Under Boy Scout Colors Part 7

Perhaps the latter was a slight exaggeration; certainly no one had ever been actually peppered with it. But the fact remained that old Caleb Grimstone, who lived alone and had a well-established reputation for crankiness, had stubbornly refused all requests to be allowed to camp or picnic on his property even when pay was offered, and at length all such effort had been abandoned. As Court Parker remarked, no doubt with a vivid recollection of sundry narrow escapes: "You can steal a swim on the old codger if you keep a weather-eye peeled and don't mind doing a Marathon through the brush; but when it comes to anything like pitching a tent and settling down--_good_ night!"

Under such circ.u.mstances, it may be imagined that the announcement made one morning to the group gathered about the school entrance that old Grimstone had fallen through the hay-shoot and broken an arm did not elicit any marked expressions of regret.

"Serves him right, the old skinflint, after the mean way he's kept us away from the lake!" growled Bob Gibson.

"Yes, indeed!" sniffed Harry Vedder. "He's a regular dog in the manger.

It wouldn't hurt him to let us swim there in the summer, or camp once in a while. He doesn't use it himself."

"Use it!" exclaimed Frank Sanson. "Why, they don't even cut ice off it."

"He's just downright mean, that's all!" put in Rex Slater. "Say, fellows, what a chance this would be to get ahead of the old chap and camp out Friday or Sat.u.r.day--if Mr. Curtis would only let us."

"He won't," said Sherman Ward, decidedly. "Besides, it's a lot too cold and looks like snow. How did he manage, Ted? Living alone with only those dogs, it must have been some stunt to get word to anybody."

"He got out to the road and waited for the first team that came along,"

explained Ted. "The people took him into the house, and then sent Dr.

Maxwell out from town. He wanted somebody to come and look after him, but old Grimey wouldn't hear of it. Said he couldn't stand the expense."

"The old miser! How does he manage to get his meals and look after the stock?"

"Eats bread and milk and canned stuff, I guess. Bud Hinckley comes in night and morning, I understand, to look after the horse and cow and wash dishes and all that, but you know what Bud is."

"So lazy he'd like somebody else to draw his breath for him!" said Court Parker, promptly. "Whew! What a lovely time the old man must be having--and to-morrow Thanksgiving!"

As they trooped into school, the last words lingered in Dale Tompkins's mind. To-morrow would, indeed, be Thanksgiving--the day of turkey, and mince-pie, and good cheer generally. He had no more cause than the others for sympathizing with Caleb Grimstone, but somehow the mental picture of the soured old man sitting alone in his slovenly kitchen, one arm in a sling, and eating bread and milk, with perhaps a can of lukewarm tomatoes or corn, when every one else was feasting merrily in company, made him vaguely uncomfortable.

He forgot it, however, in the excitement of a brisk game of land-hockey up at Sherman's that afternoon, but after supper the picture returned with renewed vividness, and with it something the scoutmaster had said when he pa.s.sed his second-cla.s.s examinations a few days ago.

"Never forget the daily good turn, Dale, or let it slump into a perfunctory sort of thing such as you would have to do anyway whether you were a scout or not. A fellow can't always find big things, of course; but when the opportunity comes, he isn't a true scout if he cannot sacrifice his own comfort or pleasure or inclination to bring help or happiness to some one who really needs it."

Dale squirmed a little at the recollection and tried to go on with the book he was reading. But the tale had lost its savor, and presently he raised his eyes from the printed page and frowned.

"n.o.body else thought anything about it!" he muttered rebelliously.

"Besides, to-morrow's Thanksgiving; that's different from any other day."

A little later he put away the book, said good night, and went up to his room. Having closed the door, he opened his closet and took out his scout suit. It had come only the day before; already he had looked at it more than twenty times, but the novelty had not yet worn off.

He wondered if fellows who had theirs merely for the asking felt half as proud of it as he, who had worked for every penny of its cost. He pa.s.sed one hand caressingly over the smooth olive khaki, and then an odd thought popped suddenly into his head.

He had tried it on, twice, but as yet he had not actually worn it.

Mightn't it mean even more to him if he wore it first in the performance of a good turn that really counted?

Though the boy felt it only vaguely, and formulated it not at all even in his mind, it was something of that spirit of consecration that of old dominated the young candidates for knighthood, guarding their armor through the long night-watches. Dale's face took on an expression of determination, and as he put away his things his mind was oddly lightened.

Next morning he sallied forth, a trifle self-conscious in all the glory of his new khaki, but warmed by the look in his mother's eyes as she waved good-by from the door-step. Taking the shortest cut, he proceeded to the rectory, and when Mr. Schofield appeared he saluted punctiliously.

"May I have one of the baskets, sir?" he asked.

The rector smiled. "Ah! You're going to take it to--" He paused questioningly an instant; then his smile deepened. "Certainly," he said cordially. "They're over in the parish-house. The ladies are packing them now. Tell Mrs. Mason I said you were to have a good one."

Ten minutes later Dale was making his way briskly toward the Beldon Turnpike, a large market-basket on one arm. The legs of a plump fowl protruded from the covering; there were vegetables within, a can of soup, celery, oranges, bananas, and a small pie. The weight was not a light one, but Dale whistled cheerfully as he strode along.

He reached the turnpike without meeting any of the fellows, and after ten or fifteen minutes' tramping along the straight, level road he paused to s.h.i.+ft the basket to the other arm. It was heavier than he thought.

Overhead the gray sky was a bit dispiriting, and the sharp, chill wind, blowing across the open fields, made him glad he had b.u.t.toned his sweater beneath the khaki coat.

Presently he began to speculate on what sort of reception he would have, and for the first time the possibility occurred to him that his welcome might not be altogether cordial. You never could tell what point of view the cranky old man would take. He thought of the dogs, too, especially after he had left the main road and turned into the less frequented one leading past Grimstone's place. More than once people had been chased by them, and it wasn't exactly pleasant to picture them rus.h.i.+ng out at him in a body the moment he set foot in the lane.

Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out with a definite purpose, and he meant to carry it through. To be sure, just before reaching the lane he cut himself a stout stick, and as the old, weather-beaten frame house came in sight he unconsciously made his approach as noiseless as possible. He was surprised and not a little relieved to see no signs of the animals, but when he set down his basket and knocked briskly on the back door, the snarling uproar that instantly arose inside plainly advertised their whereabouts.

Dale tightened his grip on the stick and strained his ears for other sounds. He had raised his hand for a second knock when the barking suddenly lessened a little, and above the racket came a growling admonition in Grimstone's harsh tones:

"Wal, come in, can't you? Are you deaf?"

CHAPTER IX

AN ODD THANKSGIVING

The note of ill temper in the voice was so apparent that Dale hesitated for a second longer. Then, with a determined movement of his head, he set his stick against the door-casing, picked up the basket, and stepped into the kitchen. It was a long, low room, the walls and ceiling painted a dirty gray. Two of the three windows were tightly shuttered, so that Dale could barely make out the bent figure seated in a rocking-chair beside a rusty, decrepit cook-stove. At his entrance the three dogs began to bark again, but old Grimstone silenced them with a fierce gesture that sent them cowering under a table.

"What d' you want?" he demanded, glaring at the boy from under bushy brows. "I don't want to buy nothin', so you'd better git out."

"I haven't anything--for sale," returned the boy, finding it a little difficult to explain his errand. "It--it's your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Dinner!" snapped the old man. "What are you talkin' about? I ain't ordered nothin' from town."

"I know you haven't. It's one of the baskets from the church. I--I heard you'd had an accident and were all alone, so I--I thought I'd bring it out."

For a moment the old man sat silent, his hard, glinting eyes, full of sour suspicion, fixed on the boy's face. "What for?" he demanded suddenly.

"What for?" repeated Dale, puzzled.

"Yes; what for? What d' you expect to git out of it? You ain't toted a basketful o' truck all the way out here jest out of regard for me, I reckon. Who sent ye?"

Dale flushed, and unconsciously drew himself up a little. "n.o.body," he returned briefly. "I'm a boy scout. We--we try to do a good turn for somebody every day."

Old Grimstone bent slightly forward, staring in a puzzled fas.h.i.+on at the trim, khaki-clad figure before him. His right arm, bulky with bandages and splints, was strapped tightly to his body; the other hand, gnarled and brown, with blue veins showing here and there, gripped the arm of the rocker. There was suspicion still in his glance, but back of it was the look of one groping dimly for something he could not understand.

Suddenly he straightened with a jerk.

"Wal, set it down somewheres, then!" he growled ungraciously. "I ain't an object o' charity yet, but if you're bound to leave it, I s'pose I can use it somehow. You'd better be startin' back right away or you'll miss your dinner."

Dale placed the basket on a table and commenced to remove the paper. "I'm not going back yet," he explained cheerfully. "I'm going to stay and cook it for you."

For a moment there was silence. Then the old man grunted inarticulately; it might have been with surprise, or incredulity, or almost any other emotion. Dale's back was toward him, so he could not tell, but since there was no actual prohibition, he proceeded with the unpacking.

Somehow he was beginning to enter more into the spirit of the thing, beginning to feel an interest, almost an enjoyment, in doing it up thoroughly. Having taken off coat and sweater, his first act was to prepare the chicken for roasting. When it was safely placed in the oven he shook down the fire, added some more wood, and then turned his attention to a pile of unwashed dishes, which the indolent Hinckley was evidently acc.u.mulating until he considered it sizeable enough to be worth tackling. It was a task the boy ordinarily hated, but he meant to leave the room spick and span on his departure. So he rolled up his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and plunged in, whistling softly as he worked.