and we'll get the kitten easy enough. Are you all ready? Now!"

Molly made the effort to free herself.

"I can't!"

"It's just as easy as falling—if you'll only try."

"It's not easy." She was beginning to lose her temper. "I'm stuck just as fast as I ever was. You haven't done a bit of good." Before she finished the sentence, she was ashamed of her words, for a hurt look overspread the face beneath the red hair.

"Are you sure you can't yank it free?"

"I know I can't."

Very deliberately, he bent down and pulled from his own right foot the white tennis slipper.

"I'm sorry I can't get you loose, but I know how to get your kitten down."

"What are you going to do?"

Without answering, he drew back his slipper in a position to hurl it at the helpless kitten. He measured the distance with his eye, poising the shoe for the most accurate throw possible.

"What—what are you going to do?" She was very close to screaming.

"Hold tight. That kitten might come down right on your head."

"You horrid, horrid—"

"I'll count three slowly, and if your foot isn't out by that time—"

"You—you mustn't do such a thing! You shan't!" Molly gasped her indignation, meanwhile clinging to the tree with both hands.

"Just the same, I'm going to. Get your arm out of the way."

He pulled back his tennis slipper to aim at the kitten. "One!— Two!— Thr—"

A little half-scream interrupted him, and behold! Molly's stockinged foot rested beside its booted mate as she lunged forward to prevent the outrage upon the little black and white kitten.

Strangely enough, the red-headed boy was merely grinning good-naturedly.

"I knew you could," he said. "I knew, if you really wanted to—"

For a little moment, Molly stared sternly at him, before she bit her lower lip with an expression that was somewhere between vexation and relief.

"Why, I—I don't believe you meant to throw your slipper at all," she reproved him.

With a little broader grin, he nodded his head frankly.

"Of course, I didn't. I wouldn't throw anything at your kitten any more than I'd throw anything at ours, and we've got an awfully funny little fellow. All I wanted to do was to get your foot loose." Molly smiled in spite of herself. "Now, if you'll get down on the ground, so I can shinny up the tree a bit, I'll catch the kitten, and then I'll get that shoe of yours."

With her stockinged foot cushioned on the soft grass, Molly watched the boy struggle up the tree and clumsily but gently rescue the kitten from its roost. Afterwards, when the animal lay safely in Molly's arms, he pried loose the shoe from its wedged nook and dropped a bit heavily, to the ground.

"It was splendid of you!" Molly began, and then stopped, horror-struck. "But look at your clothes!"

The red-headed boy glanced down, but continued to smile, in spite of the dark stains that had spread where he gripped the tree-trunk and sundry leaf and nut clusters between his knees.

"I'm always doing something like that. I wish it wasn't the first day of school, though," he added a little ruefully. "It's most schooltime, too."

But now Molly was her practical self once more. "You get your books," she ordered, "and I'll take you down in our automobile. Horace Hibbs (he's an inventor with the Fair Play Factory) has his workshop near the school, and he mixes a sort of patent stuff that just takes any kind of a spot out of your clothes. He's the Scout Master of the Black Eagle Patrol of Boy Scouts, too. See, father's getting the car ready now. You come right over."

While Mr. Sefton drove the car, Molly and the red-headed boy sat side by side on the rear seat. After deftly finding out his name (which was Rodman Cree) and his age (fifteen) and his grade (first-year high) Molly began telling him all about Lakeville and about the new high school, which had resulted from the combined efforts of Horace Hibbs, the Fair Play Sporting Goods Factory, and, most of all, the Black Eagles, Lakeville's patrol of Boy Scouts.[1]

"I came pretty near being a Scout last year myself," Rodman said suddenly. "I was all ready to pass my tenderfoot examinations when we moved out on a farm and staid there till we came to Lakeville."

"Oh, that's fine!" Molly assured him briskly. "You'll be taken in with the Black Eagles. You see, Handy Wallace moved to Beloit almost a year ago, and Sandy Anvers was sent East to school; so that leaves only seven. And the patrol is going to do things this year," she went on warmly. "There will be high-school football teams and baseball and basketball teams and everything else, and there will be lots of Black Eagles on every team, too. I just know so."

The boy's face lost its smile. "I'm not sure whether I'd be taken into that bunch or not," he confessed slowly. "I'm not much good at athletics."

"Nonsense! Of course you are!" nodded Molly reassuringly. "And, besides, even if you aren't, you'd be good in just a little while. You only have to try."

"I—I'd like to," he agreed, as the car stopped in front of the Fair Play Factory's annex. "I'd certainly like to."

A round, jolly face showed at the window to the right of the door, and presently Horace himself, Scout Master of the Black Eagle Patrol, middle-aged and good-natured, greeted him from the entrance.

"What can we do for you this morning, Mr. Sefton?" smiled the inventor. "Do you want to buy a pair of skates or some hockey sticks, or shall you wait for the cold weather?"

Molly's father laughed. "We have a young man here who has been climbing a butternut tree, and Molly tells me you own a special brand of stain remover that can handle even accidents like this one."

Horace Hibbs raised his right hand. "Don't say another word. We will send those stains to the Happy Hunting Ground in about two minutes."

By the time Rodman Cree came back to the waiting car, not only was his clothing free from the blemish of the butternut, but his wish to join the Boy Scouts had grown from a very moderate desire to one truly giant-sized. Never before, he thought, had he met anybody who understood boys as did Horace Hibbs; and what the Scout Master told him about the patrol made him wish that he knew scouting from A to Z, and, in addition, could run the hundred in ten seconds, and broad-jump across a river.

"Of course he's fine," agreed Molly, "but just wait till you know the boys in the patrol—Bunny Payton, the patrol leader, and Bi and Nap and S. S. and Jump and Specs and Roundy; and, oh, just wait till you've seen our new high school!"

Up Elm Street the car turned, and down Freemont, pulling to a stop in the middle of the block.

"Look!" cried Molly.

Artistically centered in a big lot, the building stood, with a scrub ball game already in progress on the new diamond. The gray rock side walls, that seemed to be more window than anything else; the graceful lines that rose in exquisite proportion; the main door, with its roofed, stone-pillared veranda on each side,—all made a structure that savored more of a home than a school. It was the sort of place you would enjoy going to, if the teachers only lived halfway up to the building. And the crowd of pupils already gathering for the first day proved how deeply Lakeville's first and only high school had stirred the little village and the country roundabout.

As Molly looked over the young people grouped at the door or watching the game of "work-up," she recognized not only every Lakeville boy and girl of high school age, but as many more from farms and villages within ten miles. By automobiles, by train, a-wheel and on pony-back, they had gathered for the opening session. Peter Barrett, his patched suit neatly brushed and pressed, stood by his father's farm wagon; ten yards away, Royal Sheffield, son of the wealthy, real estate man of Charlesboro, was just climbing from a new eight-cylinder car. "Buck" Claxton, who for the past two years had worked at the local flour mill, was playing a noisy game at first base, while on the side-lines, Clarence Prissler, his nose out of a book for once, was explaining the fine points of the sport to Marion Genevieve Chester, who tilted her nose, smoothed her hair, and looked very bored.

But the Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol were neither watching from the side-lines nor bored. Heart and soul, they were playing the game, from Specs McGrew, taking a lead off third, to Bunny Payton, thumping the palm of his catching glove with his other hand and signaling to Bi Jones, out in the pitcher's box. Handling the bat itself, Roundy Magoon waved the stick back and forth, while Bi, with maddening slowness, made ready to pitch.

"Hurry it up!" shouted Bunny. "This fellow is as good as gone, and I want a crack at the ball before the bell rings."

Herbert Zane, whose nickname of "Spick and Span" had been shortened to "S. S.", was creeping as far off first as he dared, with an occasional glance at his clothes, as if wondering whether or not it would pay to risk the gorgeousness of a brand new suit by sliding into second.

"Let the next one go!" he called to Roundy, apparently having made up his mind that it would be better to wallow in the dust, and thus perch on second, than be forced out or made the victim of a double play.

Roundy nodded. Very likely, too, he intended to do just that thing. But the ball floated over so slowly, so tantalizing "right", that at the very last instant he swung hard enough to drive it over all the roofs of Lakeville. But Bi had put his muscle into the heave, and Roundy had started his swing a fraction of a second too late. Though all his stout body went into the blow, only the handle of the bat made connection, and the ball hit in front of the plate and dribbed toward first.

Like a flash, Bunny leaped forward, scooped it up, tagged Roundy before that slow-moving youth had stirred into full action, and, with a bluff toward Specs, pegged to second.

It was a good throw, although high, and Jump Henderson took it with one of his old circus leaps, touching S. S., who slid nobly but too late, and relaying the ball back to Bunny in time to prevent Specs from making an attempt to score.

"Don't mind me! I'm nobody!" Specs howled mournfully, scampering back to third; while Roundy and S. S. trotted out to the field, Buck Claxton stepped into the pitcher's box, Nap Meeker put on the catcher's glove, and Bi and Bunny came in to bat.

"Leave me here," wailed Specs. "That's right! Leave me here! I'm having a lot of fun on this base. Yes, I am! I've watched eight of you fan or hit pop-ups or easy grounders; and here I am waiting yet."

"You won't be there long, Specs," Bunny promised cheerfully, picking up the bat.

"That's what they all say," Specs growled. "But nobody brings me in."

"Nobody will bring you in, either, old socks," observed Nap. "You're licked in this war. All right, Buck. Give him one right here."

The ball was shoulder high. Too eager to wait for a good one, Bunny swung lustily, managing to foul it off over Nap's head, past the Sefton automobile and across the road, where the ball lodged under the high fence of the Anvers yard.

"Tell my folks to send my dinner out here," groaned Specs, plumping himself down on third base and burying his head between his knees.

It was just as Nap started after the lost ball that Bunny spied the car with Molly and Rodman in the rear seat.

"Oh, Bunny!" shouted Molly.

A moment later, the new boy and the leader of the Black Eagles had formally shaken hands.

"And he can pass the tenderfoot tests, and he's awfully good at athletics, and—"

"But I'm not any good at athletics," protested Rodman, laughing. "I'm no good at all in that sort of thing."

"He's just too modest to say so. You ought to have seen how he saved the kitten."

"Have you ever played baseball?" demanded Bunny suddenly.

"Sure—a little. But I'm no good. I can't bat decently, or catch or field."

Bunny held out his bat. "Come on over and take my place," he invited. "I doubt if I can hit Buck, and poor old Specs has been perched on third for hours. Everybody who comes to bat knocks a baby grounder or a pop-up or something, and Specs stays right there."

"All right, Bunny!" Nap broke in, crossing back to the school yard with the ball.

Molly dropped her hand on Rodman's arm. "Go and try," she urged. "I know you can do it."

"Hurry up, Bunny! Pretty near time for the bell!" Nap flung over his shoulder.

Rodman was plainly wavering. "But—but—"

"Try it, anyhow."

"Oh, you must!" Molly commanded.

The new boy climbed out of the car, smiling. "I'm no good, but I'll give you a chance to see just how bad I am."

"This Claxton," Bunny confided, as they jogged to the diamond, "pitches a hard ball, and he has a sure-enough out-curve; but if you stand up to the plate and don't let him bluff you back, it will be all right. Remember, though, you have only two strikes left."

From the car, Molly watched Rodman and Bunny join the others. For a little while, there seemed to be some objection to Rodman's substituting, but Buck Claxton ended the argument.

"Let him come to bat," observed Buck loudly. "He can't hit. I can see it in his eye."

"I'll bet he can't," assented Specs sadly. "None of 'em can."

Rodman touched the plate with his bat. Buck wound up with an exaggerated movement to deliver the pitch. It was a hard, straight ball, with just the hint of a drop in it, but the bat met it over the very center of the plate.

Spang!

The ball was off like a shot; off and up and over the fielder's head in center, till it struck a tree twenty yards beyond and rolled and bounded to the left.

Specs loafed in from third, and before the fielder had finished juggling with the ball, the red-headed boy had rounded the three bases and touched home. Then, while Specs was slapping Rodman on the back, and a little scattered applause was rising from the crowd, the school bell added its share to the celebration.

"He's a dandy!" chuckled Bunny enthusiastically, as Molly met him hurrying to the building. "He's going to be a Black Eagle, all right."

"Won't that be fine!" agreed Molly, quite as pleased as though she were a Scout herself.

And that was the way the new-comer to Lakeville High School—the new high school that would never have been built if it had not been for the Black Eagle Patrol—began his first day.