CHAPTER 1 Trespassers

“Are you awake, Dan?”

In the darkness of the cabin, Dan Carter stirred drowsily, scarcely aware of the whispering voice from the adjoining bunk.

Relaxed and comfortable, he lay a moment, listening to the quiet, steady breathing of the five Cub Scouts who shared the quarters.

Overhead, a splatter of rain pinged on the tin roof of the cabin. Faster and faster came the droplets, beating a tattoo on his sleep-drugged brain.

Rain! Rain! Always rain!

Since Midge Holloway’s father had invited Den 2 of the Webster City Cub Scouts to camp overnight in the riverside cabin at the rear of his residential property, the weather hadn’t given them a break.

“Dan!”

This time, hearing his name whispered, the boy sat up, pulling the blankets with him. In the darkness, Sam Hatfield reached out to touch his hand. An assistant Cubmaster of the citywide Pack, Sam served as leader of Den 2 in which his son Fred was an active Cub.

“Hear that rain, Dan? It’s coming down hard again.”

“Look’s as if we’re in for another ugly day,” Dan admitted. He kept his voice low so as not to awaken the other Cubs.

“The river’s likely rising. Think I’ll take a look at the boat.”

Swinging his long legs out of the bunk, the Cub leader began to pull on his clothes. Dan enjoyed the warm luxury of the blanket a moment longer, and then with a shiver threw it off.

“I’ll go with you,” he volunteered.

The two dressed quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping Cubs.

In the bunk above Dan’s, Brad Wilber, the Den Chief, rolled restlessly. By contrast, Chips Davis, half his lean body protruding from a blanket, slept peaceful as a babe. The other Cubs, Midge Holloway, Red Suell, Fred Hatfield and Mack Tibbets, were equally dead to the world.

Sam stooped to tuck the blanket around Chips’ exposed torso. Then, with slickers buttoned, he and Dan went out into the night.

A gust of wind dashed rain into their faces, blotting out a view of the Holloway house on the hill. The area near the cabin had dissolved into a sea of mud.

Sam’s flashlight picked out the graveled path which led to the dock.

During the night, the river steadily had risen. Fed by rampant streams to the north, the swollen waters gradually had nibbled away the sandy beach. The boat, tied securely the night before, now pounded against the dock on a slack rope.

While Dan retied it, Sam Hatfield pushed away a floating log which had lodged against the dock post.

“River’s up another four inches,” he observed gloomily. “And now, more rain.”

“Think we ought to call it quits?”

“That’s for the fellows to decide,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “It was swell of Midge’s father to let us use this place. It’s almost like having a regular camp.

“The Cubs sure appreciate it. But they’re fed up with the weather. Another day of this and we’ll be sprouting webs on our feet.

“What’s your thought, Dan? Do we stick, or shall we call enough—enough?”

“I hate to be a quitter. It’s easy enough to trot home to our folks. I’d say, let’s hang on another day the way we planned. Maybe the weather man will give us a break.”

“Good,” said Mr. Hatfield in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that, Dan. The question is, will the other Cubs agree?”

“They’re all good sports. If only we could swim or hike, everything would be swell.”

“It can’t rain forever,” said Mr. Hatfield cheerfully. “Fact is, it’s slackening now. If the weather clears, I may have an idea or two for stirring up a little fun.”

From experience, Dan knew that Sam Hatfield, athletic director at Webster City High School, never lacked ideas. For that matter, neither did Midge’s father, Burton Holloway, who was the organization’s official Den Dad.

The camp-out on Mr. Holloway’s property at the edge of Webster City had been planned as a climax to the outdoor activities of the Den. Only the weatherman, it seemed, had pulled a fast one.

The first glimmer of a gray, muggy dawn filtered through the woodland as Dan and the Cub leader climbed the slope to the log cabin.

“I’ll start a fire,” Mr. Hatfield volunteered.

Anticipating rain, the Cubs, before retiring, had stored a good supply of birch bark, pine needles and dry wood in a natural ravine shelter twenty yards from the cabin.

Dan now helped Mr. Hatfield scrape the ground bare of soggy leaves. Kindling the fire carefully, the Cub leader soon had a cheerful blaze going which began to radiate heat. Dan’s spirits rose.

“Say, the rain is quitting!” he said jubilantly. “And here comes Midge’s father!”

Burton Holloway, a lean man of athletic build, rapidly descended the stone steps from the house.

“You’re all invited to our place for breakfast,” he announced. “Have a bad night of it?”

“No, we were snug and warm in the cabin,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “As for breakfast, I don’t think we should impose on Mrs. Holloway. We’ll make out.”

“Suit yourselves,” the Den Dad smiled. “Anyway, tell the Cubs to come to the house for anything they need.”

By the time the camp fire had burned down to cherry red coals, the Cubs began to straggle from the cabin. Chips Davis, a tall stripling for his eleven years, was first to thrust his seal-like head out into the cold mist.

“Another lousy day,” he bemoaned. “Four of ’em in a row. Great!”

“Pipe down and get busy,” Dan growled. “A Cub is supposed to be game.”

“Sure, that’s what it says in the manual. But the wise guy who wrote that book was sitting at his typewriter in a nice cozy room with steam heat and—”

“Pipe down, I say!” Dan repeated. “Or if you can’t take it, there’s a nice hot breakfast waiting for you up at the house.”

Chips glared at Dan, and then suddenly relaxed.

“Forget it, Dan. Can’t you take a joke?”

Dan let the matter ride. “If you’re sticking with the gang, it’s your turn to help cook breakfast,” he reminded him.

“Yes, Mr. Denner! Waffles, creamed chicken and fresh strawberries coming right up.”

Chips bowed low, a mocking grin overspreading his freckled face. Only the mischief in his blue eyes took the edge from his words.

Now Chips never had entirely accustomed himself to Dan’s election as official denner of the Cubs. Always he had seemed to resent those two gold stripes on the younger boy’s left sleeve. Seldom did he miss a chance to rub it in if ever Dan ventured a suggestion.

“Where’s Brad?” he asked abruptly. “He’s supposed to help too.”

Almost as if he had heard his name spoken, Brad thrust his touseled dark head out the cabin doorway. Thirteen and large for his age, the Den Chief wore the uniform of a Scout.

“Top o’ the morning,” he chirped. “Did I hear my name?”

“The little boss was just saying you’re supposed to help get breakfast,” Chips informed him.

“Chips, I’m not trying to boss anyone,” Dan said, with an effort, holding his temper in check. “Every fellow is supposed to do his share. That’s all.”

“Take it easy, lads,” said Brad in his quiet, friendly voice. “This rotten weather has us all on edge. Chips and I will tackle that breakfast in nothing flat. Just give me a chance to wash up.”

The threatened disagreement was brushed away as of no consequence.

With a warm feeling of gratitude to Brad, Dan went into the cabin to make up his bed. Good old Brad! Even tempered and with an efficient way of getting things done, one always could depend on him to iron out friction.

Inside the cabin, the other Cubs were scrambling into their long blue trousers and jerseys. But the usual clamor of excited voices was lacking. Even Red, who often kept the Cubs in high spirits with his wise cracks, seemed subdued.

“What are we doin’ today?” he asked plaintively. “Another session of whittling Indian totem poles?”

“Mr. Hatfield has something in mind,” Dan informed the Cubs. “He may tell us at breakfast.”

Following Dan’s example, the Den members folded blankets which could not be aired outside, and straightened the cabin. By the time Midge and Mack brought water from the house, a well-cooked breakfast was ready.

As they squatted around the fire eating their fill of bacon and eggs, Mr. Hatfield outlined the morning plans.

“It won’t take long to clean up the dishes,” he remarked. “Then what say to a boat jaunt across the river?”

“Not to the village again?” protested Chips. “We have more supplies now than we’ll need until we leave here.”

“I thought we might hike to Paul Silverton’s pheasant farm.”

“Not the wealthy sportsman?” demanded Mack Tibbets, all interest.

“That’s right. He raises unusual imported birds as a hobby. Of course, it will be pretty wet underfoot, and if any of you would rather stay here or go home—”

“Who wants to stay?” Red demanded. “We’ve been cooped up long enough. Let’s get those dishes washed pronto!”

“Hey, look fellows!” broke in Mack suddenly. “Is that the real thing or a mirage?”

By this time the sun had straggled through the clouds and was casting a few feeble beams over the drenched camp.

“The sun! Whoopee!” shouted Red, capering about like an Indian. “Aw, who turned it off?”

As if to tantalize the Cubs, the sun after its brief debut again slipped under a cloud. But a moment later, out it popped again, this time for several minutes. The Cubs, greatly cheered, went at their morning duties with a will.

By ten o’clock, knapsacks were packed with sandwiches, chocolate bars and extra wool socks.

“All set?” Mr. Hatfield asked. “We’ll have to make two boat trips across the river. I’ll take the first load with Midge, Fred, Dan and Red. Then I’ll return for the others.”

“Let’s go,” Dan urged, leading the way to the dock.

The mahogany dinghy which Mr. Holloway assigned to the Cubs’ use was durable and easily rowed. At a sign from the Cub leader, Dan picked up the oars, while Midge and Red shoved off.

Swollen by recent rains, the river current was swift and filled with tiny whirlpools. However, all the Cubs could swim, and Dan took care to steer clear of floating logs and debris.

At Eagle Point, Dan and his passengers alighted and waited on the beach while Mr. Hatfield returned for the second boatload of Cubs.

When finally all the boys had gathered, Mr. Hatfield and Midge’s father led the group along the shore over a stretch of rising ground to the edge of a dense woods.

Then, in single file, the Cubs plunged through a tangle of damp brush interwoven with grapevines.

“I failed to reach Mr. Silverton by telephone this morning,” Mr. Holloway remarked regretfully. “Therefore, our visit will come as a surprise to him.”

“Think he’ll object to our seeing the pheasants?” The Cub leader had paused to consider the path which branched off into several indistinct ones farther on.

“Why should he? We’ll ask permission before wandering around.”

The Cubs trudged on, finding the way heavy going. Mud clung to their hiking shoes, making walking increasingly difficult.

An overhanging branch showered Chips with raindrops as he brushed against it. “I sure hope that pheasant farm isn’t much farther,” he grumbled.

“Softie!” jeered Midge. “Maybe you could sit down somewhere on a nice comfortable log and we could bring the pheasants to you.”

“Aw, cut it,” Chips growled. “Can’t a guy crack a remark without being accused of turning soft?”

Mr. Hatfield and Dan, who were leading the Cubs, now halted unexpectedly, bringing the entire line up short.

Quite without warning, a heavy-set, round-faced man in checkered flannel shirt and corduroy breeches, emerged from behind a tree. Clearly he meant to block the trail.

“What are you boys doing here?” he flung at them.

Mr. Holloway moved past the Cubs to stand beside Dan and the Cub master.

Sam answered politely: “We’re on our way to Mr. Silverton’s pheasant farm. This trail leads there, I believe?”

“You’re on Silverton’s land now. He told you to come here, did he?”

“Why, no. We’re a Den of Cub scouts, and we thought we’d ask permission—”

“You’re trespassers,” the stranger cut in.

“I assure you we do not mean to be. We very much would like to visit the farm.”

“Well, you can’t. Mr. Silverton doesn’t want no-account boys running wild over the place. They scare the pheasants and make no end of trouble.”

“The Cubs are reliable,” said Mr. Hatfield quietly. “I assure you, you’ll have no difficulty on that score.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”

“If we might see Mr. Silverton—” the Cub leader began, but again the other interrupted.

“Well, you can’t,” he snapped. “I’m Saul Dobbs, and I’m in charge here. Now get out before I lose patience.”

Glaring at the Cubs, the workman carelessly allowed his hand to drop to his belt where he carried a revolver in a holster. The gesture was not lost upon either Mr. Hatfield or the Cubs.

“We’ll go,” said the Cub leader, still without raising his voice. “But don’t think you’re scaring us.”

“Git going and don’t come back!” Saul Dobbs ordered in a blustering voice.

“You may hear from us again after we have talked to Mr. Silverton,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Meanwhile, good-bye.”

With dignity, he turned and led the crestfallen Cubs back along the twisting trail.