Читать книгу Skinny McCord - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 3

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There was great excitement around the camp-fire. Skinny McCord had lost his compass. He had dropped it and it had rolled away, and all the boys were making a great show of helping him to find it. They did this not wholly from kindness.

Skinny was a sensitive boy and it gave his comrades great delight to see him embarrassed, as he always was when made the subject of group talk or the center of interest. Not that they would have hesitated a moment to assist Skinny. For they liked him immensely and would have done anything in the world for him. But they were a mirthful lot, these scouts of Temple Camp, and felt a certain bantering enjoyment in seeing him uneasy, as he always was when the spotlight was thrown on him. They liked that diffident way of his—that bashful smile. This was his second summer at camp and still he was shy; he would probably always be shy....

It was not much of a compass that he had lost; just a little tin affair. He was sorry that he had chosen to transfer it from one pocket to another, for now he found himself the star attraction of the camp-fire throng. “It—it isn’t much good anyway,” he said; “don’t bother.”

But they did bother. They had Skinny where they wanted him and they could not let the occasion go by. He would have to go through with this torture. He often suffered such torture at the hands of these scouts who would have knocked any one down who dared to harm him.

“Everybody hunt for Skinny’s compass!” called Roy Blakeley. (He was easily the worst of the lot.) “Get out of the way,” he said as he rolled Pee-wee Harris over on the ground, and made great pretense of scrutinizing the spot. “Don’t sit around gaping when Skinny’s compass is lost. Correct imitation of boy scouts hunting for a lost compass that didn’t know which way it was rolling.”

“Would you mind getting up, Uncle Jeb, so we can look under that log for Skinny McCord?” said another boy. Poor Skinny looked almost frightened to see the old western trapper, master of woods lore in camp, smilingly arise while a dozen scouts searched under the log seat, to the accompaniment of a clamorous chorus.

“All fall to and hunt for Skinny’s compass!”

“Hey, Skinny, we’ll find it!”

“Go and get a couple of scoutmasters and a few councilors.”

“Tell them Skinny McCord lost his compass.”

“We’ll form a posse,” said Roy.

“Don’t worry, Skinny, we’ll find it.”

“Everybody hunt for the compass of Skinny McCord.”

“Sit still, Skinny; your thousands of friends will find it for you.”

He sat still, his face as red as the end of the big iron poker which lay in the fire. He might have served as a model for a statue of embarrassment as he sat on his old grocery box fearfully contemplating the rumpus he had caused. Timidly he glanced at Councilor Barrows as if to assure that smiling official that he had not intended to interrupt the proceedings with all this hubbub.

In company Skinny never permitted himself to occupy a whole seat. He sat on the edge of a chair or box or boat seat; this was the invariable sign of his embarrassment. “Sit back and make yourself at home, Skinny,” they would say. But that was the one thing poor Skinny could never do—make himself at home. His getting into the scouts was the great thing in his young life and he had been in a sort of trance ever since. He had never got over the shock. They had told him that pretty soon he would be a patrol leader. His elevation to that height would certainly have killed him.

A scout from Indiana (one of those robust jolliers who enliven camps) jumped upon a rough seat, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted like a fish pedler, “Ooooooh! Everybody! Scout McCord of Bridgeboro—First Bridgeboro Troop—has lost his compass! Come one, come all, and help find it!”

They were all crawling about on their hands and knees, fifty or more of them, upturning boxes and throwing camp stools about in hilarious exaggeration of helpfulness. And there sat poor Skinny smiling bashfully. If a pack of lions had suddenly taken it into their heads to roar their tribute to a kitten as a member of their family, the kitten’s attitude would have been comparable to that of poor Skinny.

But the spasm of raillery was soon over. They were more concerned with Skinny’s discomfiture than with finding the fugitive compass. And they did not find it; it had rolled gayly off and baffled all these trackers and pathfinders. Skinny did not let his uproarious comrades know how much he really did want to find it. He was even glad when the excitement was over. He hoped they would resume camp-fire yarns and forget all about it. He had suffered quite enough this agony of being in the public eye.

But the fire was burning low now and there were no more camp-fire yarns. There was a continuous exodus from the spot. Sitting there one might see scouts, singly and in groups, moving into the darkness, up the hill or along Cabin Lane or toward Tent Village, as they called it, to their quarters. Slowly the reflection of the fire in the lake near by diminished until there was nothing but a tiny red glow on the black water.

“So long, see you in the morning,” was repeated again and again as patrols went their several ways off into the solemn stillness of the big scout community. It was more than a camp, this lakeside foundation started by Mr. John Temple; it was a sort of scout city in the wilderness. One could be quite alone and unnoticed there, if he so chose, even as one may be a hermit in the metropolis.

Soon only half a dozen or so of the merry, lolling throng remained, and these sat meditating as they waited for the fire to die. There were always a few to linger like this; a few who had that gentle sentiment that likes to see the old year go out, or watch beside a dying fire. Old Uncle Jeb and Tom Slade, camp assistant, always waited to trample out the last embers. With them sat two or three of the older boys.

“Poor kid, it’s a lot of fun to see him all flustered,” one said.

“He’s even got a regular scout suit,” said another. “He drove down to Kingston with Curry in his Ford and bought it and now he’s afraid to wear it. Somebody told me he’s been saving up for it ever since last summer. And now he’s afraid to wear it.”

“Curry told me it’s about forty-’leven sizes too big,” drawled lanky Brent Gaylong. “But I s’pose Skinny figures on growing up to it. Probably he means to wear it when he’s National Scout Commissioner. A scout has to be prepared as I understand.”

“Look out, you’ll burn your shoe,” said Tom.

“If you dressed more like a scout it wouldn’t hurt you any.”

“I have the soul of a scout,” drawled Brent. “I don’t need the tinseled regalia. What do you suppose would happen,” he said meditatively after a pause, “if Skinny were to be awarded the Gold Cross and all the high dinkums of scouting were here to pull the presentation stuff to the plaudits of the multitude? What do you think he’d do if old man Temple made one of his speeches about him?”

“I think he’d drop dead,” said Tom. “But Skinny is no coward; he’s just bashful and sensitive.”

“Huh, funny,” mused Brent. “he doesn’t seem to be any more at home with the Elks than when he first joined them.”

“He’s happy,” said Tom.

“Thar’s cowardly animals, and thar’s timid animals,” said old Uncle Jeb, “n’ they ain’t the same by no manner o’ means. That thar youngster’s all right, I reckon. On’y he’s shy.”

Two of those who had lingered went away; they were silhouetted as they passed the big lighted window of Benson Dormitory, then were swallowed by the darkness. Still the trio waited by the dying fire, silent, meditative. Tom was watching a particular patch of embers as one by one little particles went out and the tiny area of red diminished. He could have stamped this out with one foot, but he took a certain idle pleasure in waiting till it vanished in the black night. “Why don’t the Elks get after Skinny about his new suit?” he mused aloud.

“I suppose they don’t know anything about it,” drawled Brent.

“Hmph, poor kid,” said Tom.