Читать книгу Tom Slade at Shadow Isle - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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Tom watched closely over Peter during the following week. He did all he could to encourage his participation in the numerous activities that the big camp offered to its scouts. And on several occasions he paired him off with a boy his own age and sent them off on hikes through the mountains. But Tom’s every attempt proved futile.

In the games, Peter would either miss his turn or make some blunder and it wasn’t long before he was quietly frozen out of everything. On the hikes, he would almost always return alone, sad and despairing looking. He wasn’t fitting in.

One sunny morning, Tom made a final attempt to pair Peter off with a scout from Connecticut. There was to be a hike down to Harkness village. The scout looked rather disdainfully at the young camp manager for a moment, then stepped up close to him. “Say,” he said in an undertone, “can’t you pick out somebody else for me? Gee, that Pearson kid’s a flat tire. He never says a word and he looks as if he’s afraid to laugh half the time. He’s as good on a hike as a dummy.”

That was almost too much for Tom. He felt the scout’s criticism of Peter as much as if it directly affected himself. He wanted so much to make the short summer weeks a memorable time in the little scout’s uneventful life. Yet Peter’s fear of his grandfather would put to rout the noblest effort. Tom realized that.

The knowledge made him angry. What right had that fanatical old man to instill such fear, such a creed of life, into that wistful young boy? He felt it would soon destroy all that was fine and upright in him.

Tom recalled what Peter had told him of the opinion of Rhodes. Perhaps those people knew what they were talking about. Perhaps they suspected the reason why the grandfather was pinning the boy down.

He felt sure there was a motive in it. And about Peter’s dream—why did he forbid him to tell of a simple thing like that? There was something more or something less than fanaticism underlying Pearson’s rigid discipline of his grandson.

The more he thought about it the more aroused Tom was to protect the boy from the kind of life that seemed to be threatening. He felt a strong desire to go up to Maine and teach Pearson some of the fundamental principles of scouting and show him that his grandson was a very part of the fine old world that he professed to hate.

Now that Peter had been discarded by his brother scouts, Tom’s sense of injustice had received its final blow. Pearson had gone a little too far when his discipline had prevented Peter from laughing and talking like a normal young boy.

He swung around in his desk chair considering a letter to Shadow Isle when Peter’s voice broke in upon his thoughts. Tom looked up to see him standing outside the window. He motioned him to come in.

Peter ran in breathlessly, holding an opened letter in his hand. “It’s from home, Mr. Slade,” he said. “From Grandpap. He says he has to go away on business after the first of the month and that he’d like to get a helper for Old Jones without anyone in Rhodes knowing about it.”

“Why,” Tom said, “I should think the government would take care of that. Don’t they usually send one in cases like that?”

“Yes, they do,” Peter admitted. “That’s what I can’t understand. Grandpap writes that he doesn’t want the government to know nor anybody else because it’s a secret. He’s not even going to tell Old Jones until the day he goes.”

“I wonder why?” Tom asked.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Peter answered. “All I know is, he asked me if there was anyone down here who could keep his mouth shut. He said most people down here will do that for a little money and he’d pay well whoever would come.”

“What an admirable thought,” Tom said, drily. “Still it’s no more than I expected somehow. This would be an agreeable situation for Brent Gaylong,” he added more to himself than to his listener.

Peter looked at Tom inquiringly.

“Brent’s my best friend, Peter kid,” Tom said, answering the look. “You’d like him. He lives in my town, Bridgeboro.”

Peter smiled. “If he’s your friend I’d like him, no matter what,” he said, sincerely. “Do you mean you’d want Mr. Gaylong to go to Shadow Isle?”

“Indeed,” Tom answered. “I intend to go too. I have a hunch that the trip will be worth the trouble. And I don’t think your grandfather will mind there being two of us—not in his present evident need for secrecy. As long as we remember to keep our mouths shut. That’s the main thing, eh? Brent looks harmless and he doesn’t say much but he can think an awful lot.”

Peter looked plainly puzzled. “You really mean you’re going, Mr. Slade?” he asked, incredulously. “How can you get away from this camp?”

“Oh, they can spare me, I guess,” Tom laughed. “There’s always someone around to look after things. I don’t very often take a vacation during the season. Camp closes in four weeks anyhow so that will only make three I miss if we get off next week. And the week after that you’ll be heading for Maine too.”

“I’ll miss you, honest I will,” Peter said, keenly disappointed. Then he brightened up again. “Anyhow, maybe Grandpap wouldn’t be so cranky after he talks to you and Mr. Gaylong. Maybe he’ll even be nicer to me when he comes back from his business.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for, Pete,” Tom said, feelingly. “I’ll miss you too, but you’re better off with the kids just as long as you can stay here.”

Peter smiled.

“One thing though,” Tom continued, “you won’t be better off if you keep on sitting in front of the ‘eats’ shack and staring at the lake. You’ll just have to forget your grandfather’s hating this and that. Think of yourself and what fun you can have with the rest of these nice kids. Laugh when they laugh and talk when they talk. Your grandfather can’t hear you. Get the idea?”

Peter laughed happily. “I’m going to try, Mr. Slade, honest I am,” he said. “And when I get back home if I’m talking and acting like all the other boys here, why Grandpap won’t be there anyhow. You will.”

“That’s it,” Tom applauded. “Now let me have your grandfather’s letter so I can answer accordingly. There’s only one way for me to find out why he’s so queer. That’s to go there.”

Peter laid the letter down and looked at Tom appealingly. “You won’t tell him I talked about him to you?” he pleaded.

“There you are back at it again,” Tom said, reprovingly, yet kindly. “My name’s Tom Slade. That doesn’t mean much to you but it means a lot to some of the scouts down in Bridgeboro, New Jersey, where I come from. I was brought up in the slums there and then the scouts caught hold of me and took the stones out of my hands and taught me not to lie. They did everything for me that was good and kind so that in turn I’d be fit to do that same for other kids—for you.

“Read your handbook over again. A scout is trustworthy and a scout is loyal. I’m out to help you, Peter kid. Not make things worse. Now run along so I can write to Brent and your old grandfather.”

Peter beamed at Tom. He walked to the doorway and lingered there just a second. “I bet you’re going to Shadow Isle on account of me,” he said smilingly. “I bet you’re going to help me with Grandpap.”

Tom looked up and winked fraternally. “I bet I am!” he said.