Читать книгу Wigwag Weigand - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Wigwag Weigand was a crack signaler and a scout of the first class. The patrol that had the honor of his membership was none other than the famous Silver Foxes. Roy Blakeley, its hilarious leader, claimed in vociferous accents that that fact was a distinction. No other patrol of the First Troop of Bridgeboro, New Jersey, was as widely heralded as they.

Wig was never so cognizant of his patrol’s popularity as when he was a participant in one of Roy’s crazy hikes. And that was just it. He was just an ordinary scout at those times—one of the Silver Foxes. And he longed to be the scout extraordinary, the hero of his patrol.

Let not the reader construe that thought of Wig’s as an indication of egotism. He had no more than the ordinary boy’s ambition to heroism, but he did have more than the ordinary boy’s aspiration to worthiness. Singularly, he associated this meritorious trait with popularity and his signaling had never brought him that.

All the scouts of his patrol thought him a good fellow. This recommendation was enough for almost any scout—they were willing to let the praise rest lightly upon Roy Blakeley’s sturdy shoulders. But at heart Wig was not entirely satisfied to bask in the light of another’s popularity. He wanted his deeds to shine alone.

And why not? He was past sixteen, he would reason. In a few more months he would be a veteran scout with five years of faithful membership as his record. But not one act of his was there so outstanding that it would ever bring him the warm handclasp of his superiors in Administration Shack nor a vote of thanks from his scoutmaster.

Wig had never saved a life, human or otherwise. At swimming he had shown no great prowess—he had an ungovernable fear of being under water, and to his credit let it be said that he admitted it. He was not an Eagle Scout.

Therefore, one fine summer morning in early July he stood before the bulletin board outside Administration Shack. His eyes were fixed upon the glaring black letters and he stood like a statue drinking in their significance.

The sun shone down upon his black head and the breeze from the lake lightly touched the patch of tanned skin exposed at his throat. He shifted his weight to his left foot and read off the printed words in a jerky monotone.

EAGLE SCOUTS!

ARE YOU GETTING IN LINE FOR

YOUR BIG CHANCE THIS SEASON?

ARE YOU PLANNING ON PACKING

YOUR RECORD FOR THIS SUMMER

FULL OF ACHIEVEMENT?

IF NOT—DO SO NOW!

IT WILL HELP YOU IN THE FINAL

CONTEST. BE THE SCOUT SELECTED

FOR THE RIVER OF DOUBT EXPEDITION.

YOU WILL BRING HONOR TO YOUR

TROOP, YOUR CAMP, YOURSELF!

THE CHANCE MAY NOT COME AGAIN!

He laughed softly as he finished reading the bulletin but his quiet mirth was not hearty in sound. Rather it had that quality in it that conveyed to a chance bystander a hint of self-mockery and deep disappointment.

Mr. Ellsworth, Wig’s scoutmaster, stood listening. He waited until the hollow laugh had spent itself, then spoke. “That does not do you justice, Wigley,” he said smilingly.

Wig turned around, grinning sheepishly. “What?” he asked, fully aware of what his scoutmaster meant.

Mr. Ellsworth nodded his head understanding. “You underrate yourself. Why?”

Wig stared down at his right shoe and kicked some loose earth around the corner of the shack. Then he looked up. “Aw, I don’t know,” he answered frankly. “Any feller that’s been a scout for five years and isn’t an Eagle Scout ought to laugh at himself, I think.”

“I don’t see your point, Wigley,” Mr. Ellsworth said, sympathetically. “I would if you had exhausted all that scouting has to offer and came out empty handed. On the contrary, you have more than most Eagle Scouts in your. . . .”

“Signaling,” Wig interposed half-heartedly.

“Yes, your signaling,” smiled the scoutmaster. “Why do you mention it so indifferently?”

“Aw, because it never made me an Eagle Scout,” Wig mumbled. “It never helped me so much that I can see. It never helped me to help anyone else either.”

“That isn’t all true,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “If it hasn’t helped you that’s your own fault. Nothing done well is done in vain and I think signaling has helped you more than you realize.”

“Maybe,” Wig conceded, smiling in spite of himself. “But if it has, I don’t know it. That’s all.”

Mr. Ellsworth reached out and gave Wig’s shoulder a fraternal pat. “You’ll know when you most need to know, I guess,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You have the whole season in which to become an Eagle Scout.”

“I’ve thought that every summer for the last three years,” Wig said a trifle bitterly. “But I go home just the way I come—without being one.”

Mr. Ellsworth sensed the thought that prompted Wig’s statement. He said, “It isn’t your fault, Wigley. Everyone in camp knows that the life saving badge is beyond your reach—that it’s impossible for you to try.”

“Yeh,” Wig grunted disgustedly. “Everybody sort of pities me. I know! I’m worse than a baby—can’t stand my head under water. I’m not afraid—nobody need think that. It just suffocates me like, and I have to get out quick. But to have the fellers pitying me—man, I’d rather suffocate!”

“Don’t be foolish, Wigley. No one would ever think of laying it to cowardice. It’s just some queer trick that nature plays on you. Cheer up and make the best of what you have. Our solitary hikes start tomorrow. You can be the first one of your patrol to go. You’ll have twenty-four hours alone—a lot of time to think and be observant. Try and get all you can out of it.”

“I’ll try,” Wig said, brightening.

“I’d go up in the mountains if I were you,” the scoutmaster continued. “Your written report ought to be interesting. There’s bound to be some obstacle for a solitary scout on a hike in the mountain wilderness. If you’re worthy of the Eagle Scout badge you’ll get some adventure out of it. Someone has said that ‘all trails lead to Rome.’ Perhaps you’ll find a good one.”

Wig laughed heartily that time. “Gee, I hope so,” he said. “But don’t worry. Nothing great ever happens to me.”