Tom Slade on the River

by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

“It would be like a silent noise,” said Roy, “You’ve got the right idea, Raymond, Show your colors. Rub it into him? He sold the Friday Evening Pest all winter and he got fifty cents twice a week for leading Miss Wade’s kindergarten class in physical torture; gee, I think he’s saving up to pay the national debt, or something! And look at him with that old book strap for a belt. Can you beat it!”

Roy’s propensity for jollying, together with his known fondness for Tom, made it possible for him to say almost anything he chose, and he never lost a chance to set people good-naturedly by the ears. But you never know where a spark is going to fall. If these sparks of wit had fallen only upon Tom they would have had no more effect than water, for he knew Roy, and their friendship was as a rock.

But they fell upon little Raymond Hollister, where they ignited other sparks which were already smouldering. Like many boys who have been invalids and have been much by themselves, Raymond had notions; away back home he had first been attracted to the scouts by the trim khaki regalia; it was the first bait Garry had used with him, and to Raymond at first a scout was simply a boy who wore a khaki suit. With Garry’s help, the pale-faced little fellow had managed to wriggle through the tenderfoot tests, and then he wanted his suit. It was all he had thought of. I dare say there are a few other scouts like him. He had not delved very deeply into the Handbook.

The members of the little struggling patrol had slipped away until there was no patrol, but Raymond still wore his precious suit and felt that he was a Boy Scout. Perhaps he had the right idea, too, if you will just subtract his prejudice. Show your colors is a good slogan, but little Raymond went farther than that. He assumed that if you didn’t show your colors it was because you didn’t have any; and like most scouts of the tenderfoot class, he was a great stickler for the khaki, for its own sweet sake.

He had (as he had confided to Pee-wee that first night in camp) never “fallen for” Tom Slade. There was not much of the scout glamor about Tom and Raymond liked the scout glamor. He worshipped Roy and he idolized Garry. He was so jealous for Garry that he looked on Tom as an unfair rival. Who had sent that smudge signal from the hill? Who had made Harry Stanton get better? And who had been treated like a dog during his whole vacation? Who but his friend, Garry.

And who had taken Harry Stanton when he got better, and broken up the little patrol which was just starting up all over again? Why, that was the fellow in the gray shirt and the book-strap belt, who was no scout at all—Tom Slade. Raymond knew what a scout was—he had seen pictures enough of them.

Probably, his diffident nature would have kept him from saying more now except for Roy’s laughing encouragement and the belief that Mr. Ellsworth stood with him. In any event, he launched forth in a way which astonished them all.

“That’s why you don’t wear the uniform—because you’re not a scout!” he shouted at Tom. “You’re too stingy, you are, and everybody knows it! You’ve no right to go with fellers that are scouts! You—you get them to name their boats after you—fellers—fellers that you stole—yes, stole, you did!”

It was unfortunate that both Mr. Ellsworth and Garry, either of whom could have smoothed this thing out in half a jiffy, were on the forward deck getting the anchor ready to cast, and the other scouts were too surprised, and perhaps a little too amused, to put a stop to his tirade. Probably they did not think it would affect Tom.

But Raymond, losing all control of himself, his eyes brimming and his voice trembling, went on: