America First. Greene Frances Nimmo

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СКАЧАТЬ a part, panther-footed, eagle-eyed, efficient. Danny felt that he would be willing to suffer much to become as they.

      The tenderfoot watched them all to see just how a scout was supposed to act, but it was to Willard McKenzie, the resourceful leader of the patrol, that his eyes turned oftenest in frank admiration.

      McKenzie was the oldest of the bunch – quite seventeen – and five years of scouting had stamped him a man as Nature meant him to be. He knew and could answer every bird-call, could follow a wood-trail unerringly, could find himself in any emergency by the chart of the stars above him. He was the trusted friend of every wild thing about him, and brother to every wind that blew. The tenderfoot watched the graceful movements of the leader's Indianlike figure, studied his genius for quiet command, and decided promptly to be, one day, a second Willard McKenzie.

      In obedience to McKenzie's orders, the boys built their camp-fire within the cove, where it would be hidden on three sides by peaks which towered above, and on the fourth by a dense thicket.

      Mr. Gordon, the Scout Master, had not come, nor did they know when to expect him. But they knew enough to obey their leader, and this they were proceeding to do.

      It was a simple matter – getting the camp ready – and the boys thoroughly enjoyed it. As they were to sleep on the ground, rolled in their blankets, they had merely to clear the space about them of underbrush and fallen timber, and build the fire for cooking.

      Of course they talked of war as they worked, for they were scouts in khaki, preparing for action.

      Ed Rowell claimed for cousin one of the American engineers who fought their way out of German captivity with their bare fists. Batré's older brother was right then cleaving his winged way through clouds of battle in the service of the La Fayette Escadrille. Whitman knew a man who knew a man who was in the 167th Infantry Regiment when it made with others that now historic march, knee-deep in French snows.

      Danny said nothing, for he was a quiet, thoughtful lad. But he had vividly in mind a handsome fellow of only eighteen who, until America's declaration of war, had Sunday after Sunday carried the golden cross up the aisle of the little Church of the Holy Innocents to "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Danny had heard his mother say that it was that song which had sent the young crucifer bearing the Red Cross of Mercy right up to the German guns.

      But their talk was not all serious. They were brimming over with life, and they laughed and scrapped and worked together with a zest which made even bramble-cutting enjoyable.

      It was when the big fire was glowing red and they set about preparing their evening meal that the best part of the fun began. Whoever has not broiled great slices of bacon or toasted cold biscuits on sharpened sticks before a cheery camp-fire, who has not roasted sweet potatoes and green corn in glowing ashes, who has not inhaled the aroma from an old tin coffee-pot, spitting and sputtering on a hot rock, should join the Boy Scouts and hike back to the heart of nature.

      Oh, but it was fun! All except the holding in check of savage appetites till the mess should be cooked. Ed Rowell had been detailed to toast the biscuits, and repeatedly threatened to "eat 'em alive" if they didn't brown faster.

      Danny, who, with Alex Batré, had been directed to broil the bacon, couldn't for the life of him keep from pinching off a crisp edge now and then to nibble. And yet only yesterday Danny Harding would have turned up his nose at bacon. The stimulating fresh air and the hard work of camp life had begun to get in their good work on him.

      On the other side of the fire from Danny, Ham and Roger Gayle were roasting corn and sweet potatoes in the ashes, and a little beyond, Elsie Whitman was filling the water-cans from a trickling mountain spring – while Biddie Burton was busily engaged in getting under everybody else's feet and teasing whomever he could.

      McKenzie, their leader, was momentarily absent, having gone down to the road below the cliff on which they were encamped to see if their fire could be sighted from that point through the screening thicket.

      The boys had from the first been instructed by McKenzie to keep their voices lowered. They were there for serious service, he had told them. And the necessity for stealth and the promise of adventure had for a time keyed them up to the highest pitch of excitement.

      But when the interest of cooking supper became uppermost – especially when the scent of the bacon and coffee began to fill the air – thoughts of adventure withdrew a little to a distance and whispered merriment became the order of the hour.

      As was natural, they turned on the tenderfoot their battery of teasing, and the tenderfoot bore it as best he could.

      "Its mother washes 'em," averred Biddie Burton, coming up behind Danny and carefully examining his ears as he knelt at his work.

      "Sure she does," laughed Ham across the fire, "and they say that a sore tooth in its little mouth aches everybody in the family connection."

      "Look out there, something's burning!" broke in Ed Rowell suddenly. And the next moment Ham and Roger were busy rescuing from the fire the scorching potatoes.

      "I declare," scolded Biddie, lounging up, "I could beat you fellows cooking, with both hands tied behind me."

      "Why haven't you ever done it, then?" snapped the elder Gayle, sore over his partial failure.

      "Why, nobody has ever tied my hands behind me," came in seemingly hurt explanation from Biddie, and the crowd laughed.

      McKenzie had directed them not to wait for him, and they did not. Another five minutes found them eating like young wolves around a languishing fire.

      Later, when the fire winked lower, and the meal was finished – when the screech-owls began to send their blood-chilling, shivering screams through the forest – they drew closer together and began to talk of weird and haunting things.

      "Over yonder, on the real 'Death Head,'" began Roger, bringing the interest down to the spot, "is the haunted tree where – "

      "Look out," broke in young Rowell, "a little more of that and friend Danny over here will cut for home and mother."

      "I'll do nothing of the kind; I'm not a baby!" exclaimed Danny indignantly. But all the same, his heart was already in his mouth, for Danny had never been distinguished for signal bravery.

      "No, you are not 'a baby,'" put in the unquenchable Biddie, "but before we get out of these woods you are going to wish you were a baby, and a girl baby at that!"

      Danny did not reply to this. He only sat very still, wishing that Willard McKenzie would return from his prolonged trip, and thinking of the mother who was looking to him to play the man.

      The scene lost its glow. The surrounding forest grew darker, taller, and began stealing up closer about them.

      "If you cry like a baby – !" Danny's mother was whispering to his sinking heart.

      The others had fallen into an argument about the exact location of the haunted tree, but presently Ed Rowell asked impatiently:

      "Well, what is it about the place, anyway?"

      "Haunted!" exclaimed Ham. "A murderer, hunted with dogs through the mountains, hanged himself on – "

      "And the old tree died in the night," assisted his brother. "And it stands there now, naked and stark and dead. At night – "

      Danny's heart stood still to hear.

      "At night," broke in Whitman, "if СКАЧАТЬ