Читать книгу Wigwag Weigand - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Administration Shack was the capital of Temple Camp. From its rustic interior came many rules and regulations and one of them was the solitary hike order (as the scouts called it).

It had been issued to encourage self-reliance and observance in the scouts and was received joyously. Its requirements were much to any scout’s liking, asking no more than that he should hike alone to a distance of at least four miles from camp. He was to cook his three meals, build a shelter and find his way back alone the following day. And the most difficult part was that the scout should hand over to his superiors a written report of his activities.

Perhaps that is what Wig dreaded most of all when he started out on his solitary hike. He wondered what activities he’d have to write about, for the cloudless, windless heaven and silent countryside bespoke peace and contentment. Certainly it wasn’t an incentive for a scout of the Silver Fox Patrol. They wouldn’t call a hike a hike unless something happened, ludicrous or otherwise. And he agreed with them thoroughly.

Mr. Ellsworth accompanied him to the outskirts of Temple Camp. He looked at the scout quizzically when they halted. “Which way is it going to be?” he asked. “North, east south or west?”

Wig smiled. “Man, it doesn’t make a bit of difference to me,” he answered. “One direction looks as exciting as the other and that’s not saying much.”

The scoutmaster laughed. “Perhaps not. But you must admit that you have a vast area to choose from. Why not take the path of least resistance?”

“A bee line from where we’re standing now?” Wig returned promptly.

“Exactly,” Mr. Ellsworth answered. “It saves time in thinking anyway.”

Wig followed the line with his bright eyes and noted the thick forests coming within its range. “That’s the hardest direction of all,” he protested, laughingly.

“Of course it is,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Something a little difficult—blazing new trails. You’re looking for adventure—excitement, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but not work,” Wig answered good-naturedly. “I’ll try it though.”

“That’s the talk. Go ahead now. We’ll see you sometime tomorrow morning. Perhaps you’ll have saved a baby bear from an eagle by that time. It would make a dandy report, Wigley.”

“Sure, it would,” Wig agreed. “But it wouldn’t make me an Eagle Scout, would it?”

Mr. Ellsworth looked at him thoughtfully. Then he shook his hand, heartily. “Be patient,” he said. “You’ll be everything you desire to be when your turn comes.”

Wig went on after that. At intervals he would turn and salute his scoutmaster until after fifteen minutes of steady climbing the thick foliage shut off his view of camp completely. Then he concentrated his thoughts and vision upon the trackless region above him.

It was almost noon when he came out upon a ledge that was fairly free of entangling growths. He sat down to rest and heard the unmistakable tinkle of a mountain brook. Curious, he got up, going in the direction of the sound and came to it within a few minutes.

It plashed along, carefree and gay, under the shadow of austere trees and giant weeds, veering west of the ledge and thence down the mountainside. Wig wondered if its bubbling rivulets ever found their way into Black Lake. He liked to imagine they did, so decided to camp there. It was dim and cool and one had only to take a few steps out to the ledge to see the lake, looking for all the world like an oversized puddle.

He was thoroughly tired and perhaps a little lonely. At any rate it gave him a comfortable feeling to peek through the trees and know that four miles below the ledge was camp ringing with the shouts of the “fellers.” They must be piling in the eats shack, he thought. He could almost hear them.

He wouldn’t admit that he was lonely. It was just too quiet, especially after a scout was used to hiking with Roy Blakeley. Consequently, he threw down his knapsack with a vehement gesture just to hear the stillness broken. And on a quest for firewood he scuffed his feet around and over the twigs to hear them crackle noisily. That not being enough he shouted, rather than sang, an old but still popular ditty.

The echo of his efforts delighted him and he set about making a fire and preparing his lunch. As the flames hissed and the bacon sizzled he wished for the noisy, troublesome presence of Pee-wee Harris. He was a pest at times, there was no denying it. But he’d welcome the kid’s noise and appetite at a time like this, he told himself.

He whistled half-heartedly as he brought his plate and other things out of his knapsack. A blue jay in a neighboring tree screamed an accompaniment to the frying of the bacon. Wig listened with new interest and hated taking the pan from the fire.

He stuffed a few saltine crackers in his mouth and flopped down on the ground to eat. Suddenly he heard a sound somewhere near. He rested his crunching jaws and listened.

It came nearer and he knew it to be the sound of someone trampling dry twigs under foot. Whether it was human or animal, he could not tell then.

He sat waiting.