At a steady jog trot the three lads were making their way toward their home village. A slight chill predictive of the coming winter was in the air, but for the time of year, mid-October, the evening was unusually calm and warm. It was this late Indian summer that had made the water games possible.
The boys’ conversation, as they jogged along, dealt mainly with the astonishing things that had happened to them on the Harkness ranch in the wildest part of Arizona. All of these were related in detail in “The Boy Scouts on The Range.” Readers of that book will recall how Rob Blake, the son of the president of the National Bank of Hampton; Merritt Crawford, one of the numerous family of the village blacksmith, and Tubby Hopkins, the offspring of a widow in comfortable circumstances, had accepted the invitation of Harry Harkness to get a taste of life on the range.
Their strange encounter with Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender, their former enemies, was related in that volume, together with the surprising and clever manner in which they turned the tables on those worthies. In that book, too, we saw the raw Easterners—Tenderfeet, as they were—become transformed from “greenies” into good shots, capable riders, and excellent woodsmen. During their western stay they had broadened and developed considerably from the lads who some months before had formed the Eagle Patrol, as related in the first volume of this series, “The Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol.” They had returned to Hampton better, mentally and physically, for their trip.
But like most lads who have left their native place for even a short time, they found changes when they returned. Freeman Hunt, the son of a well-to-do resident, had formed the Hawk Patrol, and enrolled in it as many boys as he could. In the meantime, the Eagle Patrol had developed, and now numbered twenty stalwart lads, in addition to the original ten whom we know. In some way, however, instead of the spirit of friendliness and good fellowship that should have prevailed, the Hawk and Eagle Patrols found themselves involved in considerable rivalry.
Now rivalry is good. Nothing could be better in athletics or daily life than a healthy spirit of emulation. It is when rivalry degenerates into bitterness that it is time to call a halt. Under Freeman Hunt’s leadership, the Hawks had developed such a spirit. Dale Harding, Hunt’s boon companion, had followed his leader’s example in abetting it, instead of trying to allay hard and angry feelings. In fact, despite all that the scoutmasters could do, the Hawks sought every opportunity to lure the Eagles into open hostilities.
Rob Blake and his crowd had managed hitherto to keep their men in check. But the task was daily getting harder. Freeman Hunt had many good qualities, but he could not bear to be beaten at anything. He was a bad loser. Until the return of Rob and his chums from the West, he had had things pretty much his own way. But since that time, every contest in which the Hawks and Eagles had engaged had resulted in victory for the latter. This galled Hunt and Harding exceedingly. They would have liked to see and to hasten the return of Rob and his companions to the West, or anywhere else, so long as they were left a free field for their endeavors.
The Sturgeon Spearing Contest had proved the climax of affairs between the two patrols. In the dressing-room, after the awarding of the pennant to the Eagles, Hunt had bitterly assailed Rob. The latter had stood taunt after taunt without a word. He good-naturedly ascribed it to Hunt’s natural chagrin at being beaten. Finally, an especially bitter remark had moved him to reply. After all, Rob was only human.
“Say, Hunt,” he said quietly, “don’t you think it would be a heap more manly not to make so much noise about it?”
“No, I don’t,” grated out Hunt, almost beside himself with rage. He came close up to Rob and shook his fist threateningly.
“Who are you, anyhow, to tell me what I’m to do, eh? What have you got to say about it?”