Tom Slade

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The rear-guard did not participate in the sumptuous feast. "A life on
the ocean wave" was what they sought, and their investigations of the
wooded neighborhood had not gone very far when they made discovery of
an object which of all things is dear to the heart of a city boy, and
that was a boat.

It was pulled up along the river bank near the picnic grounds, and as a
matter of fact, belonged to the scouts. It was used by them in crossing
the river to make a short-cut to and from Salmon River Village, instead
of following the shore to a point opposite the town where there was a
bridge.

"Findings is keepings" is the first law of the hoodlum code, and though
the O'Connor boys hung back (partly because they had no right to the
boat and more because they were afraid of the water), Sweet Caporal,
who balked at nothing save a policeman, led the rest of his intrepid
band to the boat and presently they were flopping clumsily about in
midstream, much to the amusement of the O'Connor boys and several of
the picnickers who clustered at the shore.

There are few sights more ridiculous than the ignorant handling of a
boat. Sweet Caporal wielded an oar, Slats Corbett wrestled with another
one, Jakie Mattenburg gallantly manned the helm, invariably pulling the
tiller-lines the wrong way, while Jim Mattenburg, with a broken and
detached thwart, did his best to counteract every effort of his
companions. Amid these conflicting activities the boat made no progress
and the ineffectual splashing and the contradictory orders which were
shouted by the several members of the gallant crew were greeted with
derisive hoots from the shore.

Several times an oar slipped its lock and went splashing into the
water; once Sweet Caporal himself was capsized by the catching of the
unwieldy oar in its lock and tumbled ingloriously backward into the
bottom of the boat.

"Pull on the left one!" shouted Jim.

"Nah, pull on de odder one!" cried Slats.

"Both pull together," sagely suggested someone on the shore, but that
was quite impossible.

"Hold de rudder in de middle', yer gump!" shouted Sweet Caporal.

"If yer want de boat to go to de right, pull on de left rope," shouted
Jim.

"No, de right one," corrected Sweet Caporal.

So Jakie Mattenburg took a chance with the right rope and whatever good
effect that might have had was immediately counteracted by his brother
who paddled frantically on the left side with his broken thwart until
he lost it in the water.

This loss might have helped matters some if Jakie had not unshipped the
rudder altogether, and hauled it aboard like a rebellious fish, by the
long tiller-lines.

"Both sit on de same seat," commanded Sweet Caporal, and Slats and
Slats Corbett took his place alongside him, while the boat rocked
perilously.

"Now, both pull together!" called one of the laughing watchers.

So they pulled together with such a frantic stroke that one of the oarlocks
was lifted from its socket and dropped into the water. The sudden
dislodgment of the oar precipitated Slats against one of the Mattenburg
boys who thereupon announced that he would man the oar instead. While
he was taking his place Sweet Caporal continued to pull frantically,
the oar sliding back in its lock and the boat going around in a circle.

"Put dat rudder on," commanded Sweet Caporal.

"Can't find no place it fits inter," said Jakie, reaching under the
water at the stern.

"Well, paddle wid it, den," said Slats.

So Jakie, grasping the rudder by its neck, proceeded to paddle with it
off one side until the cross-bar broke and the lines got into a
hopeless tangle with his arms.

"What did I tell yer?" shouted Slats.

"Now-one-two-three," encouraged someone on shore.

Sweet Caporal, holding his oar about two feet from its end so as to
lose all its leverage, pulled furiously, the blade only catching the
water occasionally, Jim Mattenburg, with no oar-lock at all, improvised
one hand into a lock and hauled frantically with the other one, while
Jakie Mattenburg bailed the boat, which was now pretty loggy with its
weight of water.

"Talk about your Yale Crew!" called one of the watchers.

"The new marine merry-go-round!" shouted another.

"Now-one-two--"

The sharp crack of a rifle was heard from the woods on the opposite
shore from the picnickers; one of the Mattenburg boys was conscious of
a quick, short whizzing sound, and then Charlie, the youngest of the
O'Connor boys, who was standing close to the shore, slapped his right
hand quickly to his left arm, looked about bewildered, then turned
suddenly pale and staggered into the arms of one of the picnic party.

"Look--look," he said, releasing his hand and affrightedly pointing to
a little trickle of blood on his arm. "I'm--I'm shot--look--"

CHAPTER XVI

CONNOVER BREAKS LOOSE

Advancing stealthily, our young hero raised his rifle and leveled it at
the chief of the howling Zulus, who clustered threateningly on the
farther shore. The young girl whom they had kidnapped lay bound hand
and foot, and Dan Dreadnought clenched his teeth with anger as he heard
her cries for help. The poisoned spears of the infuriated Zulus were
flying all about him, but they did not cower the brave lad. He was
resolved at any cost to rescue that girl.

"I am a Boy Scout," he called, "and I can handle a hundred savages if
need be." Then, uttering the cry of the Eureka Patrol, he dashed into
the dugout which lay drawn up on the shore, and using the butt end of
his rifle for a paddle, he guided his unsteady boat across the raging
torrent amid a fusillade of spears and arrows with which the frantic
Zulus vainly sought to stay his approach.

"I am Lieutenant of the Eureka Patrol!" called Dan. "Untie those
fetters, or every one of you shall die!"

His trusty companion, Ralph Redgore, tried to hold him back, but all in
vain.

Connover Bennett laid down the copy of The Eureka Patrol in South
Africa, by Captain Dauntless, U. S. A., and dragging himself from
the hammock, entered the house. He was breathing hard as if he had been
running.

The bungalow was deserted save for the maid in the kitchen, and
Connover was monarch of all he surveyed.

Quietly, he crept upstairs and into the "den." In the corner among his
father's fishing-rods and golf sticks stood a rifle. It was forbidden
to Connover, but unfortunately The Eureka Patrol in South Africa
dealt not with scout honor and made no mention of the Seventh Law,
which stipulates that a "scout shall be obedient." Nor had Captain
Dauntless thought it worth while to mention Law One, which says that a
"scout's honor is to be trusted."

Connover glanced up and down the road from the bay-window to see if by
any chance his mother might have forgotten something and was coming
back. Reassured in this particular, he took up the rifle and, standing
before the large pier-glass, he adopted a heroic attitude of aiming.
Then he looked from the window down into the woods through which he
could see little glints of the river.

It was not glints of Salmon River that he saw, but the "Deadly Morass
River" of South Africa; the woods were not quiet, fragrant pine woods
where the First Bridgeboro Troop of real scouts was encamped, but the
deadly morass itself; and he was not Connover Bennett, but Dan
Dreadnought, and this was the trusty rifle with which he would--

He looked again from the bay-window to make sure that his mother was
not in sight. Then the creaking of a door startled him and he laid the
rifle down. It was queer how every little sound startled him. He
unfastened his negligee shirt at the neck and, standing before the
pier-glass, arranged it as much like the frontispiece pictures of
Dan Dreadnought as possible. There was a curious fluttering
feeling in his chest all the while which annoyed him. It did not seem
to jibe at all with the heroic program.

Yes, this was the rifle with which he would...

He tiptoed to the stairs and listened, "Molly, is that you?" he called.

"Yes, Master Connover."

"All right, I just wanted to know."

He went back into the room and opening the drawer of the desk, took out
a box of cartridges, extracted several and put them in his pocket. When
he replaced the box he forgot which end of the drawer he had taken it
from and was in a quandary where to place it. He took up the rifle
again, then laid it down and the thud of its butt on the floor startled
him. What a lot of noise it seemed to make!

It was oily and his hands were oily from it and left an oily stain on
the felt covering of the desk. He placed the inkstand over it, and all
the while he felt very strange and nervous; trembling almost as he
planned his exploit.

Then he took the rifle and got behind the revolving-chair, and rested
the weapon on it. It was not a very realistic jungle, but...

He saw the Zulus just as plain as day; and he saw himself, or rather,
Dan Dreadnought, in that big pier-glass.

He knew the gun was not loaded and he pulled the trigger, which
clicked.

The click seemed louder than he thought it would and he listened in
suspense. No sound.

Yes, this was the rifle with which he would... Casting one more
cautious look from the window, he shouldered the weapon and hurried
quietly down the stairs.

"What time did my mother say she'd be back?" he called.

"Not till dinnertime, Master Connover." He crossed the road, and headed
through the woods toward the river. Once in the woods, the spirit of
freedom took possession of him and he indulged in the luxury of
shooting the gun at nothing at all.

"'I am a scout,'" he said, "'and can handle a hundred savages!'"

Whereas, in plain fact, he couldn't have been much farther from being a
scout.

Arrested by a flutter in one of the trees, he leveled his gun again and
by the luck of a random shot, brought down a robin. The sight of its
quivering body and loose-hanging neck as it lay at his feet almost
frightened him for he had never killed a red-blooded creature before,
and he felt now a sense of heavy guilt. He was afraid to pick the robin
up and when he finally did so and saw how wilted and drooping the thing
was and how aimlessly the head swung he was seized with a little panic
of fear and dropped it suddenly.

But it was absolutely necessary that he should carry out his program of
encountering the Zulu's. As long as he was not really going to kill
anyone it was all right. He was at least going to have the thrill of
that experience. Now that he had killed the robin, he found that in
actual practice he preferred a sort of modified Dan Dreadnought to the
real one; and he could piece out with his imagination the more
harrowing features of Captain Dauntless's book.

So he pictured a dugout drawn up on the shore of the river which he was
approaching; and he pictured a group of howling Zulus on the farther
shore. He heard ikes and the splashing of water, and it fitted well
with his heroic scheme to imagine these sounds were made by the howling
Zulus, though in reality he knew, or thought he knew, that they came
from farther up the river near the scouts' camp.

He was within a few yards of the river now and pushing through the
thick growth which bordered it.

His imagination was working like machinery, and had all the features
and details of his daring act, pat.

"'I am a boy scout,'" he repeated, "'and can handle----'"

He raised his rifle and, aiming with dramatic gesture at nothing in
particular, pulled the trigger, then dashed forward in a perfect frenzy
of adventurous delight to the shore.

On the other side of the river the O'Connor boy was leaning back in the
arms of one of a group of people, the boys in the boat were mending
their efforts to get to shore; someone said, "There he is!" and then
all eyes were upon him and Connover Bennett dropped the gun, reeled
against a tree and stood staring as he realized that he was nearer to
being the real Dan Dreadnought than he had dreamed.

A cold sweat broke out upon his brow, his first impulse was to run with
all his might and main; but he could not stir.

CHAPTER XVII

THE REAL THING

It happened that same afternoon that Tom and Roy went up to Salmon
River Village to purchase some provisions for camp. The two boys were
on their way back from the village and were discussing an interesting
discovery which they had made while there. This was a wireless
apparatus which the storekeeper had shown them with great pride for he
was one of that numerous class of wireless amateurs whose a‰rials may
be seen stretching from tree-tops to house-tops these days, and since
it was his pleasure to sit into the wee hours of the morning with his
head receivers on, eavesdropping on the whole world, the two scouts had
agreed to exchange messages with him.

"Every man you meet seems to take some interest in the scouts," said
Tom, in allusion to the cordial storekeeper.

"Sure, even Mr. Temple's got a light case of it."

"Not much!" said Tom.

"Oh, yes he has; he's got what Doc Carson calls a passive case. Doesn't
it beat all how Doc gets onto this medical talk? Did you hear that one
he sprang the other night about a 'superficial abrasion'? Cracky, it
nearly knocked me over!"

"And 'septic,' too," said Tom.

"Yes, 'septic's' his star word now. Mr. Temple's case is likely to
become acute any time," Roy added as he jogged along, jumping from one
subject to another according to his fashion. "You know you can have a
thing and not know it. Then something happens, you get a bad cold, for
instance, and that brings the whole thing out. That's the way it is
with Mr. Temple--he's just beginning to get the bug; he doesn't know it
yet. You ought to have heard him buzz me about tracking.

"Then he wanted to know how I knew one golf stick was hickory and
another one maple. 'Scout,' said I. Oh, I've got him started-wait
till he picks up a little momentum and you'll see things fly."

"You'll never land him," said Tom.

"I landed you, didn't I?"

"Sure."

"I bet I land him before the Chief lands Mrs. Bennett."

They walked along a little while in silence. "What-what-did Mary say?"
Tom asked. He had asked the question half a dozen times before, but it
pleased him to imagine that he had forgotten the answer. Roy
understood.

"She wanted to know why you didn't bring the pin yourself."

"What'd you tell her?"

"Oh, I told her you were too busy to bother."

"No--honest--"

"I told her you had no time for girls. She said it was just lovely. I
don't know whether she meant you or the pin. She said the tracking was
miraculous."

"She don't know who--"

"No, her father's not going to tell her. I've got him cinched. I
wouldn't be surprised if I was cashier in his bank in another six
months-but don't mention it at camp fire, will you?"

Tom laughed. "What did she say?" he repeated.

"I told you's teen-eleven times."

"Well, I forget."

"You ought to have gone yourself, anyway," said Roy, "then you'd have
heard what she said."

He pretended not to have any sympathy with Tom in this matter.

"What was that other thing she said?"

"What's that shouting?" said Roy.

"What was that other thing she said?"

"What other thing?"

"You know."

"I guess that picnic bunch is flopping around on the river from the
sound."

Silence for a few minutes.

"What was that other thing she said?"

"Oh, yes," said Roy, "let's see--I forget."

"Go on--stop your fooling! What was it?"

"Do you have to know?"

"What was it?"

"She said she was going to recip--Oh, listen!"

"Re-what?"

"Reciprocate."

"What's that?"

"Pay you back."

"I wouldn't take a cent. I wouldn't take anything from her," said Tom.
"I'm a sco--"

"Now don't spring that! You better wait and see what she offers you
first."

"Would you take anything for a service?"

"Depends on what it was," said Roy cautiously.

"I wouldn't take anything for a service."

"No?"

"I wouldn't take anything from her."

But he did just the same.

They had left the road and were jogging scout-pace along the beaten
path through the woods which led down to the river. As they neared it,
a confusion of sounds and voices greeted their ears and when they
presently emerged upon the shore they found a scene of pandemonium.

In mid-stream was their own boat, two-thirds full of water, and
clinging to it were Tom's erstwhile Bridgeboro friends and a frantic,
shrieking creature whose streaming hair was plastered over his face and
who was in a perfect panic of fright as every moment the gunwale of the
loggy boat gave with his weight and lowered his head into the water.

On the farther shore one little group called futilely to the hapless
crew, bidding them cling to the gunwale and hold still; sensible enough
advice, except that no advice is of any use to a person in peril of
drowning. The bedraggled creature in particular would have prevented
any such orderly and rational conduct by his terror-stricken clutchings
and cries of "Save me!" as if he were the only one in trouble. Another
little group on the opposite shore was gathered about a figure which
Tom and Roy could not see.

"Have you got a rope over there?" called Roy, kicking off his sneakers.

"No, we haven't--"

"Got a shawl or a blanket?"

"Yes--what good--"

"Get it quick!"

"They always have camels'-hair shawls," he said hastily to Tom. Then
raising his voice, "Someone drowned over there?"

"No, shot."

"Killed?"

"No."

"Shin up that tree and see if you can get camp with your whistle," he
ordered to Tom, throwing off his shirt the while. "Whistle 'Help' by
Morse--if they don't answer, try semaphore with your shirt; if that
don't get them you'll have to hoof it. Get Doc, whatever you do. Shut
up, will you?"' he shouted to the frantic boy who was making all the
noise. "Keep your mouth shut and you'll be all right!"

All this took but a few seconds and presently the shrieking boy in the
water grasped frantically at Roy.

That was all he knew. Something struck him, and when he recovered from
his daze he was lying on shore with several persons about him.

The new Dan Dreadnought was a pitiable figure. The boy whom he
had shot sat near him, ashen white, his arm bleeding despite all
efforts to stay the flow of blood, and he himself, his voice husky from
his futile shrieking, the red mark of Roy's prompt but necessary blow
standing out in bold relief on his white face, lay, half dead with
fright and shock, and watched those about him as though in a trance. It
was a sad and inglorious end to his adventurous career!

It took Roy but a few minutes to tear a couple of shawls and a blanket
into strips and tying these together he took an end in his mouth and
swam out for the boat. Tying it to the painter-ring, he called to the
people on shore to pull easily and, himself guiding and holding up the
loggy, half-submerged boat, as best he could, it was finally hauled out
of deep water and its hapless crew helped ashore.

Just as Roy helped that redoubtable leader, Sweet Caporal, to scramble
up the abrupt shore, a welcome shout came from a tree top across the
river.

"They're coming!"

Roy did not know whether it had been done by Morse whistling or by
semaphore. Tom had done it, that was enough, and while he scrambled
down from the tree and swam across the river Roy rearranged the
clumsily made tourniquet which the picnickers had placed about the arm
of the wounded boy, and tightened it with the leverage of a stick which
successfully stayed the flow of blood.

"Some wrinkle, hey?" he said, smiling down into the white face of the
boy. "You could lift the earth by leverage if you only had some floor
for your lever; ever hear that?"

No, the O'Connor boy had never heard that, but he looked up into the
cheery, brown eyes of Roy, whom he knew slightly, and smiled himself.

The real scout and the burlesque scout who lay near by presented a
striking contrast. All the mock heroics of the Eureka Patrol of
Captain Dauntless seemed cheap enough now, even to the frightened
Connover as he languidly watched this quiet exhibition of efficiency.
Never had he admired Dan Dreadnought as he now admired Roy
Blakeley, this cheerful, clean-cut fellow who knew what to do and just
how to do it; and the gang, with all their bravado gone, watched him
too, feeling strange after the first bath they had had in many a day.

"Do you know what I'm going to do with you?" said Roy, as he leaned
over the O'Connor boy and bathed his face. "I'm going to give you to
Mr. Ellsworth for a birthday present; our troop's two years old next
week."

It was not many minutes before the welcome sound of voices was heard in
the wood and presently a half-dozen scouts appeared with a canvas
stretcher. Mr. Ellsworth was with them and by his side was Doc Carson,
or "Highbrow Doc," with his neat little first-aid case. Doc was one of
the ancient and honorable Ravens who were not unconscious of their
dignity, and he had had the first-aid bee from the start.

It took him but a moment to determine that no fatalities were going to
result from the affair, and that all Connover needed was a little
reassuring that he would not be sent to jail.

While he was putting an antiseptic dressing on the O'Connor boy's arm
(the bullet had gone in and out again through the fleshy part), Roy and
Tom heard for the first time the circumstances of the whole affair, as
they were related to Mr. Ellsworth.

It seemed that upon the appearance of Connover with his gun he had been
forbidden to go away and had obeyed, probably because he was too
frightened and helpless to have any will of his own. His pitiable lack
of command throughout the whole affair was not the least significant
thing in his day's work, and showed how far he was from the real scout
trail.

The occupants of the boat, spurred by the emergency, had managed to get
the frightened Connover aboard and it was in their clumsy progress
across the river that one of the gunwales of the already loggy boat had
gone under, shipping more water than the craft could carry besides its
living occupants.

The O'Connor boy needed only prompt and efficient treatment and the
only peril he was in was that of blood-poisoning. Doc dressed his wound
antiseptically and though he was not unable to walk, they bore him to
camp on the stretcher, for his loss of blood had weakened him and the
shock had unnerved him.

Just as they started Connover broke down completely, clinging pitifully
to Mr. Ellsworth and refusing to go home. His fear of arrest on the one
hand and his fear of his parents on the other, made him go to pieces
entirely now that the first excitement was over. His behaviour formed a
ludicrous anti-climax for all the Dan Dreadnought bombast and
bravado, and if it was not borne in upon him then how harmful the books
were, he at least began to see how ridiculous they were. Indeed, the
redoubtable Dan had begun to lose prestige with Connover the
moment he had shot that robin.

At the sight of this childish display, Mr. Ellsworth shook his head
ruefully and said to Roy, "We got away with it in Tom's case, but I'm
afraid Connie's a pretty big contract. What do you think?"

"He'll come across," said Roy. "He didn't hurt Charlie O'Connor so very
much, but I'll bet he's killed Dan Dreadnought all right."

"Well, Connie," said the scoutmaster, in a half-indulgent tone that was
not altogether complimentary, "you'd better come along with us to
camp."

"Will you--will you--see my mother?"

"Ye-es--guess so."

"He--he won't die--will he?"

"After forty or fifty years he might," said the scoutmaster. "Here,
walk along with me, and tell me how you came to shoot that rifle."

CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. BENNETT COMES ACROSS

Connover told him the whole story. In his extremity he felt drawn to
Mr. Ellsworth though he showed it in a more effeminate way than Tom had
shown it, and the readiness with which he made the scoutmaster a refuge
rather jarred upon Mr. Ellsworth. Tom, at least, had never gone to
pieces like this.

But the scout movement draws its recruits from every direction, and Mr.
Ellsworth was the ideal scoutmaster.

"Well, then you think you wouldn't like to kill Zulus, after all, hey?"

"N-no, sir."

"Too bad we had to sacrifice an innocent robin to find that out, wasn't
it?"

"Yes, sir."

The maid at the Bennett bungalow had one good scout quality; she was
observant and the fleeting glimpse which she had of Master Connover
departing with the rifle was promptly communicated to Mrs. Bennett upon
her return.

At the appalling picture of her son trudging across the road into the
woods with a fire-arm over his shoulder, the good lady all but
collapsed. Her first thought was, of course, that he would shoot
himself, which seemed likely enough, and her fear for his safety
entirely obliterated her amazement at his shameless disobedience. It
was the day of Mrs. Bennett's Waterloo.

Out she went, and even in her haste and excitement she picked up the
Dan Dreadnought volume which sprawled on the veranda, and tossed
it into the swinging seat, then hurried across the road and into the
woods. The worst thing she had against Captain Dauntless was that he
littered her tidy porch.

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