The Project Gutenberg eBook, Roy Blakeley, by Percy Keese Fitzhugh, Illustrated by Howard L. Hastings

ROY BLAKELEY

I BEGAN SINKING AS LOW AS MY WAIST.

ROY BLAKELEY

HIS STORY

Being the true narrative of his adventures and those of his troop on land and sea and in the mud—particularly in the mud. Taken from the Troop Book of the 1st Bridgeboro Troop B. S. A. and arranged by himself with the assistance of Pee-wee Harris and

PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of

TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT, TOM SLADE AT

TEMPLE CAMP, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY

HOWARD L. HASTINGS

Published with the approval of

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

Copyright, 1920, by

GROSSET & DUNLAP

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ROY BLAKELEY

CHAPTER I
TROUBLES OF MY OWN—THE BIG CONCLAVE

Well, here I am at last, ready to tell you the adventures of our young lives. Right away I have trouble with Pee-wee Harris. He’s about as easy to keep down as a balloon full of gas. We call him the young dirigible because he’s always going up in the air. Even at the start he must stick in his chapter heading about a conclave.

Hanged if I know what a conclave is. It’s some kind of a meeting I guess. He said it was something like a peace conference, but believe me, the meeting I’m going to tell you about wasn’t much like a peace conference. I told him I’d use my own heading and his too, just to keep him quiet. I think he’s got his pockets stuffed full of chapter headings and that he’ll be shooting them at me all the way through—like a machine-gun.

I guess I might as well tell you about Pee-wee, before I tell you about the conclave or whatever you call it. He’s Doctor Harris’s son and he’s a member of the Raven Patrol. He’s a member in good standing, only he doesn’t stand very high. Honest, you can hardly see him without a magnifying glass. But for voice—good night!

He sings in the Methodist Church choir and they say he can throw his voice anywhere. I wish he’d throw it in the ash barrel, I know that.

He always wears his belt-axe to troop meetings, in case the Germans should invade Bridgeboro, I suppose. He’s the troop mascot and if you walk around him three times and ruffle up his beautiful curly hair, you can change your luck.

Well, now I’ll tell you about the meeting. We had a big special meeting to decide about two things, and believe me, those two things had momentous consequences. Momentous—that’s a good word, hey?

One thing, we wanted to decide about our campaign for collecting books for soldiers, and another thing, we wanted to decide how we could all go up to Temple Camp in our cabin launch, the Good Turn.

This large and what-do-you-call-it launch—I mean commodious launch—is a dandy boat, except for one thing—the bow is too near the stern. If we were sardines instead of boy scouts, it would be all right, but you see there’s twenty-four of us altogether, not counting Captain Kidd, our mascot—he’s a parrot.

So I got up and said, “How are we going to crowd twenty-four growing boys and a parrot into a twenty foot launch?”

“It can’t be did,” Doc Carson shouted.

“Then some of us will have to hike it on our dear little feet,” I said.

“Or else we’ll have to get a barge or something or other and tow it,” Artie Van Arlen said.

“What, with a three horsepower engine?” somebody else shouted.

“You can bet I won’t be one of the ones to hike it,” Pee-wee yelled; “I’ll dope out some scheme or other.”

And believe me, he did.

Well, after we’d been talking about an hour or so on how we’d manage it, Mr. Ellsworth, our scoutmaster, up and said there was plenty of time for that as long as we were not going to camp for a couple of weeks anyway, and that we’d better begin thinking of how we were going to start about collecting books for soldiers.

All the while I had something very important to say, and I was kind of trembling, as you might say, for I thought maybe Mr. Ellsworth wouldn’t like the idea. Anyway I got up and began:

“The author that wrote all about ‘Tom Slade’s Adventures in the World War’,” I said, “told me it would be a good idea for me to write up our troop’s adventures and he’d help me to get them published.”

Then up jumped Pee-wee Harris like a jack-in-the-box.

“What are you talking about?” he shouted; “don’t you know you have to have a command of language to write books? You’re crazy!”

“I should worry about a command of language,” I told him. “Haven’t I got command of the Silver Fox Patrol? Anybody who can command the Silver Fox Patrol ought to be able to command a few languages and things. I could command a whole regiment even,” I kept up, for I saw that Pee-wee was getting worked up, as usual, and all the fellows were laughing, even Mr. Ellsworth.

“If you could command a division,” Westy Martin said, in that sober way of his, “you ought to be able to command English all right.”

“I can command any kind of a division,” I shouted, all the while winking at Westy. “I can command a long division or a short division or a multiplication or a subtraction or a plain addition.”

“What are you talking about?” Pee-wee yelled. “You’re crazy!”

“I can command anything except Pee-wee Harris’s temper,” I said.

Well, you ought to have seen Pee-wee. Even Mr. Ellsworth had to laugh.

“How can a fellow your age write books?” he fairly screamed. “You have to have sunsets and twilights and gurgling brooks and——”

“You leave the gurgling brooks to me,” I said; “I’ll make them gurgle all right. There’s going to be plenty of action in these books. And Pee-wee Harris is going to be the village cut-up.”

“Are you going to have girls?” he shouted.

“Sure I’m going to have girls—gold haired girls—all kinds—take your pick.”

“Good night!” Pee-wee shouted, “I see your finish.”

Well, pretty soon everybody was shouting at the same time and Pee-wee was dancing around, saying we were all crazy. Most of the Raven Patrol were with him and they ought to be called the Raving Patrol, believe me.

Then Mr. Ellsworth held up his hand in that quiet way he has. “This sounds like the Western Front or a Bolsheviki meeting,” he said, “and I’m afraid our young Raven, Mr. Pee-wee Harris, will presently explode and that would be an unpleasant episode for any book.”

“Good night!” I said. “Don’t want any of my books to end with an explosion.”

Then he said how it would be a good idea for me to write up our adventures and how he’d help me whenever I got stuck and how he guessed the author of Tom Slade would put in fancy touches for me, because he lives in our town and he’s a whole lot interested in our troop. He said that breezes and distant views and twilights and things aren’t so hard when you get used to them and even storms and hurricanes are easy if you only know how. He said girls aren’t so easy to manage though.

“I’ll help you out with the girls,” Pee-wee said; “I know all about girls. And I’ll help you with the names of the chapters, too.”

“All right,” Mr. Ellsworth said, “I think Pee-wee will prove a valuable collaborator.”

“A which?” Pee-wee said, kind of frightened.

So then we all laughed and Mr. Ellsworth said it was getting late and we’d better settle about collecting books for the soldiers.

We decided that after we got to camp I’d begin writing up our adventures on the trip, but we couldn’t decide how we’d all go in our boat, and that was the thing that troubled us a lot, because the fellows in our troop always hang together and we didn’t like the idea of being separated.

Well, I guess that’s all there is to tell you about the meeting, and in the next chapter I’m going to tell you all about how we collected the books for the fellows in camp, and how the mystery about the boat was solved. Those are Pee-wee’s words about the mystery of the boat. I can’t see that there was any mystery about it, but there was another kind of a mystery, believe me, and that kid was the cause of it. I guess maybe you’ll like the next chapter better than this one.

So long.

CHAPTER II
SWATTING THE SPY

Now I’m going to tell you about how we collected books for soldiers and especially about Pee-wee’s big stunt.

The next morning we started out and by night we had over five hundred books. Mr. Ellsworth said they were mostly light literature, but if he had only had to carry fifty of them on his shoulder like I did, he’d have thought they were pretty heavy literature, believe me.

This is the way we fixed it. The Raving Patrol (that’s Pee-wee’s patrol, you know) used Doctor Harris’s five-passenger Fraud car. It didn’t go very good and Pumpkin Odell (Raven) said he guessed it was because the wheels were tired—that’s a joke. They held up all the houses in Little Valley. That’s about sumpty-seven miles or so from Bridgeboro. They’ve got two stores there and a sign that says “Welcome to Automobilists” and how they’ll be arrested if they don’t obey the speed laws. Welcome to jail—good night!

The Elk Patrol (that’s our new patrol, you know) went over to East Bridgeboro with Pinky Dawson’s express wagon (one horsepower) and some horse—I wish you could see him. The Elks were a pretty lively bunch, I’ll say that, and they cleaned out all the private libraries in East Bridgeboro. They even got cook-books and arithmetics and books about geometry—pity the poor soldiers.

The Silver Fox Patrol took care of Bridgeboro. That’s the best patrol of the whole three. I’m leader of the Silver Foxes. The Ravens call us the Silver-plated Foxes, but that’s because we call them the Raving Patrol and the reason we call them the Raving Patrol is on account of Pee-wee.

Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, the Silver Foxes took care of Bridgeboro. Brick Warner (he’s red-headed) has a Complex car or a Simplex, or whatever you call it—I should worry. I mean his father has it. He’s got a dandy father; he gave Brick five dollars so that we could have a blow-out at lunch time. Oh, boy, we had two blowouts and a puncture.

We got over two hundred books that day—light literature, dark literature, all colors. I could tell you a lot of things that happened that day, because we did a lot of good turns, and one bad turn, when we grazed a telegraph pole. What cared we? But you’ll care more about hearing of Pee-wee and the raving Ravens and how they made out.

Anyway, I guess I might as well tell you now about the scouts in my patrol. Don’t ever borrow trouble, but get to be a patrol leader, and you’ll have troubles of your own. Then you can pick out the one you want and I’ll drown the rest. After that I’ll tell you about the grand drive in Little Valley.

First in the Silver Fox Patrol comes Roy Blakeley—that’s me. I’m patrol leader and I’ve got eleven merit badges. I’ve got two sisters too. One of them is crazy about the movies.

I’ve got seven scouts to look after and Captain Kidd, the parrot—he’s our mascot. Our patrol color is green and he’s green with a yellow neck. He’s got one merit badge—for music. Good night! Then comes Westy Martin, and Dorry Benton and Huntley Manners and Sleuth Seabury, because he’s a good detective, and Will Dawson and Brick Warner and Slick Warner and that’s all.

Now I’ll tell you about the raving Ravens. Of course, I can’t tell you all that happened in Little Valley that day, because I wasn’t there. Doc Carson said they had trouble with the motor and Pee-wee. He said that Pee-wee kept running wild all day. But anyway they brought back a lot of books with them, I’ll say that much.

Well, when the day’s drive was over, we all took our books to the troop room and piled them up on the table, and waited for Mr. Ellsworth to come. He usually comes home from the city on the Woolworth Special. We call it the Woolworth Special because it gets to Bridgeboro at five ten. Along about six o’clock he showed up, and we began sorting out the books. The biggest pile was brought in by the Ravens, and when he noticed a pile of about twenty or thirty books tied with a brown cord, he asked where those came from. Then up jumped Pee-wee, very excited, and said:

“I’ll tell you about those.”

“Do tell,” said Elmer Sawyer, winking at me.

“Good night! Pee-wee’s got the floor,” shouted Westy.

“Floor!” shouted Dorry Benton. “He’s got the walls and the ceiling and the mantelpiece and everything.”

“Will you pay a little attention?” Pee-wee screamed.

“We’re paying as little as possible,” I told him.

“You’re the worst of the lot,” he yelled; “that pile of books, the ones with the brown cord, were given to us by a kindly old gentleman; he——”

“A which?” Doc Carson said.

“Don’t you know a kindly old gentleman when you see one?” Pee-wee fairly screamed.

“Let’s see one,” Artie shouted.

And that’s the way it went on till Mr. Ellsworth came to Pee-wee’s rescue like he always does. He said we should let Pee-wee have the chair.

“Here’s a couple of chairs for him,” we shouted.

“He can have the table too, if he wants it,” I said; anything to keep him quiet.

“I don’t want to be quiet,” Pee-wee screamed.

Good night, that was some meeting. Well, pretty soon Mr. Ellsworth got us all throttled down and Pee-wee started to tell us about his visit to the kindly old gentleman. It seemed that was one of the houses that Pee-wee called at alone and the kindly old gentleman fell for him like grown up people mostly do. I don’t know what it is but everybody seems to like Pee-wee. You know just because you jolly a fellow, it’s not a sign you don’t like him. Pee-wee is one bully little scout, I’ll say that much.

“Do you want to hear about it?” he said.

“Proceed with your narrative,” I told him; “begin at the beginning, go on till you come to the end, then stop.”

“Be sure to stop,” Westy said.

Well, then Pee-wee went on to tell us about the kindly old gentleman. He lived in a big white house, he said, with grounds around it and a big flag pole on the lawn, with a flag flying from it. He said that the old gentleman didn’t talk very good English and he thought maybe he was a German or French or something or other. He guessed maybe he was a professor or something like that. Anyway, he took Pee-wee through his library, picking out the books he didn’t want, till he had given him about twenty or thirty. Then they tied them up in a brown cord and Pee-wee took them out to the Fraud car.

Well that’s about all there was to it, and I guess nothing more would have happened, if I hadn’t untied the cord and picked up the book that lay on top. It was a book about German history, princes and all that stuff, and I guess it wouldn’t interest soldiers much. Just as I was running through it, I happened to notice a piece of paper between the leaves, which I guess the old gentleman put there for a book-mark. As soon as I picked it up and read it, I said, “Good night! Look at this,” and I handed it to Mr. Ellsworth. It said something about getting information to Hindenburg, and about how a certain German spy was in one of the American camps in France.

Mr. Ellsworth read it through two or three times, and then said, “Boys, this looks like a very serious matter. You said the old gentleman spoke broken English, Walter?”

That’s the name he always called Pee-wee.

“Cracky,” I said, “Pee-wee’s kindly old gentleman is a German spy.”

“Sure he is,” said Westy Martin, “and he’s only flying the American flag for a bluff, he’s a deep dyed villain.”

“He can’t be dyed very deep,” said Doc Carson, in that sober way of his; “because we haven’t any German dyes to dye him with.”

I was just going to say something to kid Pee-wee along, when I noticed that Mr. Ellsworth was very serious, and Pee-wee was staring like a ghost.

“Boys,” Mr. Ellsworth said, “I have no idea of the full meaning of this paper.” Then he said how maybe in collecting books we had caught a spy in our net. He said that he was going to take the paper anyway and show it to the Federal Commissioner, down in the Post Office Building.

“If he’s a spy, we’ll swat him all right,” I said.

“We’ll more than swat him,” Mr. Ellsworth said, and I could see by the look in his eye that he meant business.

CHAPTER III
SWATTING THE SPY—CONTINUED

We didn’t swat him in that chapter because I had to go to supper, but we’ll surely swat him in this one. Positively guaranteed.

Pee-wee was proud that he made such a hit with the old gentleman and especially because he got so many books from him. But when he realized that the paper I found in one of the books had something to do with spying, it was all Mr. Ellsworth could do to keep him quiet. He told us all not to say anything, because maybe, the old man might find out that he was going to be nabbed and go away. I guess Pee-wee felt pretty important. Anyway I know he was frightened, because all the next morning he kept asking me if he’d have to go to court and things like that.

“The only court you’ll go to, is the tennis court,” I told him; so we made up a set with my two sisters, Ruth and Marjorie, and the girls beat us three games. While we were playing, along came Mr. Ellsworth and Commissioner Terry with two strange men, and I could see Pee-wee was very nervous. They sent the girls away and then began to ask Pee-wee questions. I could see that they thought the discovery we made was pretty serious.

“Are you the boy that found the paper in the book?” they asked me. Then they wanted to know what kind of a book it was, and I told them it was a book about German history and they screwed up their faces and looked very suspicious.

“You say that the man spoke broken English?” one of them asked Pee-wee.

Pee-wee was kind of nervous, I could see. “It—it—well it wasn’t exactly broken,” he said.

“Just a little bent,” I said, and oh, you ought to have seen the frown Mr. Ellsworth gave me.

“It was kind of—just a little——” Pee-wee began.

“We understand,” one of the men said. Then the other one spoke to us. He said, “Boys, we want you to go over with us and we want this youngster to identify the man. You needn’t be afraid, Uncle Sam is with you.”

But, cracky, I didn’t like it and I guess Pee-wee didn’t either. I’ve read stories about boys that had men arrested and all that, and I always thought I’d like to be one of those regular heroes. But when it came to really doing it, I knew then that I didn’t like to help arrest anybody, and I bet most real fellows feel the same way. I felt funny, kind of. That’s why I have no use for young detectives in stories, because I know you’ve got to be a grown-up man to feel that way and do things like that.

They had an automobile right near the tennis courts and we all got in and Pee-wee and I sat in back with our scoutmaster. Cracky, I was glad our scoutmaster was along, that’s one sure thing.

Pretty soon we got to Little Valley and Pee-wee pointed out the big white house with the lawn and the flag flying there. Jiminy, but it looked good and I wished we were up at Temple Camp, raising our colors near the boat landing.

While we were going up the gravel path, the old gentleman came out on his porch and looked at us and I felt kind of ashamed and I could see Pee-wee did too. But, cracky, I’ve got no use for spies, that’s one sure thing. Pee-wee and I kind of hung behind and I guess he felt funny, sort of, when the old gentleman waved his hand to him, as if they were old friends.

I can’t remember all they said but the two men who I knew were detectives showed the old gentleman the paper and asked him what it meant. First he seemed kind of flustered and angry and I know Pee-wee’s heart was thumping—anyway it would have been thumping, except that it was up in his throat.

Then the men said that they’d have to search the house to see if there was a wireless and then the old gentleman got angry; then all of a sudden he sat down in one of the wicker chairs on the porch and began to laugh and laugh and laugh. Then he looked at Pee-wee and said,

“I suppose this is the young gentleman who succeeded in trapping me. I must take off my hat to the Boy Scouts,” and he smiled with an awful pleasant kind of a smile and held out his hand to Pee-wee.

Well, you should have seen Pee-wee. It was as good as a three-ringed circus. He stood there as if he was posing for animal crackers. And even the detectives looked kind of puzzled, but all the while suspicious.

“Are you the spy-catcher?” the old gentleman said to Pee-wee, but Pee-wee looked all flabbergasted and only shifted from one foot to the other.

“I hope you don’t mean to kill me with that belt-axe?” the old gentleman asked. But Pee-wee just couldn’t speak.

“He must be a telephone girl—he doesn’t answer,” I blurted out, and even the detectives had to laugh.

“Gentlemen, if you will step inside, I’ll make full confession and then give myself up,” the old man said; “for I see there is no use in trying to escape the Boy Scouts. It was I who wrote that treasonable memorandum and I may as well tell you that I have a wireless. I will give you my whole history. I see that my young friend here is a most capable secret service agent.”

“We’re only small boys—we belong to the infantry,” I said, for I just couldn’t help blurting it out.

Well, we all went inside and I could see that the Commissioner and the detectives kept very near the old gentleman as if they didn’t have much use for his laughing and his pleasant talk. I guess maybe they were used to that kind of thing, and he couldn’t fool them.

When we got into his library I saw books all around on the shelves, hundreds of them I guess, and the desk was covered with papers and there was a picture of Mark Twain with “Best regards to Mr. Donnelle,” written on it. Gee whittaker, I thought when I looked around; maybe Mr. Donnelle is a deep-dyed spy all right, but he’s sure a high-brow.

“You’d have to take an elevator to get up to him,” I whispered to Pee-wee.

“Shhh,” Pee-wee said, “maybe he isn’t dyed so very deep—there’s different shades of dyes.”

“Maybe he’s only dyed a light gray or a pale blue,” I said.

Then Mr. Donnelle got out a big fat red book that said on it “Who’s Who in America” and, jiminy, I’m glad I never had to study it, because it had about a million pages. I hate biography anyway—biography and arithmetic. Then he turned to a certain page.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “if you will just read this I will then consent to go with you,” and he smiled all over his face.

The four men leaned over and began reading, but Pee-wee and I didn’t because they didn’t ask us and Boy Scouts don’t butt in.

“I bet it tells all about German spies and everything, and now he’s going to make a full confession,” Pee-wee said; “maybe our names will be in the New York papers, hey?”

“They’ll be more likely to be in the fly-paper,” I said; “there’s something funny about this.”

“I bet he was going to blow up some ships,” Pee-wee said.

“I bet he’ll blow us up in a minute,” I told him; because I could see that he was saying something to the men while they all looked at the book, and that the whole four of them were laughing—especially Mr. Ellsworth.

“It was the elder boy who discovered it,” I heard him say, smiling all the while.

“Good night!” I said to Pee-wee, “I thought we had a German in custody, but instead of that, we’re in Dutch!”

“Will they send us to jail?” he whispered.

“I think we’ll get about ten merit badges for this—not,” I said; “he’s no spy.”

Well, the men didn’t pay much attention to us, only strolled over to one side of the room and began chatting together, and Mr. Donnelle got a box of cigars and they each took one.

“I wouldn’t smoke one of those cigars,” Pee-wee said, “they might be bombs. The Germans are pretty tricky—safety first.”

Then Mr. Ellsworth came over to us, smiling all over his face. “Well, boys,” he said, “I’m glad to say that our spy quest has gone up in smoke. Mr. Donnelle is one of the best known authors of America. He is writing a story of the war and our dark memorandum is just a little literary note of his about a spy among the American forces. I think we shall find it a most interesting story when it is finished. It is full of German intrigue and you will be glad to know that the imaginary spy is caught and court-martialled. You have done a fine thing by your discovery, for Mr. Donnelle has become greatly interested in the Scouts, and especially in our young scout author.” Then he gave me a funny look. “So you see our dark memorandum was not so dark after all.”

“G-o-o-d night!” I said; “it was a kind of a pale white.”

“And I dare say,” Mr. Ellsworth said, all the while slapping me on the shoulder, “that our deep-dyed villain is going to prove a very good friend.”

“Even if you’re deep-dyed,” said Pee-wee, “sometimes the colors will run and you won’t be so deep-dyed after all. My sister had a skirt and she dyed it a deep——”

Honest, that kid is a scream.

CHAPTER IV
THE PLOT GROWS THINNER—OR ELSE THICKER

Pee-wee says it grows thicker and I say it grows thinner, so I put it both ways. I told him things would begin to stir up in this chapter and he said a thing always gets thicker when you stir it. I should worry.

“Suppose we should go boating or something like that where there’s a lot of water,” I told him; “that would thin it some if you added water, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re crazy,” he shouted.

Westy Martin wanted to name it The Deep Dyed Villain—so you can call it that if you want to—I don’t care.

Now I’ll start off. You remember about Mr. Donnelle saying that he had a wireless. Well, pretty soon after what I’ve been telling you about, the men went away and they were all laughing and good-natured about it. I heard one of them say that the Boy Scouts were a wide-awake lot. Believe me, they wouldn’t say that if they saw us sleeping after a day’s hike at Temple Camp, If you heard Vic Norris snore, you’d think it was the West Front in France.

Well anyway, Mr. Donnelle wanted Pee-wee and me to stay at his house a little while, because he said he was kind of interested in us. He would listen to Pee-wee very sober like and then begin to laugh. And whenever Pee-wee tried to explain, it only made him laugh more.

“Anyway, I could see you weren’t a very bad kind of a spy,” Pee-wee said.

Jiminety! I had to laugh.

Well, Mr. Donnelle asked us all about the Scouts and we told him all about them—Pee-wee mostly did that. He’s a scout propaganderlet—that’s a small sized propagandist. We told him how we didn’t know how we are going to manage to get up to Temple Camp in our launch, because it would only hold about seven or eight boys and we had twenty-four, not counting Captain Kidd, the parrot.

“Well, now I have a little scheme,” he said, smiling all the while, “and perhaps we can hit some sort of a plan. If I can only get you boys out of the way, away up at camp, I’ll be able to carry on my German propaganda work.” Then he winked at me and I knew he was kidding Pee-wee.

Well, believe me, we hit a plan all right; we more than hit it, we gave it a knockout blow.

All the while we were talking, he was taking us across the lawn till pretty soon we came to a little patch of woods and as soon as I got a whiff of those trees, good night, I felt as if I was up at Temple Camp already. That’s a funny thing about trees—you get to know them and like them sort of.

Then pretty soon we came to a creek that ran through the woods and I could see it was deep and all shaded by the trees. Oh, jiminy, it was fine. And you could hear it ripple too, just like the water of Black Lake up near Temple Camp. If I was a grown-up author I could write some dandy stuff about it, because it was all dark and spooky as you might say, and you could see the trees reflected in it and casting their something or other—you know what I mean.

“Can you follow a trail?” Mr. Donnelle asked us.

“Trails are our middle names,” I told him, “and I can follow one——”

“Whitherso’er——” Pee-wee began.

“Whither so which?” I said. Because he was trying to talk high brow just because he knew Mr. Donnelle was an author.

So he led us along a trail that ran along the shore all in and out through trees, and he said it was all his property. Pretty soon I could see part of a house through the trees and I thought I’d like to live there, it was so lonely.

“You mean secluded,” Pee-wee said. Mr. Donnelle smiled and I told him Pee-wee was a young dictionary—pocket size.

Pretty soon we reached the house and, good night, it wasn’t any house at all; it was a house-boat. And I could see the fixtures for a wireless on it, only the wires had been taken down.

Then Mr. Donnelle said, “Boys,” he said, “this is my old workshop and I have spent many happy hours in it. But I don’t use it any more and if you boys think you could all pile into it, why you are welcome to it for the summer. It has no power, but perhaps you could tow it behind your launch. Anyway you may charter it for the large sum of nothing at all, as a reward for foiling a spy.”

“I—I kind of knew you were not a spy all the time,” said Pee-wee.

Well, I was so flabbergasted that I just couldn’t speak and even Pee-wee was struck dumb. We just gaped like a couple of idiots, and after a while I said, “Cracky, it’s too good to be true.”

“So you see what comes from collecting books for soldiers and for keeping your eyes open,” Mr. Donnelle said; “you have caught a bigger fish than you thought. Now suppose I show you through the inside.”

Now here is the place where the plot begins to get thicker and, believe me, in four or five chapters it will be as thick as mud. We were just coming up to the house-boat to go aboard it, when suddenly the door flew open and a fellow scampered across the deck and ran away.

I could see that he had pretty shabby clothes and a peaked cap and I guess he was startled to hear us coming. In just a few seconds he was gone in the woods and we all stood gaping there while the boat bobbed up and down, on account of him jumping from it. But I got a squint at his face all right, and I noticed the color of his cap and how he ran, and I’m mighty glad I did, because that fellow was going to come into our young lives again and cause us a lot of trouble, you can bet.

Mr. Donnelle said he was probably just a tramp that had been sleeping in the boat and he didn’t seem to mind much, only he said it would be better to keep the door locked.

“Maybe he might have been a——” Pee-wee began.

“No siree,” I said. “We’ve had enough of deep-dyed villains for one day, if that’s what you were going to say.”

“Maybe we’d better track him,” said Pee-wee, very serious.

“Nix on the tracking,” I said, “I’ve retired from the detective business, and now I’m going to be cook on a house-boat.”

“We’ll have a good anchor anyway if you make biscuits,” Pee-wee said.

“They’ll weigh more than you do anyway,” I fired back. And Mr. Donnelle began to laugh.

Well, we didn’t bother our heads any more about the tramp, but I could see that Pee-wee would have been happier if we’d have thought it was the Kaiser or Villa, instead of just a plain ordinary tramp, looking for a place to sleep. But oh, crinkums, you’ll be surprised when you hear all about that fellow and who he was and I suppose you’d like me to tell you now, wouldn’t you? But I won’t.

I’ve got to go to camp meeting now, so goodbye, see you later.

CHAPTER V
LOST

Now I’m going to write until my sister begins playing the piano. Music and literature don’t mix, believe me. There are two cruises in this book, a big one and a little one. You can take your pick. The little one is full of mud and the big one is full of pep. Anyway you get your money’s worth, that’s one sure thing.

This chapter is about the little cruise. But first I have to tell you about the house-boat, because it turned out to be our home sweet home for a couple of weeks. It didn’t only turn out, but it turned in and it turned sideways and every which way. But I’m not going to knock it. It got knocks enough going through the creek and up Bridgeboro River. It knocked into two bridges and goodness knows what all. But what cared we, yo ho? We cared nit—I mean naught.

First Mr. Donnelle showed us through it and it was dandy, only in very poor shape. Its shape was square. But I wouldn’t laugh at it because we had a lot of fun on it. Inside it had two rooms and a little kitchen and the roof had a railing around it and there was lots of room there. There was lots of room on the deck too. And there was a kind of little guard-house, too, to put Pee-wee in if he didn’t behave. Some of the windows were broken, but I knew we could fix them easily. All we needed to do was eat some green apples and then we’d have plenty of panes. There were some lockers too, only one of them was locked and we couldn’t get into it.

I guess the tramp didn’t take anything, because there was nothing missing. I guess all he took was a look around. There were some cushions piled on one of the lockers and they looked as if someone had been sleeping on them. Pee-wee said he could see the oil stove had been used by the smell—he’s got such sharp eyes that he can see a smell. I told him he had a classy eye because there was a pupil in it, and you ought to have seen Mr. Donnelle laugh. I guess he thought we were crazy.

“Well we should worry about the tramp,” I said, “especially now that we have a boat like this. The next thing to do is to bring the whole troop and get her fixed up.”

One thing was easy anyway. Just below Bridgeboro, where we live, there is a kind of a branch flowing into the Bridgeboro River. We always called it the creek. Now we found out from Mr. Donnelle that it started along up above Little Valley. Over there they call it Dutch Creek. He said that at high tide we could float the houseboat right down into Bridgeboro River and then wait for the up tide or else tow it up to Bridgeboro. Cracky, I could see it would be a cinch and I was glad because we fellows didn’t have money enough to have the boat carted by land. But, good night, this way was easy.

The next morning I sent a birch bark call to all the fellows in our troop. I sent them each a little piece of birch bark by courier. Connie Bennett, he’s our courier. And that meant come to Special Meeting—W. S. W. S. means without scoutmaster. So pretty soon they began coming up to Camp Solitaire. That’s the name I gave the tent I have on our lawn. When they were all there, I told them about Mr. Donnelle and the houseboat, and we decided that we’d hike over to Little Valley and pile right in and get it ready instead of bringing it to Bridgeboro first. We decided that if we worked on it for about three days, it would be ready.

So we all started to hike it along the road to Little Valley. We had an adventure before we got there, and I guess I’d better tell you about it. I made a map too, so you can see the way everything was. It’s about five miles to Little Valley by the road.

Well, we were all hiking it along, sometimes going scout-pace and most of the time jollying Pee-wee, when all of a sudden I noticed a mark on a rock that I was sure was a scout mark. It was an arrow and it was marked with a piece of slate. Underneath the arrow was another mark like a pail, so I knew the sign meant that there was water in that direction.

I didn’t know any scouts around our way that could be camping there, but whenever a scout sees a scout sign he usually likes to follow it up. So I told the fellows I was going to follow if there was any time. They said it was an old last year’s mark, but go ahead if I wanted to, and I told them I’d meet them at Little Valley later.

So now comes the adventure. As soon as I left the fellows, I hit the trail into the woods just like you’ll see on the map I made. It wasn’t much of a trail and I guess a fellow couldn’t follow it if he wasn’t a scout. It was all thick woods like a jungle kind of, and I could see where branches had been broken by somebody that passed there. Pretty soon it began to get swampy and there wasn’t any more trail at all.

As long as there’s any sign of a trail you can’t get me rattled, but cracky, I don’t like marshes. You can get lost in a marsh easier than in any other place. Pretty soon I was plodding around deeper than my knees and it gave me a strain every time I dragged my leg out of the swamp. Maybe you’ll wonder why I didn’t go back, but if you do, that’s because you don’t know much about marshes. All of a sudden I was right in the middle of it, as you might say, and there were no landmarks at all.

Pretty soon I was in waist deep and then I was scared, you can bet. If there’s one thing that gets me scared it’s quicksand. As long as I could get my legs out I was all right, but when I began sinking as low as my waist and had to drag myself out by squirming and catching hold of bushes and things, then I lost my nerve—I have to admit it.

I saw I was a fool ever to go into that pesky place, but it was too late and I knew that pretty soon I’d be in too deep to get out. Oh, jiminies, I was scared. Once, after I scrambled out I tried lying flat on the marsh with the reeds laid over sideways underneath me. But they didn’t hold me up and anyway I knew I couldn’t lie that way forever. I wondered how a scout had ever gone through here.

Before I knew how to swim I came mighty near to getting drowned and I got lost in the woods, too, when I was a tenderfoot. But this was worse than anything I ever knew before. Once I sank down almost to my shoulders and I guess I would have been a goner, only my feet struck something hard and flat and I stood on that until I got rested a little.

All the while I looked around to see if I could decide where the land might be a little harder, but I guess I must have been in the worst part of it. I decided that the safest thing I could do was to stand just where I was. I didn’t know what it was I was standing on, but anyway it didn’t seem to sink any, so I was kind of safe there, as you might say. But I knew I could never raise myself out of that place and I’d have to just stand there till I got so tired and hungry, that I’d drop down and be sucked into the marsh.

So anyway, I’d have to die, I was sure of that, only I didn’t want to die any sooner than I had to. Two or three times I shouted as loud as I could, but I knew it wasn’t any use, because I was two or three miles away from any house. Even if anybody knew, I didn’t see how they could get to me and it was only by good luck that I wasn’t dead already on account of the hard thing I was standing on. Every once in a while bubbles would come up and I thought it was because that thing I was standing on was sinking lower. The marsh was just about even with my shoulders and I kept looking sideways at my shoulders all the time, so as to see if I was going down any and sometimes I thought I was. But I guess I wasn’t.

The weeds stood up all around me so I couldn’t see, except up in the air and it was like being in a grave with just my head out. Gee, I thought about the fellows hiking it to Little Valley and beginning work on the house-boat and waiting for me to come, and I could just kind of hear them jollying Pee-wee, and oh, I wished I was there. I was wondering who the Silver Foxes would elect for their patrol leader and then I got to thinking how nobody, not even my mother and father, would ever know what became of me, because you can’t drag a marsh like you can a river. And it seemed kind of funny like, to die without anybody ever knowing what became of you.

Pretty soon my legs began getting very tired like a fellow’s legs always do when he keeps standing in water. Only this was worse than water. I wondered how it would feel when my knees gave out and I sank down.

Then I happened to think about having my hike-book with me. It was all wet and the pencil was wet too, but I held it up high out of the marsh and wrote this on one of the pages. After I wrote it I stuck it up high on one of the marsh weeds.

This is where Roy Blakeley, patrol leader, Silver Fox Patrol, Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A., was sucked down into the marsh, after he couldn’t stand up any more. I was standing on something that was hard and maybe you’ll find my body lying on that. In my desk is something I was going to give my mother for a birthday present. I send her a lot of love too. My father too. And I hope my Patrol gets along all right and that the troop has a lot of fun this summer. I hope somebody will find this.

CHAPTER VI
THE TIGHT PLACE

After that I made up my mind I wouldn’t think any more about living and then I was satisfied, kind of. ’Cause as long as you know you’ve got to die, what’s the difference. They could get another fellow to lead the patrol, that’s one sure thing. Mostly I cared about my mother on account of not being able to say good-bye to her.

All of a sudden it seemed as if there was more water around me than before. Up to that time it was mushy, kind of, but not much water. But now it was more like water all around me and I noticed a little bunch of net moss near me. Maybe you don’t know what net moss is. It’s moss that grows in swamps. Well, what do you think I saw lying on that clump of net moss? Cracky, you’d hardly believe it, but it was a spark plug. And it looked funny to see it there.

If you’re not a scout maybe you don’t know anything about camping, but it’s one of our rules not to defile the woods with rubbish and Mr. Ellsworth always told us a tomato can didn’t look right in the woods. Well, jiminety, that spark plug sure did look funny lying on that piece of net moss. It floated right near my shoulder and I lifted it off and, oh, crinkums, but it made me think of Bridgeboro.

It was almost the same as if it was a fellow come to rescue me, as you might say. It was just because it didn’t belong there, I guess. Of course, I knew it couldn’t rescue me, but it reminded me of people and that kind of cheered me up a little.

Then I began to think about it. I remembered what our scoutmaster said about a fellow that’s drowning—that he can think as long as his head is out of water. And this was like drowning, only slower. I was wondering how that spark plug got there. It’s funny how you’ll think about little things like that even when you’re dying.

One thing sure, no automobile ever went through there, and no motorcycle either. Maybe a fellow in an airplane might have dropped it, or maybe—

Then, all of a sudden I began to laugh. And while I was laughing some water flowed into my mouth. But I didn’t care, I was feeling so good. I knew all about the whole thing now, and I felt like kicking myself only my feet were down in all that tangle of marsh. But what cared I, yo ho—and a couple of yee hees.

Oh, I was some wise little boy scout then, and I had a scout smile long enough to tie in a couple of bow knots. That spark plug was thrown out of a motor boat. I could see that the spark points were bad and somebody threw it away because it wouldn’t work and then put in a new one. And I knew that already the tide was beginning to come up and that pretty soon there would be a creek here and that I could swim in it.

Cracky, you can’t scare me when it’s a question of swimming, for I wasn’t brought up in a bath tub. Many’s the time I swam across Black Lake. Water’s all right, but swamps—good night!

Maybe if you don’t live near meadow lands you won’t understand how it was. But when the tide rises twice every twenty-four hours (you learn that in the Fourth Grade), it makes creeks through the meadows and marshes. Some of them are deep enough for small motor boats even, only you’ve got to be careful not to stay up one of them too long or you’ll get stuck till the next day. One time that happened to Ed Sanders that owned the Rascal and he was there all night, and he almost died from poison of the mosquitoes. Anyway I would have been dead before night when the mosquitoes come out—that’s one good thing. I don’t mean it’s one good thing, but anyway you know what I mean.

Pretty soon I could push the swamp grass out of the way and swim a little. Oh, cracky, I was thankful for that tide! I knew it would keep on coming when it once started ’cause the tide never goes back on you. Of course it goes back, but you know what I mean. Sometimes if you’re on a hike and telling time by the sun it’ll go under a cloud, or sometimes if you’re lost and following the stars, it’ll cloud up and you can’t see them any more. And crinkums, a trail will go back on you sometimes. But the tide is sure. It’s got to come up, and so I knew it was coming up to rescue me and I knew I was all right as soon as I saw that spark plug.

Pee-wee wanted to name this chapter “Saved By A Spark Plug” or “The Hero Plug” but I said it sounded silly. Any way I’ll never say another word against the tide. Often when I saw motor boats stuck on the flats I could hear the men in them saying things about the tide—oh, gee, you ought to have heard some of the things they said.

But I’ll never say anything, anyway. It seemed kind of, you know, like an army coming to rescue me, slow but sure, and pretty soon I was swimming around, and oh, didn’t I feel good!

All of a sudden like, there was a little river there and it kept getting deeper and wider and I knew it began away out in the ocean and it seemed as if it was picking its way all the way up into these marshes, to give me a chance to do what every scout knows how to do—swim.

Of course I was saved, but I didn’t know how far I’d have to swim, only I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have to die now.

I guess now you’d better look at the map I made, and then you’ll see how the creek came in the marshes and about where I was, when it began to rise.

Of course I didn’t know where it came from or where it went, but I decided to swim against the tide for two reasons. First I was afraid to go the other way because it might just peter out, like most of those meadow creeks do, and then I’d be in the marsh again. Oh, boy, safety first. I’d had enough of marshes. Besides if I swam the other way it would be deeper and wider and I’d be more likely to find a board or a log or something and pretty soon I might come to solid shores.

But before I started I had another adventure. I took off my shoes and stockings and everything except my underclothes. But of course, that wasn’t the adventure. It was a dandy adventure, but you have to wait, and if it rains to-morrow so we can’t go trailing, I’ll write some more. I think it’ll rain to-morrow.

CHAPTER VII
WEETONKA, THE TERRIBLE CHIEF

Of course you can tell when you look at the map where the creek came from. It came from Dutch Creek and Dutch Creek flows into the Bridgeboro River, and Bridgeboro River rises in the northern part of some place or other and takes a—some kind of a course—and flows into New York Bay. Once I got kept in, in school, for not knowing that. But how should I know where this creek went? It came—that was enough for me. I should worry where it went.

Before I started to swim I decided I’d go under and try to find out what it was that I’d been standing on. Because I had to thank it. A boy scout is supposed to be grateful. So I ducked and groped around in the marshy bottom and I felt something hard with a point to it. I had to come up for air, then I ducked again and felt around over it and under it. I joggled it with both my hands and it budged—not much but a little. Then I came up for air and went down and gave a good tug at it.

I guess it was just kind of caught in the mud and weeds for after I pulled some of these away a lot of bubbles came up, and then I got hold of one end of the thing and it stuck up slantingways out of the water like an alligator’s mouth. Oh, gee, it was all slimy and had moss growing to it and it was black and hard. I was crazy to find out what it was and I swam around the end of it, bobbing it up and down. Then I sat on it and rocked it and it joggled. When I straddled it, it went down with me and when I jerked it, it seemed to get loose a little. The end that was sticking up wasn’t very big around, only it was terribly slippery. Anyway, I sat on it and tightened my legs around it just like a fellow does with a balky horse, and then I began jouncing up and down like on a seesaw.

Pretty soon the other end came up and, oh, boy, didn’t I get dumped off into the water. It looked like a slimy old log floating. I gave it a turn and then—g-o-o-d night—what do you think it was? It was a regular Indian dug-out.

I guess maybe it was a hundred years old and you can see it now, if you ever come to Bridgeboro, because it’s in the Museum of our Public Library and you’ll know it because it’s got “Presented by 1st Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A.,” on it.

I guess maybe it was about fifteen feet long and as soon as I cut into it with my scout knife, I saw that it was made of cedar and it wasn’t rotten—not so much, anyway. Jiminies, that’s one good thing about cedar; it lasts forever under water.

Oh, boy, wasn’t I excited. I swam around it washing it off with my scout jacket, then I bailed the little dug out part out with my scout hat. It wasn’t so black when I got it all cleaned off. It was kind of chocolate color and I knew it must be very old, because cedar turns that color after a long time. You learn that in Woodcraft.

It was all made out of one piece and the place where you sit was just hollowed out—about big enough for one person.

Then I got inside and it was crankier than a racing shell. You had to sit up straight like a little tin soldier to keep it from tipping—it was one tippicanoe, you can bet. I fell out and had to roll it over and bail it out two or three times. At last I got the hang of it and I pushed it in the marshes a little way so it wouldn’t drift up stream. There was a regular creek there now, good and wide and deep, and the water was coming up like a parade.

Then I pulled a lot of reeds and bound them together with swamp grass. That was a funny kind of a paddle I guess, but it was better than nothing and anyway I decided to wait till the tide was at flood and then paddle back with it. That would be a cinch.

So then I sat in the dug-out and just waited for the tide to come up. The dug-out stayed where it was on account of being pushed in among the reeds and oh, jiminety, it was nice sitting there. I thought maybe the creek would empty out again into Bridgeboro River and I could tie up there and go home. But I had a big surprise waiting for me, you can bet.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning when I started on that crazy trail and it was about five o’clock in the afternoon when the tide began to turn and go back. All the while I was sitting there waiting I thought about the Indian that owned that canoe. Maybe his bones were down underneath there, I thought. Ugh! I’d like to see them. No, I wouldn’t. Maybe he was on his way to a pow-wow, hey?

Well, after a while when the tide turned I started paddling down. A little water came through a couple of deep cracks, but not much and I sopped it up with my hat. But oh, jingoes, I never had to sit up so straight in school (not even when the principal came through the class-room) as I did in that cranky old log with a hole in it. And oh, you would have chucked a couple of chuckles if you’d seen me guiding my Indian bark with a bunch of reeds. Honest, they looked like a street sweeper’s broom.

After a while the creek began to get wider and then I could see far ahead of me the roof of a house. Then, all of a sudden, I heard somebody shout.

“Don’t bother to plug the hole up, leave it the way it is, so if the water comes in, it can get out again.”

Then I heard a voice shout, “You’re crazy!” and I knew it was the fellows jollying Pee-wee Harris and they were talking about a hole in the boat, because that was the roof I saw. So then I knew I was coming out into Dutch Creek right where it passes Little Valley.

Oh, boy! Wasn’t I excited? Pretty soon I could see the boat and some of the fellows on it working away, sawing and hammering and jollying each other, the way the fellows in our troop are always doing. You can see by the map just how I got to where they were. I guess I must have been as near as fifty feet before Connie Bennett threw down his hammer and shouted.

“Look who’s here!”

Westy Martin was sitting on the edge of the deck dangling his feet and eating a sandwich. Well, you ought to have seen them all stare.

“What in the dickens do you call this?” Wig Weigand hollered.

But I didn’t say a word till I got right close to them, then I gave Westy a good swat with my reed paddle.

“I am Weetonka, the famous Indian chief!” I shouted, “and I haven’t had anything to eat since eight o’clock. Give me that sandwich or I’ll scalp you!”

CHAPTER VIII
RESOPEKITWAFTENLY

This chapter and the next one are mostly about Wigley Weigand, but we usually call him Wig-Wag Weigand, because he’s a cracker-jack on wig-wag signalling. He’s good on all the different kinds of signalling. He’s a Raven, but he can’t help that, because there wasn’t any Silver Fox Patrol when the Raving Ravens started.

The Ravens were the—what do you call it—you know what I mean—nucleus of the troop. That’s how it started. There are about half a million scouts in America and all of them can’t be Silver Foxes, even if they’d like to.

Wig has the crossed flags—that’s the signalling badge; and the fellows say he can make the sky talk. Believe me, he can make it shout. He isn’t so bad considering that he’s a Raven and there’s one good thing about him anyway—and that’s that his mother always gives us cookies and things when we go on a hike. I got a dandy mother, too, and maybe you’ll see how much I think about her, kind of, in the next chapter. Anyway I have to thank Wig Weigand, that’s one sure thing.

Now maybe you think I did a good stunt in that marsh, but a scout doesn’t get credit unless he uses his brains and does everything all right. And that’s where I fell down, and it came near making a lot of trouble, believe me.

Many’s the time Tom Slade (he’s in the war now) told me never to leave a scout sign after it wasn’t any more use. “Scratch ’em out,” he said, “because even if it means something now, it might not mean anything six months from now.” Jiminy, that fellow has some brains. He said, “Never forget to take down a sign when it’s no use any more.”

Well, when I found I wasn’t going to die a terrible death (that’s what Pee-wee called it) I didn’t have sense enough to take away that note that I stuck on the reeds. When I stuck it there I reached up as high as I could, so even when the tide was high up there, I guess it didn’t reach it. I was so excited to find I could get away that I never thought anything about it. And when I sailed into Little Valley in my Indian canoe, gee, I had forgotten all about it.

I found that the troop had done a good day’s work caulking the hull up and slapping a couple of coats of copper paint on it, while the tide was out. So then we decided that as long as the tide was going down, we’d float her down with it to the Bridgeboro River and then wait for the up tide to float her upstream to Bridgeboro. We decided that we’d rather fix her up in Bridgeboro. So you see that this chapter is about the tide, too. Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Donnelle both told me that I must have plenty of movement in my story, so I guess the tide’s a good character for a story, because it’s always moving.

Well, you ought to have seen those fellows when I sailed in shouting that I was Weetonka, the famous Indian chief. Doc Carson dropped his paint brush on Connie Bennett and he was splashed all over with copper paint—good night!

“Where did you get that thing,” Pee-wee shouted, “it looks like a horse’s trough.”

“You have to part your hair in the middle to ride in it, I can tell you that,” I told him.

“Where were you all the time?” he said.

“I was captured by a band of Apaches,” I said.

“What kind of a band?” Pee-wee yelled.

“A brass band,” I told him; “a brass band of Apaches.”

“You make me sick!” he said, kind of disgusted.

“They took me to their village and were going to burn me at the stake, only the butcher didn’t bring it, then they decided they’d chop me to pieces only the butcher didn’t bring the chops——”

Oh, boy! you should have seen that kid. He fired a wet bailing sponge at me and I dodged it and it hit one of his own patrol—kerflop!

I guess you’ll think all us fellows are crazy, especially me. I should worry. I told them I escaped in the canoe and all that kind of stuff, but at last I told them the real story and you can bet they were glad I was saved. They all said I had a narrow escape, and I admit it was only about an inch wide.

Now, I have to tell you about how we floated the house-boat down to Bridgeboro River, and maybe you’d better look at the map, hey? Oh, but first I want to tell you about the name we gave it. Some name! We christened it with a bottle of mosquito dope. Its regular name was all rubbed off, so we decided we’d vote on a new name.

This is the way we fixed it. Each patrol thought of a name and then we mixed the three names up and made one name out of them. Then you just add a little sugar and serve.

The Ravens voted the name Sprite, the Elks voted the name Fly and the Silver Foxes voted the name Weetonka, on account of me. Then we wrote all these letters down and mixed them all up and arranged them every which way, till we got this name:

RESOPEKITWAFTENLY

Oh, boy, some laugh we had over that name. We were all sitting around in the two cabin rooms and believe me, it was some giggling match.

“It sounds like a Bolsheviki name,” Westy Martin said.

“You wait till the infernal revenue people get that name,” I said, “it’ll knock ’em out.” Because, of course, I knew we’d have to send the name to the infernal revenue people—I mean internal or eternal or whatever you call it—because you have to do that to get your license number.

“It’s a good name,” I said, “you don’t see it every day.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Doc Carson said, “it’s as long as a spelling lesson or Pee-wee’s tongue.”

“It’ll be a pretty expensive name; it’ll take a lot of paint,” Brick Warner said.

“We should worry,” I said.

So then I made some coffee, because I’m the troop cook, and we thought it was best to eat before we started. That bunch is always hungry. They said it was punk coffee, but that was because they didn’t bring enough to go around.

“Don’t laugh at the coffee,” I told them, “you may be old and weak yourselves some day.” I made some flapjacks, too, and then we started.

We didn’t have to do much work because the ebb was running good and strong, and we just sat around the deck with our feet dangling over, and pushed her off with our scout staffs whenever she ran against the shores. She didn’t keep head on, but that was no matter as long as she went, and pretty soon (I guess it must have been about seven o’clock) we went waltzing into Bridgeboro River.

And then was when we made a crazy mistake. Just for a minute we forgot that the tide would be running down the river instead of up. If we had only remembered that, three or four of us could have gone ashore with a rope and tied her in the channel, which ran along the near shore. Then all we would have had to do would have been to sit around and wait for it to turn, so we could drift up to Bridgeboro with it.

But just when we were floating out of the creek, we forgot all about what the tide would do to us, unless we were on the job and sure enough it caught us and sent us whirling around and away over on to the flats.

“Good night!” I said when I heard her scrape.

“We should have had sense enough to know the tide is stronger here than in the creek,” they all said.

“What’s the difference?” Dorry Benton said, “we’re stuck on the flats, that’s all. Now we don’t have to bother to tie her. When the tide changes, we’ll float off and go on upstream all right. We’re just as well off as if we were tied up in the channel.”

Well, I guess he was right except for what happened pretty soon. So we settled down to wait for the tide to go down and change. After a while we began to see the flats all around us and there wasn’t any water near us at all—only the water in the channel away over near the west shore. We were high and dry and there wasn’t any way for a fellow to get away from where we were, because he couldn’t swim and he’d only sink in the mud, if he tried to walk it.