Back Aa

Tom Slade On The River

Close

<h2 id="c9">CHAPTER IX A NEW KIND OF FIRST AID</h2> Garry sat outside the little makeshift shack which he and Jeffrey and Raymond occupied, and whittled as Arnold strode along the beaten path toward the main body of camp. He was still whittling when Raymond and Jeff returned from the shore, their arms laden with willow branches. “Kiddo,” he said to Raymond, “suppose you get me that other shirt of yours and I’ll sew up that tear. I’ve got to fix my own, too. We’re not very strong on clothes, are we?” “I’ll buy us all clothes,” put in Jeffrey. “When I get my own scout suit I’ll get new ones for you and Raymond—I’ll have thousands of dollars.” “All right,” laughed Garry. “You put some water boiling now, while Raymond peels the potatoes, so we can have grub. Then come over here and talk to me while I do the family mending.” <div class="pb" id="Page_108">[108]</div> Raymond busied himself with preparations for supper and Jeffrey sat down on the ground close to Garry. “I’m glad we’re here by ourselves, aren’t you?” he said, “and I’m going to give you two thousand dollars for letting me be in your class.” “Class?” “I mean, patrol.” “Now you see if you can’t remember that word patrol so I don’t have to remind you. And what was the other thing—just think.” “About money?” asked Jeffrey, doubtfully. “Right. Try to remember never to promise people money—especially scouts—because they don’t like it. Now hand me that other spool of thread.” “But it’s fine to be rich, isn’t it?” “It’s better to be a scout. Any headache today, Jeff?” “No.” “Well, now see if you can remember how many willow canes you’ve carved altogether.” “Eleven.” “Right. You’re going to get the memory badge pretty soon.” “Do they have a memory badge?” <div class="pb" id="Page_109">[109]</div> “Now, tell me what you and I and Raymond did the day before yesterday—just before grub.” “Played mumbly-peg.” “And who won?” “You did—but I’m not going to give you a hundred dollars like I said.” “Wasn’t it a thousand?” “No, it was a hundred—you can’t fool me.” “Which was it, kiddo?” Garry called to Raymond. “A hundred,” said Raymond. “All right. Now see if you can remember the first time you ever saw Tom Slade.” “That night on the hill.” “Sure?” “Yes.” “And what’s going to be the name of our—class?” “Patrol,” corrected Jeff. “Oh yes, patrol.” “The Tigers.” “I tell you what—you’re getting to have a crackerjack memory. <div class="pb" id="Page_110">[110]</div> “Now turn your face around there so I can see it by the light of the fire. Put some more twigs on, kidlet, it’s beginning to get dark. I want to be able to see if you’re just joshing me. This is an important matter. When I was up at commissary shack for salt and things I was noticing the things on the bulletin board.” “I saw that about the Elks birthday party,” interrupted Jeffrey. “Well, did you see that one about the new rowboat being in the lake and asking everybody to vote on a name for it?” “No.” “Well, now——” “Will we go to that dinner party?” Jeffrey interrupted. “I’m not so sure about that,” said Garry, “but anyway, we’ll each of us vote a name for the new boat and I’ll drop them in the ballot box up at camp in the morning. What do you say?” “I vote ‘Buster’!” called Raymond, who was poking up the fire. “I vote ‘Queen’!” said Jeffrey, excitedly. “Well, those are two punk names! ‘Queen’ isn’t so bad, but ‘Buster’ suggests busting, and a boat that would bust—go-o-dnight!” <div class="pb" id="Page_111">[111]</div> Jeffrey stared at Garry. His face was right in the glare of the fire and though his look was of that vacant character which all the boys had noticed, it seemed less pronounced than it had been when he came to Temple Camp. Perhaps the quiet, even life in the solitude under these sheltering trees, with the tranquil lake hard by, was really showing its effect, as Mr. Waring had evidently hoped that it would do; perhaps the wholesome companionship of these other boys was already beginning to tell; it was a new kind of First-Aid at all events, and one quite outside of Doc Carson’s sphere. Or it may have been that Jeffrey was just startled into a livelier interest, as he had often been lately, at something that was said. “Now,” said Garry, “I’m going to tell you my vote. And if there’s a prize, I think I’ll win it. I vote to name the new dory—Nymph.” Jeffrey’s eyes were fixed on Garry with an intense wondering stare and Garry, looking quizzically at him, said, “Isn’t that a peach of a name?” “It’s—it’s—somebody else thought of it—it——” Jeffrey’s utterance fizzled out in another stare. <div class="pb" id="Page_112">[112]</div> “And speaking of boats, how about it, Jeff, do you think you could walk as far as Catskill Landing—seven full grown miles?” “Sure I can! Didn’t I——” “Well, then, by jingoes, if tomorrow’s clear, we’ll take that long promised hike—just you and me——” “Not Raymond?” “Nope—just you and me; and we’ll have a squint at that wonderful boat of yours, hey? And then I’ll show you the Bridgeboro Troop’s boat, even if we have to trespass, and I’ll tell you all about it.” Jeffrey grew excited at once. “Are you—are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he demanded. “Surest thing you know.” “Those fellows don’t take any interest in my boat,” Jeffrey said. “Well, I do,” said Garry, “what was the name of that game? I can’t seem to remember it.” “Mumbly-peg,” said Jeffrey, contemptuously. “Well, there’s no use getting excited about it,” laughed Garry. <div class="pb" id="Page_113">[113]</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2