CHAPTER XI THE “COYOTES” INVADE ELM STREET

One evening with his Boy Scout manual transformed Connie into a most exacting military commander. And in two days the Wolf Patrol was performing drill evolutions that inflated its members with pride. Formal drill in full uniform took place each afternoon between four and five o’clock. Then came semaphore signaling until six o’clock. Even after supper there were “fireless” camp fires in Conyers’ yard where, beneath the maple, Connie read aloud the history and aims of the Boy Scout organization. This, in the manual, was described as “even song” and always concluded with new and elaborate plans for the patrol’s coming field campaign.

Lew Ashwood’s suggestion of an all-day hike to Round Rock River was the first event scheduled. This was to take place on the following Saturday. In the succeeding week all had agreed to make a second trip to Bluff Creek about six miles east of town, and there spend two days and two nights in camp.

Each boy had already secured permission to make the Round Rock trip and Mr. Trevor and Sammy Addington’s father had promised to follow the boys Saturday evening and bring them home in the automobile. Even the mothers of all agreed to honor each boy’s requisition for food. There was such general endorsement of Mr. Trevor’s work in organizing the patrol and of his kindness in contributing uniforms for all, that it would have been hard for any parent to refuse coöperation.

The sick boy was no worse. He was yet so weak that no one was admitted to his room. Morning and night, when the doctor came, there was a report for the Scouts, all of whom had come to look on the sick boy as a personal friend, although not one of them had ever spoken to Bonner and he was not conscious of ever having seen one of them. Yet he had spoken to them. At the first flight of the aeroplane he had called to them gruffly: “Chase yourselves, you kids.”

Each boy recalled this, but with no feeling of ill will. It was now generally agreed that the words were meant kindly. At this time came the first of three moves on the part of the Goosetowners which were to set Scottsville by the ears again. The first action was most unexpected. The Elm Streeters saw at once that the olive branch of peace they had extended was not accepted in the same spirit. Envy and jealousy were too much for Hank Milleson.

Wednesday evening, as the Wolf Patrol was forming for its daily dress parade, quiet Elm Street suddenly resounded with the sound of fife and drum. The clamor came from far up the street and rolled through the leafy tunnel of the grand elms with martial resonance. The patrol line dissolved into listeners and then came together in a knot of indignant, red-faced boys. Straggling along in shiftless formation, with Hank Milleson at their head and a fifer and a drummer just behind him, appeared the entire Goosetown gang in a burlesque of the Wolf Patrol. Behind the drummer and the fifer one of the marchers carried a square of muslin on a lath. On this was the word “KIOTES.” As the marching humorists began to file by the Elm Street crowd, all the bitterness that led to the sycamore-tree fight revived. Without a word to each other the Wolves moved forward. The Coyotes were grinning and attempting some uniformity of step with the aid of a chorus of “hep, hep, hep.” Connie saw that another crisis was at hand.

“Attention, Wolves!” he exclaimed. “Fall in!”

No one moved.

“Patrol, fall in!” came a second, quick command.

A few of the real scouts made a semblance of formation.

“The Wolf who doesn’t fall in on the next command,” whispered Connie with determination, “loses his uniform and is discharged. Attention! Fall in!”

With lips quivering, and white about their mouths, every Wolf did his duty. The line was formed. Then Connie whirled about. With all the dignity of a captain reporting to his superior, not a trace of irritation showing on his face, he brought his right hand to a full salute. Not to be outdone, the head of the Coyotes returned the salute, his followers accompanying the act with snorts of laughter and loud guffaws.

There were eleven boys in the mock parade. Each had made some attempt to add to the humor of the occasion by painting his face, by the use of odds and ends of clothing or by wearing some bit of old uniform, old hat or even feathers in his hair. The marchers were Hank Milleson, Job Wilkes beating an old snare drum, Joe Andrews blowing a fife on which he had no skill whatever, Nick Apthorp carrying the improvised standard, Matt Branson, Buck Bluett, Tom Bates, Pete Chester, Mart Clare, Carrots Compton and Tony Cooper.

Hank’s costume was the one that aroused the bitterest resentment. He was puffing at his black pipe and his bare feet and legs showed beneath his trousers which were rolled up to the knees. His flaunting insult was a soiled gingham apron which was tied about his waist and a faded sunbonnet which partly concealed his face. But this stinging affront was allowed to pass in dead silence.

The other costumes were less irritating, and reflected little originality on the part of the performers; an old political marching cap and cape, a poor imitation of an Indian, three guns, one sword with clanging scabbard, a woman’s beflowered bonnet, one boy with an infant’s nursing bottle, a great deal of colored chalk on hands and cheeks, and goose and chicken feathers generously ornamenting hats and caps, make a fair summary.

The crowning feature was more to the point. At the rear of the single file cavalcade came Tony Cooper, the Sammy Addington of the Goosetowners. Tony was dragging at his heels a fat, little yellow cur puppy. On each yellow side of the pudgy little animal this word had been inscribed with tar:

“WOLF”

A piece of twine encircled the puppy’s neck. Either frightened or in pain the dog was waddling along and pulling backwards with jerks and jumps. The unexpected salute by the leader of the Wolves, and Hank Milleson’s embarrassed return of it, created surprise in both groups of boys. Tony Cooper, at the end of the line, crowded forward to get the details of what was happening. As he did so, his mind off the captive puppy, the rolypoly little beast gave a new jump and the string came out of Tony’s hand. Like a big ball of yellow yarn, the “Wolf” leaped away with all his might. The captive had torn itself free!

Not even Patrol Leader Connie tried to keep his face straight. The Wolves roared with laughter as Tony lit out after his charge.

“Wolf too much for you, eh!” yelled one of the Elm Streeters. “Look out he don’t bite! Them wolves is fierce!”

Taunts came from others of the Wolf Patrol but Connie made no attempt to detect the culprits as he was yet laughing himself.

“Better cage him!” called another scout. “Take all of you to handle him!” was another yell.

“An’ at that,” retorted Nick Apthorp from the street, “he’s the fiercest wolf I ever see.”

When it was seen that Tony had recaptured his puppy the fife and drum broke out anew. At this, Connie advanced into the street and approached Hank Milleson.

“Hank,” began Connie, “you know the boy ’at got hurt in the circus aeroplane is over to Trevor’s?”

“Pretty soft fur him I reckon,” replied Hank. “I knowed he is.”

“Well, we don’t play around there. We don’t make no noise at Trevor’s ’cause he’s purty sick.”

“I heered he was goin’ to likely die,” commented Hank absently.

“I don’t know if he is or not,” answered Connie. “But the doctor says they oughtn’t to be no noise where he can hear it.”

Hank hesitated, grew sober and then said:

“This is as fur as we was goin’ anyway.” In order not to show weakness, however, he added: “We jus’ thought we’d come over here and tell you not to come a-paradin’ ’round in our part of town wearin’ them baby clothes.”

“Why do you come over here then, wearin’ monkey clothes?” retorted Connie.

“’Cause it suits us. What you goin’ to do ’bout it?”

“Nothin’,” answered Connie. “March where you like. But, when you’ve laughed yourself sick I wish you’d read this. It’s great,” and he handed Hank his own new manual. “It’s a present,” he added.

“What you givin’ it to me fur?” asked the puzzled Hank.

“’Cause I liked it and all our fellows do. I think you’ll like it too.”

Hank looked at it as if in much doubt. Then he opened it, by chance, at the picture of a camp scene with tents, camp fires, flagstaff, and picturesquely clad young scouts lying beneath tall, shady trees.

“Purty swell,” he commented slowly. “You guys goin’ to do that?”

“You bet,” answered Connie.

“I reckon we’ll have to visit you.”

“Sure,” responded the Wolf Leader. “We’ll have eats enough for all.”

With a half wistful look at Connie, but with no reply to this invitation, Hank turned and shambled away. He still held the open book in his hand and, the decorated gang crowding closely about him, without the sound of fife or drum and with Tony Cooper carrying the puppy in his arms, the lately defiant crowd moved down the street.

Two hours later, when Connie came out from supper to hasten to the usual “talk gathering” in Art’s front yard, he found Nick Apthorp sitting on the curb in front of his home.

“Kind o’ out o’ your bailiwick, ain’t you, Nick?” exclaimed Connie with a smile.

“Say,” replied Nick ignoring the banter, “you got any more o’ them books? Hank hung onto the one you give him. It’s full o’ pictures. I wish’t I could get one.”

“Mebbe Art Trevor’ll let you take his,” suggested Connie. “I got to get another one myself.”

“I don’t want no favors o’ that guy,” responded Nick. “Can’t you get me one? How much do they cost?”

“Twenty-five cents,” explained Connie. “I’m goin’ to send for another. I’ll get you one if you like.”

“Well, you do it,” replied Nick. “Here’s a quarter ’at I got fur passin’ soap samples. But I wish’t you wouldn’t say nothin’ ’bout it—not to my gang nor to yours neither. Hank thinks he’s the whole cheese. I’ll show him.”

“Sure,” said Connie taking the money. “I’ll—”

“When you guys goin’ campin’?” interrupted Nick as if that was his only interest in seeing Connie.

“We ain’t goin’ campin’ right away,” responded Connie innocently. “Saturday we’re goin’ to hike to Round Rock an’ cook our breakfast at the cave. Then we’re goin’ to go up the river to Borden’s Ford—that’s ’bout four miles. There’s good bass fishin’ at the ford. We’re goin’ to cook dinner there an’ fish awhile. An’ then we’re goin’ up to the old quarry an’ loaf ’round till they bring the automobile for us.”

“I caught some fine bass at the ford,” volunteered Nick. He paused rather wistfully for a few moments. Then with renewed requests about secrecy as to his book he slouched up the street. Connie did not speak to the other boys of Nick’s visit nor of the book the boy wanted.

The eventful Saturday came at last. With haversacks packed the night before, thirteen boys awaited the dawn with impatience. Before five o’clock the wrought-up scouts were off. In open order the squad was soon out of town.

With two stops for water at convenient wells the patrol reached the dusty lane leading to the caves of Round Rock River just before half past six. Once they were within the shade of the grove bordering the river bank at the cave, “Break ranks” was given and the perspiring young campaigners threw themselves on the grass. But boys rest quickly. At the first mention of breakfast the patrol was on its feet. The place was one used for picnics and tables were standing. When haversack contents were dumped on one of these, the table resembled a delicatessen shop.

Connie took charge at once and put aside what was needed for luncheon.

“Say,” protested Colly Craighead. “That ain’t fair. I’m hungry. I brought them baked beans for breakfast.”

“You’ll want ’em worse at noon,” answered Connie. “Go help make the fire. Duke,” he added, “fill that pan with water.”

At the last moment they had been compelled to borrow a stew pan to boil the frankfurters. And this had been Duke’s extra equipment. Each boy had also strung a tin cup on his belt, and Davy Cooke carried a teapot.

About seven o’clock the open-shirted, hatless gang gathered about a table covered with newspapers. Before each was a cup of tea with sugar but no cream, and the portion of food for each boy: four large frankfurters, hot and steaming to the point of bursting, three inch-thick slices of bread, half a dill pickle, two hard-boiled eggs, one doughnut and two cookies. In the center of the table were butter, pepper, salt, mustard and sugar. In ten minutes every scrap of food had disappeared. Colly again brought up the question of baked beans but he was instantly suppressed.

“One hour for restin’ or explorin’,” ordered Connie when haversacks had been repacked and stored in a heap and the pans washed. “But, remember, no swimmin’ until I give the word. Wart,” he added, “you’ll guard the haversacks.”

“Me?” exclaimed Wart in a shocked voice. “I brung a candle to explore the cave!”

“Well, you may as well hand it over to some one else. You’re on guard duty. Blow the recall whistle in one hour!”

There was a scattering of boys in all directions: some to the woods, several to a flat-bottomed boat lying partly on the shore, and others to the cave, a low opening into a rocky bluff, celebrated mainly for its ever dripping water and its bottom of sticky clay mud.

Connie walked along toward the farmer’s house. The last look he gave Wart revealed the disappointed boy gazing over the river beyond. It was well for the sentinel that Connie did not hear his muttered comment.

“They ain’t nothin’ in my book ’bout guardin’ nothin’ where they ain’t nobody to do nothin’.”

When Connie returned, Wart was fast asleep, hunched up at the foot of a tree. His leader blew the return whistle.

“I reckon I dropped off in a kind o’ doze,” began the aroused boy.

“You did, for half an hour. You’ll carry the stew pan an’ the teakettle the rest o’ the day.”

“Who—?” began Wart in protest, his face reddening.

“You mean ‘who says so?’” interrupted Connie. “I do. Is that enough?”

“Yes, sir,” faltered Wart. “That’s enough.”

At half past eight o’clock the patrol was off for Borden’s Ford.