THE BOY SCOUTS
OF THE
SIGNAL CORPS

BY
ROBERT SHALER

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Sterling Boy Scout Books

Bound in cloth Ten titles

1 Boy Scouts of the Signal Corps. 2 Boy Scouts of Pioneer Camp. 3 Boy Scouts of the Geological Survey. 4 Boy Scouts of the Life Saving Crew. 5 Boy Scouts on Picket Duty. 6 Boy Scouts of the Flying Squadron. 7 Boy Scouts and the Prize Pennant. 8 Boy Scouts of the Naval Reserve. 9 Boy Scouts in the Saddle. 10 Boy Scouts for City Improvement.

You can purchase any of the above books at the price you paid for this one, or the publishers will send any book, postpaid, upon receipt of 25c.

HURST & CO., Publishers
432 Fourth Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1914, by Hurst & Company.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. [Great Expectations] 5 II. [Forming the Signal Corps] 21 III. [A Perilous Encounter] 35 IV. [A Fire in Camp] 48 V. [Reveille] 65 VI. [The Chosen Few] 81 VII. [The End of the Hike] 97 VIII. [An Unexpected Reproof] 113 IX. [The Sham Battle] 128 X. [Around the Council-Fire] 140 XI. [A Mountain Adventure] 152

The Boy Scouts of the Signal Corps

CHAPTER I.
GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

“Hi! you, Billy Worth!” cried the leader of the Wolf patrol, a tall youth of seventeen named Hugh Hardin, addressing his assistant. “Scramble out of that bunky, my boy, in two wags of a Wolf’s tail, or I’ll have scout’s law on you!”

“All right, chief! Coming!” was the prompt response, as Billy, thus adjured, turned over in his bunk and thrust one long leg over the edge.

His bare brown foot, dangling perilously near the head of another boy whose bunk was beneath Billy’s, proved too great a temptation for the lad. Pulling a whisp of straw from his mattress, he proceeded to tickle the sole of that foot, thereby causing Billy to elevate it hastily with a loud squeal.

As he did so, Hugh made a dexterous sweep of his arms, and, grasping Billy around the knees, almost flung him over one broad shoulder and deposited him none too gently on the floor.

“Ouch!” whooped Billy.

His shout and the dull thump of his fall aroused other inmates of the cabin who had not already wakened in time to witness the onslaught.

“Help! Murder!” yelled a scout of the patrol.

“Shut up!” another boy said, laughing, as he sprang from his bunk. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

“Not hurt, are you, old man?” inquired Hugh, a trifle anxiously, for he seldom cared to perpetrate practical jokes. “I didn’t mean to——”

No response from Billy. He lay where he had fallen, with one arm outstretched, the other pillowing his head. His face was covered by a limp hand, but between his fingers he slyly peeped out, and his twinkling eyes sought the serious face of Hugh, who was bending over him.

“Billy’s done for!” said the lad who had tickled him. “Let’s put him to bed, chief, for he will be happier there.”

Ignoring this facetious suggestion, Hugh bent still lower; he even dropped upon one knee, and put his hands on Billy’s shoulder.

“Wake up, son!” he urged, smiling and giving his chum a gentle shake. “First round is over, and in ten seconds you will be counted out.”

This was the chance for which Billy had been waiting. Now he saw that Hugh was completely off his guard. Suddenly his free hand shot out, grasped Hugh’s ankle from behind, gave it a strong push—and the next instant Hugh measured his length on the floor. Before Hugh could fully realize what had happened to upset his equilibrium, Billy gathered up his own sprawling limbs, and hurled himself upon his fallen leader.

“Down and out, am I?” he gurgled. “Who said so? Come on, we’ll——”

“Sure! We’ll see!” As he spoke, Hugh struggled free from the other’s hold, and met the reprisal with his usual jolly laugh. “Good for you, Billy! Good one on me! O-ho!”—he dodged nimbly a “half-Nelson” which Billy had vainly attempted—“none of your famous strangle-holds, now!”

Then ensued a rough-and-tumble match, the outcome of which was awaited in joyous suspense by every scout in the cabin. They all gathered in a wide circle around the wrestlers, showering liberal encouragement. Had the match been between Hugh or Billy and a member of the other patrol, however friendly, it might not have been greeted with the same impartiality.

The circle soon narrowed, for not more than three minutes elapsed before both contestants were down on their sides, facing each other. Hugh, being quicker and less stockily built than his chum, was the first to make a final overthrow. In a trice, he pulled Billy under him; and, though Billy put up a good fight, he crumpled flat under Hugh’s weight.

“You win!” he gasped. “Get off my arm,—it hurts!”

“Sorry, son,” said Hugh, when murmurs of applause had died away. “Shall I put you back to bed now?”

“No, thank you; I——”

Laughter greeted Hugh’s query, for Billy Worth bore an undeserved reputation of being a sluggard. On his part, he took the laugh good-humoredly.

“Is that what you call doing a daily good turn?” he inquired of Hardin, with a grin. “You’ve begun the day nicely, I must say!”

“You did the good turn, old scout!” called Walter Osborne, of the Hawk patrol, from across the room. “I never saw a neater tumble!”

“I’ll take a fall out of you for that, Walt!” threatened Billy, cheerfully. “If we have archery practice to-day, you’ll miss a feather from your wing!”

“Hear! Hear!” came a chorus of voices.

“Fly at him, Walt!” urged one of young Osborne’s patrol.

“Go to it, beak and claws,” added another.

“Billy the Wolf’ll catch you if you don’t watch out!” chanted a third, in a sing-song voice, thumping his pillow as if to beat time to the words.

Neither Billy nor Hugh made any response to this friendly taunt. Hugh turned aside and, going to the rear of the room where a tier of lockers stood, numbered to correspond with the bunks, he drew out a pair of bathing trunks.

“Going for a swim before breakfast?” asked Billy, turning to a young fellow who appeared in the doorway of the cabin and paused on the threshold outside.

“Are you?” came the evasive answer.

“You bet! The Lieutenant gave us permission yesterday, and we’re off to the lake, bright and early.”

“I see,” remarked the outsider, glancing around the cabin, which was filled with boys in various stages of undress.

Something in the tone of his voice, a note of wistful bitterness, struck the ears of Hugh Hardin, who was standing near enough to overhear this brief colloquy. He looked up from the process of tying the strings of his shorts tight, and was on the point of making some remark, when, recognizing the visitor, he kept silence.

Billy Worth was not so tactful.

“Come along, Alec,” he urged. “The water’s fine!”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m on police duty, as punishment.”

“Punishment? For what?”

“Carelessness,” was Alec’s truthful, albeit sulky, reply. “Yesterday I dumped ‘Buck’ Winter out of a canoe,—though it wasn’t all my fault. The kid wouldn’t keep still, and he told me he could swim like a fish,—and he was nearly drowned.”

“Gee! That little piker! Why, he can swim! Didn’t he capture two points from us last week, in the hundred yards?”

“Wrong again, Billy! It was his brother, who is the star swimmer of our patrol.”

“Well, your Otters put it all over us, Alec, in those water games.”

“That is why we are so glad to have morning practice,” added Hugh, in a tone which he honestly intended to be kind. “We Wolves want time to find out what we can do.”

“Buck must have lost his head,” remarked Walter Osborne, who had drawn near.

“He did,” said Alec, emphatically, “and he gave Chief Hardin a chance to qualify in first-aid—at my expense.”

There was no mistaking the resentment that underlay those words. Walt and Billy glanced uneasily at Hugh.

A flush stained Hugh’s bronzed cheeks and brow at the retort, and he turned away scornfully, biting his under lip. It was hard to keep his temper in control, as a scout should; but he managed to do so, and the next moment he was outside the cabin, filling his lungs with deep draughts of the pine-scented air and watching the mists roll up the side of the opposite mountain. With the coming of the sun, he was able to take fresh note of his surroundings, and his eager dark eyes dwelt fondly upon the familiar scene in the first light of a new day.

Indeed, it was a scene to stir any red-blooded boy. As far as Hugh could see through the lifting vapor lay the lake, a great silvery mirror reflecting the heavily wooded shores so clearly that the inverted forest appeared no less real than the original. From the shores of the lake, in every direction, hills sloped ruggedly up into mountains, for the most part clothed to their summits with the variegated green of a mighty woodland. The side of one of the nearer mountains was scarred by exposed ledges of bare rock, which, as Lieutenant Denmead, the Scout Master, had said, would make fine strategic points for the Signalers’ Game.

“We’ll try it some day this week,” he had told Hugh on the previous evening, as he sat with his assistant scout master, Rawson, and the leaders of the four patrols around the camp-fire.

Hugh recalled that vague promise now, as his gaze wandered from those rocky ledges to the deeper hollows not yet penetrated by the sun’s rays.

How dim and mysterious they looked! How Hugh longed to explore them and to discover, by means of such woodcraft as he had already learned, the treasures hidden in those shadowy nooks and ravines!

Several boys of his patrol followed him from the cabin. They saw that something had vexed him, but they made no comments, even among themselves. Presently they dashed away, down to the shore of the lake, where most of the boys from the other cabins were gathered. These boys belonged to the Otter and the Fox patrols.

Left alone for the moment, Hugh waited for Billy and Walter, to whom he had decided to make an explanation of Alec’s thrust. As they walked down to the lake together,—Alec having departed on his rounds to the chip-basket,—he told them how he had happened to be on hand to give assistance at the canoe accident.

“I didn’t help very much, really,” he finished, “and I don’t see why Alec should be so sore.”

“Oh, never mind him, Hugh; he’ll get over his grouch after a while,” declared Billy. “He is jealous of you because you qualified as a first-class scout before he did, and because you are in line for a merit badge as chief scout woodsman.”

“Hello, son!” exclaimed Walter, turning to greet an eager-faced boy, Number 8 of his patrol, who had trotted up behind them. “What’s eating you now?”

“Do-do you know why the Big Chief has called a m-m-meeting of the patrols this morning?” panted the boy.

“No, I don’t,” admitted Walter. “But we will find out after breakfast. Run along now, son, and mind: not more than ten minutes in the water!”

“All right, I’ll remember,” promised the younger boy, and he raced ahead several yards. Suddenly he stopped short, turned around, and waited for the trio to come up. “I-I say, Hugh, will you—will you do me a favor?” he inquired hesitatingly. “Will you coach me on the crawl?”

“Surest thing you know! That’s what I’m here for,” Hugh responded heartily.

A few more strides brought them to the shore of the lake, where they stood for a moment, watching a group of boys swimming out to the raft. Then, with a quick “Come on, now! Watch me!” Hugh leaped forward into the water, followed by Walter and Billy. The boy whom he was coaching stood knee-deep in the water, gazing with admiration not unmixed with envy at the powerful yet easy overhand strokes that sent the swimmer through the ripples without apparent exertion, yet at a speed that made his own best efforts seem hopeless. In another moment he, too, was breasting the lake, and soon he gained the raft and climbed upon it.

“That’s much better,” was Hugh’s brief comment, at which his admirer glowed with pleasure. Praise from Hugh, who was usually so reserved, was rare indeed!

Just as they were practicing swift dives, a bugle call rang clear and full across the water.

“The ‘recall’,” gasped Billy. “Wonder what’s doing?”

“That means everybody report at once,” said Don Miller, leader of the Fox patrol. “Back to shore, fellows.”

“Hit her up, son!” added Walter, and, suiting his action to his words, he slid rapidly through the clear water, leaving a wake of swirling ripples.

As soon as the swimmers reached shore, they hurried to their respective cabins, dressed, attended to their beds, and then repaired to the larger log-house, where a bountiful breakfast was served. During the meal the talk was all of the eagerly anticipated meeting of the patrols, and everyone wondered why it had been called.

Mess over, Don Miller and Walter Osborne took their stand at either side of the cabin door, and as each boy passed out he saluted the two chiefs with the scout’s salute, and was saluted in return. This was a point of etiquette upon which Lieutenant Denmead, who was a retired officer of the United States Army, always insisted, believing that it did much to maintain discipline and to instill the scout virtues of courtesy and of respect for superior officers.

CHAPTER II.
FORMING THE SIGNAL CORPS.

A cheer, heartier and more informal than military, rose from forty throats, as Lieutenant Denmead and Assistant Scout Master Rawson came forth from their quarters to break the news to the assembled boys.

“Scouts of Pioneer Camp,” began the lieutenant, smiling, when silence had been restored, “I have called this meeting in order to lay before you a plan which I think will merit your approval.

“Most of you have heard that in two weeks there are to be National Guard maneuvers over in Oakvale and the adjoining meadows, not far from here?”

A murmur of assent greeted this question, and the Scout Master continued:

“Part of these maneuvers will be the work of a carefully trained and efficient signal corps, and you boys will undoubtedly be interested in seeing that, among the other events. To understand it thoroughly, you should have some practical knowledge of the system of signaling; that is, the semaphore signal code, the wig-wag or Myer code, and the sound codes. You should know how to send and receive messages by each and all of these three methods. Such knowledge may be of great use and benefit to you or to others, at any time.

“In your woodcraft games, in trailing and stalking, in hunting, you have learned the various signals used in Indian warfare, the signs and blazes along a forest trail. Some of you are familiar with the Morse telegraph alphabet, and every tenderfoot who does not know it must learn it, in order to qualify as a second class scout.

“Now, what I propose to do is this: Let us form a signal corps made up of scouts from our four patrols, who can show by superior skill that they can qualify. Proficiency in any branch of scout-craft, in any of our games or pursuits (but particularly in the art of signaling) counts in determining who shall join the corps.

“The number of points or ‘honors’ won by each scout makes his record. From each patrol two boys who have made the best records will be chosen, and the leader of the corps will be the scout who has scored the greatest number of points.”

Lieutenant Denmead paused, and his clear gray eyes roved searchingly over the group.

“Have I made all this clear?” he added. “Any questions?”

There was a moment’s silence, while the boys exchanged eager glances among themselves.

“How does the plan appeal to you?” asked Lieutenant Denmead.

Another cheer greeted this question, showing the degree of interest felt by the majority. Many of the boys were enthusiastic; a few, whose interests lay in less serious sport, such as water games, canoeing, fishing, photography, field-day events, etc., rejoiced in it chiefly because their prowess in such activities would be counted toward election for the corps; two or three remained silent, considering it from their individual standpoints.

Among these reflective ones was Alec Sands. Sitting on the ground beside Don Miller, he had listened attentively to the Scout Master’s proposition, and he had seen in it only an opportunity for additional rivalry between the two cabins,—which meant between Hugh Hardin and himself. For, by tacit consent, Hugh and Alec were regarded as the two principal leaders among the scouts.

To Alec,—who had gained his leadership of the Otter patrol by unquestioned ability in scout-craft rather than by virtue of the true scout spirit of kindness and equality,—rivalry meant a certain degree of hostility to “the other fellow.” Being the spoiled son and heir of a railroad magnate, Alec was inclined to consider himself a little above his companions. To compete with them was an act of condescension.

On the other hand, Hugh Hardin, though but slightly less favored by fortune, was by no means a snob. His patrol was made up largely of boys who had not come from homes of wealth, yet among them there was not one who would ever have suspected, from Hugh’s bearing, that he had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. Reserved and self-reliant as he was, he possessed an apparently inexhaustible fund of good-humor, energy, and ready sympathy with others.

The Scout Master’s plan struck a responsive chord in Hugh, to whom Alec’s personal view of it would hardly have occurred.

“Great idea! Don’t you think so, Billy?” he whispered.

“All to the good, chief.”

“Walt knows a lot about ordinary telegraphy, you know. That ought to come in handy and count several points for him.”

“‘Bud’ Morgan, in our patrol, worked with a surveying crew last summer. He learned most of the sig——”

“Cut it! The big chief has something more to say.”

After a brief pause, Lieutenant Denmead continued:

“Since most of you are scouts of the second class, and have some knowledge of elementary signaling, we can start our try-outs for the corps by playing the Signalers’ Game this morning. I would like to see what you can do in work with the semaphore codes. It is going to be a perfect day, clear and sunny, and we ought to take advantage of it.

“The game is one for good signalers; nevertheless, those of you who are not so expert can take part in it and learn the first principles. How many of you know how to play it?”

About eleven hands were raised confidently, then two others went up almost timidly, as if the owners were uncertain of their knowledge. The Scout Master counted them, then turned smilingly to his assistant.

“Rawson, there will be quite enough for the first try-out,” he said. “I will take charge of the smallest division, you of the largest. In that way we shall work to the best advantage. I observe that most of those who seem confident of their ability as signalers are Otters. I shall need a few of them, and you may distribute the others as you think best.

“Now, boys,” he added, “this is how the game is played: The troop must be split up, temporarily, into three divisions. Division A, numbering eight scouts, will go with me to some position on high-ground,—like those bare ridges on old Stormberg yonder,—where we can command a good view of the stretch of country between here and the mountain. We will take with us our semaphore flags, to-day, although any other signaling apparatus will serve equally well in the game. Division B, numbering twelve scouts, will then go out and keep under cover in this stretch of country which we, the signalers, or defenders, overlook. This division, keeping under cover, will try to dodge or trick the signalers by appearing in different places and disappearing, and will finally take up a concealed position. After Division B has been out fifteen minutes, the rest, Division C, under command of Mr. Rawson, will leave camp.

“Then Division A will signal down to Division C, or attackers, the position of the hostile Division B, and other details that will help the attackers to advance unseen and surprise the enemy. Of course, Division B, the enemy, is watching the signals all the while. To win, the attackers must capture the scouts of Division B by surrounding their hiding-places. If Division C passes by more scouts than they capture, it counts a win for Division B.

“We’ll put a time limit of, say, two hours upon the game.”

Following this explanation, came a series of questions about minor details of the game, which were answered by Rawson, while Lieutenant Denmead undertook the arrangement of the troop into three divisions, so that in each division there should be a certain number of scouts who were familiar with the code.

It so happened that Alec Sands, Don Miller, Walter Osborne, and a lad named Arthur Cameron, who belonged to Hugh’s patrol and was just finishing his first month’s service as a tenderfoot, together with Bud Morgan and three others, were chosen to form Division A, much to their delight. Hugh was assigned to Division B, the so-called invaders or enemies, while Billy Worth became Assistant Scout Master Rawson’s right-hand man in charge of Division C.

Taking their semaphore flags, the first division, led by the Scout Master, sallied forth from camp. They followed a faintly defined trail which ran close to the shore of the lake and thence up the nearer slopes of old Stormberg, climbed up and up, scrambling over rocky patches of ground, plunging through thickets of white birch, ash, and maple, until they reached an elevation whereon grew only a few somber spruces and pines, but which commanded a magnificent view of the surrounding territory.

As these eight signalers proceeded on their way, they eagerly discussed ways and means by which their other activities could be correlated with working for the signal corps.

“Any exceptional feat of woodcraft scores twenty points in the record of the scout who performs it,” announced Lieutenant Denmead. “For instance, the scout who positively identifies the largest number of birds, animals, or trees may count twenty points to his credit; he who obtains the best six photographs of living wild animals may count fifteen points each; the same for him who makes the best collection of botanical specimens, insects, or minerals. And the prime requirement for the corps will be to send or receive a message by semaphore, American Morse, or Myer alphabet, sixteen letters per minute.”

Don gave a low whistle.

“You think that is pretty stiff?” inquired Denmead, turning to him with an encouraging smile. “Just you wait! I expect you fellows will be even more expert than that before these two weeks are over. Look out there, Arthur! That ledge you are standing on is rather slippery, my boy. Now then, Osborne, you and Sands go forward along that bare rib of rock, out to its edge, where you see a blasted pine-tree. Brace yourselves against the trunk and the lower branches, if they’re not rotten, and keep a look-out over the backwoods trail from camp. I suspect Division B will take that trail first. Have they left camp yet?”

“Can’t tell, sir,” called back Walter, when he and Alec had crawled to the end of the ledge. “I think they must have left, though, because——”

“Yes, they have, they have!” interrupted Don, pointing down to a clump of willows that grew in marshy ground near the easternmost arm of the lake. “See those blackbirds flying out in circles down there? That shows they are scared by something passing through the willow grove.”

The next moment, while they were taking their places and preparing to use the flags according to the alphabet-diagrams they had studied, there came to their ears, faint and far away, the low, weird, mournful howl of a wolf.

“That is Hugh Hardin calling his own patrol,” declared Billy. “Sounds like——”

“A trick!” muttered Alec, under his breath. “He wants to make us look for him in some place where he is least likely to appear.”

As if in answer to the wolf call came the subdued yet shrill “Kree-kree-eee” of a bird of prey, and, by an odd coincidence, a hawk was seen soaring rapidly above the tree-tops in another direction.

“Some of your Hawks are over there, Walt,” observed Alec. “The real bird is making no noise that I can hear. There he goes now! Watch him swoop down into that open glade! Wonder what he saw? A rabbit, most likely. Well, it must be nearly time for Division B to go into hiding, and I——”

“Attention, boys!” Lieutenant Denmead’s voice sounded close beside them, and he blew one long blast on his whistle, meaning “Silence,” or “On guard! Look out for my next signal.”

“Attention!” he repeated. “Get your flags ready. Watch for signs of the enemy. What is that over in that patch of scrub-oak yonder? Hello! Three of them! And running for cover, like mad! Signal it! Signal it, Alec! There! Now Division C has started from camp. They’re advancing to the attack.”

CHAPTER III.
A PERILOUS ENCOUNTER.

The three scouts of Division “B” who had been sighted by the Lieutenant as they made a dash for cover were Cooper Fennimore, Buck Winter, and his brother Sam, who, mistaking a sound signal of three blasts of Hugh’s whistle, had been creeping forward quite openly across a clearing made by lumbermen during the previous summer, thereby coming in full view of the signalers perched on the ribs of old Stormberg.

Alec and Walter, acting under Lieutenant Denmead’s rapid-fire commands, lost no time in signaling this information to the advance guard of Division “C,” as soon as the latter made their sortie from camp.

Instantly Rawson led his attackers in the direction of the clearing, instead of taking the backwoods trail, as Hugh and his followers had done.

From a coign of vantage on one of the upper forks of a young oak tree, which he had climbed with the agility of a monkey, Hugh perceived the trio’s mistake. He had intended to warn them by those three shrill blasts, but they had evidently counted only two, which would have meant “Safe—Go ahead.” Now, to leave no room for doubt, he sounded a succession of long, slow blasts meaning “Scatter. Get further away,” and accompanied them with the Wolf’s peculiar, long-drawn-out, “How-oo-ooo.”

Whether these sounds could reach the ears of the signalers he could not tell, but he had the satisfaction of seeing Cooper and Sam dart across the clearing and plunge into the surrounding underbrush, where they could easily find some place to hide in.

Of course, any one of the attacking party could not fail to hear the whistle signals; but that did not matter, as it would be difficult, at best, to locate the scouts exactly, since all of Division “B” were doubtless in hiding by this time.

Not all, however; for there on the edge of the clearing, in full view of the sending station, stood Buck Winter gazing wildly around him, evidently trying to make up his mind where to hide. As usual, Buck had lost his head.

Craning his neck, Hugh could see in the distance two flags,—one held by Bud Morgan, and the other by Arthur Cameron,—pointing directly, it seemed, at the bewildered Buck. Another flag, on the end of the mountain ledge, was being jumped rapidly up and down, to urge speed on the part of the attackers. The air was so still and clear that morning that the defenders’ flags could be plainly seen: small, waving patches of brighter color against the blue of the sky.

Hugh read their messages rapidly.

“Wonder if they can see me?” he asked himself. “I’d better climb down, get Buck out of danger of being captured, and sprint over to those rocks. Then I can—oh jingo!”

He uttered the exclamation aloud, for at that very moment he caught sight of Billy emerging from the timber.

“Buck! I’ve got you!” yelled Billy, dashing forward to seize the young Otter, who promptly turned and fled.

Hugh watched the chase with keen interest.

“Billy is no match for that kid, in speed,” he commented. “He’ll never capture Buck! Wish he could! If one of Division B must be captured so soon, I want it done by a Wolf, anyway: that would give our patrol two points.”

Suddenly Billy Worth stumbled against a half-buried root, staggered, and fell headlong, rolling over and over on the dry leaves. Buck Winter raced ahead—straight into the arms of two scouts of Division “C,” who had skirted the clearing and come out most unexpectedly on the further side.

The first capture was made. The attackers had won the first victory.

In silent dejection Buck took his way back to camp, while his captors signaled the news to the eager watchers on the mountain, and then ran on to join their comrades who were hunting in the woods.

As Buck passed Hugh’s tree, Hugh called down to him:

“Cheer up, Buckie! You’ll do better next time! You would have got away from Billy easily.”

“That’s a cinch!” retorted Buck, in an effort to revive his drooping spirits.

“Wait! I’m coming down.”

“Stay where you are, Hugh!” warned the lad. “There’s Rawson coming this way, and he’ll see you!”

So saying, he walked away, and soon was lost in the shadows of the trail.

Nevertheless, Hugh descended cautiously, crawled on all fours through the tangled underbrush and ferns, and then, rising, strode swiftly yet noiselessly toward a group of lichen-covered rocks, behind which he crouched and waited.

All around him he could hear the rustling of leaves, the snapping of dry sticks, the low calls of unseen comrades who were trying to discover and surround the hiding-places of his division. At intervals there would be dead silence in the forest; and once, peering over a jagged boulder, he caught sight of Billy making questioning signals to the defenders.

Two others of his division passed him, returning to camp, having been found and “touched” by the attackers. It was evident that Division “B,” the enemy, was getting the worst of the game! Perhaps they had not had time to hide. Before starting out, he had told them to select the most unlikely places for concealment. Perhaps they were hidden where they could not watch and read the signals. Not much sense in that, but——

Suddenly a low snarl, like that of an angry feline, startled Hugh. Glancing around him, he beheld a lean, gray, spotted creature crouched upon a rock not more than ten feet away from the spot where he stood. The creature’s large pointed ears were laid back, its short tail was jerking viciously from side to side, its amber-colored eyes were glowing with a greenish light.

“Bobcat!” muttered Hugh aloud; adding inwardly: “and she’s mad at me, too!” He raised his voice to a bolder pitch. “Scat! Sca-a-at, you spotted devil!” he almost yelled, advancing a pace nearer the animal.

But the bobcat did not move.

Hugh “froze” in his tracks. Indeed, a chill shiver crept along his spine; his nerves seemed to tingle as with cold. Without being actually alarmed as yet, he realized that he had nothing except his knife with which to defend himself, in case the beast should spring.

“It isn’t likely she’ll do that,” Hugh decided; “but I didn’t scare her. She won’t budge!”

Indeed, the bobcat’s only movement now was to crouch lower upon the rock, tearing its mossy covering with her claws, flexing the muscles of her sinewy flanks. Would she risk a leap at her enemy? Never had Hugh encountered a wildcat so fearless, so determined to stand her ground. Yet this one was not cornered, not at bay; she had every opportunity to bolt and vanish in the thicket. Why, why did she remain there, poised in that menacing attitude upon the rock?

Like a flash, the only probable explanation came to Hugh: “Kittens!” he reasoned swiftly. “There must be kittens hidden somewhere near. I’d better—no, if I turn she may spring; you never can tell!”

By mere chance his foot dislodged a small stone from the earth. Stooping quickly, still keeping his eyes on the bobcat, he picked up the stone and flung it at the snarling beast. It struck sparks from the rock, glanced off, and went bounding into the dense undergrowth, whence came a very human howl of anguish. The bobcat vanished—but only for a moment.

“Say, what are you doin’; throwin’ stones?” wailed a voice, and Sam Winter stood up above the ferns, rubbing his shoulder. “That’s not fair, Hugh!” he complained. “You are betraying me to——”

“I wasn’t throwing stones at you, you chump! I didn’t know you were there!”

“What were you trying to hit?”

“A bobcat, Sam.”

“Bobcat? Where?”

“I don’t see—oh, look! There she is, just slipping around that stump! Look out, Sam! Beat it!”

With a yell, Sam turned and fled, leaving Hugh again face to face with the creature.

Reckless defiance of danger, a foolhardy lust for battle, now seized Hugh; and all else was forgotten: his comrades, the game they were playing, the record he hoped to make. Here was a far more exciting game, matching his quickness, his steadiness of nerve, with the fierce instincts of that denizen of the forest. Unarmed, he might lay her low with a stone or his hunting knife.

Grasping another stone somewhat heavier than the first, in his right hand, he took careful aim. The next moment, the stone whizzed through the air, there was a blood-curdling screech, and a furry body hurtled across the intervening space, straight toward him. In mid-air, however, it seemed to waver; then it fell headlong to the ground, with a thump, kicking up a shower of dry leaves and clods. By a miracle, Hugh’s well-directed missile had struck the cat on the ribs, breaking them; and she had not had time to check her leap, which had inflicted internal injuries.

Hugh was trembling now with the reaction of excitement. He could scarcely believe that he had taken such a slim chance.

“What a fool I was, what a fool!” he gasped, looking down on the dying wildcat. “I ought to have had more sense than to take such a risk. I’m sorry I killed her! I’m sorry and ashamed. Poor thing! I must put her out of misery; it is all I can do now. Oh, I won’t forget this for many a day! What a blind-lucky fool I was!”

“Yes, you were,” said a deep voice beside him.

“Oh, is that you, Mr. Rawson? Have you your automatic there? Please, please finish the poor brute! I-I’ve wounded her—after provoking an attack.”

“I saw you, saw the whole episode,” Rawson declared grimly.

He drew his revolver, a shot rang out through the wood, and the bobcat lay still.

Silence.

Hugh swallowed hard, choking down a lump in his throat.

“I suppose we’ll have to report this—this exploit,” said Rawson gravely, laying a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Of course you’ll want the skin?”

The absence of any word of praise, any congratulation on his narrow escape, made Hugh feel doubly ashamed. To be sure, he had done a very plucky thing, he had shown a certain sort of courage which, had it been exerted wholly in self-defense, would have won golden opinions from his comrades, instead of this tacit censure on the part of Rawson. But there was nothing to do except brazen it out.

“Ye-es, I want the skin,” he replied slowly. “It will remind me of—of—not to do it again.”

“Take it and welcome, old man. When you have skinned the critter, you will go back to camp. I’ve caught you, see? You’re my prisoner.”

The young leader of the Wolf patrol, self-accused of needless slaughter, glanced at his superior with a look of unconcern.

“Oh?” said Hugh. “I forgot! Are we still playing that game?”

CHAPTER IV.
A FIRE IN CAMP.

The game was over by the time that Hugh, after a fruitless search for the bobcat’s kittens, returned to camp, and Division “C,” the attackers, had won the day.

Owing to the fact that each division had been made up of scouts from the four patrols, no single patrol could claim the honor of victory, although individuals in each patrol who had done good work in signaling were complimented by their fellow scouts, as they all were gathered around the camp-fire that evening.

“Alec Sands will surely make the corps,” declared young Osborne. “The Chief said that he——”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Billy, whose loyalty to Hugh made him loath to hear Alec’s praises sung. “You have a good chance, too, Walt.”

“Don’t feel sure at all, myself,” Walter replied, yawning. “Say, Billy, what’s the matter with Hugh this evening? Look at him sitting over there, talking to the Lieutenant! He’s as solemn as a great horned owl. Do you know what he did all afternoon, after we got back?”

“He went to see the Lieutenant first, and showed him the pelt of a big bobcat he’d killed. Gee! it’s a stunner, Walt! Then he spent two hours out on the field, practicing wig-wags with Bud Morgan. You see, to-morrow we are going to change divisions, so everyone will get a fair trial.”

“Bully! We all need a lot of practice. Even Alec is a little rusty.”

“And the same way with the Myer code and the American Morse,” continued Billy. “Each one, in turns.”

“For the next two weeks?” queried a boy who sat beside them.

Billy nodded.

“It’s not a bit too long,” Walter affirmed. “We want to make a good showing as a corps.”

“Hope it will be a nice day to-morrow,” said the boy, looking up at the sky with its glittering host of stars. “I want to take some photos.”

“Guess you’ll be able to, all right,” was Billy’s confident rejoinder. Billy was a born optimist, ever ready to see the doughnut before he beheld the hole; he had the happy faculty of expecting and looking for the best always, in conditions as well as in people.

“Feel the grass,” he suggested a moment later, passing his hand lightly over the sward. “It’s as dry as chips. You know what that means?”

“Dangerous to light fires,” said the other promptly.

“Pretty good, for a tenderfoot!” quoth Billy, with a grin. “But I was thinking of a little rhyme which I’ll repeat for your benefit, if sufficiently urged.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“‘When nights are cold and days are warm,

A circle round the moon means storm.’”

“Thanks for the information!” laughed the tenderfoot. “You can see the moon’s rim clearly now. Plenty of sunshine to-morrow? I doubt it!”

“‘When the grass is dry at night,

Look for rain before the light.’”

“Oh, well, we can’t do anything but wait and see,” commented Billy.

With which sage remark he rose, stretched himself sleepily, and crossed over to where the Scout Master and Hugh were seated upon a fallen log.

As he approached Hugh, who was gazing into the fire with his hands clasped over his knees, Billy noticed a group of boys of the Otter patrol gathered around Alec Sands, and heard Alec say to them:

“We’re going to have stalking games to-morrow afternoon, after signal practice in the morning. Don’t let those Wolves give us all the go-by in stalking, fellows! If we do, it will give every one of them a chance to score a lot of points. I hope it will rain; then we’ll have to do something else, or perhaps everyone can do just what he likes best.”

There were murmurs of approval, indistinguishable to Billy, who passed on and took a place by Hugh’s side. Presently the whole troop was listening attentively to Lieutenant Denmead’s clear and concise explanation of wireless telegraphy. It was his custom to give informal talks on various subjects during these meetings at the evening council-fire, and to outline a program for the ensuing day.

When the council was adjourned, at a quarter of nine, the scouts retired to their cabins. Alec and two other boys, being still on police duty, extinguished the fire, scattered and trod upon the few remaining embers, and then sought their bunks. Half an hour later, the profound silence of the forest was broken only by the eerie hoot of an owl and the nocturnal chorus of frogs in a distant marsh.

Soon after midnight, Hugh, whose bunk was near the open window of the cabin, was awakened by a faint smell of smoke. A light breeze had sprung up during the night, wafting that pungent, unmistakable odor to his sensitive nostrils. Instantly he sat up and threw aside his blankets.

“Billy,” he whispered hoarsely, “wake up, son!”

There was no response save his assistant’s deep, quiet, peaceful breathing.

Knowing that Billy had a chronic objection to being awakened suddenly, if at all, Hugh was thoughtful enough to respect his friend’s amiable weakness even at this crisis. Leaning over the sleeper, he took Billy’s hand, held it a moment, then pressed it firmly. The result was that Billy stirred comfortably and opened his eyes, without a start or a protest.

“What—what’s the matter?” he drawled sleepily, blinking at Hugh through the darkness.

“I smell smoke,” was the whispered reply. “Billy, do you think a fire has broken out in camp?”

“What! Fire?” Billy sniffed the air. “Say, Hugh, it can’t——”

“S-sh! Not so loud! We don’t want to wake up the whole cabin. Come outside. If anything’s happened, we must act at once, or at least give warning.”

“Wonder where it is coming from? Hope it isn’t a fire in the woods! That would be more than——” Suddenly he remembered his conversation with the tenderfoot about the dryness of the grass, and coupled it with a warning which the Scout Master had given them that very day, concerning the danger of starting forest fires.

“It is criminal to leave a burning fire,” Denmead had said. “Always put out a fire with water or earth. A fire is never out until the last spark is extinguished. Often a log or snag will smoulder unnoticed after the flames have apparently been trodden down, only to break out afresh with a rising wind.”

Had this happened now? Billy wondered, as he followed Hugh to the door. Had the scouts on police duty been guilty of criminal carelessness?

Outside, the two lads instantly discovered the cause of their alarm.

Some of the sparks from the camp-fire must have lodged between the logs of the mess-cabin, and, lying undisturbed and unnoticed there, have slowly eaten their way through the resinous wood until it was ignited. Little tongues of flame were licking one wall, but as the soft breeze was blowing away from Cabin 2 and the Lieutenant’s cabin, no one could have detected the smoke, unless by mere accident. Even Joe, the half-breed guide who, with the cook, occupied a tent not far removed from the mess-cabin, was apparently oblivious of the threatened danger.

Yet even while Hugh and Billy, each snatching a bucket of water that stood outside their cabin (left there for morning ablutions) ran over to the scene of peril, they caught sight of a shadowy form in the moonlight, rushing from Cabin 2, and heard a voice hoarse with anxiety call out:

“What is it? Who’s there?”

Without answering, they dashed the two pailfuls of water upon the flames, and were gratified to hear an immediate sizzling that told them the fire had not bitten deep into the log walls; indeed, it had only grazed the bark and outer rings of wood.

The third fire-fighter had now come up to them, but he hung back a little, as if nervously anxious to avoid recognition.

“Run, Billy! Get another pailful!” directed Hugh, in a low voice, and his comrade sprang away to carry out instructions. “I’ll club it out with this roll of old canvas. It’ll be out in a—oh, is that you, Alec?”

“Yes, yes! Hugh!—Billy! Please don’t make any noise!”

“Why, what are you afraid of, Alec?”

“Of—of—oh, nothing; only I think we can put this little fire out, and—and perhaps no one will be any the wiser, except ourselves. Here, let me help you!” He seized the small roll of canvas with hands that actually trembled, and began to assist Hugh in beating out the flames. “Oh, Hugh, if this is my fault, I——”

“What do you mean? You won’t say anything about it?”

“No!” whispered Alec.

“But it will be seen by daylight to-morrow. The charred logs——”

“I can smooth them off with my knife. Here! Slam it against this one! That’s the way. Again! Softly, no noise! Thank goodness, here comes Billy with the pails!”

Alec ran forward to meet Billy and to relieve him of his burden, leaving Hugh to wonder why he had spoken so strangely. Why this shrinking on Alec’s part? Had he been in any way responsible for the mishap? In spite of his proficiency in woodcraft, Alec was sometimes thoughtless, impulsive, not thorough in his methods. Carelessness was his besetting sin. But lack of courage to own up to a mistake? Surely he was no coward! If he had done wrong, he would admit it, make a clean breast of it, and “face the music.”

These thoughts passed swiftly through Hugh’s mind while he stood watching Billy and Alec pour a stream of water from the pails upon the fire.

In a few moments the flames were extinguished, but Hugh’s curiosity in regard to Alec’s desire for secrecy was not quenched. He resolved, however, to say nothing more on the subject; it was no concern of his, anyway.

“All out!” announced Billy cheerfully.

“Do you—do you think there’s been much damage?” Alec questioned, still speaking in a low and guarded tone.

“Can’t say. Wait till to-morrow.”

“I guess it is very slight,” said Hugh.

“But it will show, I suppose?”

“Of course it will.”

“I don’t want it to show. I might be blamed for it.”

“You!” said Billy, astonished. “Why, how could you be blamed?”

“Fellows, I’ll tell you,” Alec replied soberly. “It’s this way: When Dick Bellamy and I put out the council-fire this evening, after the Lieutenant had left us, we were so darned tired we didn’t take any extra great pains in doing it. All we did was to sprinkle a little water over the embers, throw dirt on them, and tread them down. Oh, yes, I,—I mean Dick,—did pile a few stones around them, but that was all. I heard Rawson say he thought it was going to rain to-night. Now if anyone can prove that this little blaze started from sparks from the camp-fire,—which will be pretty hard to prove, after all,—there’ll be the dickens to pay, and I’ll lose——” He cut his explanation short with a glance in the direction of the guide’s tent.

“Didn’t you hear footsteps?” he asked nervously.

Mechanically, the three listened. There was, indeed, a muffled tread upon rustling leaves.

“Cook’s asleep, anyway,” remarked Billy, as a stertorious rumbling greeted their ears. “Perhaps Joe’s sneaking out on the war-path!”

His good-natured levity jarred upon Alec.

“Shut up, Billy!” he exclaimed irritably. “I’m going to get my knife and scrape away this charred wood. Will you fellows help me fix it nicely? Just for appearance’s sake, you know.”

“Never mind it. How fussy you are, Alec!” remarked the unsuspecting Billy. “Let it go. I’m too sleepy. Come along, Hugh. Me for my little bunk!”

When the two Wolves went back to their lair, Alec followed them, on a pretense of having abandoned his idea of subterfuge. He saw that Hugh disapproved of it, and he resented that attitude.

Bidding them good-night, he hurried to his locker, got out his favorite claspknife, and returned to the mess-cabin, upon which he at once began to work, whittling off the burnt and half-burnt wood.

In the midst of this occupation, he heard the same stealthy footsteps, and, looking up, saw Joe, the half breed, standing beside him.

The grin that distorted Joe’s features made his splendid white teeth fairly gleam in the moonlight.

“Me know wot you do dere,” he said softly. “Me hear wot you say to Hugh Hardeen. Why you say eet, boy?”

Alec gave an uncomfortable start.

“You won’t tell on me, Joe?” he asked, with a laugh of pure bravado. “You’re a pretty good friend of mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Joe your frien’.”

“I like you, Joe, and I’ll tell my father to be sure and hire you for a guide up in Maine, next October. I—I’ll tell him to give you more pay than the other guides get, too, if—if you’ll say nothing about this accident. Someone else can take the blame, for a change.”

“Yes, some boy he get bad talk. Not you.”

“That’s right!” Alec laughed again, a strained, hollow, mirthless laugh. “Joe, I know you admire my silver-handled knife; want it?”

“You no want it, Joe take it. Tanks.”

“Joe, you—you don’t like Hugh Hardin, do you?”

The halfbreed’s answer was merely an ambiguous grunt.

“Neither do I, just now,” said quick-tempered Alec Sands.

Joe said nothing. Doubtless he understood the hint.

CHAPTER V.
REVEILLE.

When Alec stole back to his cabin, noiselessly entered it, and climbed into his bunk, half an hour later, it was not very clear in his mind how he could contrive, even with Joe’s possible assistance, to bring Hugh Hardin into the shadow of blame for the fire. Of course, he could admit that he had caught Hugh and Billy in the act of putting out the flames, and the fact that they had done it secretly, as it were, without arousing the whole camp, would cast some suspicion upon them.

But their words would be worth exactly as much as his, and, moreover, Hugh would have Billy’s testimony in support.

How much credence would be given to the halfbreed’s vague hints? Could Joe be trusted to say anything? Or, might he not even say just the wrong thing at the critical point, the right thing at the wrong moment?

These questions troubled Alec as he crept shivering between his chilly sheets and drew his blanket around him closer.

“Wish I had primed Joe a little more,” he said to himself miserably, “but perhaps I’ll get a chance to speak with him again to-morrow.”

With this comforting reflection he sank into uneasy slumber.

It was strange that a boy trained in the principles and spirit of scout-craft, particularly a boy who had reached Alec’s position among his mates, could be capable of feeling such jealousy as Alec showed in his attitude toward Hugh. But young Sands was an unusual boy, and he had always been over-indulged. Only with difficulty had he ever been able to overcome an instinctive dislike of any rival, and in the case of Hugh he had not tried to do more than comply with the rules of outward courtesy that obtained in camp.

The rules of Pioneer Camp were few and simple, and every boy in the four patrols that formed the troop was put on his honor and trusted to live up to them. Faithfulness to duty, one of the scout virtues, was required by Lieutenant Denmead, and scarcely a boy in the camp cared or dared to shirk.

Reveille was sounded at six o’clock every morning, except Sunday, when it was an hour later. At six-thirty on week-days and seven-thirty on Sundays mess was served to two of the patrols, and half an hour later to the other two, the patrols alternating in the order of service. Noon mess was served from twelve to one o’clock, and evening mess from six to seven-thirty. At nine o’clock came “taps” which meant “camp-fires carefully extinguished, lights out, and every boy in bed.”

Every morning, also, a detail from each cabin was assigned to police the camp; that is, clear up all rubbish, chop fire-wood, draw water from the bubbling spring nearby, wash dishes, and keep the camp in order.

In the two log cabins, the beds were plain box bunks arranged in a double tier down the sides, each containing a tick stuffed with straw. Red blankets, sheets, and a thin pillow filled with aromatic fir balsam completed the equipment. Of course each boy was expected to look after the airing and making of his own bed.

Accordingly, when the bugle sounded before sunrise next morning, all was hustle and activity at the camp, in strange contrast with the quiet lake and the majestic calm of the mountains.

Hardly had the notes of the bugle call died away in impressive silence, when new echoes were aroused to sudden life by the lusty shouts and calls of forty boys, who, being thus musically wakened from the profound sleep of healthy and vigorous youth, sprang from their bunks and bestirred themselves about their morning duties.

It seemed to Alec, however, that he had slept scarcely an hour. He felt tired and out-of-sorts with himself and everybody else, quite devoid of any zest for the events which the day might bring forth. Wearily he rose, partly dressed, and went outside the cabin, where, upon a bench, stood a row of aluminum washbasins, each with a towel, soap, and brush and comb to bear it company. While he and Dick Bellamy performed their ablutions, envying those who were going down to the lake for a swim, Alec “pumped” his comrade with leading questions, in an effort to find out whether Dick knew anything about the fire. To his satisfaction, Dick appeared wholly unaware that any accident to the mess-cabin had occurred.

Dick was jubilant that morning, because it was the last morning of his week of police duty. After this day he would be free to follow his own devices and in various ways build up his record for election to the signal corps.

“Fine day, Alec,” he remarked genially.

“Yes—for ducks!” retorted Alec, glancing up at the sun which now shone ominously red through a veil of low, swiftly-moving clouds. “Looks like rain,” he added, in explanation.

“For fish, too,” said Bellamy. “You know they always bite better a morning like this. I hope to get some big ones to-day.”

“Speaking of fish,” began Alec, “we’re going to have some broiled trout for breakfast this morning, some that you and Don caught yesterday.”

“Broiled——! Oh, Alec, what time is it now?”