CHAPTER I THE CAMP ON LONG POINT

Stout Harry Ritter gave a sudden chortle of glee and looked up from the copy of the “Long Point Snort” he was languidly perusing in the shade of some cedars behind Tent Four.

“Say, fellows, have you seen this stuff about Bull Taggart?” he demanded joyously.

“How could we when you hog the paper the minute it comes out?” inquired Ted Hinckley sarcastically. He had sent in a poem the day before and for ten minutes or so had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience to see whether it had found favor with the editors. “Well, what is it?” he went on impatiently. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? What kind of bull has he been throwing now?”

“He’s been chased by a shark,” chuckled Ritter fatly. “Monster fifteen feet long pursued his boat for over a mile out in the Sound. Tried to upset him by bumping its nose against the keel. This is rich! Four rows of teeth sharp as razors.... Gleaming white belly—stomach would have been more refined, seems to me. Remember Dolly Wade, who called ’em blue-stomach crabs. Where was I? Um-um. Oh, yes. Monstrous dorsal fin cutting the water like a knife. Gee-whiz! Bull will kill me dead one of these days. I s’pose he’s training to be an author when he grows up. You can have it, Ted; I’m through.”

He tossed the sheet lazily to Hinckley and lounged indolently against the trunk of the cedar.

“Does he pretend he really saw it?” asked Steve Haddon, linking brown, muscular fingers about an equally brown knee; “or is it meant to be just—er—fiction?”

“Oh, he saw it, of course,” said Ritter with a giggle. “No fiction about that. Recognized it as a regular man-eater, too, by something or other about its expression, didn’t he, Ted?”

“Eh?” Hinckley started guiltily and hurriedly shifted his gloating eyes from the five-line verse which, even in crude mimeograph, thrilled him with the pride of authorship. “What’s that? Oh! Why, sure! It—its teeth, it was.”

“Showed ’em in a glistening smile, I s’pose,” chuckled Ritter. “I shouldn’t think any self-respecting shark would lick his chops over Bull Taggart. Even served up on toast, he wouldn’t make a good, respectable bite.”

There was a responsive chuckle from the half-dozen fellows lounging in the shade; then Haddon glanced questioningly at the tall, striking-looking chap whose handsome head lay pillowed on Billy McBride’s knee, while his well-knit body stretched out comfortably on the sand.

“There aren’t any—man-eating sharks as far north as this, are there, Cavvy?” he asked.

“Of course not. I should think you’d know better than that.” Jim Cavanaugh’s tone was positive and a little impatient. “They’re only found in the south. The sharks around here are nothing but big dogfish; I don’t believe Bull even saw one of those. He’s the most unmitigated— Well, Midget, what’s your trouble? Don’t you know any better than to come in without knocking?”

An exceedingly small boy with snapping blue eyes, a shock of sunburned hair and an amazing self-possession of manner, darted around the tent and paused in their midst, somewhat heated with his haste.

“Trouble?” he repeated, scowling. “There’s plenty of trouble, let me tell you. What do you know about their cutting us out of the Sound and making us swim in the kid’s place?”

“Wa—hat!” came in an incredulous chorus; and then: “Cut out the fancy touches, Midge. You’ll be as bad as Bull Taggart if you’re not careful.”

“Fancy touches!” snorted the infant with cold scorn. “That’s what you think, is it? Huh! Well, it’s up on the bulletin board in black and white. ‘Until further notice all swimming will be restricted to the north side of the point,’ and signed J. P. Wendell as big as life. That’s the kid’s place, ain’t it? And because why? It’s that nut Taggart shooting off a lot of bull about seeing a shark in the sound. He—makes—me—sick!”

If it was his purpose to stir up the group so comfortably taking their ease in the heat of early afternoon, Midge Willett was entirely successful. With one accord six boys sat up abruptly, their faces expressing varying degrees of surprise, incredulity and indignation. And for a space the air resounded with shrill question, heated comment and fragments of argument which satisfied even the small Willett’s inordinate fondness for attention.

“It’s true, all right,” he declared, spreading his feet apart and rocking back and forth on his heels. “The stuff’s all in the Snort; you must have seen it.”

“So we have, Shrimp,” admitted Cavanaugh. “We’ve also seen yarns of his before. You don’t mean to tell us that Mr. Wendell takes any stock in it?”

“That’s what Marshall says. He heard ’em talking in Headquarters tent. Bull sticks to it that it’s true. He says he really saw a shark and that it bumped into his boat.”

“What if it did?” demanded Cavanaugh, irritably; “though I don’t believe it for a minute. Why, the sharks up north here are as harmless as kittens. They’d no more tackle a man than—than one of those stupid blow-fish.”

“Well, the chief don’t seem to think so. Bob says he didn’t know whether to believe Bull or not, but he and Mr. Cartwright talked it over and decided to cut out swimming in the Sound till they find out something for sure. And then they stuck up that notice, and now we’ve got to go into that rotten hole where you can’t dive and it takes half an hour to wade out to any decent depth. I—I’d rather stay ashore.”

A concerted groan went up in which stout Harry Ritter joined heartily. Exertion of any sort was distasteful to him, and it made little difference whether he undertook his languid splashings in the shallows, or in the wider, more varied waters of the Sound. But he liked to criticize and seldom lost an opportunity.

As for the others there was some excuse for their annoyance. The scout camp was located at the base of Long Point, which thrust its sandy nose diagonally out into the Sound. Off the southern side lay the open water, wide, deep, and full of interest and variety. Here the older fellows and proficient swimmers had always gone, while the novices were limited to the wide, shallow cove on the other side into which the tide had swept such quantities of sand that for over a hundred feet from shore it was not more than waist deep.

“Midge is about right,” sniffed Hinckley, as the diminutive Willett departed to spread his news. “A lot of fun there’ll be wallowing around over there. Bull ought to have his head punched.”

“The big chump!” exclaimed Cavanaugh bitterly. “He’ll get his if I have anything to say about it.”

He stood up abruptly and shook off the sand. The khaki shorts and sleeveless gym shirt he wore showed off his fine figure and well-developed muscles to uncommon advantage. Even the scowl failed to detract noticeably from his good looks, which were remarkable—the good looks of clean-cut features, clear skin, glowing red under the tan, blue eyes set wide apart, and wavy blond hair.

Haddon watched him for a moment or two in silence, his rough-hewn face oddly wistful.

“I suppose he—he might have thought it was true,” he said hesitatingly. “Whatever he saw he might have thought—”

“Oh, gee whiz, Steve!” interrupted Cavanaugh impatiently. “Don’t try to make excuses for the nut. He just naturally can’t tell the truth. Who’s coming for a walk? I’m tired of sitting here.”

They all arose briskly, even Ritter bestirring himself. Walking was no particular pleasure to him, but he rarely declined an invitation from Jim Cavanaugh.

“We may as well stroll around by the bulletin board and see if Midge got things straight,” remarked Hinckley as they moved away.

“Nothing to it!” declared Cavanaugh decidedly. “I haven’t seen the beastly thing, and I’m not going to know anything about it till I have to. At least we can get one more decent swim before the lid’s clamped on.”

“You mean you’d go in anyhow?” asked McBride interestedly.

“Why not? There hasn’t been any official announcement. Willett’s no town crier that we should take everything he says as gospel. If we should happen to go over on the sound side at three-thirty and went in there as usual, they couldn’t very well call us down.”

“We’re supposed to undress in the tents and wait for the whistle,” remarked Champ Ferris doubtfully. “They’ll think it’s sort of funny if—”

“Oh, well, if you’re looking for trouble you’ll find it,” cut in Cavvy shortly. “You don’t have to come, you know. But if we hang around here much longer some other busybody is sure to come along and tell us about the notice. I’m going to start.”

CHAPTER II FORBIDDEN FRUIT

He led the way around the back of the tent, which was the last one in the row, and struck into a clump of cedars bordering the clearing. The others followed closely; Cavvy was somehow the sort others generally did follow. Steve Haddon, bringing up the rear, found himself thinking about this, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance he was a little troubled.

“I suppose he just doesn’t look at it in that way,” the big chap said to himself as they came out into the open and turned along the shore. “Maybe I’m too fussy. He’s really a corking fellow—corking!”

In this fashion he tried to excuse the other and dismiss the subject from his mind, but during the stroll which followed he was conscious of a vague discomfort that made him even more silent and repressed than usual.

From the first day at camp, little more than a week ago, he had been attracted by the handsome, accomplished fellow and in his shy, awkward manner had even “made up” to him a little. To his surprise Cavanaugh responded to a certain extent, and the two became friends as well as tent-mates. Steve could not understand what there was about himself to interest a chap so brilliant and so generally a favorite. It never occurred to him that his own sturdy, steadfast strength might have been the magnet which, consciously or unconsciously, attracted Cavvy’s more mercurial personality. He would have laughed incredulously had anyone suggested such a thing. As it was he speedily gave up trying to make head or tail of it and accepted gratefully the thing which at first had seemed incredible. There was always, to be sure, just the faintest touch of tolerance in Cavanaugh’s manner toward the big, black-browed, quiet fellow whose admiration he could not help but notice. It was the sort of attitude which said, almost as plainly as words, “Of

course, I know he’s dull and heavy and not thrillingly interesting, but he’s a good hearted chap, and I like him.”

If Steve noticed this he gave no sign. To him Cavvy was a hero who could do no wrong. His allegiance had never wavered until this moment; and even now, troubled as he was and seeking excuses and explanations for Cavanaugh’s behavior, he could not find that his liking had in any way lessened.

Following the shore line, with the wide, glinting stretch of water spread out before them, the talk of the boys almost inevitably turned on sharks, and presently waxed so argumentative that none of them seemed to notice Haddon’s silence. Nobody knew very much about the subject, but that did not prevent them from taking side and debating hotly. Hinckley and Champ Ferris supported Cavanaugh’s argument that the species found in Northern waters was entirely harmless, and probably there were none in the neighborhood of the camp anyway. Taggart had seen something else, or made up the whole story, they declared. Ritter and McBride opposed them as a matter of principle, and upheld their side with such hair-raising anecdotes of things they had heard and read that they actually succeeded in scaring themselves, besides arousing a certain amount of nervous apprehension in the minds of the other two. Cavanaugh alone laughed them to scorn. When they returned to the forbidden bathing beach, which was hidden from the camp by a thick screen of evergreens,

it was plain that he meant to carry out his purpose.

“Guess we won’t have time to go back to camp,” he remarked seriously, but with a twinkle in his eyes, “so we might as well peel right here. Funny there’s nobody else around.”

Hinckley chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. Haddon felt a little sting go through him. Was this the sort of thing Cavvy meant to get off when they were discovered, as they surely must be? He would rather have had his friend openly break the camp rules.

“Well, I hope you’ve thought of the risk you’re taking,” said Ritter, settling himself comfortably on the sand. In spite of his airy tone there was a touch of seriousness in his voice.

“Not going to join us?” queried Cavanaugh, kicking off one sneaker. “You would make an awful tasty morsel for a shark, that’s a fact. If you’d only go in the rest of us would be quite safe. What’s the matter, Steve? You haven’t got cold feet, too, have you?”

“N—o; I just don’t feel like it, that’s all.”

Cavvy paused, one stocking half off, and stared intently at the boy’s serious face. Suddenly his color deepened and his lips curled a little at the corners.

“Oh!” he murmured. “I see.” And then he laughed unpleasantly. “I forgot we had with us the only really perfect Scout in captivity. I’m surprised you could bring yourself to associate with such a bunch of hardened sinners—or did you hope by your virtuous example to win us back to the straight and narrow path?”

Steve shrank back as if he had been struck. His face turned white and then a dull crimson.

“I don’t—” he stammered. “I didn’t say—”

“Of course not,” sneered Cavanaugh. “You didn’t have to say anything. You’re so goody-goody it sticks out all over you.” He yanked off his stockings petulantly and dropped the rest of his clothes in a heap on the sand. “Better stick around awhile till you’ve made sure we’ve broken the rules and then you can hustle back to camp and report us.”

“Cavvy!” cried Haddon sharply. “You’ve no right— You know I wouldn’t—”

He broke off suddenly, biting his lip. Without replying, Cavanaugh had turned his back and was trotting out on the narrow spring board. For a moment the shapely white body stood poised against the deep blue sky. Then it flashed out and downward, cleaving the water in a perfect dive.

Steve watched him with blurred eyes and a dull hurt in his heart. The onslaught had been so brutal and so unexpected that it dazed him. He did not realize that Cavanaugh’s own mental discomfort might have had much to do with the flare-up. Conscious that he wasn’t doing the right thing, but too stubborn to draw back, it was not unnatural to vent his irritation on the fellow who seemed to be showing more strength of character than himself.

Haddon did not think of this. In that moment it seemed to him as if the friendship which had meant so much to him had toppled into ruins like a fallen house of cards. Rather, it had never existed save in his own mind. If Cavvy really cared for him, even in his careless, tolerant fashion, he could never have deliberately hurt him so without a shadow of reason or excuse. Surely Steve had not shown himself the prig Cavanaugh made out. He had not said a word against the others going in. He had even been conscious of an awkward sense of embarrassment at not joining them himself.

Suddenly, out of the turmoil of hurt and longing and regret, came the desire to win back at any cost what he had lost. If he went in with the rest wouldn’t Cavvy realize that he had been too hasty, and perhaps make amends? It wasn’t too late. McBride and Hinckley, who had stripped more leisurely, were even now moving slowly toward the spring-board. If he hurried—

Instinctively the boy bent down and untied his shoe laces with a jerk. Then he straightened slowly, face flushed and jaw squaring. He couldn’t do it. Something within him made the thing impossible—the action of a coward and a weakling. What sort of a Scout would he be to deliberately fling overboard his principles and do a thing he felt to be wrong for the sake of winning another’s approval? And what was that approval worth which could be won in such a fashion?

Downcast, motionless, the boy stood fighting out his brief mental battle. He was unaware of the curious glances and low-voiced comment of Ferris and Ritter, sitting together a little to one side. For a space he did not even notice the three fellows in the water save to be conscious of their splashings and sputterings and occasional peals of laughter—laughter which grated somehow, and made him feel like one apart. Then Cavanaugh’s voice, still sharp and a little pettish, brought his head up and his troubled gaze sought out the fellow who had been his friend.

“I’m sick of this fooling,” he heard Cavvy say. “I’m going for one last decent swim.”

“Better not go out too far,” advised Hinckley joshingly. “Remember the shark.”

Cavanaugh disdained reply. Already he was heading out from the shore, cleaving the water with a swift, overhand stroke. Steve watched him wistfully, and presently a faint touch of uneasiness began to grip him. Spectacular as he was at diving and other water “stunts,” Cavvy had never showed up very well when it came to long distances. He explained this once to Haddon by saying that several times he had been attacked by cramps and had learned to be careful. Suppose a cramp should seize him now with scarcely anyone around to help, thought Steve, and instantly his uneasiness changed to acute worry. In troubled silence he watched the fellow draw further away from shore until at length he could not restrain himself.

“Why doesn’t he turn back?” he exclaimed aloud. “He’s crazy to go out so far.”

“He’s got more nerve than I’d have,” commented Ritter. “Suppose that shark should show up now? Where would he be then, I’d like to know.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” returned Haddon, who had been inclined to agree with Cavvy’s side of the shark argument. “But he’s liable to cramp, and if he should be—”

He broke off with a sharp intake of his breath. Out in the Sound Cavanaugh had turned suddenly about and was making for shore with a wild splashing haste which told instantly of something wrong. For a second Steve stood rooted to the spot. Then he ran toward the spring-board, pulling off his shirt and jerking at the buckle of his belt. As he paused a moment to kick off his shoes and slide out of the scanty shorts, a shrill, inarticulate cry of horror from Ritter urged him on. It was the cramp, then, just as he had feared. But Cavvy was still keeping up. He was even making progress shoreward in spite of that frantic splashing which wasted so much strength. If he only kept his head—

“The shark!” screamed Ferris suddenly behind him. “The shark!”

CHAPTER III THE SHARK

Steve’s feet were on the plank before the meaning of the words stung into his consciousness. As he ran, his startled gaze swept over the glinting water and for an instant his blood froze. Beyond the struggling Cavanaugh, but much nearer to him than the latter was to shore, something thrust up above the water—something thin, triangular, erect, dull gray in color, that cut through the little waves with swift, smooth, gliding ease.

To Haddon it seemed as if the plank slid backward under his feet. His dive was purely instinctive but it was a fine one, wide and shallow, that carried him well out. As he shot to the surface he almost collided with Ted Hinckley, but he was quite unconscious of the other’s nearness. Out of that numbed daze of horror and dismay but one thought, one motive, rose to dominate him. He must reach Cavanaugh before the shark.