Читать книгу Skinny McCord - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 10

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Well, if it was for only two or three days it would not be so bad, poor Skinny reflected as he went back through the darkness. Still his conscience troubled him and he was beside himself with fear. The only gleam of light he saw in this sorry business was that Danny did have a way of succeeding in the things he undertook. He trusted Danny to avert the catastrophe which would naturally ensue in such a daring and perilous business.

He hoped that during those dreadful two or three days the scouts at camp would not overstep their prerogative of banter where he was concerned. Or at least that Danny might not see them in full swing with their raillery. The historic Kinney of Irontown had got over the licking that Danny had given him. But poor Skinny had never got over it.

As he wandered, fearful and conscience-stricken, down the wooded slope a thought came to him. There was a rich boy in camp, Helmer Clarkson. That boy wanted a canoe and had tried for the Hiawatha Prize—a fine canoe to win which a scout must swim across the lake. Helmer had started (according to rule) with a rowboat escort, and like many another hopeful candidate had returned in the boat. So Helmer had decided to fall back on the less heroic plan of asking his father to buy him a canoe. If he had not already done this, then Skinny had a plan. He would swim across the lake, win the canoe, and sell it to Helmer Clarkson. Then he would give the money to his erring brother.

He knew the camp people would regard him contemptuously for selling a prize, but at least he could help Danny, and put an end to this dreadful thing that Danny was doing. All this might be done immediately—the next morning. The only difficulty would be that his comrades would laugh at him as soon as he proposed the heroic enterprise. Alas, they would not know how heroic it was! They would make a great joke of his trying for a prize—especially this prize. They would decline to accompany him with a boat. They would probably tell him, as they had so many times told him, that if he had to be taken into the boat it would probably sink it. Skinny weighed sixty-four pounds, not counting his heart, which weighed tons just now.

Well, he thought as he trudged along, if Danny could do such wonderful (albeit dreadful) things, he, Skinny could do this. And it would straighten everything out. Perhaps he could even do it before Danny presented himself to the powers in Administration Shack and signed up. That would be between ten and eleven in the morning. He wondered if Helmer Clarkson had any ready money; surely he must have some. Fifteen dollars was all that Danny had demanded. He would sell the prize canoe to Clarkson for fifteen dollars. Well, that was settled and things were not so bad.

As he passed down through the dark woods, he thought of his fugitive brother hiding in that little dank switchman’s shanty. What would be the first thing he would do in the morning? Thus preoccupied with his thoughts, Skinny found himself approaching the cabin before which the white pennant flew. In there they would be sleeping with one eye open, as the saying is. If he could—if he only could—“lift” that pennant. What a glory for the Elks! It would raise him in their esteem; they might take him seriously. Then perhaps they would listen when he talked about trying for the Hiawatha Prize. He was elated; he believed that the whole situation was in his hands; Danny, all unknown to the camp, might be on his way in the morning. This whole business was not so bad after all.

Never in all his trembling little life had Skinny moved with such stealth and caution as when he now approached that coveted pennant. He was about to try to do what Warde Hollister had failed to do; what Ellis Carway (who was an Eagle) had failed to do. He retreated a few yards, and sat down on a stump. He knew that he was out of his sphere, that this sort of thing was not expected of him. He felt that he was intruding into the heroic field where he had no business. He removed his shoes, tied the laces together, and hung the shoes around his neck. They were almost worn out; you could have stuck a finger through the soles.

Now, trembling in every nerve, he approached the cabin. The door stood ajar. He advanced a pace and paused listening. No sound. He took another step. No sound. He could reach out now and lift the staff. He paused, fearful to move. Straining his eyes he looked all about the staff. Then, ever so cautiously, he stooped, and shuddered as the clasp on his belt clinked. He felt all around on the ground, for he had heard scouts speak of cord attached to the staff and tied to the arm of some drowsy slacker on his cot. That was not considered good scouting, but it had been done.

But here there was no cord; these unknown scouts were playing the game right. The usual way with the patrol holding the white pennant was to sleep in turns, with one scout always awake to listen. In a full patrol no one scout would have to remain awake very long.

Skinny stood up and with trembling hand reached out and grasped the staff. Still no sound. There was a cricket chirping and he wished it would keep still. He had heard of rocks laid against the staff so that when it was lifted one would fall upon another. But nothing happened as he slowly raised the staff up, up, up——

What a queer little goblin of a boy he seemed, as he reached one foot far forward so as to cover all the ground he could with every pace. With each grotesque straining of a leg his face unconsciously assumed an aspect of demoniac fear. Then all of a sudden he started to run, his shoes flapping back and forth against his chest and shoulders like an outlandish bulky necklace. He held the white pennant in his trembling hand.

He had done it!

SKINNY STARTED RUNNING WITH THE WHITE PENNANT.