Читать книгу The Boy Scout Pathfinders; Or, Jack Danby's Best Adventure - Robert Maitland - Страница 4

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The Scouts arose early the next day, in order to be able to march during the cool morning hours, and so escape the torrid middle part of the day, which is especially hot during the short northern summer.

But although hot after the sun is up, the nights seem all the colder by contrast. Fortunately, the Scout-Master had foreseen this and had provided for it by insisting that each Scout carry a warm woolen blanket. To many of the boys this had seemed a waste of energy at the time. Who on earth could want a blanket at that time of the year, they argued.

The first night in camp, however, proved the wisdom of Mr. Durland’s course, and they were glad enough to wrap their blankets around and around them and lie close to each other for the sake of warmth.

Ben Hoover expressed the general feeling when he said, “We must all be crazy with the heat, I think. By this time we ought to realize that Mr. Durland knows what he is talking about.”

It had been arranged that today they would make a visit to a logging camp which lay about five miles in a westerly direction from their camp.

All the Scouts were eager to see the lumber camp, and so stepped off smartly at the word of command from Scout-Master Durland. If left to themselves, most boys would probably have run the first part of the way, but these Scouts knew that five miles through the woods on such a day as this promised to be was not any laughing matter, so they went along slowly.

This did not suit Don, but he submitted with good grace, like the Scout and gentleman he was. He usually traveled about three miles to every one that the boys made, anyway, darting off on his own doggish errands and returning with a wise look on his face. Whatever anyone else thought, he evidently considered his expeditions of the utmost importance.

Today, however, he restrained his exuberant feelings, and walked along sedately with the rest of his Troop, his magnificent brush waving slowly from side to side. Even when a squirrel darted across the path, he curbed his ardent desire to chase it, and Jack petted him lovingly on the head.

“You’re just as good a Scout as any of us, aren’t you, old boy?” he asked. “Even if you haven’t taken the Scout oath, I know well enough that you would if you could. When it comes right down to having good principles, I guess you are as good as any of us!”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mr. Durland, who had overheard the last part of his remark. “If every man had as good and upright instincts as that dog, the world would be a better place than it is now.”

Jack saluted, and said respectfully, “Yes, sir, I guess it would.”

It seemed no time after that until they were surprised to come suddenly upon an opening in the woods, and Mr. Durland said, smiling, “Well, Scouts, we have arrived! While you are here, I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and learn all you can about logging. Everything you see will be interesting, so I have no doubt you will have a good time. Remember, we are to make a report on what we see, so we want to be on the job. Now, forward, march!”

The Scouts defiled out into the open, and started down the rough path toward the camp. This was situated at the bottom of a hollow, where it was sheltered somewhat from the wintry blasts.

As the Scouts approached, they saw that it was composed of two rough log buildings, one considerably larger than the other. The larger structure was the bunk house, where the lumberjacks ate and slept, and the smaller one was the cook house, or kitchen.

As the boys came nearer, they could see the cook’s helper, or cookee, as he was called, standing outside the door, washing an immense pile of dishes. He was engaged in a hot argument with the cook, who was a peppery little French Canadian.

“What you tink, by gar?” the latter was shouting as they got within hearing distance. “You tink I am goin’ to cook for dees here bunch of hungry pigs, an’ den help you wash dishes, also? Mon Dieu! What you take me for—what you call zee easy mark?”

“There, there, Frenchy, keep your hair on!” replied the cookee, a red-headed lad about the same age as the Scouts, and then added, with an exasperating grin, “If I couldn’t cook anything better than the sour dough biscuits and the sinkers you turn out, I’d be ashamed to take the boss’s good money! Why don’t you get a job in New York driving an ash cart? You’d look nifty in one of them white uniforms, and then you wouldn’t have a chance to kill off any more poor lumbermen with your bum grub! That’s what I’d do if I was you!”

This seemed to drive the excitable Frenchman nearly frantic.

“Pig! Dog! Vile one!” he screamed. “Is it zat you would mock me, child of ze gutter?”

The grinning boy appeared to take pleasure in teasing the peppery cook, and finally the latter seemed to go quite mad with rage. He grasped a huge wooden spoon from a table beside the door, and made a clumsy rush at his assistant. The nimble boy easily eluded him, however, but once or twice let the cook get so near him that the little man felt encouraged to keep up the chase in the hope of finally catching him. At last his breath gave out, and he came to a standstill and shook his fist wildly in futile rage.

“That’s right, Frenchy, fan the air all you please,” shouted the evidently delighted youngster. “It does you good, and doesn’t hurt me, so we’re both happy.”

“Wait, wait, zat is all!” gurgled the cook, his face purple. “Soon ze boss, he will come back, and zen you will see, little devil! He will—what you call it? Make ze punching bag of you! Who will be happy zen? I will laugh at you, so, ha-ha!”

“Go ahead, laugh, old boy, it will ease your mind!” said the boy, whom the cook had so aptly described. “It may save you from having apoplexy and croaking. Fat old guys like you often go off just like that!” and he grinned and snapped his fingers.

The outraged cook could think of nothing to say to this crowning insult, and retired into his shack, muttering a string of variegated profanity. After a short interval the boy returned to his dish-washing, but kept a wary eye on the door, prepared to cut and run at the first sign of danger.

The Boy Scouts had been interested spectators of this scene, and now Mr. Durland stepped up to the boy who had been the cause of all the trouble, and said, “Can you tell me, my lad, where I can find the foreman, if he is in camp?”

“The boss is away just now,” replied the boy, civilly enough. “Wot’s yer business with him? Shall I tell him you were here?”

“That depends on when he will be back,” replied Mr. Durland. “Do you think he will be here soon? If so, we will wait for him.”

“I guess he will, if you want to see him bad enough to wait,” answered the boy. He seemed willing enough to oblige, and Mr. Durland felt sure that he was not a really bad boy, although it is safe to say that the cook would not have agreed with him.

“Who’s them guys with you?” asked the boy, but with a note of respect in his voice that was seldom heard there.

“That is a Troop of three Patrols of Boy Scouts,” explained Mr. Durland.

“Boy Scouts?” echoed the boy. “I knew a feller once who was a Boy Scout, and he said it was nifty to be one. He said I could be one, too, if I wanted to, and I did, but I thought he was just kidding me. How is a guy like me, what can’t even talk straight, goin’ to be a Boy Scout?”

“There’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t be one, if you really desire it,” said Mr. Durland, kindly. “You can soon learn to ‘talk straight,’ as you call it, and once you have taken the Scout oath, everything else will come of itself.”

The Scout-Master then went on to explain just what being a Boy Scout meant, and the boy listened attentively. When he spoke about the Scout oath, the boy inquired:

“Just what is the oath, mister?”

“It is the oath that every boy desiring to become a Scout must take, and once having done so, he must stick to it through thick and thin,” explained Mr. Durland.

“Well, I know now that I will want to join, but could I have a little time to think it over?” inquired Harry, for so his name proved to be.

“Why, surely!” replied Mr. Durland, cordially. “We wouldn’t hurry you in your decision for a moment. We will be in the camp off and on quite a while, and you can let me know of your decision at any time that suits you best. Just take your time, my boy, and think it over.”

“I will, sir,” replied Harry, gratefully, and turned again to his seemingly endless task.

The Scout-Master rejoined the boys, and they all started on an inspection of the camp. As they walked, Mr. Durland told Jack and Dick Crawford about what the red-haired boy had said, and they were as pleased as he over the prospect of gaining a new Scout, when in this part of the country nothing had been further from their thoughts.

The clearing in which the logging camp was situated covered several acres, and was hemmed in closely by giant trees. Some of these had already been nicked by the woodcutter’s axe, which marked them as the next victims to the demands of advancing civilization.

Not far from the camp ran a river, or at least what was a river at certain seasons of the year, though now it was little more than a large brook. The boys could hear it murmuring through the trees, and suddenly Tom Binns said:

“Say, fellows, I wonder if there’s any place around here that we could take a swim? It’s getting pretty hot, and I for one feel as if a good swim would do me all sorts of good.”

There was a general shout of approval, and the Scout-Master said, “Why don’t you see if you can discover a pool of some kind?”

This was no sooner said than done, and the boys, accompanied by Don, were plunging pell-mell through the underbrush in the direction of the river. Soon they emerged on the bank of the stream, and after their hot run the thought of a plunge in the cool, shady river was pleasant indeed.

Running along the bank, they discovered a place where a fallen forest giant had formed a natural dam, and the water was several feet deep. It was not two minutes before every Scout was in the pool, and oh, how grateful the cool, clear water felt! They splashed around, and in one place the better swimmers found it deep enough for diving.

“Say, isn’t this a bully place?” shouted Jack.

“Bet your sweet life it is!” shouted one.

“I just guess yes!” agreed another.

Mr. Durland remained on the bank with Don beside him. He could see that the dog wanted to jump in with the boys, but felt that he ought not to leave the Scout-Master alone. So Mr. Durland picked up a dry stick and, showing it to Don, said, “Here, boy, fetch it back!” and threw it into the stream.

In three bounds Don had reached the brink of the pool and dashed in, covering the boys with spray. In less time than it takes to tell, he had grasped the stick in his strong, white teeth, and clambered up the bank.

Pausing only long enough to give himself a shake, which sent a miniature shower into the air, he ran proudly up to the Scout-Master and dropped the stick at his feet. Mr. Durland patted his wet head approvingly, and this performance was repeated several times, much to the delight of both boys and dog. When it came to swimming, Don could beat any of them, and the water seemed almost to be his natural element.

But time was passing, and at last the boys had to climb out reluctantly and dress.

“Gee,” said Bob Hart, “we’ll have to try to get down here as often as we can,” and this sentiment was heartily echoed by the others.

They now proceeded to the camp, and when they reached there found that the foreman, Mr. Flannigan, had arrived a few minutes before.

Mr. Durland introduced himself, and handed the foreman a letter from Mr. Scott. With many grimaces and mutterings Mr. Flannigan finally deciphered the letter and, looking up, remarked:

“Shure, an’ Mr. Scott says as how yer all right, an’ by the same token, whativer Mr. Scott says goes around here, him bein’ the boss. What kin I be doin’ fur ye, sir?”

“Why, nothing very much,” answered Mr. Durland with a smile. “We are commissioned by Mr. Scott, as he no doubt tells you in his letter, to get the lay of the land around here and make a report to him. While we were about it, I thought it would be a good chance to give my Troop some idea of what a logging camp is like.”

“Shure, an’ it’s glad I’ll be to do what I kin fur yez,” said Flannigan, scratching his head. “But, bedad, it’s a poor time o’ the year to see a loggin’ camp. Most of the brave b’ys is in town or scattered around further north. At this time o’ the year ’tis little we do besides nickin’ the trees for the fall cut. Howiver, if I’m not mistaken, here come the b’ys now fur supper, an’ if ye don’t mind rough table manners, we’ll soon have a bite to eat. Here, cook!” as that individual bustled past, “set up an extra table in the bunk house for the b’ys here. More’s the pity, it’s not much we’ve got to offer ye, but such as it is, there’s never any lack, and I guess ye kin make out.”

By this time the lumbermen had arrived at the house, and the boys thought they had never seen a stronger or more healthy set of men. The sun had tanned their bearded faces to a deep brown hue, and as they dropped their heavy axes into a corner, it was easy to see that each one was as strong as two ordinary men.

They all muttered a “How d’ye do” to Mr. Durland, and took their seats around the rough table in silence.

Obedient to instructions, the cook had stretched a wide plank between two barrels, and this served Mr. Durland and his Troop as a table. The boys were not in a mood to be critical, and so long as they got something to eat, did not care much what kind of a table it was served on.

Harry, the red-headed cookee, now entered, bearing a huge platter of steaming beans. This was followed by other dishes of biscuits, doughnuts and great cups of black coffee.

The lumbermen fell to with a rush, and it was wonderful to see the way in which the eatables vanished. They ate like famished wolves, and the Scouts, hungry as they were, almost forgot to eat, and could only stare at the spectacle and wonder how the men ever did it.

However, you may be sure that their own hunger soon asserted itself, and, as Ben Hoover expressed it, they began to “feed their faces.”

The food was very good in its way, and the boys made a hearty meal. The lumberjacks, however, were through almost before the Scouts had begun, and had gone outside, there to smoke their pipes and swap yarns of perils by wood and water.

Soon the boys followed them, and ranged themselves on the grass, listening to the whoppers that the inventive men told. It must be admitted that most of the yarns had some foundation of truth, but on this had been reared an elaborate structure of events that had happened only in the imagination of the man telling the story.

After a while they started singing a rough lumberman’s song, and some of the boys joined in the chorus. Tom’s clear, piercing voice rang out above the thunderous bass of the men like foam on the crest of the wave, and when they had finished, the men gazed at him admiringly.

“That there kid,” said one great, bearded fellow, who at one time had been a cowboy on the western plains, “is sure goin’ to be some shakes as a singer when he grows up. I bet he’ll be in opry some o’ these days. I knew a feller on the Panhandle as could sing like that oncet, but he would borrow hosses as didn’t belong to him, and so we all strung him up one fine mornin’. It sure seemed a shame to strangle that voice of his’n, but it had to be did.”

He gazed meditatively out over the tops of the trees, and a big fellow called Pete said:

“Say, boy, why don’t you bane give us a song?”

Tom was about to refuse, when Mr. Durland said, “Go ahead, Tom. Sing My Old Kentucky Home, won’t you?”

Thus encouraged, Tom drew a deep breath and started the Southern song.

In the hush of the great north woods, his wonderful voice floated out in liquid melody, and the men sat entranced. Visions of childhood days, when they had sat at some distant fireside, came up before them, and more than one hardened “scrapper” felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes grow moist.

As the song was finished there was a short silence, and then someone said in a husky voice: “Say, kid, that was great! I’ll bet your father is proud of you. I would be, if I was your dad! Sing some more, will yuh?”

Tom sang song after song, until it was almost dark, and the Scouts were forced to leave.

All the men followed the boys to the edge of the clearing, and here they parted.

“Youse b’ys has given us an iligant evenin’, bedad, and it’s us that thanks ye, although we can’t do it in none of them flowin’ speeches like the poetry fellers does. All we kin say is as how we hope ye’ll come early and often, and stay late.”

There was a hearty chorus of, “We sure will!” and “Much obliged, Mr. Flannigan!” from the boys, and as Mr. Durland shook hands with the boss of the camp, he said:

“We certainly have been royally entertained, Mr. Flannigan, and want to thank you for it.”

“Shure, an’ it’s yourselves that has done the entertainin’,” responded the foreman, with a comical grin.

“Well, good-night, everybody!” shouted the Scouts in chorus, and were answered by a good-natured mumble from the deep-chested woodmen.

“Forward, march!” called Scout-Master Durland, and the Boy Scouts started on their return journey.