Roy Blakeley in the Haunted Camp Part 22

"I thought I told you," the invalid said simply. "They're going to take me to Canada next week. I've got to be tried for something. They think I only dreamed that my brother tried to kill me. I would rather stay here with you. Can't you tell them, so I can stay here? I want to stay. We were all like a kind of a family--telling yarns. You know me. They have a conspiracy here. You know all about me, you tell them. If you ask them to give me back the--the--locket, they will. It has her picture?"

"Whose picture--Blythey?"

"My mother's, _you_ know. You know how I went up and got it. You're my friends and I'm yours--"

"Yes, you are," Roy said, his eyes glistening.

The invalid closed his eyes and lay as if asleep. The two scouts waited, but the eyes did not reopen. So they arose quietly and left the ward.

They had been told they could not stay long. They were deeply affected and bewildered. Blythe was different, but _how_ different they could not say. He just seemed different. He had spoken with simple frankness of things he had never mentioned before. He was _changed_.

This fact and what he had said, and the stillness of the place, and the queer odor in the ward and corridor, and the noiselessness of their own footfalls on the rubber covered hall, awed the two scouts to such a degree that they longed for the free open air where they could talk.

It was with some trepidation that they encountered at the head of the stairway the police guard talking with Detective Ferrett.

"Well, how do you find him?" the county official asked in gruff good humor. He at least seemed not at all awed by the solemnity of the place.

"Does he have to go to Canada?" Roy asked. "Does he have to go soon?"

"Yes, siree. Been telling you about his brother?"

"Is it true?" Roy asked.

"Na-a-h! He either hasn't come to his senses yet or he's bluffing. He's going back to Quebec to a dope-house or else to the gallows. How'd _you_ like to go to the gallows, hey?" he added as a pleasantry.

"You're--you're _sure_ he's the one?" Roy asked, in pitiful despair.

"Well now what do _you_ think? You saw the pictures, huh? He's the chap, says you. Been trying to string you, huh? He rang that brother in on me yesterday."

"He wants the locket you took from him," said Roy.

"Oh, does he? Well, wouldn't that be nice?"

"If it helps him to get better and helps him--maybe--to sleep--"

"Well now, you run home and say you had a call on him, and look out who you make friends with next time."

They were just about to start down the stairs, heavy-hearted with that last pathetic memory of their friend to carry in their minds, when looking down the broad stairway, they beheld a strange sight. A diminutive figure was ascending the steps.

He wore the full scout regalia, including all sundries and accessories, and the sight of him as he came trudging up carried the others back to that day when they had taken their memorable hike to Woodcliff. For stuck under his belt like some awful doc.u.ment of authority was an envelope of goodly dimensions, and his countenance wore a look calculated to strike terror to the stoutest heart.

Thus ascended the doughty little knight of the Good Turn, and several nurses watched him amusedly from the foot of the broad stair....

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HERE, READ THIS LETTER," SAID PEE-WEE TO ROY.]

CHAPTER x.x.xII

RETURN OF THE GOOD TURN

"You think you're so smart," said Pee-wee, including the men as well as his scout comrades in his scathing rebuke. "It shows how much you know about good turns and scout laws and things. Maybe you think _I_ haven't got any[3] specific vacations. Here, read this letter and look at the pictures. Then you better go home and read scout law Number Two.

Did you start jollying yet?"

As Roy drew a folded sheet from the envelope several pictures fell to the floor. One of these was an unmounted cabinet photo, the others were exceptionally good amateur prints. As County Detective Ferrett gathered these up he scrutinized the photograph with sudden interest.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Oh, I got it," said Pee-wee mysteriously. "You're a detective, you ought to know specific vacations when you see them."

County detective Ferrett was not one to be either polite or ceremonious where his professional interests were concerned. He therefore s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from Roy's hands and proceeded to read it with eager interest.

It was only by crowding around him that the boys could read it. But in his sudden interest in the letter the shrewd official had released the pictures to their rightful owner and the eyes of Warde and Roy were riveted upon these in speechless consternation.

One showed the very sweet face of a woman, and as the boys looked at this they were conscious of having seen that face somewhere before. Two others showed country scenes, including a house. They were the kind of scenes that amateur photographers love to take; scenes with a homely familiarity about them--a woman sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, a dog skilfully caught by the camera in the moment of his resting his paws upon a fence, a back door with a churn standing near. Commonplace things, the last subjects that an artist would choose, but scenes that have a way of reaching the heart and recalling fond memories.

But out of the professionally taken photo there looked straight at the boys eyes, oh, how familiar, how friendly, how companionable. And upon the mouth hovered that little smile that they knew, oh, so well. It seemed, yes it seemed that if Roy were to start jollying Pee-wee then and there, that smile would broaden. It was the picture of Blythey, their friend. It seemed to say, "Let's start the camp-fire."

The handwriting of the letter was small and shaky. The missive read:

_Dear Unknown Friend:_--

The letter you sent me came to me. It was brought to me by the postmaster. In the big town not so far from here there are boys in brown suits and they call them scouts. A neighbor of mine says you must be one of those because they are all over the country.

It is so kind how you thought to send the letter. I would like to know where you got it. It made me very sad to read it because it was written to me by my son Joe, who was killed in the war.

He was killed near Reims. I wish I could know all about it but n.o.body can find out for me.

He went from Camp Merritt in April 1918 and Mr. Hicks who is postmaster here has a big map on the wall in his store and he says that Bridgeboro (which is written near your name on the envelope) is near Camp Merritt, so perhaps you found the letter.

I guess so for it is so old and looks as if it had been in the weather, but it is very, very dear to me. So, my dear young friend, who are so kind, you can say to yourself that you made me see my boy once more just the same as if he came back. I think that will make you happy. It made me sad but it made me happy too. It seems as if I have a letter from both of you and I will never see you but you are both with me in my trouble and loneliness.

I would like you to come here sometime and see the home where my boy grew up but I have much trouble and fear that soon I must go to the Home in Barnardsville, there to end my days. But these pictures taken by my boy will show you his home that I must now lose and his dog now twelve years old; poor dog, I do not know where he will go when I go to the Home.

My dear boy saved his life when he was your age as I suppose, and do you know how? By running to him when he was caught in a thrasher and my boy stepped on a scythe as he ran and he was many weeks in bed while I nursed him. It seemed hardest of all that I could not nurse him when he died. He was a brave boy and so gentle and kind to me and to everyone, even the animals, and he was so n.o.ble and good to me after his father died.

So you see, my dear young friend, I have lost much, even more than I tell you and I say there are sorrows worse than death so you will be a pride and comfort as you grow up, for I have known what an undutiful son is too. But I think of my brave, n.o.ble boy that died in France and you brought him back to me for a few minutes when I sat reading his letter. So I shall always love these scout boys on account of you and would like to read about them but my eyes are not very strong.

And now I say good-bye to you, my dear young friend and often I will think of you after I go to the Home.

Mrs. Mary Haskell Hicksville, North Carolina.

The quiet of Hicksville, North Carolina, could have been no deeper than the stillness which prevailed when the scouts finished reading this letter. They seemed to feel that if they moved or spoke it would destroy a spell and prove this whole amazing business a dream. Within the ward the voice of some patient could be heard in petulant complaint. Nurses with silent tread, moved in and out of the apartment. An auto horn could be heard tooting somewhere in the distance. But Warde and Roy were in Hicksville, North Carolina.

Warde was the first to speak. Modest, as he always was, he now uttered a thought which had lingered in his mind for many days. "Now I know why he said '_Doctor Cawson_,'" he observed quietly. "He belongs in the south. I know why he didn't say _Tranto_ and _Monreal_; it was because he never lived in those places. But of course, that doesn't prove anything, I guess."

"It proves something about _you_," said Roy proudly. Oh, he could afford to be generous and happy!

"We don't need any proof," said Pee-wee; "haven't we got proof enough?