Читать книгу Westy Martin on the Old Indian Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 3

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Westy said it all came about by accident. Not the Trail, of course, but the occasion of his going there. He declared that Benny Stein started it by saving his life.

It happened in early February, at a pond up in North Bridgeboro where Westy was skating. Benny was looking on, interested and wishing he knew how to skate. There was some thin ice. The tall, slim scout of the famous Silver Fox Patrol fell in and the little Jewish boy pulled him out. From then on, they were fast friends.

In early June, Benny joined the scouts. He became a member of Westy’s patrol under the leadership of Roy Blakeley. After that impressive ceremony was over, Benny, consciously a tenderfoot in his full scout regalia, walked down Main Street, linking arms with Westy.

The night was moonless, but full of the call of spring and ice cream, beckoning to the tenderfoot and first-class scout alike. Consequently, the destination of these two was a certain confectionery store called Bennett’s, which offered, as one of many delicious concoctions, a very tasty chocolate parfait. They put more whipped cream on a parfait than any other place in Bridgeboro. Any scout could bear witness to that.

“You see, Ben,” Westy said, during their walk down town, “it wasn’t so bad after all. You got through great. Even Mr. Ellsworth said so. The only thing, you were a little nervous. That’s all.”

Benny sighed deeply. “Yes, that’s all,” he said. “Could it be worse, I ask you? I almost disgraced myself. The scout sign even—I put my hand upside down and the words got mixed up in my teeth yet. And shiver! On a warm night in spring like this, I was shivering!”

Westy laughed heartily. “There’s no disgrace in being nervous and shivering, Ben. Besides, it’s all over now and you’re a full-fledged tenderfoot. By the time you’re ready to be a second-class scout, you’ll be all over your nervousness.”

“Oi, I hope so,” Benny said, rather dejectedly. “I’m a student, not an athlete, Westy, my friend,” he added, almost tragically.

“Say,” Westy said, cheerily, “you’re aces high. All the fellows liked you—I could see that. What more do you want?”

“To be full of pep like that Blakeley,” he answered, “and to talk fast about scouting like that so little Harris boy. I want to be a good scout. But a failure I am, already. Sometimes I don’t know that it’s west when I’m looking at the sun even. A fine scout I am!”

“Take it easy,” Westy said, consolingly. “You’ll learn everything in time. At least you’re a good student and that means a whole lot. Even if you’ve never known much about outdoor life, it doesn’t say you won’t. I’ll teach you a lot before Temple Camp opens. You can swim. That’s something!”

Benny laughed outright. “Westy, don’t be foolish,” he said. “I swim! Hah! I float when I swim—that’s how good I am a swimmer!”

Westy peered into Benny’s face. “Gee,” he said, at length, “say....” He peered closer, as if he doubted that which his ears had just heard. “Ben, you’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

Benny’s face was very grave. “I should kid my best friend, that I don’t swim when I do?” he exclaimed breathlessly. “I’m a scout now—it means the truth I’m telling you. Without water wings, I don’t float. I just sink right away—like lead to the bottom.”

They had reached Bennett’s. But Westy stood still and faced Benny. “Do you mean,” he said, incredulously, “that you couldn’t swim a stroke when you pulled me out of that hole? Out of that deep, icy water?”

Benny grinned and shook his head. “Positively, no!” he said. “Should it be such a surprise?”

Westy, speechless with admiration and surprise, slowly shook his head. In answer, he flung his arm about young Stein’s shoulders and together they walked into Bennett’s. People seeing them thus little guessed that it was more than an arm that linked them together.

The chocolate parfait loosened Westy’s tongue. “Gee, Ben,” he said, “I’ll say this much for you, you know one of the most important scout laws there is to know. Saving my life when you wouldn’t have been able to save your own—gee whiz, that’s what I call doing something! And all this time I never knew but what you could swim.”

“Aw, forget it,” Benny said, kindly. He was trying hard not to swallow too much at one time. His embarrassment was obvious.

“Oh, I know,” Westy said, “you don’t want me to say anything about it and I won’t. But just tell me why you did it. Why?”

“I should know why?” Benny said, trying to chew on an oversized walnut. “Ask me something easy!”

“Everybody has reasons for doing things,” Westy said, insistently.

Benny smiled. “Maybe it was because I was wishing I could skate like you—I don’t know. Anyhow it’s made us good friends.”

“And it’s made you a scout,” Westy added.

“It’s nice to hear you say that, Westy,” Benny said, with delight. “But because I’m a flivver of a scout I shouldn’t say it out loud.”

“Nope,” Westy said, laying his spoon down. “Even if you were a punk scout—and you’re not—you mustn’t be afraid to say it aloud. Once a scout, always a scout—that’s what it says in the handbook.”

“It’s settled,” Benny said, emphatically. “Whatever you say.”

As they stepped out from the store into the street, Westy heard his name called loudly. He looked up to see Warde Hollister beckoning to him from his father’s car, parked across the street. They crossed over.

Mr. Hollister was sitting behind the steering wheel and Warde was in the seat beside him. “Hullo!” Westy said, in greeting. Benny grinned.

“Hello, boys,” Mr. Hollister returned. “How about a lift home?”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Westy answered. “Benny lives on Fourth,” he added as they climbed in back.

Mr. Hollister gave Benny a friendly nod and started the car. After they were out of the Main Street traffic, Warde turned to his father. “Benny’s just joined us tonight,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Hollister said. “So you’re a scout, eh, Benny?”

Benny looked almost frightened. “I’m....”

“Sure, he is,” Westy interposed and nudging Benny with his elbow. “I’m going to teach him how to be a good one, too! Not that he isn’t one already—he’s just shy about admitting it.”

“You’ll get over that,” Mr. Hollister said, kindly. “And with Westy looking out for you—you can’t go wrong.”

“Don’t I know it!” Benny answered emphatically.

“Vacation starts in two weeks,” Westy reminded them, “and I’ll have plenty of time to teach Benny before Camp opens. I’ll start him off with pathfinding.”

“That reminds me,” Warde said, “that father’s going up over the Mohawk Trail in two weeks. I’m going with him. Isn’t that all to the good, Westy?”

“Betcha life,” Westy answered, feeling a trifle envious.

“One of my salesmen has been sick, Westy,” Mr. Hollister explained, “so I have to take his place and get our summer souvenir orders. I have to stop first at North Adams and make other calls between there and a place called Greenfield. It’ll take me about a week and I thought it would be nice for Warde to wait for me at North Adams and explore the trail to his heart’s content.”

“Gee, I’ll have some time to kill, won’t I?” Warde asked, proudly.

Mr. Hollister looked down at his son. “Perhaps you wouldn’t have to kill time if you had another scout along. Say, for instance, Westy Martin.”

Westy sort of choked. Then he summoned courage. “Would another scout be too many?” he asked, anxiously. “A scout like Benny?”

“Surest thing you know,” Mr. Hollister answered, laughingly. “The more the merrier. You can camp on the trail—do whatever you like for a whole week. I’ll pick you up on the way back.”

There was silence on the back seat—a joyful silence. Benny was too overwhelmed for words. He coughed and, reaching his hand out in the darkness, found Westy’s and clasped it. That was all.