Roy Blakeley in the Haunted Camp Part 19

"That you're not a murderer."

"I always said you were not," Westy added.

"No friend of ours is a murderer," Pee-wee said.

"I guess we'll have to go back to raising mushrooms now," Will Dawson observed. "Anyway, I'm glad we've got our old car to go to."

"Same here," said Vic Norris of the Elks.

They walked along for a little in silence.

"Will they hang him, I wonder?" Doc Carson asked.

"He must have been out of his head when he did it," one answered.

"He was out of his head when he _didn't_ do it, you mean," insisted Pee-wee. "Do you think the Silver Foxes commit murders just because they're out of their heads? That's no good of an argument. Do you mean to tell me," he shouted, turning suddenly upon Roy; "do you mean to tell me that the fellow who saved your life like that would kill people?"

"Just because I like you, that doesn't prove that I'm out of my head, does it?" Roy asked with a kind of wistful humor.

"Sure it does," said Pee-wee, "because you say a friend of yours kills people. If it wasn't for him you wouldn't be limping now, so that proves the kind of a fellow he is. I don't mean he made you limp, but he made you stay alive so you could limp, and he doesn't even know that you thank him for it either--"

"Don't, Kid--" Roy began; he could hardly speak. "I do--"

"All right then," Pee-wee concluded. "Didn't I tell you I was going to find that girl, and didn't I find her? Didn't I send that letter? Didn't I say that scout up at Temple Camp would get well? Couldn't I always tell when we were going to have apple dumplings? And you go and believe an old picture and a lot of specific vacations or whatever you call them. You'd better read Law Two in the handbook about being loyal--you're such a fine patrol leader--you act more like a patrol wagon!"

"What do you mean I can't be loyal?" Roy demanded, his eyes glistening.

"The fellows--"

"I don't care about the troop," Pee-wee interrupted. "I'm talking about you and the fellow that saved your life." He paused in the road and stood facing Roy; a funny little round-faced figure he was, with eyes blazing. "You've got to say, is he a murderer or not? You've got to say it. Yes or no? And these fellows--your own patrol--they can prove what you say--"

Roy was almost sobbing. Pee-wee certainly held the floor--or the road.

"The men--Mr. Ferrett--they know better than we do, Kid. Blythe is the one whose picture--"

"You say yes or no," Pee-wee demanded in a voice of thunder. "They lifted him off where you were caught and so now you're alive and you can _speak_. Is he a murderer or isn't he?"

Roy was going to pieces. The little scout whom he had always found it so easy to jolly, towered over him. The tiny Raven was become a giant.

"I--no he--_no he isn't_--he isn't, Kid," Roy stammered.

Without another word Pee-wee hooked his duffel bag to the end of his scout staff, after the fas.h.i.+on of a Swiss peasant, and carrying the staff over his shoulder, marched on ahead like a conquering hero, as if he preferred not to be seen hiking with such people....

CHAPTER XXVIII

HOME SWEET HOME

The st.u.r.dy little scout did not long walk alone. Roy, visibly affected, limped ahead, rapped him on the shoulder without saying a word, and hobbled along at his side. And presently Warde Hollister, quiet, thoughtful, and always somewhat a puzzle to the other scouts, joined them. "I'm with you, Kiddo," he said. Pee-wee did not appear to care who was with him and who was not. His own stout little scout heart was with him, and that was enough.

And so these three who had taken the hike to Woodcliff, and discovered the tell-tale notice, and mailed the formidable envelope to somebody or other, they knew not whom, trudged along together now, and the resolute, loyal, unreasoning spirit of Pee-wee Harris was like a contagion, giving the others hope where indeed there seemed no hope, and diffusing something like cheer.

And noticing them, Westy said to Vic Norris of the Elks, "He's a funny fellow, Warde; it always seems as if he thinks more than he speaks."

"He never speaks till he's sure," Vic said.

The late afternoon sun was glinting up the river and bathing the patched roof of their old ramshackle railroad car in flickering tints of gold, as they made their way across the field to their quaint headquarters down by the sh.o.r.e in Bridgeboro. The tide was full, the unsightly mud banks hidden; it seemed as if their beloved familiar river had donned its best array to meet them. It rippled against the gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e in a kind of song of welcome. The birds were busy in the neighboring willow tree, and a fish flopped out of the glittering water as if to remind them that some of the pleasures of vacation time were left to them.

"h.e.l.lo, old car!" said El Sawyer of the Ravens, as he tossed the duffel bag through a broken window. "I hope we have enough in the treasury to get that window put in."

"We should worry," said Roy.

"There's a lot of fun not having any money," said Pee-wee.

"We ought to have plenty of fun then," said Westy. "This old car has got the County Poorhouse turning green with envy."

"They have a lot of fun in the poorhouse, they whittle things with sticks," Pee-wee said. "If you always have fun no matter what, that shows you're an optomotrist."

"You mean an optimist," Doc Carson said.

"Let's leave our stuff here and go home," said Connie. "Then we can start in to-morrow."

"Off with the new love, on with the old," said Artie.

"There's no place like this old car," said Westy.

"Except Temple Camp," two or three spoke up.

"And under Roy's kitchen steps, that's a good place," said Pee-wee.

"Well, here we are anyway," said Westy.

"We're here because we're here," said Roy with just a glint of his wonted buoyant spirits.

"You can't deny that," Pee-wee challenged.

There was no denying that, and the old patched-up car, relic of a bygone age of railroading, seemed to breathe the atmosphere of home to them.

Even the dusty odor of its threadbare velvet seats seemed to welcome them.

They spent that night in their homes; there was much to tell their parents. Several of them went to see Mr. Ellsworth, and they were not disappointed to learn that he believed the authorities were right, that Blythe was Claude Darrell. They had expected this. The only scout who could draw his mighty sword against the scoutmaster and the whole town was Pee-wee Harris, and he was at home and asleep. Mr. Ellsworth praised his scouts for abandoning all thought of gain from their unhappy adventure. "Just start all over again," he said. So they resolved to do that.

The next day county detective Ferrett took a hop, skip and a jump into fame. Upon the front page of the Bridgeboro Evening Record was the following headliner:

MURDERER FOUND IN SCOUT CAMP. SENSATIONAL SEQUEL TO BOY SCOUT ENTERPRISE IN OLD CAMP MERRITT.

Claude Darrell, a Canadian fugitive of many aliases, was discovered yesterday by County Detective Slicksby Ferrett in old Camp Merritt where he was found working with a troop of local scouts, tearing down some of the old buildings of the wartime concentration camp. Darrell is wanted in Quebec for burglary and murder.

His discovery and prompt identification by Detective Ferrett was due to an alarm sent to Bridgeboro of an accident at the old camp.