Roy Blakeley's Adventures in Camp/Chapter XII

So that's the way we went to Temple Camp, but there are short cuts to the Hudson besides that. When we got near to the lake we all got anxious―you know how a fellow is when he's almost to a place he's been thinking about a lot.

Doc Carson said, "I see the water is still wet." That was just to jolly Pee-wee.

"That's because of the recent rains," I said,

"The which?" Artie asked me.

"You think you're smart talking about recent rains, don't you?" Pee-wee shouted. "You got that out of a book."

"I bet there'll be a lot of troops there this summer," El Sawyer said.

Pretty soon I saw he was right, too, because five boats came across to get us and there was a strange scout in every single one of them. Uncle Jeb was waiting at the landing on the other side to meet us, and oh, cracky, didn't it look good to see the big pavilion and the tents and patrol ​cabins upside down in the water. There were a lot of scouts waiting too, and I could see the camp was pretty full.

Uncle Jeb said, "Wall, Roay"—that's just the way he talks, slow like; "haow's all the boys from Bridgeboro? I reckon little Pee-wee ain't growed at all. Hain't you never goin' ter grow, Pee-wee? And Artie and Grovey, and El, and Hunter Ward and, let's see, Vie Norris—every plaguy one of yer here. Ain't none of yer died or gone off ter war, hey? And there's Connover Bennett, too, large as life, and still crazy about raisin cake, I reckon. Wall, wall, it's good ter see ye all."

I said, "It's good to see you, too, Uncle Jeb, gee, all the fellows were crazy to see you, that's one sure thing."

"And still making them flapjacks, hey?" he said; "I remember when one uv them New Hampshire scouts scaled one uv them flapjacks uy your'n across the lake. I reckon you're the same old Roay that put the mosquito dope in the biscuits. Yer remember that?" Cracky, I'm not going to tell you anything about my past life, but summer before last up there—oh, boy!

Most of the morning we rested up and got our patrol cabins cleaned out and all fixed up, and in ​the afternoon we banged around and got acquainted with some of the new troops.

Just before supper, Westy and I went down for a swim and there were Connie Bennett and two or three of the Elks diving with Skinny. A whole lot of fellows were standing around watching. Most of them laughed at Skinny, but they all had to admit he was a crackerjack. I knew the Elks were just kind of showing him off and putting him through a lot of freak stunts just to get their name up around the camp.

After supper, Westy and I and a new fellow in an Ohio troop were rowing around near the shore. He was an awful nice fellow—quiet like—just like me, only different. All of a sudden we noticed Skinny standing on the shore and he called out and asked us if we'd take him in.

"Better watch your step," Westy said; "safety first."

"Where's your patrol?" I called to him.

"They went on a hike," he called back; "can I go with you?"

"You go and ask Mr. Ellsworth," I said; "and if he says it's all right, come ahead."

We could see him scooting pell mell around the edge of the cooking shack, his spindle legs as thin ​as sticks. Bert Winton (that was the new fellow), watched him, kind of laughing, and then he said, "Queer little codger, isn't he?"

I said, "Yes, he's new and he came out of the slums. I guess he'll never work in harness; that's what our scoutmaster says."

"Swims like an eel," Winton said; "why didn't they take him hiking, I wonder?"

"Hanged if I know," Westy said; "he's going to win them the swimming badge, all right. But he doesn't seem to be friends with them exactly. They make good use of him, anyway."

"Kind of a performing bear, hey?" Bert said.

"Something like that," I told him; "I wish I had him in my patrol, I know that."

"Guess he wouldn't fit into any patrol," Winton said; "he seems to be a kind of an odd number."

Pretty soon Skinny came running back shouting ffor all he was worth, and believe me, he did look like an odd number. His streaky hair was alk down over his forehead and his eyes were like a couple of camp fires. He was shouting: "Don't go, don't go! I can go with you."

We rowed over to shore and as he climbed in I could see that he was trembling all over, just for fear we wouldn't wait for him, I suppose. "I was ​going to swim out to you, I was," he said; "if you didn't wait."

"You wouldn't want your scout suit to get all wet, would you?" I said. "Sit down and don't be so excited."

"I like the water better than hiking, anyway," he said; "and I like you best of all."

I said, "The pleasure is mine," and then we all laughed.

"You can make fun of me all you want," he said; "I don't care. I told them they could make fun of me all they want if they'd let me go with them, but they wouldn't let me go."

"They wouldn't, huh?" Bert Winton said, and he studied Skinny awful funny like.

"When I win them the badge, then they'll take me, won't they?" he said.

"I guess so," I told him.

"I'm going to win the cup for them in the contest, too," he said; "I'm going to win it for them before I go home. Then I'll be friends with them. I told them I'd win it if you didn't try for at."

"You should worry about me," I said, "I can swim, but good night, I'm not in the contest class. ​And maybe you're not either, so don't be too sure."

He said, "I'm going to win them the cup, and I'm going to win them the badge. But I don't have to get to be a first class scout guy to win the cup, I don't. It's made of silver. Once my father stole a lot of silver. It's all fancy, that cup."

"I know all about the cup, Alf," I said; (because, gee, I didn't like to be calling him Skinny), "but don't call the fellows scout guys. Just scouts—that's enough." He just looked at me kind of wild, as if he didn't understand, the same as he always did when anybody called him down, or tried to tell him something.

For a few minutes nobody spoke and we just rowed around, Then Westy said, "So that's their game, is it?"

I knew well enough what he meant. Every season Mr. Temple offers a silver cup to the best swimmer at Temple Camp. Once Mr, Temple had a son who got drowned because he couldn't swim, and that's why he's so interested in fellows being good swimmers, That silver cup hasn't got anything to do with the scout swimming badge. You can't win that (anyway they won't give it to ​you) till you've passed your first class tests. But anybody can try for the silver cup, and you can bet it's a big honor for any troop or patrol to have that. Most always they have the contest on Labor Day.

I said, "Alf, you can bet I'd be glad to see you win that cup, but don't forget that there are more than a hundred fellows at the camp. Some of the troops come from the seashore—you know that, and they're all crackerjack swimmers. It comes mighty hard to be disappointed, so don't you stay awake at night thinking about it." I said that because I could just see that poor kid dreaming about handing that cup over to his patrol leader, and honestly, I didn't think there was much chance for him.

Pretty soon Bert Winton leaned over and said to me, "Do you suppose that's true about his father?"

"Guess so," I told him.

"He doesn't seem to be very much ashamed of it," he said.

All I could say was, "He's a queer kid; he's all the time blurting out things like that."

"Maybe it's because he's just plain honest," Winton said.

​"But you'd think he'd be ashamed," I told him.

He just shrugged his shoulders and looked kind of funny at Skinny. I had a kind of a hunch that he liked him and believed in him. Anyway, I remembered those words, "just plain honest."