HERVEY SHOWS HIS COLORS
"If I hadn't fired the tomato I wouldn't have known about that," said Hervey. Which fact, to him, fully justified the juicy bombardment. "That shows how you never can tell what's going to happen next." And this was certainly true of Hervey.
But to do him justice, what was going to happen next never worried him. He took things as they came. He was not the one to sidestep an issue. The ominous notice signed by his scoutmaster had the effect of directing his ambling course to that officer's presence, on which detour, he might encounter new adventures. To reach his troop's cabin he would have to pass the cooking shack where a doughnut might be speared with a stick. All was for the best. He would as lief go to troop cabin as anywhere else....
In this blithe and carefree spirit, he approached the rustic domicile which he seldom honored by his presence, singing one of those snatches of a song which were the delight of camp, and which rounded out his rôle of wandering minstrel:
Oh, there is no place like the old camp-fire,
As all the boy scouts know;
And the best little place is home, sweet home—
When there isn't any other place to go, go, go.
When there isn't any other place to go.
Mr. Denny, standing in the doorway of the cabin, contemplated him with a repressed smile. "Hervey," he could not help saying, "since you think so well of the camp-fire, I wonder you don't choose to see more of it."
"I can see it from all the way across the lake," said Hervey. "I can see it no matter where I go."
"I see. It must arouse fond thoughts. I'm afraid, Hervey, to quote your own song, there isn't any other place for you to go but home, sweet home. You seem to have exhausted all the places. Sit down, Hervey, you and I have got to have a little talk."
Hervey leaned against the cabin, Mr. Denny sat upon the door sill. None of the troop was about; it was very quiet. For half a minute or so Mr. Denny did not speak, only whittled a stick.
"I sometimes wonder why you joined the scouts, Hervey," he said. "Your disposition——"
"A fellow that sat next to me in school dared me to," said Hervey.
"Oh, it was a sort of a wager?"
"I wouldn't take a dare from anybody."
"And so you joined as a stunt?"
"I heard that scouts jumped off cliffs and all like that."
"I see. Well, now, Hervey, I've written to your father that I'm sending you home."
Hervey began making rings in the soil with his stick but said nothing. Mr. Denny's last words were perhaps a little more than he expected, but he gave no other hint of his feelings.
And so for another minute or so there was silence, except for the distant voices of some scouts out upon the lake.
"It is not exactly as a punishment, Hervey; it is just that I can't take the responsibility, that's all. You see?"
"Y—— yes, sir."
"I thought you would. Your father thought the influence of camp would be good, but you see you are seldom at camp. We can't help you because we can't find you."
"You can't cook a fish till you catch it," said Hervey.
"That's just it, Hervey."
"If you don't want to leave any tracks the best thing is to swing into trees every now and then," Hervey informed him.
"Ah, I see. Now, Hervey, my boy, I'm anxious that you and I should understand each other. You have done nothing disgraceful and I don't think you ever will——"
"I landed plunk on my head once."
"Well, that was more of a misfortune than a disgrace."
"It hurt like the dickens."
"I suppose it did."
Mr. Denny paused; he was up against the hardest job he had ever tackled. It was harder than he had thought it would be.
"You see, Hervey, how it is. Last week you stayed away over night at some farm. I had told you you must not leave camp without my knowledge. For that I had you stay here all day, making a birchbark basket. I thought that was a good punishment."
"I'll tell the world it was," said Hervey.
Mr. Denny paused before proceeding.
"Did it do any good? Not a bit."
"The basket was a punk one," said Hervey.
"Again you rode down as far as Barretstown, hitching onto a freight train."
"I'd have got all the way down to Jonesville, if it hadn't been for the conductor. He was some old grouch, believe me."
"Then we had a little talk—you remember. You promised to be here at meal times. Look at Mr. Ellsworth's troop, Harris, Blakeley and those boys. Always on hand for meals——"
"I'll say so; they're some hungry bunch," Hervey commented.
"And you gave me your word that you wouldn't leave camp without my permission. You think as little about breaking your word as you do about breaking your leg, Hervey," Mr. Denny added with sober emphasis.
Hervey began poking the ground again with his stick.
"That's just the truth, Hervey. And it can't go on any longer."
"Am I out of the troop?" Hervey asked, wistfully.
"N—no, you're not. But I want you to learn to be as good a scout in one way as you are in another. You have won merit badges with an ease which is surprising to me——"
"They're a cinch," Hervey interrupted.
"I want you to go home and stop doing stunts and read the handbook. I want you to read the oath and the scout laws, so that when the rest of us come home you can give me your hand and say, 'I'm an all round scout, not just a doer of stunts.'"
"H—how soon are—the rest of you coming back?" Hervey asked with just the faintest suggestion of a break in his voice.
"Why, you know we're here for six weeks, Hervey. Don't you know anything about your troop's affairs? You know how much money we have in our treasury, don't you?"
Hervey did not miss the reproach. He said nothing, only kept tracing the circle with his stick. Finally it occurred to him to mark two eyes, a nose and a mouth in the circle. Mr. Denny sat studying him. I think Mr. Denny was on the point of weakening. Hervey seemed sober and preoccupied. But the face on the ground seemed to wink at Mr. Denny as if to intercede in its young creator's behalf.
Mr. Denny gathered his strength as one does on the point of taking an unpalatable medicine.
"Yesterday, Hervey, I expressly reminded you of your promise not to leave camp. I did that because I thought the storm might tempt you forth."
"They call me——"
"Yes, I know; they call you the stormy petrel. You went across the lake with others. They returned but you did not return with them. Where you went I don't know. And I'm not going to ask you, Hervey, for it makes no difference. I understand young Mr. Slade was there, but that makes no difference. Blakeley and one of his troop, Westy Martin, reached camp and reported conditions in the cove——"
"He's all right, Blakeley is——"
"Hours passed, no one knew where you were. I was too proud, or too ashamed, to go and ask Slade if he knew. I am jealous of our troop's reputation, Hervey—even if you are not——"
Hervey leaned against the cabin, looking abstractedly at his handiwork on the ground.
"There was great confusion and excitement here," Mr. Denny continued. "The whole camp turned out to save the lake, to stem the flood. But you were not here. Your companions in our troop worked till they were dog tired. But where were you? Helping? No, you were off on some vagabond journey—disobedient, insubordinate."
Mr. Denny spoke with resolute firmness now and his voice rang as he uttered his scathing accusations.
"You were a traitor not only to your troop, but to the camp—the camp which held out the hand of good fellowship to you when you came here. A slacker——"
Hervey broke his stick in half and threw it on the ground. His breast heaved. He looked down. He said nothing. Mr. Denny studied him curiously for a few seconds.
"That is the truth, Hervey. One wrong always produces another. You were disobedient and insubordinate, and that led to—what?"
Hervey gulped, but whether in shame or remorse or what, Mr. Denny could not make out, He was to know presently.
"It led to shirking, whether intentional or not. And to-night, because there is no train, you are going to sleep in the camp which you deserted. You will, perhaps, row on the lake which others have saved for you. You see it now in its true light, don't you? You had better go and thank Blakeley and his comrade for what they did, if you have any real feeling for the camp."
"I——"
"Don't speak. Nothing you could say would make a difference, Hervey. I know from Mr. Carroll and his boys where you showed up. I know they found you clinging to one of the stage horses. I was there later and saw you. You might have been plunged into that chasm with all the rest of them and been crushed to pieces, if one of those scouts hadn't gone ahead, as he was told to do, and if he hadn't kept his mind on what he had been told to do, instead of disregarding his scoutmaster and——"
He paused, for Hervey was shaking perceptibly. He watched the boy curiously. Should he go on with this thing and see it through? He summoned his resolution.
"No, Hervey, as I said, I have written to your father. I have said nothing against you, only that you are too much for me here, where my responsibility is great. I want you to get your things together and take the train in the morning. We'll expect to see you when we come home. There is no hard feeling, Hervey. When we come home you're going to start all over again, my boy, and learn the thing right. You——"
With a kind of spasmodic effort Hervey raised his head and, with a pride there was no mistaking, looked his scoutmaster straight in the face. He was trembling visibly. If there was any contrition in his countenance, Mr. Denny did not see it. He was quite taken aback with the fine show of spirit which his young delinquent showed. There was even a dignity in the old cap with its holes and badges, as it sat perched on the side of his head. There was a touch of pathos, even of dignity too, in his fallen stocking.
"I—I—wouldn't stay here—now—I wouldn't—I—not even if you asked me—I wouldn't. I wouldn't even if you—if you got down on your knees and begged me——"
"Hervey, my boy——"
"No, I won't listen. I—I wouldn't stay even to-night—I wouldn't. Do you think I need a train? I—I can hike to Jonesville, can't I? You say I'm—I'm no scout—Tom Slade he said——"
"Hervey——"
"I don't—anyhow—I don't care anything about the rest of them. I wouldn't stay even for supper. Even if you—if you apologized—I wouldn't——"
"Apologize? Why, Hervey——"
"For what you said—called me—I wouldn't. I don't give a—a—damn—I don't—for all the people here—only except one—and I wouldn't stay if you got down on your knees and begged me—I wouldn't——"
Mr. Denny contemplated him with consternation in every feature. There was no stopping him. The accused had become the accuser. There was something stirring, something righteous, in this fine abandon. In the setting of the outburst of hurt pride even the profane word seemed to justify itself. The tables were completely turned and Hervey Willetts was master of the situation.