Scott Burton, Forester

by Edward G. Cheyney

Another source of amusement which originated with the darky crew, but soon spread to the whole shed, was the popular method of settling all disputes and rough houses. No sooner did two men start to tussle than some enthusiast in the crowd, sometimes one of the combatants if he felt sure of victory, would yell, “Get a board.” That was the invariable war cry. There were always plenty of people to carry it out and as if by magic a husky man would appear with a bed slat. The presence of that bed slat reversed the ordinary methods of wrestling completely. It was no longer the object to come out on top, for the top man got the full benefit of the bed slat laid on with no gentle hand. The agonized expression and bodily writhing of the victim who saw that descending bed slat out of the corner of his eye were the delight of the crowd. The man who could stay underneath with the seat of his trousers glued fast to the platform was the successful combatant in the eyes of all concerned. It was not a position easily maintained, for the exertions of the other man under the stimulus of the bed slat became almost superhuman.

Scott had been anxious to try his strength at this game with some of these strong laborers, but he had been slow to make their acquaintance. The day before he left the shed he had his opportunity thrust upon him. There was a big Swede there, the bully of the shed, who was acknowledged to be the “best man” at the bed slat game. He was consequently always looking for trouble and had gotten the better of nearly everyone there at some time or other. Scott had often wondered what his skill could do against this man’s strength.

The clash came unexpectedly. Scott shot out of a car door with his empty truck just in time to crash into a truck loaded high with small boxes. The impact dumped the top-heavy load, and fifty cobbler outfits were scattered the width of the platform. Almost before he knew what had happened he felt himself raised bodily from the ground and the big Swede was bellowing the war cry in his very ear. He felt absolutely helpless in that iron grasp. Hardly had the echo of the war cry died away when there was a swish and the inevitable bed slat landed with a crack like a rifle.

The tears sprang to Scott’s eyes, but all the feeling of helplessness was gone. With one frantic wrench he freed himself from the big Swede’s arms. He dodged the next blow of the menacing slat, grappled his opponent around the knees and brought him to the ground with a crash. He had downed his man, but with the wrestler’s instinct, and unmindful of the rules of this new game, he had fallen on top of his opponent. Crack came the relentless slat. There was no time to lose. He was free and could have ended the scrap by leaving his opponent but that would have been to acknowledge defeat, which he was not willing to do without a fair trial. With one wild dive he secured a crotch and body hold on his untrained opponent; but the man was too big—he could not turn him over. Just then the bed slat descended again with a vicious spat. That gave him the needed strength. One agonized heave toppled the big fellow heels over head and Scott fell neatly under him. Flat on his back with the big Swede pinned helplessly above him he listened to the cracks of the slat mingling with the yells of the crowd and smiled as he foiled the heavings of the mighty frame with his skill.

A half dozen cracks were enough. The big fellow howled for mercy, and Scott arose the hero of the shed. The forty-five dollars he earned that vacation was the pride of his life, but if he had been given his choice he would have preferred to repeat that triumphant moment when he lay on his back on the platform and listened to the tune of that slat.

CHAPTER X

Of all the Christmas vacations which Scott could remember he recalled none that had left him such real sensations of pleasure as that three weeks of hard labor in the old transfer shed. It formed almost the only theme of conversation between the two boys for the next two weeks. A month ago Scott would have laughed at the idea of his being able to learn anything at such a place, yet hardly a day passed now that he did not feel that he had been helped by his experience. Moreover, he took a very different interest in the laboring men he saw and seemed to look at everything from a different point of view.

He buckled down to his work with a better will than he could have done after a period of idleness and had the satisfaction of seeing his extra courses rapidly coming to a successful close. The mid-year examinations came bringing terror to the unprepared, but Scott took his Saturday afternoon and Sunday off as usual, and waded through the examinations in the regular routine of his work. He came out of them with flying colors, and found himself a full fledged junior with the privilege of taking part in all the activities of the class.

The most important of these class activities at this time was the formation of the famous Junior Corporation for the management of the camp at Itasca. A camp meeting was called at which Ormand and Morgan, the officers of the last year’s Corporation, explained its organization and workings. Ormand explained the object of the Corporation.

“You see, fellows, it’s like this. That camp is twenty-seven miles from the railroad. There is no boarding house within striking distance of the place, so somebody has to run the cook shack. If an outsider came in to run it he would have to charge big money in order to make any profit; if the school ran it the fellows would always be kicking on the grub; if the fellows run it themselves they can make it cost what they please and have nobody but themselves to kick if they don’t like it. It has always worked out first rate. We kept board down to two dollars and eighty cents per week last summer, had good grub and entertained lots of company.