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.”