CHAPTER XVI WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT

The week in the woods referred to by Patrol Leader Conyers was to be the big event of the summer. It was to include a Sunday in camp and the first day was set for Wednesday, August the second. In the seven days following, the program included every detail of Boy Scout drill, game and camp life. Saturday was named for the “When Scout Meets Scout” combat with the Coyotes and the day after the return from camp meeting the original program was so altered as to leave this day open.

At a later conference between Hank and Connie the details of the coming contest were agreed upon. The usual directions for this game were amended and elaborated to conform to the bigger notions of the eager scouts. The rules for this game as given in “Scouting for Boys” are these:

“Single scouts, or complete patrols or pairs of scouts, are to be taken out about two miles apart, and made to work toward each other either alongside a road, or by giving each side a landmark to work to, such as a steep hill or a big tree, which is directly behind the other party, and will thus insure their coming together. The patrol which first sees the other wins. This is signified by the patrol leader holding up his patrol flag for the umpire to see, and sounding his whistle. A patrol need not keep together, but the patrol wins which first holds out its flag, so it is well for the scouts to be in touch with their patrol leader by signal, voice or message. Scouts may employ any ruse they like, such as climbing into trees and hiding in carts but they must not dress up in disguise.”

“That’s all right,” commented Connie, “but it’s too simple if we are goin’ to make a day of it.”

“Doctor it up any way you like,” laughed Hank. “I reckon we can stand it if you can.”

And this was the plan finally agreed upon, the conditions being signed by each leader:

Since the Coyotes had but ten men, the Wolves were to select the same number from its own roster. The entire Wolf patrol was to start out at nine o’clock in the morning and have a half hour in which to conceal itself, under honor not to go beyond these limits: the river on the west, the dirt road on the north leading past Bradner’s Mill (a mile and a half up the river) to Phillipstown, the Phillipstown pike running south to the County Fair grounds and thence west again to the Little Green River on the town limits. This was an area of about five square miles.

When the first patrol to “hide out” left the Wolf camp it was to be escorted out of sight by three umpires. Then each of the ten “hide out” scouts was to be given a square of white muslin with a conspicuous number on it to be pinned to his breast. Another square, an exact duplicate, was to be attached to the boy’s back. He was under pledge as a Boy Scout not to remove, exchange or obscure these placards. The umpires were then to prepare a list containing each boy’s name and number, which was to be held secret from the pursuers.

When a half hour’s leeway had elapsed the scouts in pursuit were to be started. They were allowed two hours and a half to scour the fields, roads, woods, barns, ravines, creeks and swamps of the “hide out” territory. The pursuers must register back in camp by twelve o’clock and report to the umpires the name or names of those of the enemy they had caught sight of. To confirm this, the discovered boy’s number had also to be given. Inability to give the number belonging to a detected boy counted as a failure.

“What license you kids got for thinkin’ you can beat us at that game?” asked Hank smiling. “You certainly don’t think you know more about the country! We’ve shot rabbits and nutted an’ stole apples over ever’ foot of it ’at ain’t water—an’ all that we’ve gone froggin’ in.”

“Never mind that,” retorted Connie. “We’ve signed up, an’ the winner’s to be the cock o’ the walk.”

“An’ takes the banner,” added Hank confidently, referring to a special emblem of white silk, bordered with red, on which these words were to be painted: “Scottsville Boy Scouts, First Prize Scouting.”

When Wednesday finally arrived and the Wolf Patrol set out for the picnic grounds, the big wagon and the dray that headed the procession were piled high with all kinds of camp equipage. The patrol provided not only for its own comfort in lodging and food but carried material to make a number of guests comfortable. This meant a big extra tent with camp stools, a specially employed colored cook and delicacies in the way of food calculated to please young ladies. It was understood that in the period from three o’clock to five thirty each afternoon, tea and light refreshments was to be served to sisters and mothers and others.

It had been arranged that cream, milk, butter and fruit and vegetables would be contributed daily by the Cloverdale Stock Farm a mile and a half away. Moved also by the expected invasion of the ladies, the scouts had already spent two afternoons at the picnic grounds removing dead tree trunks, raking the ground and tidying up. By noon of Wednesday, one passing the camp site might have thought a company of militia was in camp. Flags were flying, tents lined the river front and the spick-and-span Wolves gave the needed martial touch. As the smoking first meal was placed on the set-up table the familiar war song of the young scouts rent the air.

“Be prepared,” yelled Connie.

“Zing-a-zing! Bom! Bom!” roared the Wolves as they hit the table with each “Bom! Bom!”

With this came another song of defiance that all had been shouting for days.

“He’s a Coyote! He’s a Coyote!” Connie would yell.

“Yes! he’s better’n that; he’s a hippo-hippo-hippopotamus!” came the chorus.

That afternoon the routine of a regular Boy Scout camp began. In full it ran in this way: 6.30 A. M., turn out, air bedding, coffee and crackers; 7 to 7.30 A. M., parade for exercise and instruction; 7.30 A. M., clean up tents and wash; 8 A. M., breakfast; 9 A. M., scouting practice; 11 A. M., crackers and milk; 11 A. M. to 1.30 P. M., scouting games; 1.30 P. M., dinner; 2 to 3 P. M., compulsory rest, no movement or talking in camp; 3 to 5.30 P. M., scouting games; 5.30 P. M., tea; 6 to 7.30 P. M., recreation and camp games; 7.30 to 9 P. M., camp fire or 8 to 11 P. M., night practice; 9 P. M., crackers and milk and turn in; 9.30 P. M., lights out.

This program was interrupted Friday afternoon when Connie selected the team of ten for the next day’s struggle. Then, in a body, with a chart of the “hide out” territory, the Wolves spent three hours in a careful survey of the scene of the coming conflict. Nothing was to be left to chance. Using their best skill and all their ingenuity the older boys selected each of the ten hiding places. And they were scattered from one end of the district to the other.

One boy was shown how to curl himself up on the top platform of a windmill. Colly Craighead was to hurry to the Little Green River Bridge and secrete himself on the lower crossbeams over the water. Willie Bonner suggested the clever scheme of dressing himself in a scarecrow’s ragged garments, but this had to be vetoed on the ground that it was a disguise. Two boys were assigned to heavily foliaged trees; one to a deep hole in a gravel pit; one to a hollow tree and one to the sewer pipes making a road culvert.

These “hide outs” took care of Wart Ware, Sammy Addington, Phil Abercrombie, Lew Ashwood, Colly Craighead, Paul Corbett and Davy Cooke. The other boys of the ten selected, Leader Conyers, Art and Willie Bonner, undertook to shift for themselves. Connie on the theory that the pursuers would, in the main, hurry at once to the far limits of the “hide out” territory, meant to stick closer to the camp until the rush was over and then sneak home.

Art planned to use his legs to reach Bradner’s mill before the Coyotes took the field and to hide in the stream which, above the bridge, was wide and from six to ten feet deep. Bonner was to go with him but the young aviator was to make a bluff at hiding.

Under pretense of dodging the Coyotes, Bonner was to remain always within hail of Art. On the approach of any Coyote to the river bank Bonner would give the Wolf signal and Art would disappear under the water. To make this possible Art was to push ahead of himself all the time a heavy bit of driftwood. His body wholly under the water, he would raise his mouth and nose on the far side of the driftwood to breathe and either tread water or float idly until danger had passed.

“They’ll get me early in the game,” explained Bonner who really originated this ruse. “And that’ll help us. In the first place they’ll never suspect that two of us are near together. And, after I’m tagged, I’ll be free to keep an eye out for any one that approaches the river. That way, it’s almost a cinch that we can ‘hide out’ one of us at least.”

Saturday every one was early astir. Even before nine o’clock a procession of buggies, carriages and automobiles was entering the picnic grounds. At half past eight the Coyotes reached the camp. To the surprise of all, the proprietor of the table factory had hired the Scottsville Silver Cornet Band and on foot it preceded the Coyotes. The martial music gave gayety to the occasion. But a new banner borne by the Coyotes did not. On this were blazoned the words: “Camp Meeting, Five to Two.”

This unexpected demonstration rather upset the Wolves. They could understand the band and the banner and the assurance of their rivals—these were provided and inspired by the Coyotes’ present backer, the owner of the factory where most of the Coyotes were employed. But the inroad of spectators mystified them. It was explained later that the evening newspaper of the day before had suddenly made a great event out of the boyish contest. It had explained that the show would be interesting in pitting the ingenuity of each patrol against the other; that it was free, that visitors were welcome and that citizens should turn the day into a gala occasion.

The response to this showed what few had expected, that the previous clashes between the two patrols had already inexcusably developed partisans in the town. Finally, when the large automobile of the table factory owner appeared and began scattering broadcast little tags worded “Encourage the Boy Workers,” with a crude picture of a coyote head printed beneath, the cause of special interest became apparent.

“It’s Chase of the table factory,” Connie heard his father remark to Mr. Trevor. “We ought to do something. He’s turning an innocent sport into a bitter struggle.”

“You’re right,” answered Mr. Trevor soberly. “He probably thinks it will help him with his discontented workmen if he stirs up feeling; trying to make it a fight between what he calls labor and the leisure class.”

“Do you think we ought to call the event off?” asked Mr. Conyers.

“By no means,” responded the father of the Boy Scout idea. “I believe Chase is putting bad ideas into the Coyotes’ heads. But for our boys to retreat before them will not mend matters. Perhaps the best thing that could happen to the Coyotes would be a good defeat and,” he went on significantly, “I have reason to believe the Wolves can give it to them. If Mr. Chase persists in putting us in the ‘leisure class,’ which none of us are, I’ve got just pride enough to want to show him that everything isn’t accomplished by muscle alone.”

“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Conyers doubtfully. “I’m sorry the point has been raised. Our boys are of course no better than their old persecutors. But I’m sure they are no worse. They were all getting together in a decent form of amusement. This may break ’em apart again.”

Just then the report spread through the camp that the table factory owner had notified the Coyotes that he had decided to give them a hundred dollars if they won the contest.

“That settles it,” exclaimed Mr. Conyers. “This thing has gone far enough. That kills every Boy Scout idea included in the game. We ought to force the Wolves to withdraw.”

“Hain’t the Mama Boys got any friends?” shouted some one in the crowd of Coyote adherents just at this moment. “Be easy with ’em, Hank!”

Mr. Trevor, exasperated but showing a smile, looked at Mr. Conyers, whose face was flushed with anger.

“I’m done,” Connie’s father snapped. “I can see some one’s going to be better off for a good licking. Let ’em fight it out.”

Out of the crowd the umpires were soon selected: Mr. Addington, Sammy’s father, for the Wolves; Engineer Gamage of the table factory for the Coyotes; and Professor Souter of the high school, who was agreed upon by the other two. Sharply at nine o’clock all the Coyotes were coralled in the guest tent with the Wolves, the instructions were again repeated, each boy placed on his honor as to his own conduct and also about receiving information or help from outsiders—the latter condition suggested by Mr. Trevor. Then the three umpires set out with the ten eager Wolves and escorted the first “hide outs” down the pike and beyond a bend in the road. In ten minutes the committee was back in camp with its secret list of the number assigned each Wolf. The band played, spectators scattered to left and right better to see the coming get-away, the Coyotes lined up on the smooth, dusty pike, and with a shout of “Go!” at nine thirty o’clock a quick cloud of dust told that the fight was on.

No word from the field reached the camp until a few minutes after ten o’clock. Then Buck Bluett, his face aglow, suddenly rushed into camp from up the river, and pausing only a moment at the umpires’ station, panted:

“Number ten, Bill Bonner.”

As none but the committee knew whether this was right or wrong the cheering meant nothing. Buck was off along the pike after a new victim. There was some surprise that Bonner was so easily detected. By eleven o’clock four other Coyotes had reported to the umpires. Job Wilkes registered number nine as Wart Ware, discovered on the top of a windmill when his hat blew off, by Job, who immediately ascended the tower and caught the Wolf’s number. Joe Andrews caught Sammy Addington in a hole in the gravel pit and announced him as number two.

Nick Apthorp, proud of a double victory, turned in numbers three and one as Phil Abercrombie and Lew Ashwood, who were caught in trees, while Matt Branson said his man was Paul Corbett and that he was number seven.

All the reporting Coyotes took the field again and no other searcher reported until eleven thirty. About that time Buck Bluett came in out of breath with his second claim. Number eight, he affirmed, was Davy Cooke whom he insisted he had chased from under a road culvert. After that, as the minutes passed, Wolf stock began to go up. Three Wolf “hide outs” had not yet been reported. Yet, if the claims were found to agree with the umpires’ list of numbers, seven captures had been made, a number that would require hard and fast work to beat.

The unannounced boys were Arthur Trevor, Colly Craighead and Alex Conyers. As twelve o’clock approached, the umpires moved out into the road, ready to accept any claim up to the last minute. One after another the searching scouts trotted back into camp according to the rules. And, as each appeared with no new claim, a shout arose from the Wolf adherents. Nine of the Coyote pursuers had registered “in” and the umpires were about to declare the first half of the game over when an exhausted yell was heard down the river:

“Colly Craighead is number six,” cried Pete Chester. “Down under the Little Green River bridge.”

“Twelve o’clock,” announced Professor Souter.

“And two out,” yelled the friends of the Wolves.

The Wolves had a margin of thirty minutes in which to report back into Camp. But the twelve o’clock had scarcely been announced when Willie Bonner was seen hastening into camp.

“How many out?” he called anxiously.

“Two,” responded some one. “Trevor and Conyers.”

“There’s Trevor,” shouted Bonner pointing to the near-by river. There was a rush in that direction. The only thing to be seen was the section of a half-rotted log drifting slowly with the current in the middle of the stream. As it lodged against the driftwood caught by the bridge abutment, a sleek and oily-looking plaster of hair slowly rose from its far side.

“Trevor, number four,” exclaimed two blue and cold lips, and a shivering form drew itself into the sunlight again.

One after another the “hide-outs” appeared in camp. Finally all had arrived but Connie. As the half hour neared its end the Wolves began to show alarm.

“He’s right up there at the bend of the road under a pile of cut thistles,” explained Bonner. A dash was made to the spot. But Connie was not there. If he failed to report in five minutes he would be penalized and counted as found, increasing to nine the number detected. Watches flew out. Good points of vantage were selected by spectators and every possible approach kept under anxious watch. The time limit had all but expired. Professor Souter stepped forward and called:

“All present but one. Alexander Conyers here?”

“All right,” was the almost instant answer in a sleepy tone. “What d’you want?”

Hundreds of persons turned to see Connie step from one of the tents, rubbing his eyes and yawning.