"He says I'm queer," Tom mused, "but he's queer, too, in a way. I guessa lot of people don't understand him. It's because he's happy-go-lucky.It's funny he didn't know about shadow bridges, because it's in thehandbook." Then Tom couldn't remember whether it was in the handbook ornot.... "Anyway, he's got the right idea about good turns," hereflected. "I met lots of scouts that never read the handbook; I metscoutmasters, too...."
And indeed there were few scouts, or scoutmasters either, who hadfollowed the trail through the handbook with the dogged patience of TomSlade. He had mastered scouting the same as he had mastered this job.
Barnard was pretty restive that night, tossed on his bunk, andcomplained much of his head aching. "It feels like an egg being beatenby an egg beater," he said; "I'm off the shadow bridge stuff for goodand all. It throbs to the tune of _Over There_."
Tom thought this must be pretty bad--to throb to the tune of _OverThere_. He had never had a headache like that.
"If you could only fall asleep," Tom said.
"Well, I guess I will; I'm pretty good at falling," his friend observed."I fell for you, hey Slady? O-h-h! My head!"
"It's the same with me," said Tom.
"You got one too? _Good night!_"
"I mean about what you were saying--about falling for me. It's the samewith me."
"Same here, Slady; go to bed and get some sleep yourself."
It was two or three o'clock in the morning before the sufferer did getto sleep, and he slept correspondingly late. Tom knew that the headachemust have stolen off and he felt sure that his companion would awakenrefreshed. "I'll be glad because then I won't have to get the doctor,"he said to himself. He wished to respect Bernard's smallest whim.
Tom did not sleep much himself, either, and he was up bright and earlyto anticipate his friend's waking. He tiptoed out of the cabin andquietly made himself a cup of coffee. It was one of those beautifulmornings, which are nowhere more beautiful than at Temple Camp. Thesoft breeze, wafting the pungent fragrance of pines, bore also up tothat lonely hilltop the distant clatter of dishes and the voices ofscouts from the camp below. The last patches of vapor were dissolvingover the wood embowered lake, and one or two early canoes were alreadymoving aimlessly upon its placid bosom. A shout and a laugh and a suddensplash, sounding faint in the distance, told him that some uninitiatednew arrivals were diving from the springboard before breakfast. Theywould soon be checked in that pastime, Tom knew.
From the cooking shack where Chocolate Drop, the camp's famous cook,held autocratic sway and drove trespassing scouts away with a deadlyfrying pan, arose a graceful column of smoke which was carried away offover the wooded hills toward Leeds. Pretty soon Chocolate Drop wouldneed _two_ deadly frying pans, for Peewee Harris was coming.
Tom knew that nothing had been heard from the Bridgeboro scouts sinceUncle Jeb had told him definitely that they were scheduled to arrive onthe first, as usual. He knew that no other letter had come, because allthe camp mail had passed through his hands. It had come to be theregular custom for Barnard to rise early and follow the secluded traildown to the state road where the mail wagon passed. He had early claimedit as his own job, and Tom, ever anxious to please him, had let him dothis while he himself was gathering wood and preparing breakfast."Always hike to work out west and can't get out of the habit," Barnardhad said. "Like to hobnob with the early birds and first worms, and allthat kind of stuff. Give me a lonesome trail and I'm happy--take oneevery morning before breakfast, and after retiring. How about that, oldDoctor Slade?"
Old Doctor Slade had thought it was a good idea.
But this morning his friend was sleeping, and old Doctor Slade would notwaken him. He tiptoed to the cabin and looked cautiously within. Barnardwas sleeping the sleep of the righteous--to quote one of his ownfavorite terms. The bandage had slipped down from his forehead, andlooked not unlike a scout scarf about his neck. A ray of early sunlightslanted through the crack between the logs and hit him plunk in thehead, making his curly red hair shine like a red danger signal. He wassound asleep--dead to the wicked world--as he was himself fond ofsaying.
Early to bed and early to rise, And you won't meet any regular guys.
As Tom paused, looking at him, he thought of that oft repeatedadmonition of his friend. He knew Barnard never meant that seriously.That was just the trouble--he was always saying things like that, andthat was why people would never understand him and give him credit....But Tom understood him, all right; that was what he told himself. "I gotto laugh at him, that's sure," he said. Then he bethought him, and outof his simple, generous nature, he thought, "Didn't he say actions speaklouder than words? That's what counts."
He tiptoed over to where that ray of sunlight came in, and hung hiscoat over the place. The shiny brightness of Barnard's hair faded, andthe cabin was almost dark. Tom got his cap, and turning in the doorwayto make sure his friend's sleep was undisturbed, picked his waycarefully over the area of chips and twigs where most of the trimminghad been done, and started down through the wooded hillside toward thetrail which afforded a short-cut to the state road.
Once, and once only he paused, and that was to glance at a ragged hollowin the woods where a tree had been uprooted in some winter storm. Itreminded him of the very day that Barnard had arrived, for it was aftera discouraging afternoon with that stubborn old trunk that he hadretraced his steps wearily to his lonesome camp and met the visitor whohad assisted him and beguiled the lonesome days and nights for him eversince. Barnard, willing and ready, had sawed through that trunk the nextmorning. "Say nothing, but saw wood; that's the battle cry, Slady," hehad cheerfully observed, mopping the perspiration from his brow.
And now, as Tom looked into that jagged hollow, his thoughts went evenfurther back, and he thought how it was in some such earthen dungeon asthis that he and Barnard had first seen each other--or rather, met.Barnard had thoughtfully refrained from talking of those things whichwere still so agitating and disturbing to poor Tom, but Tom thought ofit now, because his stolid nature was pierced at last, and his heart wasoverflowing with gratitude to this new friend, who twice had come to hisrescue--here on the isolated hillside on the edge of the beloved camp,and over there, in war torn France.
"You bet _I_ understand him all right," said Tom. "Even if he talks alot of crazy nonsense, he can't fool me. You bet _I_ know what he is,all right. He can make believe, sort of, that he doesn't care much aboutanything. But he can't fool me--he can't."
CHAPTER XXV
TWO LETTERS
The trail wound its way through a pleasant stretch of woodland where thebirds sang cheerily, and occasionally a squirrel paused and cocked itshead in pert amazement at this rude intrusion into its domain. Itcrossed a little brook where Tom and Roy had fished many times, andgroped for pollywogs and crawfish when Tom was a tenderfoot at TempleCamp. Those were happy days.
Where the trail came out into the state road there was a rough boardacross two little pedestals of logs, which the scouts of camp had putthere, as a seat on which to wait for the ever welcome mail stage. Theboard was thick with carved initials, the handiwork of scouts who hadcome and gone, and among these Tom picked out R. B. and W. H. (whichstood for Walter Harris for Peewee did not acknowledge officially hisfamous nickname). As Tom glanced at these crude reminders of his troopand former comrades, he noted wistfully how Peewee's initials werealways cut unusually large and imposing, standing out boldly amongothers, as if to inform the observer that a giant had been at work.Everything about Peewee was tremendous--except his size.
Tom sat on this bench and waited. It reminded him of old times to bethere. But he was not unhappy. He had followed the long trail, the trailwhich to his simple nature had seemed the right one, he had done the jobwhich he had set out to do, they were going to have their three familiarcabins on the hill, and he was happy. He had renewed that strange, briefacquaintanceship in France, and found in his war-time friend, a newcomrade. He felt better, his nerves were steady. The time had been wellspent and he
was happy. Perhaps it was only a stubborn whim, this goingaway now, but that was his nature and he could not change it.
When the mail wagon came along, its driver greeted him cheerily, for heremembered him well.
"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.
"I came instead, to-day," Tom said.
"That chap is a sketch, ain't he?" the man commented. "He ain't gonehome, has he?"
"He's going to stay through August," Tom said; "his troop's comingSaturday."
"Purty lively young feller," the man said.
"He's happy-go-lucky," said Tom.
The man handed him a dozen or so letters and cards and a batch ofpapers, and drove on. Tom resumed his seat on the bench and looked themover. There was no doubt that Roy and the troop were coming; apparentlythey were coming in their usual manner, for there was a card from Roy toUncle Jeb which said,
Coming Saturday on afternoon train. Hope you can give us a tent away from the crowd. Tell Chocolate Drop to have wheat cakes Sunday morning. Peewee's appetite being sent ahead by express. Pay charges.
So long, see you later.
P.S. Have hot biscuits, too. ROY.
There were a couple of letters to Uncle Jeb from the camp office, andthe rest were to scouts in camp whom Tom did not know, for he had madeno acquaintances. There was one letter for Tom, bearing the postmark ofDansburg, Ohio, which he opened with curiosity and read with increasingconsternation. It ran:
DEAR TOM SLADE:
I didn't get there after all, but now we're coming, the whole outfit, bag and baggage. I suppose you think I'm among the missing, not hearing from me all this time. But on Saturday I'll show you the finest troop of scouts this side of Mars. So kill the fatted calf for we're coming.
Slade, as sure as I'm writing you this letter, I started east, sumpty-sump days ago and was going to drop in on you and have a little visit, just we two, before this noisy bunch got a chance to interfere. We'll just have to sneak away from them and get off in the woods alone and talk about old times in France.
Maybe you won't believe it, but I got as far as Columbus and there was a telegram from my boss, "Come in, come in, wherever you are." Can you beat that? So back I went on the next train. You'll have to take the will for the deed, old man.
Don't you care; now I'm coming with my expeditionary forces, and you and I'll foil them yet. One of our office men was taken sick, that was the trouble. And I've been so busy doing his work and my own, and getting this crew of wild Indians ready to invade Temple Camp, that I haven't had time to write a letter, that's a fact. Even at this very minute, one young tenderfoot is shouting in my ear that he's crazy to see that fellow I bunked into in France. He says he thinks the troop you're mixed up with must think you're a great hero.
So bye bye, till I see you,
W. BARNARD.
Twice, three times, Tom read this letter through, in utter dismay. Whatdid it mean? He squinted his eyes and scrutinized the signature, as ifto make sure that he read it aright. There was the name, W. Barnard. Thehandwriting was Barnard's, too. And the envelope had been postmarked inDansburg, Ohio, two days prior to the day of its arrival.
How could this be? What did it mean?
CHAPTER XXVI
LUCKY LUKE'S FRIEND
Tom returned through the woods in a kind of trance, pausing once toglance through the letter again and to scrutinize the signature. Hefound the patient up and about, with no reminder of his mishap save thecut on his forehead. He was plainly agitated and expectant as he lookedthrough the woods and saw Tom coming. It was clear that he was in somesuspense, but Tom, who would have noticed the smallest insect or mostindistinct footprint in the path, did not observe this.
"H'lo, Slady," he said with a fine show of unconcern; "out for the earlyworm?" He did not fail to give a sidelong glance at Tom's pocket.
"Is your headache all gone?" Tom asked.
"Sneaked off just like you," he said; "I was wondering where you were.I see you were down for the mail. Anything doing?" he asked withill-concealed curiosity.
"They're coming," Tom said.
"Who's coming?"
"Roy and the troop," Tom answered.
"Oh. Nothing important, huh?"
"I got some mail for camp; I'm going down to Uncle Jeb's cabin; I'll beright back," Tom said.
His friend looked at him curiously, anxiously, as Tom started down thehill.
"I won't make any breaks," Tom said simply, leaving his friend to makewhat he would of this remark. The other watched him for a moment andseemed satisfied.
Having delivered the mail without the smallest sign of discomposure, hetramped up the hill again in his customary plodding manner. His friendwas sitting on the door sill of one of the new cabins, whittling astick. He looked as if he might have been reflecting, as one is apt todo when whittling a stick.
"You got to tell me who you are?" Tom said, standing directly in frontof him.
"You got a letter? I thought so," his friend said, quietly. "Sit down,Slady."
For just a moment Tom hesitated, then he sat down on the sill alongsidehis companion.
"All right, old man," said the other; "spring it--you're through with mefor good?"
"You got to tell me who you are," Tom said doggedly; "first you got totell me who you are."
For a few moments they sat there in silence, Tom's companion whittlingthe stick and pondering.
"I ain't mad, anyway," Tom finally said.
"You're not?" the other asked.
"It don't make any difference as long as you're my friend, and youhelped me."
The other looked up at him in surprise, surveying Tom's stolid, almostexpressionless face which was fixed upon the distant camp. "You'resolid, fourteen karat gold, Slady," he finally said. "I'm bad enough,goodness knows; but to put it over on a fellow like you, just becauseyou're easy, it's--it just makes me feel like--Oh, I don't know--like asneak. I'm ashamed to look you in the face, Slady."
Still Tom said nothing, only looked off through the trees below, wherespecks of white could be seen here and there amid the foliage. "They'reputting up the overflow tents," he said, irrelevantly; "there'll be alot coming Saturday."
Then, again, there was silence for a few moments.
"I'm used to having things turn out different from the way I expected,"Tom said, dully.
"Slady----" his friend began, but paused.
And for a few moments there was silence again, save for the distantsound of splashing down at the lake's edge, where scouts were swimming.
"Slady----listen, Slady; as sure as I sit here ... Are you listening,Slady? As sure as I sit here, I'm going to tell you the truth--every goldarned last word of it."
"I never said you lied," Tom said, never looking at him.
"No? I tried not to tell many. But I've been _living_ one; that's worse.I'm so contemptible I--it's putting anything over on _you_--that's whatmakes me feel such a contemptible, low down sneak. That's what's got me.I don't care so much about the other part. It's _you_--Slady----"
He put his hand on Tom's shoulder and looked at him with a kind ofexpectancy. And still Tom's gaze was fixed upon the camp below them.
"I don't mind having things go wrong," Tom said, with a kind of patheticdullness that must have gone straight to the other's heart. "As long asI got a friend it doesn't make any difference what one--I mean who heis. Lots of times the wrong trail takes you to a better place."
"Do you know where it's taking you _this_ time? It isn't a question of_who_ I am. It's a question of _what_ I am--Slady. Do you know what Iam?"
"You're a friend of mine," Tom said.
His companion slowly drew his hand from Tom's shoulder, and gazed,perplexed and dumfounded, into that square, homely, unimpassioned face.
"I'm a thief, Slady," he said.
"I used to steal thin
gs," Tom said.
CHAPTER XXVII
THORNTON'S STORY
It was very much like Tom Slade that this altogether sensationaldisclosure and startling announcement did not greatly agitate him, noreven make him especially curious. The fact that this seductive strangerwas his friend seemed the one outstanding reality to him. If he had anyother feelings, of humiliation at being so completely deceived, or ofdisappointment, he did not show them. But he did reiterate in that dullway of his, "You got to tell me who you are."
"I'm _going_ to tell, Slady," his friend said, with a note of sinceritythere was no mistaking; "I'm going to tell you the whole business. Whatdid _you_ ever steal? An apple out of a grocery store, or something likethat? I thought so. You wouldn't know how to steal if you tried; you'dmake a bungle of it."
"That's the way I do, sometimes," Tom said.
"Is it? Well, you didn't this time--old man. If I'm your friend, I'mgoing to be worth it. Do you get that?"
"I told you you was."
"Slady, I never knew what I was going to get up against, or I wouldnever have tried to swing this thing. If you'd turned out to be adifferent kind of a fellow I wouldn't have felt so much like a sneak.It's _you_ that makes me feel like a criminal--not those sleuths andbloodhounds out there. Listen, Slady; it's a kind of a camp-fire story,as you would call it, that I'm going to tell you."
He laid his hand on Tom's arm as he talked and so they sat there on therough sill of the cabin doorway, Tom silent, the other eager, anxious,as he related his story. The birds flitted about and chirped in thetrees overhead, busy with their morning games or tasks, and below thevoices of scouts could be heard, thin and spent by the distance, andoccasionally the faint sound of a diver with accompanying shouts andlaughter which Tom seemed to hear as in a dream. Far off, beyond themountains, could be heard the shrill whistle of a train, bringingscouts, perhaps, to crowd the already filled tent space. And amid allthese distant sounds which, subdued, formed a kind of outdoor harmony,the voice of Tom's companion sounded strangely in his ear.