The Boy Scouts in the Blue Ridge Part 1

The Boy Scouts in the Blue Ridge.

by Herbert Carter.

CHAPTER I.

THE HIKE THROUGH THE SMOKY RANGE.

"DID anybody happen to see my knapsack around?"

"Why, you had it just a few minutes ago, Step Hen!"

"I know that, b.u.mpus; and I'd take my affidavy I laid it down on this rock."

"Well, don't whine so about a little thing like that, Step Hen; it ain't there now, and that's a fact."

"Somebody's gone and sneaked it on me, that's what. I'm the unluckiest feller in the whole bunch, for havin' queer things happen to him. Just can't lay a single thing I've got down anywhere, but what it disappears in the most _remarkable_ way you ever heard of, and bobs up somewhere else! I must be haunted, I'm beginnin' to believe. Do _you_ know anything about my knapsack, Giraffe?"

"Never touched your old grub sack, Step Hen; so don't you dare accuse me of playing a trick on you. Sure you didn't hang it up somewhere; I've known you to do some funny stunts that way;" and the tall boy called "Giraffe" by his mates, stretched his long neck in a most ridiculous manner, as he looked all around.

Eight boys were on a hike through the mountains of North Carolina. From the fact that they were all dressed in neat khaki uniforms it was evident that they must belong to some Boy Scout troop; and were off on a little excursion. This was exactly the truth; and they had come a long distance by rail before striking their present wild surroundings.

Their home town of Cranford was located in a big Northern State, and all the members of the Silver Fox Patrol lived there; though several of them had come to that busy little town from other sections of the country.

Besides two of those whose conversation has been noted at the beginning of this chapter there was, first of all, Thad Brewster, the leader of the patrol, and when at home acting as scoutmaster in the absence of the young man who occupied that position, in order to carry out the rules and principles of the organization. Thad was a bright lad, and having belonged to another troop before coming to Cranford, knew considerably more than most of his fellows in the patrol.

Next to him, as second in command, was Allan Hollister, a boy who had been raised to get the b.u.mps of experience. He had lived for a time up in the Adirondacks, and also in Maine. When it came down to showing how things ought to be done according to the ways of woodsmen, and not by the book, the boys always looked to Allan for information.

Then there was a slender, rather effeminate, boy, who seemed very particular about his looks, as though he feared lest his uniform become soiled, or the s.h.i.+ne on his shoes suffer from the dust of the mountain road. This was "Smithy." Of course he had another name when at home or in school--Edmund Maurice Travers Smith; but no ordinary boy could bother with such a high-flown appellation as this; and so "Smithy" it became as soon as he began to circulate among the lads of Cranford.

Next to him was a dumpy, rollicking sort of a boy, who seemed so clumsy in his actions that he was forever stumbling. He had once answered to the name of Cornelius Jasper Hawtree; but if anybody called out "b.u.mpus"

he would smile, and answer to it. b.u.mpus he must be then to the end of the story. And as he was musically inclined, possessing a fine tenor voice, and being able to play on "any old instrument," as he claimed it was only right that he a.s.sume the duties of bugler to the Cranford Troop. b.u.mpus carried the s.h.i.+ning bugle at his side, held by a thick crimson cord; and when he tried he could certainly draw the sweetest kind of notes from its bra.s.s throat.

Then there was Davy Jones, a fellow who had a sinuous body, and seemed to be a born athlete. Davy could do all sorts of "stunts," and was never so happy as hanging by his toes from the high branch of some tree; or turning a double somersault in the air, always landing on his nimble feet, like a cat. Davy had one affliction, which often gave him more or less trouble. He was liable to be seized with cramps at any time; and these doubled him up in a knot. He carried some pills given to him by the family doctor at home, and at such times one of the other boys usually forced a couple between his blue lips. But some of the fellows were beginning to have faint suspicions concerning these "cramps;" and that the artful Davy always seemed to be gripped nowadays when there was a prospect of some extra heavy work at hand.

The last of the eight boys was a dark-haired lad, with a face that, while handsome, was a little inclined to be along the order of the proud. Robert White Quail was a Southern-born boy. He came from Alabama, but had lived many years in this very region through which the Silver Fox Patrol was now hiking. Indeed, it had been at his personal solicitation that they had finally agreed to take their outing in climbing the famous Blue Ridge Mountains, and tasting some of the delights of a genuine experience in the wilderness. Among his companions the Southern lad went by the name of "Bob White;" and considering what his last name happened to be, it can be easily understood that nothing else in the wide world would have answered.

Of course Step Hen had another name, which was plainly Stephen Bingham.

When a mite, going to school for the first time, on being asked his name by the teacher, he had spelled it as made up of two distinct words; and so Step Hen he was bound to be called by his comrades.

Giraffe also was known in family circles as Conrad Stedman; but if any boy in Cranford was asked about such a fellow, the chances were he would shake his head, and declare that the only one he knew by the name of Stedman was "Giraffe," For some time he had gone as "Rubberneck," but this became so common that the other stuck to him. Giraffe loved eating.

He was also pa.s.sionately fond of making fires, so that the others called him the fire fiend. When Giraffe was around no one else had the nerve to even think of starting the camp-fire; though after that had been done, he was willing they should "tote" the wood to keep it running.

The day was rather warm, even for up in the mountains, and if the signs told the truth they might look for a thunder storm before a great while.

As the scouts had no tents along, and were marching in very light order, they would have to depend upon their natural sagacity to carry them through any emergencies that might arise, either in connection with the weather, or the food line. But they knew they could place unlimited dependence on their leaders; and besides, as Bob White had spent many years of his young life in this region, he must know considerable about its resources.

They were now in what is known as the Smoky Range, a spur of the Blue Ridge Mountains, which borders on Tennessee. Not a great many miles away was Asheville, a well-known resort; but few of the society people frequenting that place had ever ventured up in these lonely localities; for they did not have the best reputation possible.

Among these wild peaks dwelt men who, in spite of the efforts of revenue officers, persisted in defying the law that put a ban on the making of what has always been known as "moons.h.i.+ne" whiskey. Occasionally an arrest might be made; but there was much danger attached to this thing; and the country was so rugged, that it would take an army of United States regulars to clean out the nests of moons.h.i.+ners holding forth there.

It would seem as though this might be a rather strange region for the hike of a Boy Scout patrol; and had the parents or guardians of the boys known as much about it as those living in Asheville, they might have thought twice before granting the lads permission to come here.

But it had been partly on the invitation of Bob White that the expedition had been planned and mapped out. He seemed to have a strange yearning to revisit the region that had been his former home; and when some one proposed that they explore some of the mysteries of the famous Blue Ridge, Bob eagerly seconded the motion, in his warm Southern way.

And that was how it started. Once boys get an idea in their heads, it soon gains weight, just like a rolling s...o...b..ll.

And now they were here, with the grim mountains all around them, silence wrapping them about, and mystery seeming to fill the very air. But healthy boys are not easily impressed or daunted by such things; and they cracked jokes and carried on as boys will do with the utmost freedom.

The conversation between Step Hen, b.u.mpus and Giraffe having attracted the attention of the scoutmaster, he called out at this juncture:

"Whose knapsack is that you've got strapped on your back right now, Number Eight?"

A shout went up as Step Hen, quickly turning the article in question around surveyed it blankly; but apparently both b.u.mpus and Giraffe had known of its presence all the while, though pretending ignorance.

"Who strapped that to my back?" demanded the owner. "I don't remember doing it, give you my word for it, fellers. Mighty queer how things always happen to _me_, and n.o.body else. But anyhow, I'm ready to continue the march, if the rest of you are."

Five minutes later, and the boys were straggling along the rough road that wound in and out, as it pierced the valleys between the peaks looming up on either side. There was no attempt at keeping order on the march, and the boys, while trying to remain within sight of each other, walked along in groups or couples.

Giraffe and b.u.mpus, a strange combination always, yet very good chums, were at some distance in the lead. Bringing up the rear were Thad and Allan, examining some chart of the region, which Bob White had drawn for them, and talking over what the plan of campaign should be.

In the midst of this pleasant afternoon quiet there suddenly arose the piercing notes of the bugle, followed by a loud and hoa.r.s.e shout; and looking up hastily, Thad Brewster was surprised to see b.u.mpus wildly waving both his arms. Although he was at some little distance away, and at the bottom of the decline, what he shouted came plainly to the ears of the young scoutmaster, giving him something of a thrill:

"Hey! come along here, you fellers; Giraffe, he's got stuck in the crick, up to his knees, and he says it's quicksand!"

CHAPTER II.

SEEING GIRAFFE THROUGH.

"QUICKSAND!" shrieked Step Hen, who happened to be keeping company with Davy Jones just ahead of the two leaders of the patrol. "Hey! hurry your stumps, fellers, and get there before poor Giraffe is pulled under.

Ain't it lucky he c'n stretch his neck so far? Anyhow he ought to keep his head above water."

Everybody was on the run by now, and as b.u.mpus kept sounding the a.s.sembly on his silver-plated bugle, what with the shouts of the advancing khaki-clad boys, the picture was an inspiring one.

When they reached the border of the little stream that crossed the mountain road, sure enough, there was the tall scout up above his knees in the water, and looking rather forlorn.

"What had I ought to do, Allan?" he bawled out, naturally appealing to the one whose practical experience was apt to be of more benefit to him at such a time than all the theories ever advanced. "You see, I was crossing here, and stopped right in the middle to turn around and say somethin' to b.u.mpus. Then I found that both my feet seemed like they was glued down. When I tried to lift one, the other only sank down deeper.

And it came to me like a flash that I was gripped in quicksand. When I told b.u.mpus here he squawked, and blew his horn to beat the band."

"Horn!" echoed b.u.mpus, indignantly; "why can't you ever learn to say bugle. You're the only one I know of that owns to a horn; and you blow that often enough, I'll be bound."

"Ain't you goin' to get me out?" demanded the now alarmed Giraffe, as he felt himself slowly but surely sinking deeper. "Say, is that the way to treat a fellow you all have known so long? I ain't foolin', let me tell you. And if you stand there much longer, grinnin' at me, it'll be too late! You'll feel sorry when you only see the top of my head above water. I tell you there ain't no bottom to this crick. It goes clean through to China, it does, now. Give us a hand, Allan, Thad. One scout ought to help another, you know; and I bet some of you haven't done a single good deed to-day, to let you turn your badge right-side up."

Among Boy Scouts it is considered the proper thing to invert the badge every morning, and not change its position until the owner has something worth while to his credit, even though it may only be the helping of an old man across the busy street; or the carrying of a basket for a lame woman coming from market. This was what Giraffe evidently had in mind, when trying to spur his comrades on to helping him out of the mire into which he had fallen.