I am afraid that everything was managed wrong from the first. It wouldhave been better if Mr. Burton or Mr. Ellsworth or somebody or other hadtold the troop the full truth about Tom's condition. I suppose theyrefrained for fear the boys would stare at him and treat him as onestricken, and thereby, perhaps make his struggle harder.
At all events, it was hard enough. And little they knew of this new andfrightful war that he was struggling through with all the power of hisbrave, dogged nature. Little they knew how he lay awake night afternight, starting at every chime of the city's clock, of how he did thebest he could each day, waiting and longing for Friday night, hoping,_hoping_ that Peewee and Roy would surely be there. Poor, distracted,shell-shocked fighter that he was, he was fighting still, and they werehis only hope and they did not know it. No one knew it. He would not letthem know.
For that was Tom Slade.
CHAPTER IV
"LUCKY LUKE"
Next morning Tom had his breakfast in a dingy little restaurant and thenstarted along Terrace Avenue for the bank building, in which was theTemple Camp office.
He still wore the shabby khaki uniform which had seen service at thefront. He was of that physique called thick-set and his face was of thesquare type, denoting doggedness and endurance, and a stolidtemperament.
There had never been anything suggestive of the natty or agile about himwhen he had been a scout, and army life, contrary to its reputation, hadnot spruced and straightened him up at all. He was about as awkwardlooking as a piece of field artillery, and he was just about as reliableand effective. He was not built on the lines of a rifle, but rather onthe lines of a cannon, or perhaps of a tank. His mouth was long and hislips set tight, but it twitched nervously at one end, especially when hewaited at the street crossing just before he reached the bank building,watching the traffic with a kind of fearful, bewildered look.
Twice, thrice, he made the effort to cross and returned to his place onthe curb, interlacing his fingers distractedly. And yet this youngfellow had pushed through barbed wire entanglements and gone across NoMan's Land, without so much as a shudder in the very face of hostilefire.
He always dreaded this street corner in the mornings and was thankfulwhen he was safe up in his beloved Temple Camp office. If he had been oncrutches some grateful citizen would have helped him across, andpatriotic young ladies would have paused to watch the returned hero andsome one might even have removed his hat in the soldier's presence; forthey did those things--for a while.
But such honors were only for those who were fortunate enough to havehad a leg or an arm shot off or to have been paralyzed. For the hero whohad had his nerves all shot to pieces there were no such spontaneoustributes.
And that was the way it had always been with Tom Slade. He had alwaysmade good, but somehow, the applause and the grateful tributes had goneto others. Nature had not made him prepossessing and he did not know howto talk; he was just slow and dogged and stolid, like a British tank, asI said, and just about as homely. You could hardly expect a girl to makemuch fuss over a young fellow who is like a British tank, when there areyoung fellows like shining machine guns, and soaring airplanes--to saynothing of poison gas.
And after two years of service in the thick of danger, with bombs andbullets flying all about him; after four months' detention in an enemyprison camp and six weeks of trench fever, to say nothing of frightfulrisks, stolidly ignored, in perilous secret missions, this young chunkof the old rock of Gibraltar had come home with his life, just becauseit had pleased God not to accept the proffer of it, and because Fritzieshot wild where Tom was concerned. He couldn't help coming back with hislife--it wasn't his fault. It was just because he was the same old LuckyLuke, that's all.
That had been Roy Blakeley's name for him--Lucky Luke; and he had beenknown as Lucky Luke to all of his scout comrades.
You see it was this way: if Tom was going to win a scout award byfinding a certain bird's nest in a certain tree, when he got to theplace he would find that the tree had been chopped down. Once he wasgoing to win the pathfinder's badge by trailing a burglar, and hetrailed him seven miles through the woods and found that the burglar washis own good-for-nothing father. So he did not go back and claim theaward. You see? Lucky Luke.
Once (oh, this happened several years before) he helped a boy in hispatrol to become an Eagle Scout. It was the talk of Temple Camp how,one more merit badge (astronomy) and Will O'Connor would be an EagleScout and Tom Slade, leader of the Elks, would have the only Eagle Scoutat Camp in his patrol. He didn't care so much about being an Eagle Scouthimself, but he wanted Will O'Connor to be an Eagle Scout; he wanted tohave an Eagle Scout in his patrol.
Then, just before Will O'Connor qualified for the Astronomy Badge, hewent to live with his uncle in Cincinnati and the Buffalo Patrol of theThird Cincinnati Troop pretty soon had an Eagle Scout among theirnumber, and the Cincinnati troop got its name into _Scouting_ and _Boy'sLife_. Lucky Luke!
It was characteristic of Tom Slade that he did not show anydisappointment at this sequel of all his striving. Much less had he anyjealousy, for he did not know there was such a word in the dictionary.He just started in again to make Bert McAlpin an Eagle Scout and when hehad jammed Bert through all the stunts but two, Uncle Sam deliberatelywent into the war and Tom started off to work on a transport. So you seehow it worked out; Connie Bennett, new leader of the Elks presently hadan Eagle Scout in his patrol and Tom got himself torpedoed. Mind, Idon't say that Uncle Sam went into the war just to spite Tom Slade. Thepoint is that Tom Slade didn't get anything, except that he gottorpedoed.
One thing he did win for himself as a scout and that was the Gold Crossfor life saving, but he didn't know how to wear it, and it was MargaretEillson who pinned it on for him properly. I think she had a sneakingliking for Tom.
Poor Tom, sometime or other in his stumbling career he had probablygotten out of the wrong side of his bed, or perhaps he was born on aFriday. That was what Roy and the scouts always said.
And so you see, here he was back from the big scrap with nothing to showfor it but a case of shell-shock, and you don't have bandages orcrutches for shell-shock. There was young Lieut. Rossie Bent who workeddownstairs in the bank, who had come home with two fingers missing andall of the girls had fallen at his feet and Tom had had to salute him.But there was nothing missing about Tom--except his wits and his grip onhimself, sometimes.
But no one noticed this particularly, unless it was Mr. Burton andMargaret Ellison, and certainly no one made a fuss over him on accountof it. Why should anybody make a hero of a young fellow just because heis not quite sure of himself in crossing the street, and because hismouth twitches? Boy scouts are both observant and patriotic, but theycould not see that there was anything _missing_ about Tom. All they hadnoticed was that in resuming his duties at the office he had seemed tobe drifting away from them--from the troop. And when he came on Fridaynights, just to sit and hear Roy jolly Peewee and to enjoy their simplenonsense, they thought he was "different since he had come back fromFrance"--perhaps just a little, you know, _uppish_.
It would have been a lucky thing for Tom, and for everybody concerned,if Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster, had been at home instead of away on abusiness trip; for he would have understood.
But of course, things couldn't have gone that way--not with Lucky Luke.
CHAPTER V
ABOUT SEEING A THING THROUGH
But there was one lucky thing that Tom had done, once upon a time. Hehad hit Pete Connegan plunk on the head with a rotten tomato.
That was before the war; oh, long, long before. It was a young war allby itself. It happened when Tom was a hoodlum and lived with his drunkenfather in Barrel Alley. And in that little affair Tom Slade made astand. Filthy little hoodlum that he was, instead of running when PeteConnegan got down out of his truck and started after him, he turned andcompressed his big mouth and stood there upon his two bare feet,waiting. It was Tom Slade all over--Barrel Alley or No Man's Land--_hedidn't run_.
/> The slime of the tomato has long since been washed off Pete Connegan'sface and the tomato is forgotten. But the way that Tom Slade stood therewaiting--that meant something. It was worth all the rotten tomatoes inSchmitt's Grocery, where Tom had "acquired" that particular one.
"Phwat are ye standin' there for?" Pete had roared in righteous fury.Probably he thought that at least Tom might have paid him that tributeof respect of fleeing from his wrath.
"'Cause I ain't a goin' ter run, that's why," Tom had said.
Strange to relate, Pete Connegan did not kill him. For a moment he stoodstaring at his ragged assailant and then he said, "Be gorry, ye got somenerve, annyhow."
"If I done a thing I'd see it through, I would; I ain't scared," Tom hadanswered.
"If ye'll dance ye'll pay the fiddler, hey?" his victim had asked inundisguised admiration....
Oh well, it was all a long time ago and the only points worthremembering about it are that Tom Slade didn't run, that he was readyto see the thing through no matter if it left him sprawling in thegutter, and that he and the burly truck driver had thereafter been goodfriends. Now Tom was an ex-scout and a returned soldier and Pete wasjanitor of the big bank building.
He was sweeping off the walk in front of the bank as Tom passed in.
"Hello, Tommy boy," he said cheerily. "How are ye these days?"
"I'm pretty well," Tom said, in the dull matter-of-fact way that he had,"only I get mixed up sometimes and sometimes I forget."
"Phwill ye evver fergit how you soaked me with the tomater?" Pete asked,leaning on his broom.
"It wasn't hard, because I was standing so near," Tom said, alwaysanxious to belittle his own skill.
"Yer got a mimory twinty miles long," Pete said, by way of discountingTom's doubts of himself. "I'm thinkin' ye don't go round with the scoutboys enough."
"I go Friday nights," Tom said.
"Fer why don't ye go up ter Blakeley's?"
"I don't know," Tom said.
"That kid is enough ter make annybody well," Pete said.
"His folks are rich," Tom said.
That was just it. He was an odd number among these boys and he knew it.Fond of them as he had always been, and proud to be among them, he hadalways been different, and he knew it. It was the difference betweenBarrel Alley and Terrace Hill. He knew it. It had not counted for somuch when he had been a boy scout with them; good scouts that they were,they had taken care of that end of it. But, you see, he had gone away ascout and come back not only a soldier, but a young man, and he couldnot (even in his present great need) go to Roy's house, or GroveBronson's house, or up to the big Bennett place on just the samefamiliar terms as before. They thought he didn't want to when in fact hedidn't know how to.
"Phwen I hurd ye wuz in the war," Pete said, "I says ter meself, Isays, 'that there lad'll make a stand.' I says it ter me ould woman. Isays, says I, 'phwat he starts he'll finish if he has ter clane up thewhole uv France.' That's phwat I said. I says if he makes a bull he'llturrn the whole wurrld upside down to straighten things out. I got yernumber all roight, Tommy. Get along witcher upstairs and take the adviceof Doctor Pete Connegan--get out amongst them kids more."
I dare say it was good advice, but the trouble was that Lucky Luke wasprobably born on a Friday, and there was no straightening _that_ out.
As to whether he would turn the world upside down to straighten out somelittle error, perhaps Pete was right there, too. Roy Blakeley had oncesaid that if Tom dropped his scout badge out of a ten-story window, he'djump out after it. Indeed that _would_ have been something like Tom.
Anyway the saying was very much like Roy.
CHAPTER VI
"THE WOODS PROPERTY"
When Tom reached the office he took a few matters in to Mr. Burton.
"Well, how are things coming on?" his superior asked him cheerily."Getting back in line, all right? This early spring weather ought to bea tonic to an old scout like you. Here--here's a reminder of spring andcamping for you. Here's the deed for the woods property at last--ahundred and ninety acres more for Temple Camp. We'll be as big as NewYork pretty soon, when we get some of that timber down, and some newcabins up.
"I'm glad we got it," Tom said.
"Well, I should hope," Mr. Burton came back at him. "That's off theArcher farm, you know. Gift from Mr. Temple. Runs right up to the peakof the hill--see?"
Tom looked at the map of the new Temple Camp property, which almostdoubled the size of the camp and at the deed which showed the latestgenerous act of the camp's benevolent founder.
"Next summer, if we have the price, we'll put up a couple of dozen newcabins on that hill and make a bid for troops from South Africa andChina; what do you say? This should be put in the safe and, let's see,here are some new applications--Michigan, Virginia--Temple Camp isgetting some reputation in the land."
"I had an application from Ohio yesterday," Tom said; "a three-patroltroop. I gave them the cabins on the hill. They're a season troop."
Mr. Burton glanced suddenly at Tom, then began whistling and drumminghis fingers on the desk. He seemed on the point of saying something inthis connection, but all he did say was, "You find pleasure andrelaxation in the work, Tom?"
"It's next to camping to be here," Tom said.
"Well, that's what I thought," Mr. Burton said encouragingly. "You mustgo slow and take it easy and pretty soon you'll be fit and trim."
"I got to thank you," Tom said with his characteristic blunt simplicity.
"I don't know what we should do in the spring rush without your familiarknowledge of the camp, Tom," Mr. Burton said.
"I think he thinks more of the office than he does of the scouts,"Margaret ventured to observe. She was sitting alongside Mr. Burton'sdesk awaiting his leisure, and Tom was standing awkwardly close by.
"I suppose it's because they don't grow fast enough," Mr. Burtonlaughed; "they can't keep up with him. To my certain knowledge youngPeewee, as they call him, hasn't grown a half an inch in two years. Itisn't because he doesn't eat, either, because I observed him personallywhen I visited camp."
"Oh, he eats _terrifically_," Margaret said.
"I like the troop better than anything else," Tom said.
"Well, I guess that's right, Tom," Mr. Burton observed; "old friends arethe best."
He gathered up an armful of papers and handed them to Tom who went abouthis duties.
The day was long and the routine work tedious. The typewriter machinerattled drowsily and continuously on, telling troops here and there thatthey could have camp accommodations on this or that date. Tom pored overthe big map, jotting down assignments and stumblingly dictated briefletters which Miss Ellison's readier skill turned out in improved form.
He was sorry that it was not Friday so that he might go to troop meetingthat night. It was only Tuesday and so there were three long, barrennights ahead of him, and to him they seemed like twenty nights. All thenext day he worked, making a duplicate of the big map for use at thecamp, but his fingers were not steady and the strain was hard upon hiseyes. He went home (if a hall-room in a boarding house may be calledhome) with a splitting headache.
On Wednesday he worked on the map and made the last assignment of tentaccommodations. Temple Camp was booked up for the season. It was goingto be a lively summer up there, evidently. One troop was coming all theway from Idaho--to see Peewee Harris eat pie, perhaps. I can't think forwhat other reason they would have made such a journey.
"And _you_ will live in the pavilion in all your glory, won't you?"Margaret teased him. "I suppose you'll be very proud to be assistant toUncle Jeb. I don't suppose you'll notice poor _me_ if I come up there."
"I'll take you for a row on the lake," Tom said. That was saying a gooddeal, for _him_.
On Thursday he sent an order for fifteen thousand wooden plates, whichwill give you an idea of how they eat at Temple Camp. He attended togetting the licenses for the two launches and sent a letter up to oldUncle Jeb telling him to have a new springboard put up
and notifying himthat the woods property now belonged to the camp. It was a long slow dayand a longer, slower night.
Once, and only once, since his return, he had tried the movies. Thepicture showed soldiers in the trenches and the jerky scenes and figuresmade his eyes ache and set his poor sick nerves on edge. Once he had_almost_ asked Margaret if he might go over to East Bridgeboro and seeher. He was glad when Friday morning came, and the day passed quicklyand gayly, because of the troop meeting that night. He counted the hoursuntil eight o'clock.
When at last he set out for the troop room he found that he hadforgotten his scout badge and went back after it. He was particularalways to wear this at meetings, because he wished to emphasize there,that he was still a scout. He was always forgetting something thesedays. It was one of the features of shell-shock. It was like a wound,only you could not _see_ it....
CHAPTER VII
JUST NONSENSE
How should those scouts know that Tom Slade had been counting the daysand hours, waiting for that Friday night? They were not mind readers.They knew that Tom Slade, big business man that he was, had much tooccupy him.
And they too, had much to occupy them. For with the coming of Springcame preparations for the sojourn up to camp where they were wont tospent the month of August. At Temple Camp troops were ever coming andgoing and there were new faces each summer, but the Bridgeboro Troop wasan institution there. It was because of his interest in this troop, andparticularly in Tom's reformation, that Mr. John Temple of Bridgeboro,had founded the big camp in the Catskills. There was no such thing asfavoritism there, of course, but it was natural enough that these boys,hailing from Mr. Temple's own town, where the business office of thecamp was maintained, should enjoy a kind of prestige there. Their twochief exhibits (A and B) that is, Roy Blakeley and Peewee Harrisstrengthened this prestige somewhat, and their nonsense and banter wereamong the chief features of camp entertainment.