Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Paul Fernandez and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note: Accents have been replaced by unaccentedcharacters in this version. Both "ne'er-do-well" and "ne'er-do-weel"are used, so both spellings have been preserved.
"WHAT IS IT? WHAT IS IT?"]
A SCOUT OF TO-DAY
BY
ISABEL HORNIBROOK
_Author of "Camp and Trail," "Lost in Maine Woods,""Captain Curly's Boy," etc., etc._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1913
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY ISABEL HORNIBROOK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published June 1913_
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO "NED"
The Author expresses her indebtedness to Edmund Richard Cummins for thesong, "THE SCOUTS OF THE U.S.A."
CONTENTS
I. THE GREAT WOODS 1
II. ONLY A CHIP' 17
III. RACCOON JUNIOR 34
IV. VARNEY'S PAINTPOT 55
V. "YOU MUST LOOK OUT!" 70
VI. THE FRICTION FIRE 82
VII. MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL COUNCIL 104
VIII. THE BOWLINE KNOT 121
IX. GODEY PECK 145
X. THE BALDFACED HOUSE 159
XI. ESTU PRETA! 178
XII. THE CHRISTMAS BRIGADE 196
XIII. THE BIG MINUTE 207
XIV. A RIVER DUEL 215
XV. THE CAMP ON THE DUNES 230
XVI. THE PUP-SEAL'S CREEK 244
XVII. THE SIGNALMAN 262
XVIII. THE LOG SHANTY AGAIN 271
ILLUSTRATIONS
"WHAT IS IT? WHAT IS IT?" (page 99) _Colored Frontispiece_
"HELP! _HELP!_" 56
"MAK' YOU S-SILENT! W'AT FOR YOU SPIK LAK DAT?" 150
IN CAMP 238
"CAN'T YOU SEE THE TIDE IS LEAVING YOU?" 252
_From drawings by J. Reading_
A SCOUT OF TO-DAY
CHAPTER I
THE GREAT WOODS
"Well! this would be the very day for a long tramp up into the woods.Tooraloo! I feel just in the humor for that."
Colin Estey stretched his well-developed fourteen-year-old body amongthe tall feathery grasses of the broad salt-marsh whereon he lay,kicking his heels in the September sunshine, and gazed longingly offtoward the grand expanse of New England woodland that bordered themarshes and, rising into tree-clad hills, stretched away much fartherthan the eye could reach in apparently illimitable majesty.
Those woods were the most imposing and mysterious feature in Colin'sworld. They bounded it in a way. Beyond a certain shallow point in themlay the Unknown, the Woodland Wonder, whereof he had heard much, butwhich he had never explored for himself. And this reminded himunpleasantly that he was barely fourteen, in stature measuring fivefeet three _and_ three eighths, facts which never obtruded themselvesbaldly upon his memory when he romped about the salt-marshes, or rowed aboat--or if no boat was forthcoming, paddled a washtub--on the broadtidal river that wound in and out between the marshes.
Yet though the unprobed mystery of the dense woods vexed him with thefeeling of being immature and young--woodland distances look vaster atfourteen than at eighteen--it fascinated him, too, more than did anyriddle of the salt-marshes or lunar enigma of the ebb and flow of tidein the silvery, brackish river formed by an arm of sea that coursedinland for many a mile to meet a freshwater stream near the town whereColin was born.
Any daring boy above the age of ten could learn pretty nearly all therewas to know about that tidal river: of the mammal and fish wherewith itteemed, from the great harbor seal, once the despot of the river, to thetiny brit that frolicked in the eddies; and about the graceful bird-lifethat soared above its brackish current.
He could bathe, shrieking with excitement, as wild from delight as anyyoung water-bird, in the foam of the rocky bar where fresh stream andsalt stream met with a great crowing of waters and laughter of spray.
He could imitate the triple whistle, the shrill "Wheu! Wheu! Wheu!" ofthe greater yellow-legs so cleverly as to beguile that noisy bird, whichis said to warn every other feathered thing within hearing, intoforgetting its panic and alighting near him.
He could give the drawn-out, plaintive "Ter-lee-ee!" call of theblack-breasted plover, and find the crude nest of the spotted sandpipernestling beneath a tall clump of candle-grass.
All these secrets and many more were within easy reach and could bestudied in his unwritten Nature Primer whose pages were traced in theflight of each bird and the spawn of every fish.
But the Heart of the Woods was a closed book to most fourteen-year-oldboys born and brought up in the little tidal town of Exmouth.
Colin had often longed to turn the pages of that book--to penetratefarther into the woods than he had dared to do yet. This longing wasfanned by the tales of men who had hunted, trapped or felled trees inthem, who could spell out each syllable of the woodlore to be studied intheir golden twilight; and who, as they roved and read, could put afinger on many a colored illustration of Nature's methods set against agreen background of branches or fluttering underbrush, like the flittingfoliage of moving pictures.
To-day the wood-longing possessed Colin so strongly that it actuallystung him all over, from his neck to his drumming, purposeless heels.
He glanced up into the brilliant September sky arching the salt-marshes,questioning it as to what might be going on in the woods at this momentunder its imperial canopy.
And the blue eye of the sky winked back at him, hinting that it knew offorest secrets to be discovered to-day--of fascinating woodlandcreatures to be seen for a moment at their whisking gambols.
The sunlight's energy raced through him. The briny ozone of thesalt-marshes was a tickling feather in his nostrils, teasing him with adesire to find an outlet for that energy in some new and unprecedentedform of activity.
He sprang to his feet, spurning the plumy grass.
"Gee whiz! I'm not going to lie here any longer, smelling marsh-hay," hecried half articulately, his eye taking in the figures of two hay-makerswho were mowing the tall marsh-grass and letting it lie in fragrantswathes to dry into the salt hay that forms such juicy fodder forcattle. "It's me for the woods to-day! I want to go farther into thoseold woods than I've ever gone before--far enough to find Varney'sPaintpot and the Bear's Den--and the coon's hole that Toiney Leduc sawamong the alders an' ledges near Big Swamp!"
He halted on the first footstep, whistling blithely to a gray-wingedyellow-legs that skimmed above his head. The curly, boyish whistle,ascending in spirals, carried the musical challenge aloft: "I'm glad I'malive and athirst for adventure; aren't you?"
To which the bird's noisy three-syllabled cry responded like threecheers!
"It's me for the woods to-day!" Colin set off at an easy lope across themarshes. "I'm going to look up Coombsie and Starrie Chase--and KenjoRed! Us boys won't have much more time for fun before school reopens!"grammar capsizing in the sudden, boisterous eddy within him.
That eddy of excitement carried him like a feather up an earthyembankment that ascended from the low-lying marshes, over a fence, andout onto the drab highroad which a little farther on blossomed out intohouses on either side and became the quiet main street of Exmouth.
Colin turned his face westward toward the home of "Coombsie,"
otherwiseMark Coombs--also shortened into "Marcoo" by nickname-loving boydom.
He had not gone far when his loping speed slackened abruptly to acontemplative trot. The trot sobered down to a crestfallen walk. Thewalk dwindled into a halt right in the middle of the sunny road.
"Tooraloo! here comes Coombsie now," he ejaculated behind his twitchinglips. "And some one with him! Oh, I forgot all about that!" Dismay stoleover his face at the thought. "Of course it's the strange boy, Marcoo'scousin, who came from Philadelphia yesterday and is going to stay herefor ever so long--six months or so--while his parents travel in Europe.This spoils our fun. Probably _he_ won't want to start off on a longhike through the woods," rigidly scanning the approaching stranger as astiffened terrier might size up a dog of a different breed. "His folksare rich, so Marcoo said; I suppose he's been brought up in a cityflowerpot--and isn't much of a fellow anyhow!" with a disgruntled grin.
But as the oncoming pair drew within twenty yards of the youthful criticthe latter's tense face-muscles relaxed. Reassurance crept into hisexpression.
"Gee! he looks all right, this city boy. He's not dolled-up much anyway!And he doesn't look 'Willified' either!" was Colin's complacent comment.
No, the stranger's dress was certainly not patterned after the fashionof the boy-doll which Colin Estey had seen simpering in store-windows.He wore a khaki shirt stained with service, rough tweed knickerbockersand a soft broad-brimmed hat. He carried his coat; the ends of his bluenecktie dangled outside his shirt, one was looped up into a carelessknot. His gray eye was rather more than usually alert and bright, hisgeneral appearance certainly not suggestive of a flowerpot plant; hisstep, quick and springy, embodied the saline breeze that skipped overthe salt-marshes.
So much Colin took in before criticism was blown out of his mind by ashout from Coombsie.
"Hullo! Col," exclaimed Marcoo. "Say, this is fine! We were juststarting off to hunt you up--Nix and I! This is my cousin, Nixon Warren,who popped up here from Philadelphia late last night. Nix, this is mychum, Colin Estey!"
The two boys acknowledged the introduction with gruff shyness.
"Nixon and I settled on going down the river to-day in Captain Andy'spower-boat, and Mother put us up a corking good luncheon," Marcoosignificantly swung a basket pendant from his right hand. "But we'vejust been talking to Captain Andy," glancing backward over his shoulderat the receding figure of an elderly man who limped as he walked, "andhe says he can't take us to-day. He won't even loan us the Pill."Coombsie gesticulated with the basket toward the broad tidal rivergleaming in the sunshine, on which rode a trim gasolene launch with alittle rowboat, so tubby that it was almost round and aptly named thePill, lying as tender beside it.
"Pshaw! the Pill isn't much of a boat. One might as well put to sea in ashoebox!" Colin chuckled.
"I know! Well, we can't go on the river anyhow, so we've determined totake the basket along and spend the whole day in the woods. Nix is--"
"Great O!" whooped Colin, breaking in. "That's what I've been planningon doing too. I want to go _far_ into the woods to-day,"--his handsdoubled and opened excitedly, as if grasping at something hitherto outof reach,--"farther than I've ever been before,--far enough to seeVarney's Paintpot and the old Bear's Den--and some of the other wondersthat the men tell about!"
"But there aren't any bears in these Massachusetts woods now?" It wasthe strange boy, Nixon Warren, who eagerly spoke.
"Not that we know of!" Coombsie answered. "If one should stray over theborder from New Hampshire he manages to lie low. Apparently there'snothing bigger than a deer traveling in our woods to-day--together withfoxes in plenty and an occasional coon. The last bear seen in thisregion, Nix, had his den in the cave of a great rock in the thickestpart o' the woods. He was such an everlasting nuisance, killing calvesand lambs, that a hunter tracked him into the cave and killed him withhis knife. Ever since it has been called the Bear's Den. I've never seenit; nor you, Col!"
"No, but Starrie Chase has! I was going to hunt him up too, and KenjoRed: they're a team if you want to go into the woods; they know moreabout them than any other boy in Exmouth."
"Kenjo has gone to Salem to-day. And Leon Chase?" Coombsie's expressionwas doubtful. "I guess Leon makes a bluff of knowing the woods betterthan he does. He'll scare everything away with his dog and shotgun.Captain Andy is hunting for him now," with another backward glance towhere the massive figure of the old sea-captain was melting from view."He's threatening to shake Starrie until his heels change places withhis head for fixing the Doctor's doorbell last night, wedging a pin intoit so that it kept on ringing until the electricity gave out--and forteasing old Ma'am Baldwin again."
"'Mom Baldwin,' who lives in that old baldfaced house 'way over on thesalt-marshes!" Colin hooted. "Pshaw! she ought to wash her clothes atthe Witch Rock, where Dark Tammy was made to wash hers, over a hundredyears ago. I guess Leon knows the way to Varney's Paintpot anyhow," headvanced clinchingly.
"What sort of queer Paintpot is that?" Nixon Warren spoke; hisstranger's part in the conversation was limited to putting excitedquestions.
"It's a red-ochre swamp--a bed of moist red clay--that's hiddensomewhere in the woods," Colin explained. "The Indians used it formaking paint. So did the farmers, hereabouts, until a few years ago. Ibelieve it's mostly dried up now."
"Whoopee! if we could only find it, we might paint ourselves to ourwaists, make believe we were Indians and go yelling through the woods!"Nixon's eye sparkled like sun-touched granite, and Colin parted with thelast lingering suspicion of his being a flowerpot fellow.
This suggestion settled it. Starrie Chase, otherwise Leon, might let hisboyish energy leak off as waste steam in planting another thorn in theside of the hard-worked doctor who bore the burdens of half thecommunity, and in persecuting lonely old women, but--he was supposed toknow the way to Varney's Paintpot!
And the three started along the road to find him.
The quest did not lead them far. Rounding a bend in the highroad, theycame abruptly upon Leon Starr Chase, familiarly called Starrie, almost afifteen-year-old boy, of Nixon's age.
He was leaning against a low fence above the marshes, holding a deadbird high above the head of a very lively fox-terrier whose tan earsgesticulated like tiny signal flags as he jumped into the air to captureit, with a short one-syllabled bark.
"Ha! _you_ can't catch it, Blink--and you shan't have it till you do,"teased his master, lowering its limp yellow legs a little.
The dog's nose touched them. The next instant he had the bird in hismouth.
With equal swiftness he dropped it on the sidewalk, growling and gaggingat the warm feathers which almost choked him. "Ugh-r-r!" He spurned itwith his black nose along the ground, the tiny yellow claws raking upminute spirals of dust.
"There! I knew you wouldn't eat it," remarked his master indifferently."You're a spoiled pup!" Simultaneously Leon caught sight of the threeboys making toward him and burst into a complacent shout of recognition.
"Hullo, Colin! Hullo, Coombsie!" he cried. "See what I've got! Six_yellow-legs_! I fired into a flock; the first I've seen this year. Theywere going from me and I dropped half a dozen of them together, withthis old 'fuzzee'!" He touched an ancient shotgun propped beside him."I've shot quite a number one at a time this week."
His left hand went out to a huddle of still quivering feathers on top ofthe fence in which five pairs of yellow spindle-legs were tangled likeslim twigs.
Colin, as was expected of him, burst into an exclamation of wonder atthis destructive skill. Coombsie's admiration was more forced.
Blink, the terrier, scornfully rolled over the feathered thing in thedust. He snapped angrily at the stranger, Nixon Warren, who tried topick it up and examine it.
"That bird won't be fit to eat now, after the dog has played with it,"suggested the latter, addressing Leon without the benefit of anintroduction.
"I don't care. Probably I'll give the whole bunch of yellow-legs away,anyhow--Mother doesn't like their sedg
y flavor. She'd rather I'd let thebirds alone, I guess!"
"Why do you shoot so many if you don't want them?"
"Oh! partly for the sport and partly because these 'Greater Yellow-legs'are such telltales that they warn every duck and other bird withinhearing by their noisy whistle."
Impulsively Nixon put out a finger and touched one slim leg with itslimp claw that protruded from the fence. At the same moment he glancedupward.
Over the boys' heads, having just risen from the feathery marshes,skimmed a feathered telltale, live counterpart of the one he touched,its legs golden spindles in the sunshine, its shrill joy-whistle: "Wheu!Wheu! _Whe-eu!_" proclaiming the thanksgiving which had rioted throughColin's mind on the fragrant salt-marshes: "Glad I'm alive! Glad I'malive! _Glad_--I'm alive!"
A smothered exclamation broke from Coombsie as he followed the fingerand the flight.
Leon snatched up the gun.
"One can't have too much of a good thing: I guess I could drop that'telltale,' too!"
But Marcoo's hand fastened upon his arm with an impulsive cry.
"Eh! What's the matter with you--Flutter-budget?" Lowering the pointedshotgun, Leon whisked round; his restless brown eyes had a lightningtrick of shutting and opening, as if he were taking a photograph of theperson addressed, which was in general highly disconcerting to the boywho differed from him. "No need to make a fuss! I wouldn't let her offhere, anyhow," he added, fondling the gun. "Father would be fined if Ishould fire a shot on the highroad."
"_We're_ starting off on a hike--for a long tramp into the woods, Leon,"began Coombsie hurriedly, anxious to create a diversion. "We want you tocome with us, as leader; Colin says that _you_ know the way to Varney'sPaintpot!"
The other's expression changed like a rocket: Starrie Chase enjoyedleading other boys, even more than he reveled in "poppingyellow-legs"--for the former Nature had intended him.
"All right!" he responded with swift eagerness. "Just, you fellows, keepan eye on my gun while I run home with the birds; I'll be back in aminute!"
"Oh! you're not going to take your gun into the woods?"
"Sure--I am! I might get a chance at a fox!"
"Won't it be an awful nuisance carrying it all the way through the thickundergrowth--we want to go as far into the woods as the Bear's Den?"suggested Marcoo tactfully.
"Well, perhaps it would. I'll just scoot home then, and be back in notime!"
He snatched the dead birds from the fence, raced away and reappeared inthree minutes, with the terrier barking at his heels.
"I'm going to let Blink come anyhow; he'll have a great time chasingthings--eh, Blinkie?" Leon made a hurdle of his outstretched arm for thescampering dog to jump over it.
And the terrier replied in a volley of excited barks, saying in doggytalk: "Fellows! if there's fun ahead, I'm in with you. The woods are agrand old playground!"
He led the way, and the four boys followed, jostling each other merrily,rubbing their high spirits together and bringing sparks from thecontact--bound for that mysterious forest Paintpot.
But the stranger, Nixon Warren, could not forbear throwing one backwardglance from under his wide-brimmed hat at the poor dog-scornedyellow-legs, its joy-whistle silenced, stiffening in the dust.