Читать книгу Roy Blakeley in the Haunted Camp - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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The next morning the troop started on their hike to the old camp. Excepting their tents they carried full camping equipment, blankets, cooking utensils, first aid kit, lanterns, changes of clothing, and plenty of those materials which Roy’s magic could conjure into luscious edibles. The raw material for the delectable flipflop was there, cans groaning with egg-powder, raisins for plum-duff, savory bacon, rice enough for twenty weddings and chocolate enough to corner the market in chocolate sundaes. Cans of exasperated milk, as Pee-wee called it, swelled his duffel bag, and salt and pepper he also carried because, as Roy said, he was both fresh and full of pep. Carrots for hunter’s stew were carried by the Elks because red was their patrol color. A can of lard dangled from the end of Dorry Benton’s scout staff. Beans were the especial charge of Warde Hollister because he had come from Boston.

Most of the scouts had visited Camp Merritt during the war when it was seething with activity, and when watchful sentinels stood on every road of approach, challenging the visitor and demanding to see his pass. They had been familiar with the boys in khaki, strangers in New Jersey mostly, who filled the streets of Bridgeboro. But they had not visited the old camp since it had become a deserted village.

It seemed strange to them that the place which had so lately swarmed with life, and had a sort of flaunting air of martial energy and preparation, should have become the lonely biding place of one poor soul and that its only service now was to stand between that poor stricken derelict and starvation.

If they had taken their way up the Knickerbocker Road along which auto parties and pedestrians had once thronged to see the soldiers, they would have found the going easy, but instead they followed the river northward, for five or six miles, then cut through the country eastward which would bring them to the western extremity of the old camp.

In this last part of their journey they fell into an indistinct trail, much overgrown, running through an area of comparatively wild country. This, indeed, had been a beaten path between the camp and the villages to the west. It had known the tread of many an A. W. O. L.^[1] soldier, yet it had not been altogether a secret path, but rather one of convenience. At all events it had been well clear of the main entrance on the Knickerbocker Road, and this conspicuous advantage had given it a certain popularity.

At the time of the boys’ journey this path would probably have been indistinguishable to any but scouts. It brought them soon to an old tumbled-down building which had never been more than a mere shack, and was now so utterly dilapidated that living in it would be quite out of the question. Some remnants of a roof remained in a few shreds of curled, rotten shingles, the foundation was intact, and the sides though bulging and full of gaping crevices were still standing.

“Oh look at the house, it’s all ruined like Reims Cathedral,” Pee-wee shouted. This, indeed, was its only point of resemblance to Reims Cathedral. “Come on inside,” he continued, leading the way, “it’s a dandy place, it’s all caving in.”

“I suppose they want about a thousand dollars a month rent for this place,” said Westy Martin.

“Sure,” said Roy, “it has all modern improvements, free shower-baths when it rains and everything.”

Within, the place was dank and musty and cobwebs spread across the openings where the windows had been. Much broken glass and a couple of sash weights fastened to ends of rotten sash cord lay upon the floor. In the corner was a makeshift bed of straw, matted from age, damp and unwholesome. The place was in possession of spiders. Whole boards of the flooring had rotted, yielding like mud under the feet of the scouts.

“Some place,” said Connie Bennett.

“Oh, here’s a dime,” Pee-wee shouted reaching under an open space in the flooring. “I can get a soda with that.”

“Here’s another,” said Westy.

It seemed likely that some of the heroes who had made the world safe for democracy had beguiled their time playing craps before going forth to glory.

Suddenly Pee-wee shouted, “Oh look at this! I bet it has something to do with a spy! I bet it has secret papers in it! Look what I found!”

From under the edge of the rotten straw our observant young hero had pulled out an oilskin wallet. There were not many such places as this old ruin that did not yield up their treasures to Pee-wee. The veriest ash heap became a place of romance under his prying hand and inquisitive eye. This find was just one of those ordinary oilskin wallets which had held and protected many letters from mothers and sweethearts and which had been shot through and through in the trenches in France. Black spots of mildew were upon it and it had an oily, unpleasant odor.

“I found it! I found it!” Pee-wee vociferated, as the scouts all clustered about him eager to see.

“You’re the greatest discoverer next to Christopher Columbus,” Roy said. “Let’s see what’s inside it.”

“Didn’t I say to stop here?” Pee-wee demanded.

“You never thought you’d find an ice cream soda here,” Roy said.

“You never know where you’ll find one,” Pee-wee said in high excitement. “Didn’t I find a dime in a sewer-pipe?”

“That’s a nice place to find a soda,” Roy laughed. “Open the wallet and let’s see what’s in it.”

[1] A. W. O. L.—Absent without leave.