Читать книгу Wigwag Weigand - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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Suddenly the sound ceased and Wig looked across the rushing brook. Just beyond two giant oaks stood side by side, their wide low-hung branches intermingling with a great profusion of wild fern. One could stand behind that natural screen unseen.

He felt that someone was standing behind it. Instinctively he knew that that someone was watching him—studying his every move. And in turn he gazed at the feathery curtain between the trees.

After a few seconds passed and no further sound came, he jumped to his feet and grinned. His eyes disappeared somewhere in his tanned round face and his frank, generous mouth opened, exposing two rows of teeth. There was open declaration in Wig’s grin—a sort of unconscious triumph over fear.

“Come on!” he shouted to the one unseen. “You’re it! Now it’s my turn to hide.”

There was an audible chuckle behind the fern. The flimsy foliage parted slowly and he saw a flash of red appear between the twin oaks. Then a young man came into view looking a trifle disheveled in his khaki negligee. He had a shock of curly red hair that glinted mischievously in the bits of sunlight that strayed down through the branches.

He looked at the scout inquiringly and his deep blue eyes seemed to sparkle with life. Then the corner of his mouth drew up in a smile. “So you’re going to hide, eh?” he asked in a clear, boyish voice.

Wig liked him at once. “Not unless you say so,” he answered. “I’ll be it again if you want, but anyhow I’m glad you came. Man, I was wishing I’d have someone to eat with so now you’re invited to stay and have lunch. I’m Wigley Weigand at home and Wigwag all the rest of the time. Some of the fellers in my patrol even call me Wig.”

The stranger laughed pleasantly, “That’s an earful, all right,” he said. “But Wigwag suits me fine. What did you do, wigwag your patrol out of the deep forest when they were lost?” He sauntered leisurely up to the scout and looked longingly at the crisp brown bacon in the pan.

Wig noted that and hastily reached into the knapsack for a can of beans which he opened. “I’m doing this in your honor,” he said. “I made Chocolate Drop (that’s our camp cook) give me extra rations this morning in case I was lucky enough to have someone drop in.”

“That’s a good scout, Wigwag,” the stranger said, flopping down on the ground. “I sure am honored but you didn’t tell me what great deed you did to come by your name?”

Wig liked to hear him speak. He liked the way he had said Wigwag. No one had ever said it in just that manner. “I didn’t do any great deed,” he answered. “I never did anything for my patrol or my troop and that’s why I get mad at myself. Gee whiz, I wish we would get lost in a deep forest sometime so I could wigwag them out. Then I’d amount to something.”

“Then wigwagging is your specialty, eh?” the fellow asked.

“Yeh, sort of my only one,” laughed Wig. He grew thoughtful for a moment, then: “Say, you seem to know something about scouts, don’t you, Mr.——”

“Call me Delmar,” the stranger interposed quietly. “Cut out the mister part, though. And I’ll confess that I was a scout myself.”

“Gosh!” Wig exclaimed admiringly. “Then you’re still a scout. You know what it says in the handbook, don’t you?”

“Uh huh. Once a scout always a scout. I’m twenty-one that’s all, but I have a feeling that they wouldn’t even want to hear my name coupled with theirs. Not now.” He stared wistfully into the flames.

Wig served the beans and wondered. He waited for Delmar to attack his portion before he spoke. “Gosh, I don’t know what makes you feel like that because in our troop we always want a scout’s name to stay on the list. I bet they do in your troop too!”

“Oh, they would all right, considering,” he said with a suggestion of irony. “Circumstances alter my case, Wigwag.”

“Oh,” said Wig rather apologetically. He felt that he had intruded upon some personal phase of Delmar’s scouting career and by way of saving him from further embarrassment added, “Anyway, I bet you were a peach of a scout.”

Delmar fixed his bright eyes full upon Wig and smiled. “Thanks a lot. It was nice to hear that. I tried to be a peach of a scout. I’ve always tried to be one.”

“Man, you don’t have to tell me. I knew it right away!” Wig exclaimed naively.

Delmar’s answering laugh resounded through the woods. “Well, as long as compliments seem to be the order of the day, I’ll do my share for you. I think you’re a peach of a scout but I think your name’s peachier.”

It was Wig’s turn to laugh. “Like fun,” he said. “I’m five months short of being a veteran scout and one merit badge short of being an Eagle Scout. So what’s in a name, huh?”

“More than most of us think. We all learn that sooner or later, but with you it’s more than a name to live up to. It’s a job.”

“Gee,” said Wig, not quite following Delmar’s philosophy. “I never heard that before. The fellers just called me that because I took to wigwagging right off the bat.”

“There you are,” Delmar said. “If they called you that they expect just that much of you. Don’t have them say ‘he used to be Wigwag’. Do you know what I mean?”

“Sure, but don’t worry about that. I’d like to be a scoutmaster some day so how could they forget me?”

Delmar smiled. “Human beings are fickle, young scout. Don’t fail to remember that. They want to be known by what you are and do, but just do something that can’t be explained—like being accused of a crime that you had no part in. See how quickly they forget you. They’ll say they give you the benefit of the doubt but in their hearts they don’t. I know that well—I’ve seen it happen.”

There was a bitterness in Delmar’s tones that didn’t escape Wig. He talked like one who has experienced all that he speaks and for the first time the scout was aware of his haggard, worn look and disheveled appearance. Who and what was he?

A dozen questions piled up in Wig’s brain, but he did not ask one of them. There was something about Delmar that held him back—one took his silence for granted and felt that it would be broken in his own good time.

Into such thoughts Delmar intruded. “It’s only fair that I should show you my quarters, Wigwag,” he said. “You’ve taken me without the proverbial grain of salt and now I’ll let you see where I rest my weary head at night.”

Wig’s face registered surprise. “Where?” he asked.

Delmar pointed toward the twin oaks. “About one hundred and fifty feet from here.”

“Gee,” said Wig. “You don’t live here—I mean you don’t stay in these mountains all the time, do you?”

“No,” answered Delmar. “And I hope I don’t have to!”