“Busy stuffing yourself, I s’pose. Well, you missed a dandy game up at Sherm’s. We’re going to have another this afternoon.”
“Won’t the snow– Say! Why couldn’t we play ‘Smugglers over the Border,’ or something like that? It’s just the day for it.”
Court’s glance swept comprehensively over the snow-covered green and his eyes brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Now and then you do manage to hit the little black circle, Tommy. Let’s hunt up the bunch and see what they say.”
The crowd was presently gathered from several different parts of town, and the majority approved of Dale’s suggestion. Ranny Phelps and several of his clique had other plans for the afternoon, but Ranny had a habit of frequently failing to take part in the troop doings, unless these were official and gave him a chance to appear in uniform, girded with authority, so his absence was not unexpected.
Immediately after lunch the others betook themselves a mile outside of town, sides were chosen, and the “border” laid out. This consisted of about four hundred yards of a little-used road where the snow had not been much disturbed. This was patrolled by a portion of the “custom inspectors,” with a reserve posted farther inland. About half a mile back from the road a deserted barn did duty for the “town.”
The smugglers gathered about half a mile on the other side of the border and were allowed to cross it in any formation, singly, together, or scattered, and make for the town at any speed they chose. One only of their number was supposed to be smuggling, and he was equipped with tracking-irons. The moment a sentry patrolling the border caught sight of these tracks, his duty was to signal the fact to the reserve party of inspectors and at once follow the track himself. The reserves coöperated with him, trying by any means to catch the smuggler before he could reach the town. If they succeeded, the game was theirs; but if the smuggler eluded them and reached the barn safely, victory went to the other side.
It was a typical scout sport, and for three hours or more the fellows played it strenuously, varying it toward the end with one or two other stalking games. These all met with unanimous approval, even Bob Gibson, the habitual grumbler, admitting that it was more fun than he thought it would be.
“We’ll have to try some more of those in the book,” Ward remarked as they tramped back through the twilight. “That deer-hunt one sounds pretty good, if you fellows will only make bows and arrows enough. I vote we fix up a deer and go to it next Saturday.”
It happened, however, that the following Saturday was devoted to something even more interesting than deer-hunting. As Dale entered the parish-house on Monday evening he passed Mr. Curtis, just inside the door, talking earnestly with Wesley Becker.
“It was a big surprise to me, I can tell you,” he heard the scoutmaster say. “I can’t imagine what has brought about the transformation.”