Tom Slade on Mystery Trail | Page 4

tangle through
here, hey? Don't mind if I come along with you, do you? Look down
there, hey? Pavilion looks nice. I've been wondering if I stand any
chance of being called up on that platform on Saturday night. Looks
swell with all the bunting over it, doesn't it?"
The speaker, who had been half talking and half shouting, now came
stumbling and panting up over the edge of the wooded decline where
the thick brush had played havoc with his scout suit but not with his
temper.
"Some climb, hey?" he breathed, laughing, and affecting the stagger of
utter exhaustion. "I bet you knew an easier way up. The bunch told me
not to beard the lion in his den, but I'm not afraid of lions. Here I am
and you can't get rid of me now. I'm up against it, Slady, and I want a
few tips. They say you're the only real scout since Kit Carson. What I'm
hunting for is a wild animal, but I haven't been able to find anything
except a cricket, two beetles and a cow that belongs on the Hasbrook
farm. Don't mind if I stroll along with you a little way, do you? My
name is Willetts--Hervey Willetts. I'm with that troop from
Massachusetts. I'm an Eagle Scout--all but."
"But's a pretty big word," Tom said.
"You said it," Hervey Willetts said, still wrestling with his breath; "it's
the biggest word in the dictionary."

CHAPTER IV
HERVEY LEARNS SOMETHING
They strolled on through the woods together, the younger boy's gayety
and enthusiasm showing in pleasing contrast to Tom's stolid manner.
He was a wholesome, vivacious boy, this Willetts, with a breeziness
which seemed to captivate even his sober companion, and if Tom had
felt any slight annoyance at being thus overhauled by a comparative
stranger, the feeling quickly passed in the young scout's cheery
company.
"They told me down in camp that if I need a guide, philosopher, and
friend, I'd better run you down, or up----"
"If you'd gone a little to the left you'd have found it easier," Tom said,
in his usual matter-of-fact manner.
"Oh, I suppose you know all the highways and byways and right ways
and left ways and every which ways for miles and miles around,"
Hervey Willetts said. "I guess they were right when they said you'd be
a good guide, philosopher, and friend, hey?"
"I don't know what a philosopher is," Tom said, with characteristic
blunt honesty, "but I know all the trails around here, if that's what
you're talking about."
"Oh, you mean about guides?" Hervey asked, just a trifle puzzled.
"That's an expression, guide, philosopher, and friend. It comes from
Shakespeare or one of those old ginks; it means a kind of a moral guide,
I suppose."
"Oh," said Tom.
"But I need, I need, I need, I need a friend," Hervey said.
"You seem to have lots of friends down there," Tom said.

"A scout is observant, hey?" Willetts laughed.
"I mean you always seem to have a lot of fellows with you," Tom said,
ignoring the compliment. "Everybody likes your troop, that's sure. And
your troop seems to be stuck on you."
"Good night!" Hervey laughed. "They won't be stuck on me after
Saturday. That'll be the end of my glorious career."
"What did you do?" Tom asked, after his customary fashion of
construing talk literally.
"Oh, I didn't exactly commit a murder," the other laughed, "but I fell
down, Sla--you don't mind my calling you Slady, do you?"
"That's what most everybody calls me," Tom said, "except the troop I
was in. They call me Tomasso."
"Sounds like tomato, hey?" Hervey laughed. "No, my troubles are
about merit badges. I've bungled the whole thing up. When a fellow
goes after the Eagle award, he ought to have a manager, that's what I
say. He ought to have a manager to plan things out for him. I tried to
manage my own campaign and now I'm stuck--with a capital S."
"How many merits have you got?" Tom asked him.
"Twenty," Hervey said, "twenty and two-thirds. Just a fraction more
and I'd have gone over the top."
"You mean a sub-division?" Tom asked.
"That's where the little but comes in," Hervey said. "B-u-t, but. It's a
big word, all right, just as you said."
"Is it architecture or cooking or interpreting or one of those?" Tom
asked.
Hervey glanced at Tom in frank surprise.

"Maybe it's leather work, or machinery, or taxidermy or
marksmanship," Tom continued, with no thought further from his mind
than that of showing off.
"Guess again," Hervey laughed.
"Then it must be either music or stalking," Tom said, dully.
His companion paused in his steps, contemplating Tom with
unconcealed amazement. "Right-o," he said; "it's stalking. What are
you? A