Under Boy Scout Colors

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

Tompkins found himself presently squeezed in near the rear, next to Court Parker, with Sanson, Bob Gibson, and Paul Trexler near by. Most of the older fellows were farther front, and Mr. Curtis sat next to the driver. It was a perfect day, clear, sparkling, cloudless, and as the truck rumbled out of Hillsgrove and started southward along the fine state road the boys were in high spirits. Soon some one started up a song, and from one familiar air they passed to another, letting off a good deal of steam in that fashion. A lot more was got rid of by practising troop yells, and when the truck began to pass between fields of waving yellow grain, they found amusement in seeing how many of the laboring farmers would answer their shouts and hand-wavings.

But it wasn’t possible, of course, to keep up this sort of thing for the entire journey, and after a couple of hours they settled down to a quieter key. Naturally, the most interesting subject of discussion was the camp, and presently, in response to a number of requests, Mr. Curtis moved back to the middle of the truck to tell the crowd, that included many boys from other troops, all he knew about it. When he had described in detail the situation and its advantages and explained the arrangement of the camp which three other scoutmasters and a number of the other boys had gone down ahead to lay out, he paused for a moment or two.

“There’s just one thing, fellows,” he went on presently “that we’ve got to be mighty careful about. The land is owned by John Thornton, the banker, whose wonderful country-place, twenty miles this side of Clam Cove, you may have heard about. It seems that he’s had a great deal of trouble with boys trespassing, starting fires in the woods, injuring the shrubbery and rare trees, and even trapping game. It’s possible, of course, though I should hate to believe it, that some of this damage has been done by scouts, as he seems to think. At all events, he is very much opposed to the movement, which he contends merely gives boys a certain freedom and authority to roam the woods,–building fires, cutting trees, and having a thoughtless good time generally,–without teaching them anything of real value.”

“Humph!” sniffed Sherman Ward, indignantly. “Then why has he offered us this camping-site?”

“He hasn’t offered it to us as scouts. He’s loaned it to Captain Chalmers, who is a very close friend, and he as much as says that our behavior there will merely prove his point about the uselessness of scouting. Of course, he’s dead wrong, but he’s a mighty hard man to convince, and we’ll have to toe the mark all the time. I don’t mean it’s going to interfere with our having all the fun that’s going, but we’ll have to take a little more pains than usual to have a model camp. There mustn’t be any careless throwing about of rubbish. In getting fire-wood we’ll have to put into practice all we’ve learned about the right sort of forestry. When away from camp on hikes or for any other purpose, we must always conduct ourselves as good scouts and remember that it’s not only our own reputation we’re upholding, but that of the whole order.”

When he had gone back to his place in front there were a few indignant comments on Mr. Thornton and his point of view, but for the most part the boys took it sensibly, with many a determined tightening of the lips.

“I guess he won’t get anything on us,” commented Ted MacIlvaine, decidedly. “It’ll be rather fun, fellows, making him back down.”

There was an emphatic chorus of agreement, but little further discussion, for the question of lunch was beginning to be pressing. Though barely eleven, boxes and haversacks were produced and the next half-hour enlivened with one of the most satisfying of occupations. Toward noon they stopped at a small town for “gas.” When the car started on again, there was a pleasant sense of excitement in the realization that another couple of hours ought to bring them to Clam Cove.

The country had changed greatly from that around Hillsgrove. It looked wilder, more unsettled. Instead of fields of ripening grain, orchards, or acres of truck-gardens, the road was bordered by long stretches of woods and tangled undergrowth. The farm-houses were farther apart and less pretentious. There was even a faint tang of salt in the air. At length, from the summit of an elevation, Mr. Curtis pointed out a distant hill showing hazily blue on the horizon.