SKINNY McCORD

By

PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of THE TOM SLADE BOOKS THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS THE WESTY MARTIN BOOKS

ILLUSTRATED BY HOWARD L. HASTINGS

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

Made in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I Skinny Loses Something II Shadows III Ears that Hear IV By the Dead Fire V Face to Face VI In the Dim Light VII Dark Plans VIII Stealth IX For Danny X Won XI If XII Scout Law Number Two XIII Alias Danville Bently XIV The Pioneer Scout XV The Serenade XVI The Accused XVII The Masquerader XVIII To Pastures New XIX The New Arrival XX Skinny's Protégé XXI Temple Camp Takes Notice XXII Partners XXIII Henny's Cave XXIV Missing XXV From Above XXVI With the Smoke XXVII Skinny's Hero XXVIII It Runs in the Family XXIX Just as Easy— XXX Fixed XXXI Holly Hollis XXXII The Night Before XXXIII Victory and Then— XXXIV The Price

SKINNY McCORD

CHAPTER I SKINNY LOSES SOMETHING

There was great excitement around the camp-fire. Skinny McCord had lost his compass. He had dropped it and it had rolled away, and all the boys were making a great show of helping him to find it. They did this not wholly from kindness.

Skinny was a sensitive boy and it gave his comrades great delight to see him embarrassed, as he always was when made the subject of group talk or the center of interest. Not that they would have hesitated a moment to assist Skinny. For they liked him immensely and would have done anything in the world for him. But they were a mirthful lot, these scouts of Temple Camp, and felt a certain bantering enjoyment in seeing him uneasy, as he always was when the spotlight was thrown on him. They liked that diffident way of his—that bashful smile. This was his second summer at camp and still he was shy; he would probably always be shy....

It was not much of a compass that he had lost; just a little tin affair. He was sorry that he had chosen to transfer it from one pocket to another, for now he found himself the star attraction of the camp-fire throng. "It—it isn't much good anyway," he said; "don't bother."

But they did bother. They had Skinny where they wanted him and they could not let the occasion go by. He would have to go through with this torture. He often suffered such torture at the hands of these scouts who would have knocked any one down who dared to harm him.

"Everybody hunt for Skinny's compass!" called Roy Blakeley. (He was easily the worst of the lot.) "Get out of the way," he said as he rolled Pee-wee Harris over on the ground, and made great pretense of scrutinizing the spot. "Don't sit around gaping when Skinny's compass is lost. Correct imitation of boy scouts hunting for a lost compass that didn't know which way it was rolling."

"Would you mind getting up, Uncle Jeb, so we can look under that log for Skinny McCord?" said another boy. Poor Skinny looked almost frightened to see the old western trapper, master of woods lore in camp, smilingly arise while a dozen scouts searched under the log seat, to the accompaniment of a clamorous chorus.

"All fall to and hunt for Skinny's compass!"

"Hey, Skinny, we'll find it!"

"Go and get a couple of scoutmasters and a few councilors."

"Tell them Skinny McCord lost his compass."

"We'll form a posse," said Roy.

"Don't worry, Skinny, we'll find it."

"Everybody hunt for the compass of Skinny McCord."

"Sit still, Skinny; your thousands of friends will find it for you."

He sat still, his face as red as the end of the big iron poker which lay in the fire. He might have served as a model for a statue of embarrassment as he sat on his old grocery box fearfully contemplating the rumpus he had caused. Timidly he glanced at Councilor Barrows as if to assure that smiling official that he had not intended to interrupt the proceedings with all this hubbub.

In company Skinny never permitted himself to occupy a whole seat. He sat on the edge of a chair or box or boat seat; this was the invariable sign of his embarrassment. "Sit back and make yourself at home, Skinny," they would say. But that was the one thing poor Skinny could never do—make himself at home. His getting into the scouts was the great thing in his young life and he had been in a sort of trance ever since. He had never got over the shock. They had told him that pretty soon he would be a patrol leader. His elevation to that height would certainly have killed him.

A scout from Indiana (one of those robust jolliers who enliven camps) jumped upon a rough seat, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted like a fish pedler, "Ooooooh! Everybody! Scout McCord of Bridgeboro—First Bridgeboro Troop—has lost his compass! Come one, come all, and help find it!"

They were all crawling about on their hands and knees, fifty or more of them, upturning boxes and throwing camp stools about in hilarious exaggeration of helpfulness. And there sat poor Skinny smiling bashfully. If a pack of lions had suddenly taken it into their heads to roar their tribute to a kitten as a member of their family, the kitten's attitude would have been comparable to that of poor Skinny.

But the spasm of raillery was soon over. They were more concerned with Skinny's discomfiture than with finding the fugitive compass. And they did not find it; it had rolled gayly off and baffled all these trackers and pathfinders. Skinny did not let his uproarious comrades know how much he really did want to find it. He was even glad when the excitement was over. He hoped they would resume camp-fire yarns and forget all about it. He had suffered quite enough this agony of being in the public eye.

But the fire was burning low now and there were no more camp-fire yarns. There was a continuous exodus from the spot. Sitting there one might see scouts, singly and in groups, moving into the darkness, up the hill or along Cabin Lane or toward Tent Village, as they called it, to their quarters. Slowly the reflection of the fire in the lake near by diminished until there was nothing but a tiny red glow on the black water.

"So long, see you in the morning," was repeated again and again as patrols went their several ways off into the solemn stillness of the big scout community, It was more than a camp, this lakeside foundation started by Mr. John Temple; it was a sort of scout city in the wilderness. One could be quite alone and unnoticed there, if he so chose, even as one may be a hermit in the metropolis.

Soon only half a dozen or so of the merry, lolling throng remained, and these sat meditating as they waited for the fire to die. There were always a few to linger like this; a few who had that gentle sentiment that likes to see the old year go out, or watch beside a dying fire. Old Uncle Jeb and Tom Slade, camp assistant, always waited to trample out the last embers. With them sat two or three of the older boys.

"Poor kid, it's a lot of fun to see him all flustered," one said.

"He's even got a regular scout suit," said another. "He drove down to Kingston with Curry in his Ford and bought it and now he's afraid to wear it. Somebody told me he's been saving up for it ever since last summer. And now he's afraid to wear it."

"Curry told me it's about forty-'leven sizes too big," drawled lanky Brent Gaylong. "But I s'pose Skinny figures on growing up to it. Probably he means to wear it when he's National Scout Commissioner. A scout has to be prepared as I understand."

"Look out, you'll burn your shoe," said Tom. "If you dressed more like a scout it wouldn't hurt you any."

"I have the soul of a scout," drawled Brent. "I don't need the tinseled regalia. What do you suppose would happen," he said meditatively after a pause, "if Skinny were to be awarded the Gold Cross and all the high dinkums of scouting were here to pull the presentation stuff to the plaudits of the multitude! What do you think he'd do if old man Temple made one of his speeches about him!"

"I think he'd drop dead," said Tom. "But Skinny is no coward; he's just bashful and sensitive."

"Huh, funny," mused Brent. "He doesn't seem to be any more at home with the Elks than when he first joined them."

"He's happy," said Tom.

"Thar's cowardly animals, and thar's timid animals," said old Uncle Jeb, "n' they ain't the same by no manner o' means. That thar youngster's all right, I reckon. On'y he's shy."

Two of those who had lingered went away; they were silhouetted as they passed the big lighted window of Benson Dormitory, then were swallowed by the darkness. Still the trio waited by the dying fire, silent, meditative. Tom was watching a particular patch of embers as one by one little particles went out and the tiny area of red diminished. He could have stamped this out with one foot, but he took a certain idle pleasure in waiting till it vanished in the black night. "Why don't the Elks get after Skinny about his new suit?" he mused aloud.

"I suppose they don't know anything about it," drawled Brent.

"Hmph, poor kid," said Tom.

CHAPTER II SHADOWS

Tom, Brent and Uncle Jeb were not the only persons who waited that night for the camp-fire to die. All unknown to each other two boys lingered in the darkness. One was a slim little fellow with big, staring eyes, a queer gnome of a boy, who stole out of the Elks patrol cabin and stood with his gaze fixed on the dying embers, listening and eagerly waiting for the last watchers to withdraw. He intended to steal back alone and search for his precious compass. For this little trinket meant more to him than he had been willing for that hilarious company to believe.

Now that he had at last achieved the glory of a real scout suit he could wear this little appurtenance dangling from his scout belt in the flaunting manner of Pee-wee Harris. In the store at Kingston he had bashfully tried this suit on (to the great amusement of his companion, Curry) and he had looked like a bolster in it. But no size seemed to fit him. Poor Skinny would never look trim. As he waited there in the darkness, watching the last faint glow of the fire, he had not a little the appearance of an hour glass, with his belt drawn so absurdly tight that his clothing seemed to bulge above and below it.

The other boy who waited for the fire to die was not a scout. He sat on a rough bench up at the roadside just where the path led down through the woods into camp. Approaching along this road one reached a sign with an arrow pointing down into the woods and with the words To Temple Camp printed on it. A trail wound down the wooded slope to the sprawling scout community at the lakeside. At this point where the trail left the road stood the old bench and close by it a post surmounted by a huge letter-box where the rural carrier left the camp mail.

The spot was a pleasant loitering place as was evidenced by the many carved initials on the bench and the post. No part of the camp was visible from this spot though sometimes a little glint of silvery water was discoverable through the trees. But at night two distinct glowing areas could be seen from the wayside seat. Many a new scout had been fooled by these. It was one of the popular jokes of camp to take a new arrival up to the road at night, and then send him forth to find the northern-most glow, which was only the reflection of the camp-fire in the distant lake. Even so good a scout as Bert Winton, who was a Vermont Eagle, had gone hiking down into the dark woods in search of this fire and had gone clear around the camp and come out up at the end of the lake where Tenderfoot Cove is, only to see the glow reduced to a little glinting patch on the water.

The boy who was not a scout had come along the road looking for the camp. At Leeds, the nearest village, he had been told where to turn down into the woods. But now that he had reached the spot he hesitated, for the two bright areas down there in the woods told him that the camp people were still about. It was his intention to enter the camp unseen. He was very weary and was not averse to sitting on the bench and waiting. Now and then he glanced furtively up and down the dark road as if fearful that he might be discovered, and once when an auto sped by, throwing a momentary glare over the spot, he cringed and breathed quickly.

He was about sixteen, this boy, and tall of stature with a litheness about him which suggested the cautious stealth of an animal. His eyes were gray and large, but he kept them half closed and used them with a kind of darting agility. When he arose and stepped across the road for a better look at the glowing areas, there was a certain elasticity in his step, a silent springiness, very suggestive of wild life and extraordinarily graceful. He laid his hands against his hips and narrowed his eyes in studious concentration on those distant spots of light. It was a fine, unconscious posture.

The path of least resistance for a boy's hands at this moment would have been his trousers pockets, but the trousers worn by this boy had no pockets. They were gingham trousers and afforded their wearer not one single carrying facility. This boy had grown used to pocketless trousers and accustomed himself to that picturesque way of standing with his hands against his hips.

For several minutes he gazed steadily at those distant glowing patches. His narrowed eyes became steely in this concentration. A fine, inspiring figure of a scout, baffled and yet resolved, he made as he stood there. Suddenly some little creature of the woodland made a sound in its nightly prowling and the boy turned with lightning rapidity, listening fearfully. Then he resumed his study of the distant patches of light. He was vivisecting them at long distance, comparing the flickering movements one with another.

"I'll be—Those aren't two fires," said he. "There's only one. The other's just a reflection. The two of them move alike."

It was not so bad for a boy who was not a scout. Still, when this boy set about doing a thing he usually succeeded. The very night before he had essayed to do a daring thing, a dreadful thing. And he had succeeded.

CHAPTER III EARS THAT HEAR

It was a desperate business, but he had succeeded—so far. He was not going to jeopardize his success now by an ill-considered move. So he resolved to rest on the bench till the last distant flicker disappeared and he could feel certain that every one in camp had retired. Then he would follow the path down through the woods.

He removed his hat and took an empty cigarette box from inside the crown. There were no cigarettes left in it, but a certain devilish instinct of caution had prompted him to save the little pasteboard folder with removable matches that had accompanied his forbidden purchase. Then he took off a shoe and withdrew from it a damp and soiled slip of paper containing a memorandum which he read by the light of a match. Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. Up path from fire turn left—second cabin. He knew the words by heart, but scanned them finally before crumpling the paper and throwing it away.

As he dropped it under the bench he saw a little square of white lying on the ground and picking it up found it to be an unopened letter. It was close to one of the legs of the bench and almost at the foot of the post supporting the mail box. He struck another match and read the typewritten address on the envelope: Temple Camp, Black Lake, Greene Co., New York. In the corner was an imprint: Bently's Family Hotel, Wave Crest City, Florida.

He now made a discovery which was destined to give a turn to his fortunes and start an altogether singular series of adventures. He found that the heavy dew had dampened the envelope and melted the glue of the flap so that the envelope lay limp and open in his hand. He could not forbear to examine a missive which lay thus exposed. The thought occurred to him that the letter could not have lain long on the ground without being discovered by those who frequented the spot. It had probably been brought by the rural carrier that very afternoon and dropped by the messenger who had emptied the box to take its contents down to camp. In the dim light of his few remaining matches, he read the letter.

Wave Crest City, Fla., June 27th, 1927.

Board of Councilors, Temple Camp, Black Lake, N.Y.

Gentlemen:

This is to notify you that my son, Danville Bently, who was to have spent the month of July at your camp will not be able to begin his vacation with you until August second. He is to accompany his mother and myself to Europe.

We are closing our place here for the summer season to travel abroad and I have taken the liberty of assuring our boy that the reservation made for him for July (for which check was sent to cover) may be shifted to August without prejudice to your summer arrangements.

He is looking forward with high anticipations to his promised month at your famous camp and we have arranged for him to return with his older brother on a steamer which will arrive in New York on August first, so that his trip with us may not interfere with his scouting activities.

Will you kindly wire me upon receipt of this whether the check forwarded in recent communication may be applied to accommodation for August instead of July? If that is satisfactory he will report on August second.

I sincerely hope that this will be agreeable to you as he would suffer a very keen disappointment if compelled to forego this first season at a scout camp.

Very truly yours, Roswell T. Bently.

As he followed the path down into the woods he had no other thought in regard to this letter than to see that it was delivered into the proper hands. He knew well enough how he was to accomplish this without making his presence known to these strangers. The faintest glow of the distant fire still burned and by this tiny beacon he saw that to reach the site of the camp-fire he must leave the beaten path. He now began to pass isolated cabins, the scattered advance guard of the growing camp. They were all in darkness, but in one he heard laughter and singing. Now he passed a row of tents; there was a dim light in one of them and a figure silhouetted on the canvas. As he passed the light went out. He moved silently, cautiously pausing now and again. There was no sign of life.

Presently he was shockingly made aware of the need of stealth. Pausing before a cabin in front of which was planted a staff with a white pennant he saw a figure appear suddenly in the doorway.

"No, you don't," said the apparition.

"Did he get away with it?" some one within asked.

"Not so you'd notice it," said the figure in the doorway.

"What's the idea!" the newcomer asked.

"The idea is you didn't get away with it," laughed the boy in the doorway. "Just keep away from that pennant." And he disappeared within.

Here was a strange business. They evidently slept with one ear open at Temple Camp. But why should they think he intended to take something! Why should they suspect him? Was there anything about him that enabled strangers to discern his secret? At all events he must be careful in this uncanny place.

CHAPTER IV BY THE DEAD FIRE

Of course no one suspected him of trying to steal. He had just had a glimpse of a little nocturnal game that was popular in camp. Whoever could remove this pennant was welcome to it and might plant it in front of his patrol cabin. These midnight raids were very common and not infrequently successful. Our stealthy visitor had chanced to pause before the pennant cabin.

He now came to the main body of the camp and saw the whole expanse of the dark lake with the great bulk of wooded hills beyond. He glanced about at the cluster of rustic buildings, the main pavilion, the storehouse and cooking shack, the "eats" pavilion, Administration Shack. Cautiously (for now he was fearful of the slightest sound) he approached the lake and stood on the float looking off across the black water. Close by him the rocking boats knocked one against another; there was the metallic sound of clanking oar-locks now and then. How strange seemed all these evidences of life when deserted and wrapped in darkness!