Step Hen was all of a tremble when
he first began to handle that burning splinter of
wood, provided by Toby Smathers, to serve as a fiery
pen; and with which he hoped to write letters in the
dark background he had chosen for his location.
Just as he had himself declared, regretfully
now, Step Hen had never been a shining light in this
code business. Indeed, up to lately, he had rather
considered the whole thing something of a great bore;
and when ordered out on the hills to wave signal flags,
he had only obeyed under protest. There had been
plenty of things he much preferred to this sort of
detail work.
But after seeing how successfully
a method of communication had been established between
the scouts in camp, and Aleck, when the latter was
being held a prisoner up on that shelf of rock, Step
Hen had had his eyes opened. He realized what
a really valuable thing a little knowledge along these
lines was apt to prove, at most any time. And
he had then and there resolved to improve his scanty
share of information whenever the chance came.
Right now he was secretly glad that
since that occasion he had been asking some questions
along the line of acquiring information. He had
even had half an hour’s practice with Thad, early
in the morning, sending and receiving messages.
How fortunate that was, Step Hen reflected,
just now, when he found himself placed in a position
where a knowledge of wigwag work was going to prove
of the utmost importance to the boy whom the scouts
had taken in charge.
At the same time it was with considerable
nervousness that he started in to ask his first question.
He meant to inquire if the one answering him were
Thad himself; but when he had made the last letter
of the message Step Hen was afraid it might seem so
bungled that all he would receive might be the well-known
signal:
“Don’t understand repeat message!”
But to his delight there came the three letters:
“Yes.”
Encouraged by this, Step Hen became
more ambitious. He spelled out his own name,
and added a few more words:
“This is Step Hen something important!”
Then he almost held his breath as
he waited to see what effect this would have.
The answer began to come back, slowly and positively,
Thad allowing plenty of time for the other to make
sure of every sign. And staring eagerly, unconsciously
spelling aloud just as he received the message, Step
Hen caught this:
“All right understand let
us have news.”
“It’s going splendidly,
Toby!” cried Step Hen, almost ready to jump up
and down, in his excitement and joy, despite his wearied
condition. “Thad’s taking it, word
for word. I reckon I c’n make him understand
something, even if I am such a big bungler at
this thing. But I tell you right now, after this
I’m going in for wigwag work the hardest you
ever saw. It’s the greatest stunt a scout
can follow up. Why, it’s worth everything
else at such a time as this. Now to tell him about
the two men headed that way, and how they’re
after Aleck Rawson.”
With that Step Hen once more applied
himself to the task before him. His heart was
set on doing something that the scoutmaster would
compliment him on when next they met. Step Hen
had aroused himself to the fact that an occasion like
this demanded that a scout should prove his worth.
It might mean a merit medal for him, if his services
were deemed of sufficient value.
Toby, seeing that the torch would
not be likely to last out the labored conversation
that was to follow, busied himself in getting another
ready. As he was as good a hand at a fire as Giraffe,
this did not prove a heavy task.
Meanwhile Step Hen kept on sending
his messages in short, jerky sentences. He lacked
confidence in himself, and dared not launch boldly
forth in a description of the strange thing that had
happened since the four of them had made camp, after
their big-horn hunt. When he had spelled a sentence
he would almost invariably add the query, “understand?”
meaning to repeat if the answer came in the negative.
But Thad was an expert at this sort of work, and could
puzzle out the meaning of what Step Hen so blunderingly
sent, almost as though he might be a mind reader.
“Two men came into our camp
after dark!” went the opening message.
“Yes,” Thad replied, briefly,
and evidently not meaning to say anything calculated
to confuse the signal sender.
“One a sheriff, name Bob McNulty.”
“Yes.”
“Other older man, name Artemus Rawson. Get
that?”
There was a little interval at that.
Perhaps Thad might be figuring it out; or he may have
mentioned the name aloud, and be speaking with some
one who was near by, possibly asking Aleck if he recognized
the name.
“Yes,” came the flash, presently.
Step Hen had begun to grow cold.
He felt that if he once found himself cornered, and
making mistakes, he was apt to get rattled in his
excitement, and forget the little he really did know
about sending and receiving. So when Thad replied
that he had grasped even that name, the sender found
himself imbued with another relay of confidence.
When he started in once more, he sent a little faster,
though the scoutmaster at the first opportunity warned
him to go slow and sure.
“Say looking for Aleck that
he has robbed uncle headed down valley
when left here Understand that?”
“Yes, but not so fast. Go on,” came
the reply.
Step Hen understood that Thad gave
him this warning, not because he was himself unable
to receive at that rate, for he had seen the patrol
leader and Allan go smoothly along at twice the pace.
He was thinking of Step Hen, for he knew what was
apt to happen if once the other overstepped the bounds,
and muddled himself up; as like as not he would get
his signals mixed, and after that be utterly unable
to send coherently.
“Be with you by morning we
think they suspect Aleck there you know
what to do.”
“Yes. Good for you. Anymore?”
Step Hen sighed with relief.
The great burden of responsibility had fallen from
his shoulders on to those broad ones of the scoutmaster.
Yes, Thad would surely know what to do he
always did when the emergency arose. And that
was what made his chums feel such implicit confidence
in their leader.
And Step Hen thought that while he
was about it, and the message business working so
very smoothly, he might as well let Thad know of their
success; so he managed to say:
“We got two sheep!”
“Good again.”
“Smithy shot one I
got other had warm time I tell you.
Anything new at the camp?”
“Sure. They came and paid
us a visit,” Thad replied, slowly, so that not
a word did Step Hen lose as he spelled the message
out.
“Do you mean Kracker?” he demanded.
“Yes. He tried to ride
over us rough-shod; but we took him down a peg.
Sent the three men away kept their guns looking
out for them all the time if you happen
to meet hold them off Toby will know.”
That was an extra long one to take,
and several times Step Hen had to wave his torch so
as to interrupt the sender, and have him go back to
the last period to repeat what he had to communicate.
For of course Step Hen, like all new beginners in
wigwag work, telegraphy, and kindred things, was a
better hand at sending than receiving; because in
the one case he knew in his own mind what was coming
next, and was not apt to get confused; while in taking
a message, if he lost one small fraction of the same,
while his mind was grappling with that, he failed
to catch the next letter, and thus was apt to become
hopelessly entangled.
But thanks to the intelligent manner
in which Thad managed his end of the air wire, and
the positive way in which he moved his fire pencil,
the message was finally all grasped, though Step Hen
was rapidly becoming exhausted by his efforts, and
the mental strain that bore on him so heavily.
“Better quit thar!” advised
the guide, who kept a close watch on things, and was
able to understand just what the tired boy was enduring.
“Pretty soon, Toby,” replied
Step Hen, slowly. “I’ve done better
than I ever thought I would, and Thad knows about
that Artemus Rawson. He’ll see to it that
Aleck isn’t around when they come to camp.
Oh! ain’t I glad though I brushed up my code
work with him early in the morning, though. That
business with Aleck in the night made me ashamed to
be so dull. I want to ask him one more question,
for there he’s waving to know if I’m done.”
“Get through quick, then; we
orter be back in camp,” said the guide, not
unkindly, but because he saw the condition of Step
Hen.
“What is it?” Thad was
signaling, waiting each time after asking the question,
to receive an answer.
“Will you have Aleck hide himself?” asked
the other.
“Sure thing.”
“We’ll head back to camp
in morning have to get Smithy’s horns
first,” went on Step Hen.
“Has he taken to growing a pair?” Thad
asked, quizzically.
“His sheep I mean lies back a bit look
for us about noon.”
“That all?”
“Yes. Good-bye!”
The last wavering movements of Thad’s
torch far away in the distance told that he was echoing
this concluding word. Then it vanished.
The talk-fest was over; and Step Hen
felt that at least he had done himself proud for one
who had paid so little attention to this really important
adjunct to the education of a Boy Scout.
“And mark me, Toby,” he
mumbled as the guide kindly threw an arm about his
tottering figure, though Step Hen hardly comprehended
the fact, “I’m agoin’ to take up
wigwag work after this, sure I am. Never thought
it could be so interestin’. It’s sure
great. Here’s our camp, ain’t it?
You tell the boys what I did, won’t you Toby;
I’m feelin’ kinder tired like? Guess
I’ll sit down a spell.”
Davy Jones and Smithy were wild to
know how it had all turned out; and while the murmur
of the guide’s voice sounded, as he related the
story of the message sending, poor played-out Step
Hen sank to the ground, dead for sleep.
In less than two minutes he was lost
to the world, the last thing he heard being the low
voice of Toby Smathers, recounting the recent splendid
feat of the scout whose message had undoubtedly saved
Aleck Rawson from impending trouble.