Turning to Walter he thrust into his hands a pair of snow-shoes. “Will ye take these ter show Noo Yorrk th’ latest shtoile in shoes?” he asked hurriedly. “Oi made thim for ye mesilf so ye will remimber th’ bye in the woods ye licked—but thot ye can’t lick now,” he added, the twinkle reappearing in his eyes.
“An’ say,” he concluded as the heavy express drew in to the station, “Oi be goin’ ter shtart a Scout patrol av th’ Upper Chain byes thot’ll make yez hustle fer honors when ye coom back nixt summer.”
The farewells were over. Lolling back in the luxury of a Pullman seat Walter and Hal were rushing down through the mountains, back to the busy world, a world of brick and stone and steel, of clang and roar, of dust and dirt and smoke, of never ending struggle, the world to which they had been accustomed, of which they had been a part all their lives. Yet now it seemed a very dim and distant world, an unreal world.
They sat in silence, gazing out at the darkening forest, each buried in his own thoughts, each vaguely conscious that he was not the same boy who had taken this same iron trail into the wilderness a few short weeks before; that there had been a change, a subtle metamorphosis for which the mere passage of so brief a space of time could not be accountable. Hal was the first to come out of the revery.
“I guess,” he said slowly and thoughtfully, “that I’ve just begun to learn what life is. They really live it back there.”
In the seat in front of them the fathers of the two boys were in earnest conversation, and Mr. Harrison was voicing almost the same thought. “I tell you, Upton, that is real, genuine life up there! Merriam’s idea is right. It’s great! That isn’t a camp up there—it’s a ‘man factory.’ Why, look at that boy of mine! I sent him up there to get him out of the way and keep him out of mischief. Sent him up there a helpless infant in all but years. Been petted and coddled and toadied to all his life. My fault, I admit it. And yet less my fault than the fault of the unnatural and artificial conditions that wealth produces. On the impulse of a moment I run up there to have a look at him, and what do I find? A man, sir!
“I tell you I never in my life put through a big financial deal with one-half the pride that I watched that boy push his canoe over the line yesterday! And when they told me about that fire exploit of his I was happier than I’d be if I cornered the market to-day. I’m proud of him, sir, just as you’re proud of your boy! You’ve got to strip a man down bare to know whether he can stand on his own feet or not. He’s got to, then, or go under. And Merriam is showing them how to do it. Now I’ve been thinking of a plan for next summer for these two youngsters, and perhaps a couple more from the camp, and the expense, you understand, is to be wholly mine.”
He leaned forward and for half an hour the two men were absorbed in earnest discussion. Finally Mr. Upton turned to the seat behind.
“Walter,” said he, “how should you like to spend next summer at Woodcraft?”
“Like it!” cried Walter. “There’s nothing in all the world I’d like so much!”