Читать книгу Tom Slade at Black Lake - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 9

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How should those scouts know that Tom Slade had been counting the days and hours, waiting for that Friday night? They were not mind readers. They knew that Tom Slade, big business man that he was, had much to occupy him.

And they too, had much to occupy them. For with the coming of Spring came preparations for the sojourn up to camp where they were wont to spent the month of August. At Temple Camp troops were ever coming and going and there were new faces each summer, but the Bridgeboro Troop was an institution there. It was because of his interest in this troop, and particularly in Tom’s reformation, that Mr. John Temple of Bridgeboro, had founded the big camp in the Catskills. There was no such thing as favoritism there, of course, but it was natural enough that these boys, hailing from Mr. Temple’s own town, where the business office of the camp was maintained, should enjoy a kind of prestige there. Their two chief exhibits (A and B) that is, Roy Blakeley and Pee-wee Harris strengthened this prestige somewhat, and their nonsense and banter were among the chief features of camp entertainment.

Temple Camp without P. Harris, some one had once said, would be like mince pie without any mince. And surely Pee-wee had no use for mince pie without any mince.

“Oh, look who’s here!” Roy Blakeley shouted, as Tom quietly took a seat on the long bench, which always stood against the wall. “Tomasso, as I live! I thought you’d be down at the Opera House to-night.”

“I don’t care thirty cents about the movies,” Tom said, soberly.

“You should say thirty-three cents, Tomasso,” Roy shot back at him: “don’t forget the three cents war tax.”

“Are you going to play that geography game?” Tom asked hopefully.

“Posilutely,” said Roy; “we’ll start with me. Who discovered America? Ohio. Correct.”

“What?” yelled Pee-wee.

“Columbus is in Ohio; it’s the same thing—only different,” said Roy; “you should worry. How about it, Tomasso?”

Tom was laughing already. It would have done Mr. Burton and Mr. Ellsworth good to see him.

“We were having a hot argument about the army, before you came in,” Connie Bennett said. “Pee-wee claims the infantry is composed of infants....”

“Sure,” Roy vociferated, “just the same as the quartermaster is the man who has charge of all the twenty-five cent pieces. Am I right, Lucky Luke? Hear what Lucky Luke says? I’m right. Correct.”

“Who’s going to boss the meeting to-night?” Doc Carson asked.

“How about you, Tom?” Grove Bronson inquired.

Tom smiled and shook his head. “I just like to watch you,” said he.

“It’s your job,” Doc persisted, “as long as Mr. Ellsworth is away.”

There was just the suggestion of an uncomfortable pause, while the scouts, or most of them, waited. For just a second even Roy became sober, looking inquiringly at Tom.

“I’d rather just watch you,” Tom said, uneasily.

“He doesn’t care anything about the scouts any more,” Dorry Benton piped up.

“Since he’s a magnet,” Pee-wee shouted.

“You mean a magnate,” Doc said.

“What difference does it make what I mean?” the irrepressible Pee-wee yelled.

“As long as you don’t mean anything,” Roy shouted. “Away dull care; let’s get down to business. To-morrow is Saturday, there’s no school.”

“There’s a school, only we don’t go to it,” Pee-wee shouted.

“For that take a slap on the wrist and repeat the scout law nineteen times backward,” Roy said. “Who’s going to boss this meeting?

“I won’t let anybody boss me,” Pee-wee yelled.

Roy vaulted upon the table, while the others crowded about, Tom all the while laughing silently. This was just what he liked.

“Owing to the absence of our beloved scoutmaster,” Roy shouted, “and the sudden rise in the world of Tomasso Slade, alias Lucky Luke, alias Sherlock Nobody Holmes, and his unwillingness to run this show, because he saw General Pershing and is too chesty, I nominate for boss and vice-boss of this meeting, Blakeley and Harris, with a platform....”

“We don’t need any platform,” Pee-wee shouted; “haven’t we got the table?”

“It’s better to stand on the table than to stand on ceremonies,” Dorry Benton vociferated.

“Sure, or to stand on our dignity like Tomasso Slade,” Westy Martin shouted.

“Put away your hammer, stop knocking,” Doc said. “Are we going to hike to-morrow or are we going to the city?”

“Answered in the affirmative,” Roy said.

“Which are we going to do?” Pee-wee yelled.

“We are!” shouted Roy.

“Do we go to the city?” Doc asked seriously.

“Posilutely,” said Roy; “that’s why I’m asking who’s boss of this meeting; so we can take up a collection.”

“All right, go ahead and be boss as long as you’re up there,” Connie Bennett said, “only don’t stand on the cake.”

“Don’t slip on the icing,” Westy shouted.

“I’ll slip on your neck if you don’t shut up,” Roy called. “If I’m boss, I’d like to have some silence.”

“Don’t look at me, I haven’t got any,” Pee-wee piped up.

“Thou never spak’st a truer word,” Westy observed.

“I would like to have a large chunk of silence,” said Roy; “enough to last for at least thirty seconds.”

“You’d better ask General Slade,” said Doc; “he’s the only one that carries that article around with him.”

“How about that, Tommy?” Wig Weigand asked pleasantly.

Tom smiled appreciatively, and seemed on the point of saying something, but he didn’t.

There was one other scout, too, who made a specialty of silence in that hilarious Bedlam, and that was a gaunt, thin, little fellow with streaky hair and a pale face, who sat huddled up, apparently enjoying the banter, laughing with a bashful, silent laugh. He made no noise whatever, except when occasionally he coughed, and the others seemed content to let him enjoy himself in his own way. His eyes had a singular brightness, and when he laughed his white teeth and rather drawn mouth gave him almost a ghastly appearance. He seemed as much of an odd number as Tom himself, but not in the same way, for Tom was matter-of-fact and stolid, and this little gnome of a scout seemed all nerves and repressed excitement.

“Let’s have a chunk of silence, Alf,” Roy called to him.

“Go ahead,” Doc shouted.

“If there’s going to be a collection, let’s get it over with,” Westy put in.

Roy, standing on the table, continued:

“SCOUTS AND SCOUTLETS:

“Owing to the high cost of silence, which is as scarce as sugar at these meetings, I will only detain you a couple of minutes....”

“Don’t step on the cake,” Doc yelled.

“The object of this meeting is, to vote on whether we’ll go into the city to-morrow and get some stuff we’ll need up at camp.

“Artie has got a list of the things we need, and they add up to four dollars and twenty-two cents. If each fellow chips in a quarter, we’ll have enough. Each fellow that wants to go has to pay his own railroad fare—Alf is going with me, so he should worry.

“I don’t suppose that Marshall Slade will condescend and we should worry. If we’re going up to camp on the first of August, we’ll have to begin getting our stuff together—the sooner the quicker—keep still, I’m not through. We were all saying how numbers look funny on scout cabins—five, six, seven. It reminds you too much of school. Uncle Jeb said it would be a good idea for us to paint the pictures of our patrol animals on the doors and scratch off the numbers, because the way it is now, the cabins all look as if they had automobile licenses, and he said Daniel Boone would drop dead if he saw anything like that—Cabin B 26. Good night!”

“Daniel Boone is already dead!” shouted Pee-wee.

“Take a demerit and stay after school,” Roy continued. “So I vote that we buy some paint and see if we can’t paint the heads of our three patrol animals on the three cabins. Then we’ll feel more like scouts and not so much like convicts. If we do that, it will be thirty cents each instead of twenty-five.”

Before Roy was through speaking, a scout hat was going around and the goodly jingle of coins within it, testified to the troops’ enthusiasm for what he had been saying. Tom dropped in three quarters, but no one noticed that. He seemed abstracted and unusually nervous. The hat was not passed to little Alfred McCord. Perhaps that was because he was mascot....

TOM’S HAND CLUNG TO THE BACK OF THE BENCH.