CHAPTER X THE BOY SCOUTS’ FIRST SALUTE

What Mr. Trevor had just done for the boy aviator of the circus made the sympathetic lawyer even more of a hero to the Elm Street boys. The next morning the home of Art’s parents was the rallying point of nearly every one of the young Boy Scouts. The talk of these boys ran on but three things—the condition of the injured boy, the wreck of his aeroplane and the arrival of the new scout uniforms.

Art was discussing the matter of the aeroplane when Mr. Trevor, who had waited at home, visited the garage. The sick boy had not passed a bad night but the crisis had not yet been reached. There must be quiet. The boys were asked to play somewhere else.

“Can we go to McGuire’s and see his aeroplane?” asked Art.

“No,” answered Mr. Trevor positively. “It is the only fortune the boy has and his means of livelihood. I want no one to go near it or touch it until he is able to look it over.”

All day the boys discussed the possibilities of what would follow if Bonner recovered and became the Trevor chauffeur. Art had dreams he did not attempt to conceal.

“I’ll bet you he can fix the aeroplane if he made it. That’ll be our chance. We’ll chip in and pay for what he needs. Mebbe we can get a ride in it.”

“Mebbe he’ll teach us to fly it ourselves,” ventured Colly Craighead.

From airships, the talk under the big maple tree in the Conyers yard ran to the suspended Boy Scout program. As the possibilities of this were expounded by Connie, every one came forward with suggestions as to the first outing. Lew Ashwood proposed the thing that met general approval: a hike to Round Rock River and an exploration of the abandoned quarry.

“It’s five miles to the river,” explained Lew. “We can start at five o’clock in the morning, when it’s cool, and each fellow can carry grub in his knapsack, only we’ll each take something different so’s we can cook up a big breakfast when we get to the river. I’ll take enough frankfurters for everyone, about four or five pounds. The rest of you’ll have to take bread an’ eggs an’ tea—”

“How about lunch an’ supper?” piped up Sammy Addington.

“An’ some’ll have to take ham an’ things for lunch,” went on Lew. “We’ll get supper when we get home.”

“You can get dinner at the farmer’s out there,” suggested Connie. “He gets it for fishermen if they telephone to him.”

“What!” exclaimed Art. “Boy Scouts eatin’ a bought meal on a table in a house? We might as well stay at home.”

“Sure,” shouted a boy. “We want to camp out and cook on our own fire. We got to have bacon too so’s if we don’t catch any fish.”

“That’s right,” agreed Art. “We ought to take some fishin’ tackle. Round Rock’s great for bass. If anything happened to our provisions we ought to catch some fish to keep from starvin’.”

“If we had a shotgun,” suggested Ashwood, “we might bring down some squirrels. There’s oceans o’ squirrels on Round Rock.”

“Squirrel potpie’s great,” put in Sandy Sheldon. “Can any kid make squirrel potpie? We’d ought to take some flour and potatoes.”

“Boy Scouts can’t carry firearms,” remarked Connie. “That’s one of the laws, you know.”

“Not even to keep ’em from starvin’?” asked Lew.

“I reckon it’s to keep ’em from shootin’ each other,” laughed Connie.

“They ain’t no need to bother ’bout fish and squirrels,” broke in young Abercrombie. “Let ever’ kid take all he can carry or his folks’ll give him. I reckon we ought to get up two meals out o’ that. An’ in the evening we’ll get Mr. Trevor to send the big automobile to the river for us.”

“Hadn’t we ought to hike it both ways?” asked Art, dubiously.

“We’d ought to I reckon,” allowed Connie, “by the rules. But for a starter mebbe we could ride home. An’ you know we’ll be hikin’ all day up the river to the old quarry.”

Out of enthusiasm of this sort the boys finally found themselves grown so energetic that they could wait no longer for the coming drill manual. With the martial knowledge that every boy possesses to some extent, they left the shade of the maple and formed a drill squad. From marching and countermarching they fell to tracking an imaginary enemy, scaling imaginary breastworks, rescuing each other in the face of the enemy’s fire and binding up imaginary wounds.

In Scottsville the dinner hour was at noon. While most of the perspiring scouts were engaged at this meal, several of them received telephone calls from their leader.

“They’ve come!” was the excited announcement. “I got a letter. We’re accepted for the Boy Scouts an’ they’s a certificate—‘Scottsville Patrol No. 1—Wolves.’ The uniforms mebbe is at the express office now an’ the books. Hurry up an’ come to my house.”

“Don’t forget to tell the boys,” said Mr. Trevor to his son, immensely pleased over the interest the boys were showing in his plan, “that the sick boy was hungry this morning and ate a little broth. I don’t know whether one’s good wishes can help another but if they can, the Wolves ought to make our patient get well.”

“You bet we’re a-pullin’ for him all the time. Say, father,” exclaimed Art, “when Bonner gets well why couldn’t he be a Boy Scout if he stays here? He ain’t too old.”

Mr. Trevor’s face showed surprise and then the surprise turned into a smile.

“There isn’t any reason, if he wanted to, and you boys selected him and liked him. I don’t believe he has ever had a real home or any boy life. However, I wouldn’t suggest it to the other boys until he is much better.”

But the eager young scouts had to content themselves with their charter that day. The eagerly awaited uniforms did not come. In the late afternoon discouraging news from the sick room reached those in the garage, where aeroplanes were again under discussion. The sick boy had begun to show some temperature, a bad sign, and both doctors were “going to operate.” But it wasn’t quite so bad as that.

A small fragment of a spruce upright had been taken from young Bonner’s back. Both doctors made another examination of the injury. As they feared they discovered a second splinter which was only removed after an incision had been made. It was exhausting to the suffering boy, for an anesthetic was not administered, and those in the garage below could hear the sounds of his suffering. But from that time the boy began to mend.

All the Wolves were at the depot the next morning when No. 28 came in. There it was, dumped off the express car as carelessly as if it had been ordinary merchandise—one large box for “Mr. Alexander Conyers.” The driver of the express wagon knew what it meant and with a grin promised immediate delivery at Connie’s home. On the corner of the big box was a glorious label. It read:

SCOUT SUPPLIES.

COMPLETE OUTFITS FOR SCOUTING PARTIES.
SPECIALLY LOW PRICES.
HATS, SHIRTS, BELTS, JERSEYS, SCARFS,
KNICKERS, MACKINTOSH CAPES.
SCOUTMASTER’S UNIFORMS IN ALL SIZES.
BILLY AND MESS TINS, CAMP KETTLES,
KIT BAGS, LAMPS AND WATER BOTTLES,
TENTS AND MARQUEES.
CHICAGO UNIFORM COMPANY.

The packing case, about seven feet long, instantly had to be examined by each of the thirteen boys. All the depot loungers had to have a peek too. Among these was a broad-shouldered boy who approached unobserved.

“Hello, kiddos,” was his hearty greeting. “What’s doin’?” Then he saw Connie’s name and the label. While the Elm Streeters fell back momentarily with cloudy faces the new arrival read the card on the box.

“Boy Scouts, eh?” he laughed. “I heard o’ them. You guys tired o’ toy aeroplanes?”

“None o’ your business, Hank Milleson,” retorted Art savagely.

At a glance from Connie, Art flushed. He realized at once that there wasn’t much Boy Scout spirit in his answer. Then he added: “You bet. An’ it’s great. Them’s all uniforms an’ things. We’re all goin’ to drill an’ goin’ campin’ and scoutin’.”

“That sounds good to me,” commented Hank. “Did you have to buy ’em?”

“Mr. Trevor bought ever’thing,” explained Connie. “He figured it all out for us. We’re the Wolf Patrol.”

“It’s like soldiers, ain’t it?” said Hank. “I read about ’em.”

“Soldiers an’ scouts. Reg’lar scouts,” volunteered Sammy Addington.

Hank passed his big, soiled hand over his mouth in perplexity. An envious look shone on his face.

“I wish’t I could see ’em,” he said embarrassed and pointing to the box.

“We’re goin’ to drill this evenin’,” said Connie. “We’d be glad to have you come over to my house ’bout four o’clock if you’d like to.”

Hank’s perplexity was now open astonishment. And the Elm Streeters showed little less.

“You don’t mean me an’ the gang?” exclaimed Hank at last.

“Sure,” answered Connie. “You ain’t goin’ to be in the way.”

The Elm Streeters almost gasped. A direct invitation from Elm Street to the Goosetowners to visit that exclusive locality! Art edged up to Connie and gave him a questioning look.

“Article four,” whispered Connie with a chuckle. “A Scout is a friend to all—”

“Sure,” exclaimed Art, conscience-stricken and turning to his late foe and rival. “Come over. Bygones is bygones.”

The Boy Scout idea had worked its first wonder on the scrappy Art. All but Connie stood open-mouthed in wonder. Sammy Addington shook his head sadly. He would not invite Nick Apthorp at least.

When the box had been deposited in Conyers’ back yard and feverishly opened, thirteen bundles and a long package lay before the tingling boys. On top was a large envelope marked “Invoice,” directed to Mr. Trevor in care of “Mr. Alex Conyers.” It was unsealed. Connie opened it and spread it before the boys. It was a list of the contents of the box and read:

To	12	Scout hats, khaki felt, wide stiff brim and chin strap	$3.25
”	1	Patrol Leader hat, ditto, with pugaree	.65
”	12	Scout shirts, khaki, brown, military pockets, official pattern	4.68
”	1	Patrol Leader shirt, ditto, with collars, cuffs and buttons	.80
”	12	Scout belts, pigskin, rings and swivels	2.60
”	1	Patrol Leader belt, cowhide, strap for shoulder	.65
”	13	Scout haversacks, khaki drill	1.90
”	13	Scout ties, black, 5×36 inches	1.30
”	13	Scout lanyards	.30
”	13	Scout knives with marlinspike	3.25
”	13	Scout whistles	2.08
”	13	“Billy” tins	2.60
”	13	Combined knives and forks	3.90
”	2	Semaphore signal flags	.30
”	1	Patrol flag, green, marked “WOLF”	.25
			———
			$33.81

“Gee,” exclaimed Colly Craighead. “That’s a lot.”

“It’s two dollars and sixty cents for each boy,” protested Connie. “An’ we got ever’thing we need but tents an’ blankets an’ we can get them right here when we need them.”

Then unpacking began. Each package was marked with a boy’s name. And the contents of each were suited to that boy’s size and measurement. In the history of every boy present there had never come a happier moment. In five minutes the Conyers’ yard was ablaze with newly caparisoned youngsters; Connie, superior in his patrol leader hat, badge and cuffed shirt, and Sammy Addington, by gracious consent, as the Wolf standard bearer.

“Fall in,” shouted Patrol Leader Conyers at last and the smart uniforms lined up together for the first time. By fours and by file the squad marched and countermarched. After a half hour it was remembered that the manuals, furnished free, and a part of the equipment were yet unexamined. “Break ranks!” was ordered and the happy scouts returned to the shade of the wide maple tree where the books were distributed.

Then, like swarming bees, the recruits began to devour “Scoutcraft”: a scout’s work, his instructions, the scout laws, campaigning, camp life, tracking, woodcraft, the chivalry of scouts. They read again and again how General Baden-Powell had used the boys of Mafeking in the siege of that town to assist the too few soldiers; all about the scouts’ badges and medals for merit and bravery; what they meant and how to win them.

In the midst of this there came a shock. Some one discovered on the street outside, Hank Milleson and his friends—the Goosetowners’ delegation. But the committee was small. In addition to Hank there were Carrots Compton, Mart Clare and Buck Bluett. Nick Apthorp was not present. Seeing this Sammy Addington sprang up, seized the Wolf standard and came to a “present.” There was a snicker from the Goosetowners.

Patrol Leader Conyers was about to yell, “Come in the yard,” when he checked himself. His mother had not joined the scout ranks and Connie had no reason to believe she had changed her views on the desirability of her son’s associating with any Goosetowner. But not to be impolite or forgetful of his invitation he ordered his scouts into line once more. Then, that the visitors might have a full and close view of all the new Wolf Patrol glory, he led his squad proudly out into the street and past the half defiant quartette.

“Some neckties!” commented Mart Clare. “Take it from me.”

“What’s the sticks fur?” asked Carrots Compton derisively.

“Talk about yer Wild West!” added Buck Bluett. “Baby Buffalo Bills, all right.”

“What’s on the flag?” asked Hank with more sincerity. “By gravy!” he exclaimed as the undisciplined Sammy proudly dropped it for inspection. “If it ain’t a howlin’ wolf an’ no less.”

“What’s the matter with Kyotes?” snickered Carrots Compton. “Ye can tame a wolf.”

There was no reply from the ranks. The recently belligerent Elm Streeters were now soldiers with a leader. Some of them were choking red in the face, but with shoulders squared, they filed by their old enemies without a retort. A moment later, with a file right and column front, the little cavalcade wheeled and marched directly up to the four bewildered Goosetowners. As if about to sweep down their guests, the column advanced to within a few feet of Hank and his friends.

“Halt!” ordered Patrol Leader Conyers.

Sharply and with heels squarely together, the line came to a stand.

“Salute!”

Each scout’s right hand rose swiftly to the brim of his jaunty hat and then Connie whirled, faced their observers, and raised his own hand.

“Aw, what you givin’ us?” exclaimed Hank.

“The scouts’ salute to a stranger,” answered Connie. “It means we think you are the right sort of fellows and that we mean well to you.”

“Come off,” muttered Carrots Compton shifting uneasily. Then in another tone, he added, “Say, kids, what’d them dicers cost?”