Tom Slade on the River Part 31

"Are you with us?" Connie asked.

"Sure, he's with us!" cried Roy. "Who's deciding this, Warrentown or Bridgeboro? We'll drag both of them along by the legs the way they dragged the rag scout, hey?"

The party made a pleasant stay at the big training camp, walking through the straight, neat avenues of tents, visiting the commissary, watching the drill, and lingering, fascinated, about the rookies who were busy at rifle practice. They were made very welcome and it was not without a feeling of regret that they went aboard the two boats after the colors had been lowered. But Plattsburg, of which they were to hear so much later, had been merely the chosen point of destination for their rambling inland cruise, and as Mr. Ellsworth had remarked, time was beginning to be precious.

The hospitable Bridgeboro Troop, with its strangely acquired new member and its several guests, lolled upon the deck and cabin roof of the _Honor Scout_ that night, as the two boats waited at their moorings for the dawn which would mean their departure on the speedier journey homeward.

As the moon rose over the wide bosom of the great lake and flickered the waters with its silvery brightness, Harry Stanton sat upon the cabin locker, strumming his ukulele, and those who were in the mood hummed the soft airs while the others listened. Often whole days would elapse in which Harry Stanton would be scarcely heard from, but in the quiet of those summer nights upon the water he contributed his full share to the pleasure of the party.

If you, to whom I am about to bid a short farewell, are a scout of the scouts, see to it that some one of your troop's number learns to play a mandolin, a banjo, or guitar-even if you have to drag him by the leg, as young Frank dragged the unfortunate dummy.

After a little while some one discovered that Roy was not among them, and there was set up at once a hue and cry for him, for such an evening could be no more complete without Roy than a Buffalo Bill Show would be without Buffalo Bill or a circus without peanuts.

"Maybe he's in the other boat," said one.

"Maybe he's on sh.o.r.e," said another.

It was Pee-wee who dragged him forth from the forward end of the cabin, where he had been ensconced, knees up, "far from the madding crowd."

"What's the matter?" asked Artie Van Arlen.

Roy squatted in his customary att.i.tude, holding a paper in his hand.

"I was thinking about all the crazy things that have happened," said he, "and the fellows we've met on this trip, and believe _me_, it's some hodge-podge. I was coming down from that big commissary tent, scout pace, when some poetry jumped into my noddle. Did you ever notice how poetry comes to you when you go scout pace?" he asked, turning to Mr. Ellsworth.

"No, I never did," said the scoutmaster.

"Want to hear it? It's a sort of-sort of a national anthem of the troop--"

"Troop anthem?"

"It isn't fixed up yet because the kid interrupted me. Do you want to hear it?"

"I dare say I can stand it if the others can," said the scoutmaster.

"Go ahead, shoot!" said Doc.

"Get the agony over with," said Connie.

"All right, since you insist," said Roy, taking Tom's flashlight so he could read the immortal lines. "Here goes-one-two-_three_!

"Rag scouts, wooden scouts, Thin heads and thick, Honor scouts, young sprouts- Just take your pick.

"Scouts without scout suits, s.h.i.+rts full of holes, Silver Foxes-_they're the beauts_!

Scouts without patrols.

"Youth scouts, sleuth scouts, Scouts with motor-boats, Scouts that come to life again, Music scouts and potes.

"Scoutmaster on the job, Something-or-other-welk, Hip, hip, hurrah, scouts- Raven, Fox and Elk!

"What do you think of it?"

"Of, it's great!" yelled Pee-wee.

"I think it's superb," said Mr. Ellsworth, "especially the complimentary reference to the scoutmaster."

"The pleasure is mine," said Roy, with an elaborate bow.

"But may I ask what a _pote_ is?"

"Sure, a pote's a scout that writes pomes."

"I see. And a welk?"

"Well, you see it's this way," said Roy, undaunted. "The welkin is the sky, and welk's short for welkin. Get me? I was just trying to dope out how to fit that in when Pee-wee grabbed me."

"We shall have to make you poet laureate of the troop," said Mr.

Ellsworth.

"The Bridgeboro Bard," laughed Garry.

"Do you think if I sent it to _Boys' Life_ they'd print it?" Roy asked.

"Sure, they would!" yelled Pee-wee.

"I don't know," said Mr. Ellsworth, cautiously. "I doubt it. You might try. They have printed worse things," he added.

Roy glanced again at his masterpiece, folded it up, put it in his pocket, drew his knees up, clasped his hands about them, and grinned at the a.s.semblage.

"_I_ should worry," he said.

THE END