Under Boy Scout Colors

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

Tompkins smiled back at him, but did not speak. He was luxuriating in the restful peace which comes after strenuous physical action and the consciousness of successful accomplishment. A feeling of intense pride in the troop filled him. “They’re a corking lot of fellows–corking!” he said more than once under his breath as he looked around the room with shining eyes. “How they did get after that bunch in the last quarter! I–I wouldn’t belong to any other troop for–for anything!”

Now and then, to be sure, his eyes strayed to the farther end of the room, where Ranny Phelps was having his swollen ankle bandaged by two of the most skilful exponents of first aid, and a faint touch of questioning crept into them. Since that breathless moment on the field when Ranny’s efforts had left the way free for Dale, he had not spoken to the tenderfoot nor by so much as a glance recognized his existence. Dale wondered whether his mind was merely taken up with his injury, or whether the change that had come over him in the heat of the game had been only a temporary thawing.

As the days passed, the latter suspicion became a certainty. At their very first meeting, in fact, the tenderfoot found Ranny as aloof as ever. To be sure, Dale noticed that he no longer seemed to try to impress his attitude on the others in his patrol. Apparently without rebuke, stout Harry Vedder became quite friendly, and even Rex Slater and one or two others in the clique treated him with a good deal more consideration than they had before the game. But the leader himself made no effort to disguise his coolness toward the new-comer, and Dale presently found it hard to believe that the helping hand, the friendly voice, the touch of that muscular shoulder as they fought side by side on the field in the furious struggle against odds had been real.

He did not brood over it, because he was not of the brooding sort. More than once he found himself regretting that impulsive action which had so increased the other boy’s antagonism, but for the most part he contented himself with the unqualified friendship of most of the troop, and entered with zest into the various scout activities.

Perhaps the most interesting of these were the long hikes and week-end camping-trips. Mr. Curtis was a great advocate of the latter, and as soon as the end of football made Saturdays free again, he announced his intention of undertaking them as often as the weather permitted.

Unfortunately, there were not many sites around Hillsgrove which combined the ideal qualifications for a camp–good drainage, wood, and water. The latter was particularly scarce. There were one or two brooks–small, miserable affairs with only a foot or two of depth, and a muddy, half-stagnant mill-pond or so; but the single body of water which would have been perfect for the purpose was definitely and permanently barred to them.

It was a small lake, half a mile long and varying from two to four hundred feet in width, that lay some four miles out of town. There was a good bottom, depth in plenty even for diving, and the banks on one side, at least, sloped back sharply and were covered with a fine growth of pine and hemlock, interspersed with white birch and a good deal of hard wood. The boys had often looked on it with longing eyes, but the owner was a sour-faced, crotchety old man who was enraged by the mere sight of a boy on his property. He had placarded his woods with warning signs, kept several dogs, and was even reputed to have a gun loaded with bird-shot ready for instant use on youthful trespassers.

Perhaps the latter was a slight exaggeration; certainly no one had ever been actually peppered with it. But the fact remained that old Caleb Grimstone, who lived alone and had a well-established reputation for crankiness, had stubbornly refused all requests to be allowed to camp or picnic on his property even when pay was offered, and at length all such effort had been abandoned. As Court Parker remarked, no doubt with a vivid recollection of sundry narrow escapes: “You can steal a swim on the old codger if you keep a weather-eye peeled and don’t mind doing a Marathon through the brush; but when it comes to anything like pitching a tent and settling down–good night!”

Under such circumstances, it may be imagined that the announcement made one morning to the group gathered about the school entrance that old Grimstone had fallen through the hay-shoot and broken an arm did not elicit any marked expressions of regret.

“Serves him right, the old skinflint, after the mean way he’s kept us away from the lake!” growled Bob Gibson.