Tom Slade on the River by Percy Keese Fitzhugh
Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)
TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER
BY PERCY K. FITZHUGH
Author of "TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT OF THE MOVING PICTURES," "TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER S. ROGERS
PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America Copyright, 1917, by GROSSET & DUNLAP
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I. The First Arrival 1 II. Tom Surprises the Camp 17 III. Roy's Campfire Yarn 25 IV. The Old Trail 42 V. Adventure of the Rescue Party 53 VI. The Mountain Shelter 63 VII. "Under Which King?" 80 VIII. Jeffrey Waring 87 IX. A New Kind of First Aid 107 X. The Birthday of the Elk Patrol 113 XI. Garry's Story and Harry Stanton's 127 XII. Pee-wee Triumphant 138 XIII. At the Stanton's 148 XIV. First Bridgeboro B.S.A. Becomes a Full Troop 164 XV. Cruising in the "Honor Scout" 170 XVI. The Invisible Badge 180 XVII. Lost! 192 XVIII. The Tragic Adventure of the Freckled Scout 201 XIX. "So Long--See You Later!" 222
TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER
CHAPTER I THE FIRST ARRIVAL
"But suppose they shouldn't come."
"Son, when I wuz out in Colorady, in a place we called Devil's Pass, Igut a grizzly backed up agin' a ledge one day 'n' heving ony one bullet'twas a case uv me or him, as yer might say. My pardner, Simon Gurthy,who likewise didn't hev no bullets, 'count uv bein' stripped b' theInjins, he says, 'S'posin' ye don't fetch him.' 'N' I says, 'S'posin' Ido.'"
Jeb Rushmore, with methodical accuracy, spat at a sapling near by.
"And did you?" asked his listener.
Jeb spat again with leisurely deliberation. "'N' I did," said he.
"You always hit, don't you, Jeb?"
"Purty near."
The boy edged along the log on which they were sitting and looked upadmiringly into the wrinkled, weatherbeaten face. A smile which did notaltogether penetrate through the drooping gray mustache was visibleenough in the twinkling eyes and drew the wrinkles about them like sunrays.
"They'll come," said he.
The boy was satisfied for he had absolute confidence that his companioncould not make a mistake.
"But suppose you _hadn't_ hit him--I mean fetched him?"
"Son, wot yer _got_ to do, yer do. When I told General Custer onct thatwe'd get picked off like cherries offen a tree if we tried rushin' a packuv Sioux that was in ambush, he says, 'Jeb, mebbe it cain't be done, Iain't sayin', but jest the same, we _got_ ter do it.' Some on us gotdropped, but we done it."
"Did General Custer call you by your first name?"
"Same's you do."
This was too much for the little fellow. "Gee, it must have been great tohave General Custer call you by your first name."
"Wal, now, I ben thinkin' 'twas purty fine this winter hevin' _yew_ callme by my fust name, 'n' keep me comp'ny here. We've got ter be closepards, me an' you, hain't we, son?"
"Gee, I'm almost sorry they're coming--kind of."
They were certainly coming--"in chunks," as Roy Blakeley would have said,and before night the camp would be a veritable beehive. All summer troopswould be coming and going, but just now the opening rush was at hand, andthe exodus from eastern towns and cities, following the closing ofschools, would go far to fill the camp even to its generous capacitybefore this Saturday's sun had set.
The Bridgeboro Troop, from the home town of the camp's generous founder,Mr. John Temple, would arrive sometime in the afternoon "with bells on"according to the post card which little Raymond Hollister had brought upfrom the post office the day before.
They were cruising up the Hudson to Catskill Landing in their cabinlaunch, the _Good Turn_, and would hike it up through Leeds to camp. Thecard was postmarked Poughkeepsie, and read:
Desert Island of Poughkeepsie, Longitude 23, Latitude 40-11.
"Put in here for gasoline and ice-cream soda. Natives friendly. Heavy gales. Raining in sheets and pillow-cases. Mutiny on board. Pee-wee Harris, N. G. Mariner, put in irons for stealing peanuts from galley. Boarded by pirates below Peekskill. Coming north with bells on. Reach camp Saturday late. All's well with a yo-heave-ho, my lads."
"That sounds like Roy Blakeley," Raymond had said to his companion.
"Does sound kinder like his nonsense," the camp manager had answered.
All through the long winter months Raymond had lived at the big camp withno other companion than Jeb Rushmore. They had made their headquarters inJeb's cabin, the other cabins and the big pavilion being shut tight.Raymond had often thought how like the pictures of Valley Forge thisvacant clearing in the woods looked in its covering of snow, andsometimes when Jeb was busy writing letters (it was a terrible job forJeb to write letters) the little fellow had been lonesome, but he hadgained in weight, he had slept like a bear, he had ceased entirely tocough, and he ate--there is no way to describe how he ate!
In short, a great fight had been fought out in the lonely camp thatwinter, and little Raymond Hollister had won it. He could trudge into thevillage and back without minding it now and he could raise the big flagwith one hand. Just the coming summer to top off with and he would bewell.
Raymond lived down the Hudson a ways and he had come to Temple Camp withhis troop the previous summer. His patrol leader, Garry Everson, had wonthe Silver Cross, which, according to the rule of the Camp, entitled himand his companions to remain three extra weeks, and when Mr. John Templehad heard of Raymond's ill health from the Bridgeboro boys on theirreturn from camp, he had called his stenographer and sent a couple ofhome-runs over the plate in the form of two letters, one to Raymond'sgrandmother telling her that she had guessed wrong when she had "guessedthat Ray would have to go to an orphan asylum when he came back," and theother enclosing a check to Jeb Rushmore and telling him that Raymondwould stay with him for the winter and to please see to it that he hadeverything he needed.
That was in the previous autumn. Jeb had gotten out his bespattered,pyramid-shaped ink bottle and his atrocious pen and laboriously scrawledhis signature on the back of the check and had it cashed in Leeds. He hadkept the little roll of bills carefully in his pocket all winter, buyingsuch things for Raymond as were needed, and as the roll grew thinnerRaymond had grown stouter, until now, in the spring, he
It seemed a pity that just at the opening of the new season he shouldhave to think of going home and perhaps to an orphan asylum, but if hehad entertained any wild hope that some fortunate circumstance mightprolong his stay into the open season it had been dissipated when wordhad come that the Temples had gone to South America. Either John Templehad forgotten about the boy up in the lonely camp or else he felt that hehad done as much for him as could be expected. Raymond might still remainfor two weeks of the new season as any scout might do, but then he wouldbe at the end of his rope. For the rule of Temple Camp was that any scoutor troop of scouts might spend two weeks at the camp free of all cost. Ifa scout won an honor medal it entitled his whole troop to additionaltime, the time dependent on the nature of the award. No scout mightremain at camp longer than two weeks except in accordance with thisprovision, but permission might be granted on the recommendation of oneof the trustees for a scout to _board_ at camp for a longer time if therewere good reason.
One day, however, a registered letter had come for Jeb. It containedfifty dollars and a slip of paper bearing only the words: _For RaymondHollister to stay until September first_.
"So he remembered 'baout yer arter all," Jeb had said, as pleased asRaymond himself. "I kinder knowed he would. If _he_ ain't a trusty (Jebalways said _trusty_ when he meant _trustee_) 'n' got rights, gol, Idunno who has. They wuz jest goin' on th'boat, I reckon, when it poppedinter his head like a dose uv buckshot 'n' he sent it right fromth'wharf.----' N' I dun't hev ter get out my ink bottle 'n' my olddouble-barrelled pen ter _in_dorse, neither."
There they were--two twenties and a ten; to Raymond they seemed like afortune as he watched Jeb fold them up and slip them into his home-madebuckskin wallet.
All this had happened before this auspicious Saturday, but the dispellingof Raymond's fears had given rise to new apprehensions.
"Even if they come," said he, "maybe Garry won't be with them--maybe theywon't stop for him." Garry Everson was all that was left of the littletroop he had striven to keep together the previous summer and theBridgeboro troop had promised to stop for him and bring him along.
"An' then agin, mebbe they will," laughed Jeb.
"Who do you think will be the first to get here, Jeb?"
"Mebbe them lads from South New Jersey, mebbe the Pennsylvanyyoungsters," said Jeb, consulting his list from the home-made buckskinwallet. The trustees kept these lists in the neatest and most approvedmanner, but Jeb had a system of record keeping all his own. "Let's see,naouw, thar's thet troop with the red-headed boy from Merryland--'member'em, don't ye? They'll be comin' all week, more'n like. Seems ony likeyist'day, thet that ole hill over thar wuz covered with snow--'member howme an' you watched it? We had a rough winter of it, didn't we. Here,lemme feel yer muscle agin now. Gee-williger! Gittin' ter be a reg'larSamson, ain't ye?"
"Now that it's time for them to come," said Raymond, slowly, "I'm almostsorry--kind of. It was dandy being alone here with you."
Jeb slapped him on the shoulder and smiled again that smile that drew thewrinkles like sun rays around his twinkling eyes, and went about his workof preparation. Perhaps he, too, rough old scout that he was, felt thatit had been "dandy" having little Raymond alone with him through thoselong, cold winter months.
All day long Raymond kept his gaze across Black Lake, for he knew thatthe Bridgeboro boys, hiking it from the Hudson, would come that way; butthe hours of the afternoon passed and there were no arrivals. The hillssurrounding the camp began to darken in the twilight, save for thecrimson tinge upon their summits from the dying sun; the dark waters ofthe lake grew more sombre in the twilight and the still solemnity ofevening, which was nowhere more gloomy and impressive than at thislakeside camp in the hills, fell upon the scene and cast its spell uponthe lonely boy as it always did. But no one came.
Jeb Rushmore strolled down to where Raymond sat on the rough benchoutside the provision cabin, facing the lake.
"Still watchin'? If yew say so, I'll light a lantern and we'll tow acouple uv skiffs across and wait on 'tother side."
"I wasn't thinking about them just now, Jeb; I was looking at thosebirds."
High up, through the fading twilight, a bird sped above the lake, towardthe south. Its course was straight as an arrow. Above it a larger birdhovered and circled but the smaller bird went straight upon its way, asif bent upon some important mission.
Then, suddenly, the larger bird swooped and there was only the one objectleft in the dim vast sky where, a moment before, there had been two.
"Get me my rifle," said Jeb.
As Raymond hurried back with it, he could see the wings of the big birdflapping in the fury of its murderous work. What was going on up there hecould only picture in his mind's eye, but the thought of that smallerbird hurrying on its harmless errand--homeward to its nest, perhaps--andwaylaid and murdered up there in the lonely half darkness, troubled himand his hand trembled perceptibly as he handed the weapon to Jeb.
"You always hit 'em--fetch 'em--don't you?" he asked, anxiously.
"Purty near."
The sharp report rang out and echoed from the surrounding hills. Evenbefore it died away there lay at Raymond's feet a hawk, quite dead, whilethrough the dim light in a pitiably futile effort to fly, the smallerbird, a vivid speck of white in the fading twilight, fluttered to theground.
It proved to be a white pigeon, its feathers ruffled and stained withblood and several of the stiffer feathers of the tail were gone entirely.One wing drooped as the bird stumbled weakly about and an area of itsneck was bare where the feathers had been torn away. It seemed odd toRaymond that the poor stricken thing should resume its clumsy strut,poking its head this way and that, even in its weakness, and after such acruel experience.
But what he noticed particularly was a metal ring around the bird's legfrom which hung a little transparent tube, like a large medical capsule,with something inside it.
"Look, Jeb," said he. "What's that?"
Jeb lifted the bird carefully, folding the drooping wing into place, andremoved the little tube.
"You fetched him anyway, didn't you, Jeb?"
"'Cause I _had_ ter--see?"
"We won't have to kill it, will we, Jeb?"
"Reckon not. He don't seem to be sufferin' much uv any. Jes' shook up, asthe feller says. Lucky he fell amongst friends. Let's see wot he'sbrought us--he's one of them carriers, son."
Raymond said nothing, but watched eagerly as Jeb, leisurely and withoutany excitement, opened the tiny receptacle and unrolled a piece of paper.The boy knew well enough what carrier pigeons were and he was eager toknow the purport of that little roll of script. But even in hisexcitement there lingered in his mind the picture of that faithful littlemessenger, intent upon its errand, struck down by the ruthless bandit ofthe air. He was glad the hawk was dead.
"Let's hear wot he's got ter say fer himself, son. You jes' read it."
The paper was thin and about the size of a dollar bill; it had beenfolded lengthwise and then rolled up. It read:
"Come right away. Governor hurt. Serious. Can't leave. Will try to get to nearest village but am afraid to leave now. He fell and is bleeding bad. Think there's something else the matter, too. Spotty died or would send.
Jeff."
Raymond gazed for a moment at Jeb, then down at the dead hawk, then atthe pigeon which Jeb still held, stroking it gently.
"It'll never be delivered now, son, 'cause nobuddy 'cept this here littlefeller knows whar he come frum nor whar he wuz goin'--do they, Pidge?"
"But somebody's dying," said Raymond.
"Sure enough, but we don't know who 'tis nor _whar_ he is--nor whar hisfriends is neither. An' this here messenger here won't tell us--he's gothis own troubles. That thar hawk done more mischief than he thought for."
For a few moments there was silence and Raymond gazed up into thetrackless, dar
"I--I'm glad you kil--fetched him, anyway----" said he.
The thought of those two unknown persons, the stricken one and hisfrightened companion, waiting all in vain for the help which thatfaithful messenger of the air should summon, and of that steadfast littleemissary, on whom so much depended, fallen here into strange hands,sobered and yet agitated the boy, and he was silent in the utterhelplessness of doing anything.
"Naow, if yer could ony tell whar yer wuz goin' or whar yer wuz comin'frum, Pidge, we'd be much obleeged," said Jeb; "but you wouldn't, wouldyer," he added, stroking the bird, "'n' I ain't much uv a hand at pickin'trails in th'air, bein' as I growed up on th'hard ground."
"Nobody can follow trails in the air," said Raymond by way of comfortingJeb. "Gee, nobody could do that. But it's terrible, isn't it?"
He looked up into the sky again as if he hoped it might still show somesign of path or trail, and as he did so a loud bark, a sort of harsh_Haa-Haa_, came through the growing darkness from across the lake, andreverberated in swelling chorus from the frowning heights roundabout.Then there was a long, plaintive bellow which died away as softly and asgradually as the day itself dies, and this again was followed, as itseemed, by the happy music of applauding hands, as if in acknowledgmentof the long echoed refrain.
"Oh, they're here! They're here!" cried Raymond. "That was the Silver Foxcall--and the Elks--and Garry's with them--he made that Beaver call tolet me know----"
Just at that moment the dense brush across the lake parted and a boy,bareheaded and wearing a grey flannel shirt, emerged on the shore.
"Oh, Tom! It's Tom Slade!" cried Raymond, forgetting all else in hisecstasy. "Hello, Tom, you big--you big----" But he couldn't think of anyepithet to fit the occasion.