The boy scouts of the Wolf patrol

Front matter

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Wolves Gather i

II Carrying On . . 27

Chapter I The Wolves Gather

Spring, having come to Gillfield, lingered, and Tug Wilson’s dog Hector observed this annual event by again almost catching a woodchuck. At least Tug was so insisting.

“ Nothing doing!” declared Nelson Pease, disgustedly. “ Nothin’ doin’ a-tall ! In the first place, that flea hospital is afraid of a chuck, and, in the second, he wouldn’t know one if he saw one.”

“ Would too,” contradicted the loyal owner, “ an’ Hec’d have got him, too, if they’d had ten yards more to run.”

“ That may be true, Nelse,” volunteered Stan Wood, joyously. “ Maybe both Hec and the chuck l would have died of old age before they’d have covered that much ground.”

“ Never thought of that,” Nelse admitted, and ventured a speculative glance at the almost-Airedale sitting on the edge of the walk before the steps. Hector, the permanent shadow of the rising generation of Wilson, wagged his stump of a tail and elevated one yellow ear. The boys having talked for almost five minutes without any display of physical activity, he felt that something was about due to happen. When such things did, he found it quite satisfactory to stick his cold nose into the neck of the lad at the bottom of the pile and then to capture some stray cap and worry it for ten minutes or so. Hec was hopeful in other things than the pursuit of woodchucks. His only minor drawbacks were his reputation and his name. He had earned the former — none denied that — but the latter had been bestowed on him by Tug’s mother, which goes to prove that few women understand boys and still fewer, dogs. Hector of Troy was a perfectly good warrior, but he did converse terrifically before he went into action. Hector of Gillfield might have been better named Battling Mike. Next to Nelse Pease, he knew more about trouble than any one in the town.

But the strange part of Hector’s whole battlescarred career was his utter and complete loyalty to Tug. Tug was everything his yellow dog was not. Gentle, quiet, lovable, the little fellow hadn’t an enemy in the world. Therefore the boys who loved him most picked upon him all the time, just as the dogs gave the yellow bunch of bone and courage a wide and peaceful berth. Without Tug and Hec, the Wolf Patrol would have been lost. Each, in his own way, played the part of safety-valve.

Nor was this same Wolf Patrol, now in the process of foregathering on the Mayhew steps, a thing lightly to be passed over. The pioneer of Gillfield’s Boy Scout organizations, it had thrived and prospered as only loyalty and success can make things thrive and prosper. Stephen Mayhew, after he had come back to Gillfield from college, had been quick to grasp all that the then-budding Scout movement promised for boys, and hardly had he become established at the new desk in the office of his father’s plant, which served to keep Gillfield prominently on the map, before he reached out for new fields to try his hands upon. Now he believed that these fields, populated by many youngsters, had returned him a better harvest than the factory. And when one looks over Gillfield, its neat houses, its prosperous streets, its row upon row of red brick factories, all dominated by the great Mayhew home high on the eastern side of the narrow valley, it is easy to understand the sort of chap Steve Mayhew was.

The boys of his own day and generation had loved him, but those of Tug’s, Stan’s, Nelson’s and Joe Lowell’s, looked up to him in undisguised idolatry. If he had announced that the moon was edible, even the dog Hector would have licked his chops. So, when, five years before, he had sent for eight of the boys he had watched from babycarriages through hoops, hop-Scotch and up through marbles to long trousers, they had answered that call even unto Alex Cotton, the Silent. And while they then had had no idea of, and less interest in, Scouting, they had agreed instantly, individually and intensely, to become tender feet. If “ Mr. Steve ” said it was a good thing, that was enough.

Since that day the Boy Scouts of Gillfield had grown, prospered and thrived, but to the eight there was but one patrol. Like true wolves, the Wolves howled alone. That is, the Wolf Patrol as a pack. They were seldom apart, they guarded their honor and reputation with a vigilance which had, on occasions, led to black eyes and remorse. For, after all, they were just human boys — these fellows of the Wolf Patrol, and that was the sort of boy Steve Mayhew wanted each to be. The lad who stands upright, looks every other boy squarely in the eye and takes his knocks as they come, has fewer grievous surprises in store in after life than the pampered mollycoddle.

Perhaps Nick Reed’s classic description of the Wolves best set them forth. Nick, being then thirteen, and as conscious of the size of his hands and brilliancy of his new red and yellow necktie as he was unconscious of his pug nose and epidemic of freckles, had cleared his throat twice, had pulled up his belt, had saluted and had addressed Scout Master Mayhew. “ Beg pardon, sir,” he had begun uncomfortably, “ but we fellows sorter know each other an’ — an’ — an’, we sorter hitch.”

They did ; there is no disputing that. They “ hitched ” to perfection and they played the game as a team. Up through the grammar school and into the high they came, united and indivisible. Their ranks were full and they kept them full. Many there were who wished to join the Wolves; many applied but none were chosen. From that first meeting in Mr. Steve’s office through the five succeeding years there had been no vacant place. Even Hec adorned the door mat when the Patrol was in formal session.

However, to-day there was no formal meeting. Nothing can be formal when the spring sun makes both a coat on a boy and the red sheaf on a maple bud uncomfortable. Hector abruptly ceased investigating the root of his left ear with his hind paw, and, cocking his head, glanced expectantly down the winding driveway. The soft purr of the motor grew louder. The crunch of the tires on the gravel became audible, then the long runabout swung around the curve and came to a stop before the steps. “ Hello, fellows ! Mail kept me longer than I expected.”

The man behind the wheel jumped out. Tall, broad of shoulder, thin of waist and lean of flank, Stephen Mayhew looked the pink of condition he was. His face was better than handsome; it was strong, attractive, and its most attractive feature were the brown eyes which danced and twinkled and the straight lips which knew so well how to change from firmness into cheery smile which could grow to boyish laughter. At twenty-six he was more than his father’s good right hand. There was none at lathe or drill or desk who worked at higher pressure and there was none who seemingly played with a lighter heart. Hec, thoroughly approving, proceeded to run around in circles and attempt to bark his head off.

“ ’Sail right, old man,” laughed Mayhew ; “ I saw you before. You, Fat,” he snapped, flashing around on the large, comfortable youth who still sat in the car, “ wake up and get out of that! ”

“ Can’t,” replied the lad mournfully; “ I’m very, very sick. I’ll have to ride in this all the way. I like automobiles.”

“ Throw him out, Joe.” Mayhew looked as young as any of them as he spoke to the well-built fellow already half way out of the rumble.

“ Cheese it! ” protested the victim. “ I’ve got an earache.”

“ You mean you’re going to have.” Joe Lowell always kept his promises, but this time his fingers slipped. The next minute he and Fatty Foster were rolling on the grass and Hec was beginning to believe life worth living.

“ Call off that fish hound ! ” wailed Fatty. “ I think he bit me. Quit it, Joe ! ”

Will you behave? ”

The big fellow sat up, rubbing his uninjured ears with mock tenderness, his blue eyes wide with innocence. “ I never do anything else,” he confessed blandly. “ Did you bring lunch enough for us both, Joey? ”

The two joined in the general roar of laughter. While the Wolves might be a close corporation, they were as the poles apart as compared with Joe Lowell and Harvey Foster. From the time they toddled, the two had been inseparable. If Joe was not down at the foreman’s house under the hill, Harvey was up at the superintendent’s home adjoining the Mayhew place and, if one was not at the other’s, they were, naturally, somewhere else, but together — always together.

As unlike as two boys could be, they complemented each other. Joe was as slender and high-strung as Harvey was round and placid. The former was rather quiet, thoughtful and studious; the latter bubbling over, lazy, careless, carefree, physically powerful and always and vociferously hungry. That the parents of one were well-to-do and those of the other in decidedly moderate circumstances never occurred to either lad. If one of them had something, it always belonged to the other. If Harvey’s conscience sometimes grew too acute over his scholastic standing, it was Joe who explained and re-explained problem or Latin construction. If, as once did happen, a new boy in the town tried to bully Joe, it was Harvey who completed the disaster. Perhaps it could all be summed up in fewer words — they were real friends.

“ Where are Ned and Alex?” Mr. Mayhew plainly showed surprise over the absence of two of his flock.

“ Probably playing catch on the way up,” volunteered Nick. “ Alex’s tryin’ to get his arm in shape to pitch against Kendallville next week.”

“ Oh, all right ! They ought to be here by the time I can change to comfortable clothes. I’ll be right back.” He ran up the steps and into the house, whistling as he disappeared. Somehow or other Mr. Steve seemed even more cheerful than usual this morning. Everything pointed toward its being a big day.

He was back, clad in knickerbockers and a sweater, before the two tardy Wolves had caught their slow way the length of the drive.

“ You’re going to lose about three fingers some day, Ned,” he called. “ Cup your hands on those fast ones.”

“ His little sister taught him baseball,” observed Nelse languidly. “ Don’t waste your time trying to coach him, Mr. Steve.”

Field waved his gloved paw. “ Alex’s beginning to make ’em hop,” he called, in honest delight.

“ You keep talking to him that way and he’ll pitch his arm to death,” offered Mayhew soberly. “ Too early in the season for the fast ones, Alex. Cut it out.”

“ Honestly, sir, arm’s feeling fine.”

“ Good enough ! Keep it feeling that way. You fellows all ready?” Once more he looked around at the boys about him.

“ Yes, sir.”

“ Been so.”

“ Who’s got my lunch ? ”

“ Do I sit on the front seat again? ”

“ You do not. You walk, and you walk fast, Fat. This is going to be one of those days when you work.”

Harvey gazed longingly at the luxurious runabout. “ Every day is just like yesterday,” he groaned. “ To-morrow’s always the day I ride. And tomorrow’s never caught up with me yet. Good-by, little automobubble ; you’ll be lonesome, too. But keep a stiff upper lip.” He swung the straps of a big knapsack over his head and made a grab for Lowell’s smaller bundle. “ I’ll carry that, Joe,” he offered; “ you’ve got the ax.”

“ Which way do we go, sir? ” It was most unusual for Cotton to show interest in anything but baseball.

“ Thought we might cut across the farm and follow the brook up the mountain.”

“ Whew ! ” whistled Nelse. “ Some hike for this time of year ! ”

“ Got to get hardened,” Mr. Mayhew retorted. There was something about both his tone and queer little smile which made Joe Lowell look at him a bit more closely.

“ You’ve never asked us to do anything you haven’t been ready to do yourself,” he said. “ Ready when you are, sir.”

“ Hike ! ” They swung around the southern corner of the house, a compact body, Hec yelping raspingly as he acted as the advanced line of skirmishers, and, hoping in his heart of hearts, to flush his old enemy, the Mayhew cat.

Cotton and Foster, the former because he was wise and the latter because he was lazy, set the pace. Across the gardens and over the first flat fields the going was easy, but Alex remembered of old that stiff climb up the mountain and appreciated the value of beginning it fairly fresh in strength and wind. Behind them, the other six kept up a running fire of questions at Mr. Mayhew, who gave as good as he received and proved himself a rare Scout Master by his ability to be one of the boys, yet, in some really subtle way, keeping himself just in the background.

While he told himself over and over that he had no favorite amongst the eight, he was far from unhappy when Joe Lowell finally fell into step at his side. Tug ran ahead to see if the valiant Hec had actually treed a desperate gray squirrel.

There was a something about Joe which appealed to older men. If Steve Mayhew had been asked to define it, he would only have laughed and have said that the youngster “ was a likable kid.” Two characteristics stood out above all Joe’s other qualities — one was his ability to listen intelligently and the other was to keep a tight tongue between his teeth. A boy can go a long way with these two gifts.

The end of the first hour found the boys in an open space about half way up the rugged mountain. Foster, one eye on the red face of little Tug, unslung his knapsack and festooned himself over a particularly uncomfortable bowlder. “ Here’s where I rearrange my burden,” he announced. “ It’s easier to carry food inside than outside. Besides, I’m hungry.”

“Were you ever anything else?” laughed Mayhew, as he stopped beside him.

“Oh, yes,” Fat instantly agreed; “quite often I’m sleepy. What’s the use in going any further, anyway? I read something somewhere sometime about a guy who tried to walk to the top of a mountain and all he got out of it was fame for freezing to death ‘ ’mid snow and ice.’ I’m not ambitious. My motto’s ‘ Play it safe.’ Who’ll swop two hard-boiled eggs for a jelly sandwich? ”

“ But you get such a bully view from the top,” suggested Wood.

“ You can’t eat a view,” Harvey retorted witheringly.

“If you could, you’d know,” stated Joe. “ What sort of a nine’s Kendallville got this year, Alex? ”

“ Good.” The lanky pitcher shook his head dubiously. “ Good,” he repeated.

“ Be careful or you’ll talk yourself to death,” warned Nelson Pease, shifting his pack on his shoulders. “ Did you ever look on the hopeful side of anything, Alex? ”

“ ’Tis good,” reiterated the big fellow.

“ You can beat ’em.” Joe’s voice was strong in its conviction. “ You always have. They can’t lick you.”

“ Arm’s not right.” Cotton’s tone was mournful in the extreme.

Ned Field exhibited a puffy palm. “ That doesn’t look so,” he proclaimed. “ You nearly burned all the hide off, you old croaker ! Joe’s right, as usual. What you need more than more speed is a little confidence.”

“ What he needs more than anything else,” announced Foster, “ is something between his ears besides bone. If you’re planning to pick all the burrs out of the fish hound, Tug, you’re able to do something worth while. Come on!” Fat sprang to his feet, grabbed his hat and was half way across the clearing before the rest could pick up their things.

“ Edge toward the south, Harvey,” Mr. Steve called after him. “ Thought we’d build our fire by the big spring.”

Foster waved his hand but did not look back. “ That’s where I’m headed,” he answered. “ I haven’t forgotten last fall.”

Nor had he forgotten many another afternoon spent by the source of that mountain brook. From the earliest days of the Wolves, this spring had been the favorite goal for many a hike. In fact it had become a part of the Patrol’s traditions. It was there that Stephen Mayhew had taught them the woodcraft he had learned in the North and West; it was there they had listened to his quiet talks on the things which a true Scout must practice ; it was there they had grown closer together in the great brotherhood of Nature.

The last ten minutes of the second hour’s real climb became almost a race. Pease, by a final sprint, reached the spring just as Hec was preparing to lie down in its cooling, silver bosom. “ Get out of that! ” he bawled.

“ He’s thirsty,” claimed his proud owner.

“ So ’m I,” snapped Nelse. “ Every time IVe tried to get a drink for the last two hours I’ve seen that hound sitting in the brook just above me. Wonder you wouldn’t give him a bath at home ! ”

Tug, being really tired, flushed, but, in the next instant, began to laugh. Even if he was the smallest of them all, he had learned much from Scouting. “ You an’ Hec both make a pile of noise,” he announced, “ an’ you both make most when there’s work to do.”

“ You take care of the pup,” chuckled Mr. Mayhew, “ and I’ll keep a general oversight on Nelse.”

“ And here,” wailed Pease, “ is where I do all the work as usual.” Nevertheless, he was almost the first to drop his bundle. “ Alex and I will get the wood,” he volunteered. “ Who’s going to polish the kitchen range? ”

“ Our job,” announced Ned Field. “ Come on, Stan. You dig the leaves away from the old back log and I’ll fix the crane.”

“ Hold on a minute.” Joe Lowell’s voice rose above the confusion of a quick start. “ Everybody pile his lunch on the rock and Tug and I’ll arrange it. The rest of you slick up the place. Might as well get the dead stuff out of the way, then we won’t have to bother with it again this year.”

“ The rest of us being Nick and me,” grinned Fat, “ we will now proceed to organize Troop Number 23 of the United Order of Little Robin Redbreasts. I’ll sing while you pick up dead leaves to cover me with, Nick. Hop, you merry songbird ! ” He grabbed a dead branch and began a wild chase after Reed, in which Hec immediately and enthusiastically joined. In two seconds they had the entire crowd dodging and yelling like wild Indians.

It was Foster who brought the game to an end as quickly as he had started it. “ Stop ! ” he roared. “ This is just making me hungrier. Everybody get busy ! ”

From a rollicking, shouting mass, the eight changed to workmen almost on the instant. It was easy to see that they were well grounded in their details. Alex and Nelse had a fire crackling before

Lowell and Tug had half sorted the luncheon bundles. Foster and Nick piled the winter’s waste by the flames, where Mr. Mayhew could feed it judiciously into the fire, and the clang of Stan’s hatchet rang above the other noises as he drove the forked uprights into the ground and then nodded to Field to swing the coffee pot into place on the cross piece.

Larger and fresh-split chunks of wood began to appear as Alex chopped at a windfall at the edge of the glade. There was no confusion, no waste motion, no hurry. Stephen Mayhew, seated on a weatherbeaten log by the fire, half nodded, as if venturing to tell himself that his work had been well done.

But again that strange look crept into his eyes and he was quieter than usual during all the clatter of the season’s first meal in the open. Again Joe Lowell was the only one to notice that the Scout Master had less to say than usual. But again he kept his peace. If Mr. Steve had anything important on his mind, which he thought they should know, he would tell them in his own good time. Joe knew that, as well as when not to ask needless or embarrassing questions.

The explanation came, as many other things had come to Gillfield, and the whole country, during the year that had gone — quietly, soberly but leaving a whirlpool in its wake.

The remnants of the luncheon had been picked up and burned, the camp put in order, and the boys were seated on the three logs which surrounded the glowing embers. It was the looked-forward-to time when Stephen Mayhew gave them of his store of knowledge. Even Hec was still. Fatty Foster drew a long, contented breath. “ Life’s really worth living,” he announced.

“ You’re right,” Mr. Steve agreed, with a forcefulness which made them all turn toward him; “ you’re dead right ! ”

“ Any one might think you hadn’t found it so before,” ventured Nelse.

“ I don’t suppose I ought to say it, but I haven’t.” The man leaned back and clasped his hands about one knee. “ I’m twenty-six. I’m not married, and the war’s been going a year. Do you know what that means ? ”

Memories of many conversations between his father and mother flashed through Joe’s mind. “ I do,” he said gently, “ but I know the people at Washington asked you to stay at the factory when you volunteered to go last year.”

“ Who told you that? ” Stephen Mayhew’s voice fairly snapped.

“ My father, sir.”

The man looked at the lad for a long second, then slowly rose and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, walked across the narrow glade, wheeled and came back, his head up, his jaw set. “If you boys were asking your parents why I was not with the colors, how do you think I answered that same question when my conscience asked it of me?” he demanded. “ How do you think I’ve felt when all the fellows I was with at college were getting into olive drab? How do you think I’ve felt every time I’ve seen a draft of the boys I grew up with march out of Gillfield? How do you think I’ve felt a thousand times a day when I’ve thought of my country at war? ”

“ Dunno.” Harvey’s answer was more confusion than confession.

“ I hope you never will know,” Mayhew flashed back. “ If I live to be ten thousand years old I’ll never square my conscience with what I’ve done. They tell me I’ve done right, but I can’t see it, never will see it. I want you boys to know the real story.” He drew a long breath before going on. “ You all know that the factory was making time fuses for the French seventy-fives,” he began. “ When we went in against the Hun, the Ordnance people sent for my father to come to Washington. I went with him. They asked us how many fuses we could make for this country. We said double our then capacity. They told us to double that. It meant the new mills, the new machinery, the new houses for the new workmen. I told them that my father was too old to take on the greater burden alone, that I’d already signed up for Plattsburg, that they could trust the Mayhew company to do its part and more, but that they must not expect the impossible.

“ More officers came in. My father saw it as I did. They argued. We said we’d do our share, but fifty per cent of that share was overseas and that that fifty per cent was my share. At last a lean, square- jawed man with a star on his shoulder, stalked into the room. I think they’d sent for him. His eyelids were half-drawn over black, snapping eyes and there were deep lines about the corners of his straight mouth. He was worn and raw from overwork and his temper was as short as mine. For the first and last time in my life, a man stormed me out of my convictions. He made me see that my duty to my country was here in Gillfield. So I stayed.”

Of a sudden he straightened once more and his shoulders went back. “ Last week,” he said, in a ringing voice, “ our deliveries exceeded even our big promise. The new shops were running smoothly. I’d done my part of the job. I went to Washington again. I saw that same general. I told him what we had done and what I was going to do and he offered me a majority in his office.”

“ Major ! ” exploded Nelse. “ Hope you told him where he got off. You ought to be a colonel, at least.”

Mr. Mayhew laughed. “ Thanks for the compliment.”

“ Did you take it, sir ? ”

“ Are you really going ? ”

“ Oh, gee! ”

“ Yes,” he announced, “ Fm going. But I’m not going as a major of ordnance. I’m through doing things according to other people’s lights. I’ve only two people to answer to from now on. One’s Stephen Mayhew; the other’s the President of the United States. Our views on the subject fit to perfection. He’s commander-in-chief of the army and he’s said how that army’s to be raised. His way’s my way. I’m draft age. On Monday I’m going with the draft.”

“ As a private ? ” gasped Stan.

“ As a soldier of the army of the United States,”

corrected Mr. Mayhew. “If there’s a prouder title, I’ve yet to hear it.”

Joe Lowell got slowly to his feet. His eyes were shining and his voice shook a little as he held out his hand. “ I always knew you’d do it,” he said. “ I always knew you’d do it.”

As quick as he had grasped Stephen Mayhew’s hand, he dropped it. “ Attention ! ” he snapped.

The seven came to their feet, their heels together, their backs like ramrods. “We Scouts don’t know a great deal about military things,” he announced, rushing his words, “ and we’ll probably do it wrong, but I know every fellow here means it right. Scouts, Private Mayhew of the U. S. Army ! Salute!”

Stephen Mayhew bit his lip. It was not the military absurdity of their tribute which made him do it. These boys meant more to him than they dreamed. “ Thanks, fellows,” he said huskily. “ Carry on! ”

Chapter II Carrying On

Even Nelse Pease lacked pep. There was no disputing the fact that the gloom in the Lowells’ parlor was so thick that it was sticky. The Wolf Patrol had apparently lost more than its Scout Master. Its initiative was missing. Harve Foster recrossed his khaki-clad legs for the fourth time in three minutes. “ ’S long’s we’re all here,” he growled, “ let’s get things over with.”

“ ’S your house, Joe,” mumbled Wood. “ Might ’s well try to take his place. Some one’s got to.”

“ All right.” Joe Lowell’s lips were set tight as he rose. The opening ceremonies of the Patrol’s meetings had been as full of snap and vim under the leadership of Stephen Mayhew as they had been of meaning and sincerity. To-night there was a drabness about it all which made every boy more homesick than before for the man who had gone to camp that morning. They had known they would miss him; they had not appreciated how acute their distress would be.

Ned Field stood it for ten minutes. “ Let’s cut it out,” he erupted. “ I’ve got to go home, anyway ; got a pile of studying to do and everything.”

“ Good idea,” Nelse agreed.

“ Sorter promised my mother I might be home earlier than usual,” offered Foster, beginning to get ready to get up.

“Wonder what Mr. Steve’s doing now?” ventured Tug mournfully.

It was just at that moment that, the full moon having peered over the edge of the mountain, Hec, out on the front porch, sat up on his haunches and emitted a howl which made every boy jump, then look around sheepishly to see if any one else had been equally on edge.

“ Even Hec misses him,” sighed Tug.

“ First time he’s ever shown signs of intelligence,” Fat growled. “ Any one going my way? ”

Joe sprang to his feet. “ Not yet, there isn’t,” he announced sharply. “ This sort of thing’s gone far enough. What are we all, anyway — a lot of yellow quitters ? ”