THE ACCIDENT

It was on Thursday morning that Mr. Curtis sent for Dale, and in spite of his suspicions the boy brightened a little as he entered the scoutmaster’s study and noticed the smile on the latter’s face.

“Well, Dale,” began Mr. Curtis, cheerily, “I’ve been puzzling my brains over that problem of yours ever since Monday night, and yesterday the answer was fairly thrust on me.”

The boy pricked up his ears doubtfully. “What is it, sir?” he asked quickly.

“Bird-houses. You’re our prize carpenter, and I know you made a number of them in the spring. Now ”

“Bird-houses!” interrupted the boy, incredulously. “Bird-houses at the end of June! Why, who I’ll bet you’re making ”

He broke off abruptly, biting his lips. Mr. Curtis did not seem offended. In fact, he merely chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.

“No, it’s not that,” he said quickly. “I’ve nothing at all to do with it. I had an inquiry this morning from some one who a probably knows it’s a scout specialty for a quotation on a number of rather elaborate houses that are wanted at once. There’s the list.”

Dazedly Dale took the paper and stared at it. It was a type-written list describing, with some detail, the eight bird-houses desired. Two of them, for martin colonies, called for something large and rather elaborate. All were distinctly of a more expensive class than was usually in demand. Even without figuring, he could see that his time alone, were it possible to finish the work inside of two weeks, would be worth over ten dollars. In spite of his doubts, his eyes brightened as he looked up at the scoutmaster.

“It’s a corking order!” he exclaimed. “It would put me all to the good. But I can’t understand why anybody would want bird-houses after the birds have all nested for the season. Who are they for, sir?”

“That I can’t tell you,” returned Mr. Curtis. “Now don’t go off at half-cock,” he added quickly, as Dale’s lips parted impulsively. “I’ve told you I had nothing to do with it in any way. The inquiry this morning was as much of a surprise to me as it is to you, but just because the person doesn’t wish to be known is no reason why you should balk at the offer. There may be any number of reasons. At least there’s no touch of charity about it. You’ll be giving full value received, won’t you? And you certainly build better houses than any other boy in the troop.”

For a second Dale hesitated, torn between a last lingering doubt and a natural eagerness to snatch at this wonderful opportunity. “You mean you advise me to accept?” he asked slowly.

“I do. I see no reason why you shouldn’t treat it as a regular business proposition and make out your estimate at once.”

Dale hesitated no longer. The whole thing still seemed odd, but after all, as Mr. Curtis had said, he had nothing to do with that. He was still further reassured when he went over the specifications again, seated at a corner of the scoutmaster’s writing-table. The very detail with which these had been made out pointed to a distinct and definite want, not to a charity meant to give work to an unknown scout.

For two hours the boy sat making rough plans, measuring, figuring, and calculating with the utmost care. He conscientiously put his estimate as low as he possibly could, and when word came next day to go ahead he plunged into the work blithely, determined to give the unknown good value for his money.

Fortunately, school was over and Dale could give practically all his time to the undertaking. He took a chance and registered for the first two weeks at camp, but it was a close call, and the houses were delivered to Mr. Curtis only the very morning before the party was scheduled to start. That afternoon he had the money, and there was no happier boy in Hillsgrove as he hastily sought the scout store at the Y. M. C. A. and made his necessary purchases.

It was at the same place that the crowd gathered with bag and baggage next morning at six o’clock. Early as it was, the majority were on hand before the appointed hour, so there was no delay in getting off. Seats had been built along each side of the big motor-truck, and the moment suitcases and duffle-bags were stowed away beneath them, there was a scramble to get aboard.

Tompkins found himself presently squeezed in near the rear, next to Court Parker, with Sanson, Bob Gibson, and Paul Trexler near by. Most of the older fellows were farther front, and Mr. Curtis sat next to the driver. It was a perfect day, clear, sparkling, cloudless, and as the truck rumbled out of Hillsgrove and started southward along the fine state road the boys were in high spirits. Soon some one started up a song, and from one familiar air they passed to another, letting off a good deal of steam in that fashion. A lot more was got rid of by practising troop yells, and when the truck began to pass between fields of waving yellow grain, they found amusement in seeing how many of the laboring farmers would answer their shouts and hand-wavings.

But it wasn’t possible, of course, to keep up this sort of thing for the entire journey, and after a couple of hours they settled down to a quieter key. Naturally, the most interesting subject of discussion was the camp, and presently, in response to a number of requests, Mr. Curtis moved back to the middle of the truck to tell the crowd, that included many boys from other troops, all he knew about it. When he had described in detail the situation and its advantages and explained the arrangement of the camp which three other scoutmasters and a number of the other boys had gone down ahead to lay out, he paused for a moment or two.

“There’s just one thing, fellows,” he went on presently “that we’ve got to be mighty careful about. The land is owned by John Thornton, the banker, whose wonderful country-place, twenty miles this side of Clam Cove, you may have heard about. It seems that he’s had a great deal of trouble with boys trespassing, starting fires in the woods, injuring the shrubbery and rare trees, and even trapping game. It’s possible, of course, though I should hate to believe it, that some of this damage has been done by scouts, as he seems to think. At all events, he is very much opposed to the movement, which he contends merely gives boys a certain freedom and authority to roam the woods, building fires, cutting trees, and having a thoughtless good time generally, without teaching them anything of real value.”

“Humph!” sniffed Sherman Ward, indignantly. “Then why has he offered us this camping-site?”

“He hasn’t offered it to us as scouts. He’s loaned it to Captain Chalmers, who is a very close friend, and he as much as says that our behavior there will merely prove his point about the uselessness of scouting. Of course, he’s dead wrong, but he’s a mighty hard man to convince, and we’ll have to toe the mark all the time. I don’t mean it’s going to interfere with our having all the fun that’s going, but we’ll have to take a little more pains than usual to have a model camp. There mustn’t be any careless throwing about of rubbish. In getting fire-wood we’ll have to put into practice all we’ve learned about the right sort of forestry. When away from camp on hikes or for any other purpose, we must always conduct ourselves as good scouts and remember that it’s not only our own reputation we’re upholding, but that of the whole order.”

When he had gone back to his place in front there were a few indignant comments on Mr. Thornton and his point of view, but for the most part the boys took it sensibly, with many a determined tightening of the lips.

“I guess he won’t get anything on us,” commented Ted MacIlvaine, decidedly. “It’ll be rather fun, fellows, making him back down.”

There was an emphatic chorus of agreement, but little further discussion, for the question of lunch was beginning to be pressing. Though barely eleven, boxes and haversacks were produced and the next half-hour enlivened with one of the most satisfying of occupations. Toward noon they stopped at a small town for “gas.” When the car started on again, there was a pleasant sense of excitement in the realization that another couple of hours ought to bring them to Clam Cove.

The country had changed greatly from that around Hillsgrove. It looked wilder, more unsettled. Instead of fields of ripening grain, orchards, or acres of truck-gardens, the road was bordered by long stretches of woods and tangled undergrowth. The farm-houses were farther apart and less pretentious. There was even a faint tang of salt in the air. At length, from the summit of an elevation, Mr. Curtis pointed out a distant hill showing hazily blue on the horizon.

“That’s Lost Mine Hill, fellows!” he said. “From there, it’s not more than three miles to our stopping-place.”

Eagerly they stared and speculated as the truck clattered down the incline, its horn sounding raucously. At the bottom there was a straight level stretch of a thousand feet or so, with a bridge midway along it. It was sandy here in the hollow, and the truck had made little more than half the distance to the bridge when all at once, with a weird wailing of the siren, a great gray car shot into sight around a curve beyond.

It was going very fast. Dale and Court, hanging over the side of the truck together, had barely time to note the trim chauffeur behind the wheel and a man and woman in the luxurious tonneau when the explosion of a blow-out, sharp as a pistol-shot, smote on their startled senses. The car leaped, quivered, skidded in the loose sand, crashed into the weather-worn railing of the bridge, hung suspended for an instant above the stream, and then toppled over and out of sight. There was a tremendous splash, a great spurt of flying water, and then silence!