CHAPTER XIV MARSHAL WALTER MAKES A CAPTURE AT LAST

As the significance of Tony Cooper’s words slowly dawned on the resentful Boy Scouts a silence fell on the Wolf Patrol. The members realized that a boyish escapade had turned into a criminal offense. And the thing that set the scouts thinking was the knowledge that they had often approached that line themselves. The thought of being called as witnesses to send another boy to the penitentiary sent a chill to the heart of every Elm Streeter.

“I don’t know as I could be absolutely sure about who was in the wagon—” began Connie.

“But you know Carrots was one of ’em,” remarked Art dolefully.

“Yes,” argued Abercrombie, “but he wasn’t arrested for breakin’ into the camp. None of us saw him take the horse an’ wagon.”

“But Connie said he did,” exclaimed Colly Craighead regretfully.

“I kind o’ think I did,” said Connie. “But it was awful dark an’ I wasn’t very clost.”

“I reckon it won’t be up to us,” added Art. “Tony said they found the horse an’ wagon at Hank’s home. What can they say to that? It looks bad for some one, I tell you.”

When the boys reached Connie’s home they found Mr. Trevor and Mr. Conyers on the porch. Ranks were broken and all hastened forward to learn exact details. When Connie had repeated his account of the midnight raid and what he had seen, he was far from being positive about the identity of the boys. Mr. Addington had at once put the case in the hands of Marshal Walter and he, after a canvass of several families and the finding of the stolen vehicle and horse, had made the six arrests.

“They’re now where they have belonged for several years,” Mr. Conyers declared, “safe under lock and key. Monday morning they’ll have a hearing before the mayor and he’ll hold them under bonds for examination by the grand jury when it meets in the fall. Then they’ll all be sent back to jail to be tried by the courts for horse stealing. It looks to me as if they’d get a few years in the penitentiary or reform school at least.”

“And will they be in jail till the trial comes off?” asked Connie anxiously.

“Unless they give bonds,” answered his father. “And those’ll likely be so high that no one will give them.”

“How’ll they know, for sure, that the boys done it?” went on the agitated Connie.

“Aren’t you boys witnesses?” laughed Mr. Conyers.

“I might ’a’ been mistaken,” faltered Connie.

“Hardly,” replied Mr. Conyers. “I think the mayor’ll believe you.”

When the boys finally dispersed to their homes Mr. Trevor remained in talk with Mr. Conyers for nearly half an hour. When Art reached home he was so happy to hear that the sick boy had been making steady gains that he almost forgot the tragical ending of their two days of camping.

On Sunday morning word was passed that Bonner was to sit up for a few minutes. About nine o’clock Art was permitted to visit the invalid. From his nurse Bonner had learned all about the boys, both as young aviators and as Boy Scouts; each boy’s name, age and character; the trouble at the old sycamore, the episode of the “treasure keg” and the clash at the camp on Bluff Creek. When Art appeared, it was as if two life-long chums had come together.

The two boys naturally fell into talk of that closest to the heart of each—the wrecked aeroplane. With tears, Bonner told what it meant to him. With the wrecked aeroplane on his hands he saw no way to meet his payments for it.

“Don’t tell anybody,” whispered Art, “but I don’t think it’s ruined. I’ve been to see it! I don’t think the engine is hurt.”

“But I haven’t a cent,” answered Bonner in a weak voice. “And there’s all these doctor’s bills and the nurse—”

“But you’re goin’ to be our chauffeur and live with us,” protested Art. “Father said so. You can save all your wages. An’ we’ll all help!”

The young aviator, very white in the face, turned his head to the wall.

“Now that’s all right, Bill,” went on Art, choking a little himself. “Father wants you—we ain’t got no chauffeur an’ we need one. You’re goin’ to stay long as you like. The folks say you ain’t got no folks where you lived. So what’s the difference? This is a bully town even if it ain’t no city. You’ll be well an’ out in a few days, an’ then you’re a-goin’ right to work for us an’ I reckon that’ll mean forty or fifty dollars a month an’ board an’ keep. An’ when you ain’t busy with the automobile we’ll all turn in and help fix your aeroplane. An’ while that’s goin’ on,” concluded Art with a new and happy idea, “you’ll join the Wolf Patrol an’ be a Boy Scout with all of us. What’s the matter with that, Bill?”

At last the sick boy turned and asked the nurse if he might try to sit up for a few minutes.

“Yes,” she answered, “but Arthur will have to go now.”

“I wanted to see all the boys,” exclaimed Bonner weakly.

“Not to-day,” insisted the nurse. “You’ve talked long enough.”

“Is he goin’ to sit up a little while?” broke in Art as he saw the look of disappointment on the patient’s face. When the nurse nodded, he added, “Then you let him sit over there by the window. An’ wait till I call you, won’t you?”

A half hour later ten of the Boy Scouts were gathered at the Trevor home in full uniform. Ordering them to fall into line, Leader Connie marched the squad to the guest-room side of the house. At the words, “Column front—squad halt!” a chair was wheeled to the open window, and for the first time Willie Bonner saw the boys who were soon to become his chums. And the scouts in turn had their first good look at the boy whose skill and daring was to mean so much to them. There were only embarrassed smiles and nods on the part of each, a formal salute from the scouts and a weak “Thank you, boys,” from the invalid, and the nurse wheeled his chair away.

A little later the entire company of scouts sought out Mr. Trevor on his front porch. Connie was spokesman.

“Mr. Trevor,” began the young leader, “I’ve been talkin’ to father, and he told me we’d have to see you. We want to ask something.”

“Go ahead,” answered Mr. Trevor.

“We don’t like to see them kids locked up in the calaboose, an’ we hope they won’t have to go to jail!” began Connie.

“Haven’t they violated the law?” asked Mr. Trevor.

“Mebbe they have,” replied Connie. “But so did we the day we went over there lookin’ for a fight. An’ I reckon that when Sammy Addington hit Nick Apthorp with a rock he could ’a’ been arrested for assault an’ battery. An’ we was all violatin’ the peace. They was goin’ to lock us up, too, only you got us off.”

“An’ we want you to get ’em off,” broke in Art. “Bygones is bygones!”

Mr. Trevor’s previous smile disappeared as he looked carefully at each boy. “But,” he answered at last, “you know why I did that. You bought yourselves out of trouble by reforming, as it were. But these boys may not be penitent. It may save them from something worse.”

“But mebbe they’re scared, too, now, like we was,” suggested Ware.

“Mr. Trevor!” exclaimed Connie with sudden animation, “do you know what! Hank Milleson and Nick Apthorp are stuck on Boy Scoutin’ worse than we are, only they pertend they ain’t. They both got books about it. I’ll bet they’d turn Boy Scouts quick as a wink if you could get ’em out of this scrape.”

Neither Connie nor his chums knew the sudden joy that filled Mr. Trevor’s breast at this little speech. Whatever his own Boy Scouts had felt or done since he organized them, this was proof to the interested man that his work had already borne fruit.

“What if they did?” he continued, scrutinizing each lad before him. “They’d be your rivals more than ever. These boys are older, bigger and more experienced in all things. If they went into this thing sincerely you boys might be put in the shade.”

“That’s all right,” exclaimed Connie. “We’d stand for that if they did it fair and square.”

“Do it, father,” pleaded Art. “You do what you can! I wish they’d organize. It’s no fun with just one patrol.”

“They got a name already,” chimed Sammy Addington.

“What’s that?” asked Mr. Trevor.

“The ‘Coyotes,’” answered Sammy. “But I bet you a wolf is as good as a coyote any day.”

“Remember,” continued Mr. Trevor soberly, “you can get your revenge now. You could punish those boys for their mock parade and their beer keg trick and for stealing your flag.”

“That’s all right,” exclaimed Art. “I guess they’ve been punished enough. I’d rather fight ’em if they’re Boy Scouts an’ stickin’ to the rules, than see ’em locked up in jail. Besides, you got us off. An’ it ain’t fair if you don’t do what you can for them.”

“Do you all feel that way, boys?” asked Mr. Trevor finally. There was a murmur indicating unanimous approval. “Then,” he added, “I’ll see what I can do. If you boys don’t prosecute perhaps the matter will be dropped.”

Late that afternoon, unknown to the boys, Mr. Trevor rode to the home of Mr. Conyers, and the two men visited the mayor of Scottsville. In truth, the Goosetowners had long been a thorn in the mayor’s official side. But when Mr. Trevor had explained his mission there was no trouble in arranging a program of action. The three men drove to the mayor’s office, Marshal Walter was summoned, and Hank Milleson, Nick Apthorp and their four fellow prisoners were escorted into the presence of the three leading citizens.

As if about to pass sentence upon the six shivering prisoners for some capital crime, the town official reviewed their offense. He added a homily on the results of truancy and idleness, predicted the penitentiary if the prisoners persisted in their present manner of life and then turned the sniffling boys over to Mr. Trevor.

The latter was far milder in his speech but equally emphatic. When he reached the point where, to the complete surprise of the boys, he told them there yet remained one chance of escape, he paused. Nick Apthorp, who was easily the least affected of the gang, spoke up:

“What you’re a-sayin’, Mr. Trevor, is mostly all right but it ain’t quite a square deal for Hank—”

“That’ll be about all that guff,” broke in Hank. “Don’t get soft, Nick.”

“I’ll get soft enough to tell the gentlemen here that we’re tough enough—all of us—but we’d been tougher if it hadn’t been fur Milleson. Your boys all put Hank down fur leadin’ us into trouble. But it ain’t so. If they’d listened to him when he met ’em on the railroad bridge they wouldn’t been no fight. When we paraded in front o’ the boys he didn’t want to do it but we egged him on an’ then we all had to promise we wouldn’t start nothin’. An’ down there on Round Rock River where we set the dead pup in the beer keg, that was all my doin’s. Hank didn’t even go with us but argued it was a joke that turned his stummick. We did take the horse an’ wagon but I reckon they wasn’t one of us who done it cause we were a-goin’ to keep ’em.”

“I was there all right,” broke in Hank. “I was in the game.”

“An’ at that,” went on Nick, “he kicked again’ goin’. But, Mr. Trevor, when it comes down to arrestin’ them as really is responsible, they ain’t no cause to lock Hank up. He wasn’t responsible fur what he done.”

“Why not?” asked the mayor.

“’Cause he was drunk,” confessed Nick with unflinching lips. “You give Hank half a chanct an’ he’d be worth all the rest o’ us rolled together.”

“Mr. Mayor,” exclaimed Hank at once, his face flushed. “I did have too much beer but I knowed what I was a-doin’. I could have stopped the whole thing but I didn’t. Don’t you mind this hot air. I’m the oldest in the gang; I helped drive the horse away; I’m most to blame.”

“Well,” commented Mr. Trevor after a pause, “you see what you’re up against. What’ll you do to get out of this trouble?”

“Anything I can do,” answered Hank. “An’ I reckon the others’ll do the same.”

“Are you ready to be respectable?”

“You mean quit loafin’ an’ go to work?”

“Yes—both.”

“I can’t get no job. None of us can. The factories don’t want us.”

“Will you go to work if I see that you get work?”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Hank, “an’ I’ll cut out the pool rooms an’ beer saloons, too.”

“All of you?” asked Mr. Trevor sweeping a glance over the other five.

“It’s your only chance,” explained the mayor sternly.

“Yes, sir,” came from five hopeful but yet alarmed boys.

“So far, so good,” went on Mr. Trevor. “Your trouble isn’t wholly because you haven’t been working or in school. It’s because you haven’t had better ways of amusing yourselves when you’re not busy. I’ll see that everybody here has a chance to begin work. I’m also going to see that you are given a chance at decent, helpful play. Hank,” he said, turning to the Goosetown gang leader, “what do you think of the Boy Scout idea?”

“Seems all right fur them as kin afford it.”

“Will you also promise to organize your friends into a Boy Scout patrol?”

“Me? Us?” exploded Hank.

“It isn’t altogether a matter of choice,” went on Mr. Trevor. “I’ve found the principles of the Boy Scouts have already helped our sons. The Wolf Patrol in a body has asked us to intercede for you boys. We have done so and you won’t be prosecuted, on this second condition: you must organize and keep up honestly a patrol of your own.”

“We ain’t got no money to buy all them clothes an’ hats,” exclaimed Nick Apthorp. “Besides, Art and Alex Conyers’ll guy us.”

“Perhaps,” commented Mr. Trevor. “I believe you did that to them.”

“If you boys mean business,” broke in Mr. Conyers for the first time, “and try to make something out of yourselves, I’ll see that you get uniforms. I’m tired of your deviltry.”

The rough nature of the boys did not permit a gracious response but when the three men left the young offenders the answer of every boy was shining in his eyes.