Something in the way the newcomer had spoken to Emory, and in the stern, insistent tone he now used, made Randy guess that he was Emory Bickram’s elder brother. His voice was pitched to a stealthy softness that prevented Randy from hearing the words, but Emory listened in surly acceptance.
Randy turned back to watch the dancing. The reel was over, and another kind of figure dance was in progress, i Almost all those present in the hall had entered it. The
old gentleman on the platform beside the musicians was calling the figures, a constant high-pitched succession of commands and directions in rhythm with the music. To Randy, at least, those directions were little more understandable than so much Greek. He tried to guess what was meant by Sashay, Allemand and Address your partner. But the dancers knew, and their gyrations and measure treadings back and forth and in and out made a pattern that delighted even as it bewildered. Randy wished that he could dance such dances, and resolved that he would make Jebs or some of the other young people he had just met teach him.
Again the music stopped, and the couples drifted from the dance space, talking and laughing. Jebs led Lucy Ann over to join Randy. After a moment, the caller clapped his hands for attention again, and loudly announced "Now the boys will play The Cuckoo Waltz.”
"If it’s a waltz, I can do it,” said Randy. "Probably it’ll be my only chance tonight."
"Go track out a waltz with him, Lucy Ann," urged Jebs.
Lucy Ann moved out on the floor with Randy, as the music struck up in waltz time. Instead of calling the figures the caller from time to time sang a few lines:
Fare thee well, my charming gal,
Fare thee well, I’m gone,
Fare thee well, my charming gal,
With golden slippers on . . .
"You dance right well for a Yankee," Lucy Ann praised him as they finished the waltz.
"No more of this talk about my being a Yankee!" cried Randy, who within five days had come to think of himself as a loyal North Carolinian. "My folks have lived in this section for more than a century. Where’s Jebs Markum, he’ll tell you." Randy looked around. "Where’s Jebs?"
“He just stepped outside with a fellow he’d had a couple of words with,’’ volunteered Davis Blaikie, hurrying past and toward the door. “Sounded like fighting words, too. I’m going to see.’’
“Fighting words?’’ echoed Randy. “Excuse me, Lucy Ann.’’ He followed Davis Blaikie outside.
In the yard in front of the door, half a dozen young men and boys were gathered to watch a struggling, straining, panting mass. The next moment Randy saw that it was made up of two figures, Jebs and someone a shade larger and heavier, locked in a fierce grapple.
“Don’t let him get loose from you, Jebs!’’ someone warned excitedly. “He’s got longer arms than you, he’ll jab you silly with those big fists of his. Throw him!”
Jebs’s opponent had the heel of his hand under Jebs’s chin and was trying to thrust clear of him. The light from the open doorway momentarily revealed that the opponent was Emory Bickram, his normal scowl increased into a distortion of his whole heavy face. But Jebs would not let go his own grim hold. He wriggled free of Emory’s shoving, grinding palm, hugged the bigger boy tight, and with a quick crooking of his leg behind Emory’s knee threw his weight forward. Down the two of them slammed, Jebs on top, hitting the ground so hard that the whole landscape seemed to quiver. For a moment Emory’s two big, heavy shod feet kicked high in the bright light from the door.
Then that light was blotted away by a form hurrying from inside. Somebody in a checked coat thrust through the line of onlookers and stooped above the wrestlers, pulling and tugging at them.
“Cut this out!” snapped someone, and Jebs released Emory and sprang up and away.
The older youth in the checked coat dragged Emory to his feet as though the thick-set scowler was as light as a dummy of straw.
’'Didn’t I tell you not to get into any squabbles?” scolded the high harsh voice.
"You let me go, Ferd,” spluttered Emory, struggling. "He can’t lick me, I’ll show him.”
"No, but I can lick you if you keep acting like this. Come with me.”
A moment later Emory was being dragged away across the yard by his captor, toward one of the parked cars.
Jebs glared after them. His shirt was torn, and he breathed heavily. Randy put a hand on his shoulder.
"What was it all about, Jebs?” he asked.
"It happened right sudden,” replied Jebs. "That fellow spoke up inside and asked how the spy business was going with me. I took one look at him and said it went right lively, with suspicious characters like him ransacking around. When I said that, he up and replied —”
"Come here.” Randy pulled Jebs to one side to speak privately. "You recognized him, did you?”
"I might have,” said Jebs. "I thought he favored that face we saw by Beaver Lake the other night.”
"That’s who he is,” Randy promptly assured his friend.
"You’re positive of that?”
"Positive.”
"You recognized his face, huh?”
"No,” said Randy. "Not his face. Not at first. It was his feet.”
"His feet? Shoo!”
"Shoo yourself. I mean it. When you tripped him and he fell, both his feet came up in the air.” Randy spoke quietly, but had a hard time keeping his excited voice steady. "I saw the soles of those big shoes he was wearing. On the heel of each one was a cross of hobnails.”
THE BEAVER PATROL
On the following two days, and during the early night of the second day, Randy and Jebs cautiously scouted around the shores of Beaver Lake. They moved as cautiously as possible, watching and listening in all directions at once and communicating only by the snapping of fingers, like native hunters in the African tropics. They saw one of the beavers crouching on the dam during their night expedition, but gathered no hint of any kind as to a fresh foray of Emory Bickram or any associates he might have.
"I don’t get it,” said Randy on the following afternoon. "He recognized both you and me at the dance. He tagged us for his enemies. I think he started to pick a quarrel with me, when that zoot-suited relative of his interrupted, and later he picked one with you. It was like a declaration of war. But why, if he wras declaring war, hasn’t he been over here at Laurels again, trying to do whatever he plans to do?” "That fellow Ferd is the answer,” replied Jebs. I made a couple of inquiries this morning, and found out that Ferd and Emory are brothers. They live with Noll Bickram, who’s some kind of uncle or grown-up cousin. And you remember how Ferd pulled Emory loose from me and marched him away? Ferd is older than Emory and has better sense. He was sore because Emory might be giving away their scheme.” "Then you think Ferd’s in it, too.”
"I’m convinced of it,” Jebs said slowly, as if thinking.
This conversation took place in the side yard of Laurels, while the two boys were nailing a sort of circular bench around the trunk of a rough but shady jack oak, a real outsize specimen of its kind. Jebs drove a last nail and sat down on the planks he had fitted into place.
"Hey, Randy, somebody’s driving up in front,” he said. "There he is getting out. Looks like a soldier.”
Randy followed the line of Jebs’s gaze, then turned and started toward the visitor.
"That’s no army uniform,” he told Jebs. "It’s a Scouter’s uniform. He’s a Scoutmaster, or commissioner, or executive.”
The young man in khaki shirt and slacks smiled as Randy greeted him, then glanced at a folded paper in his hand.
"Is this where Randolph Hunter lives?” he asked.
"I’m Randy Hunter.”
"And I’m James Chappell, the Scout executive assigned to the Moore County District.” Out came his hand, taking Randy’s in the three-fingered Scout grip. "I have a letter from New York about you, and a friend of yours named Jebs Markum. Didn’t you write to National Headquarters for information about Lone Scouting?”
"I cert
ainly did,” said Randy enthusiastically, "and apparently they answered me by way of informing you. Come over here to the tree and meet Jebs.”
Jebs rose from the bench as Randy approached with the Scout executive.
"How do we get to be Lone Scouts, Mr. Chappell?” he asked after Randy had made the introductions. "I’m pure ignorant about how to be a Scout, but I reckon I can learn, even by myself.”
"But you aren’t by yourself,” Mr. Chappell corrected him pleasantly. “There’s a pair of you, Randy Hunter and Jebs Markum.”
"That’s hardly enough for a troop,” Randy objected. "Not even enough for a patrol.”
"It’s enough for what is called a Neighborhood Patrol,” elaborated Mr. Chappell. "Two is company, you know, though maybe not a crowd. Here,” and from an envelope he took a leaflet and passed it to Randy, "this is the Neighborhood Patrol plan, as offered by the National Director of Rural Scouting. To judge from what has been passed on to me, Randy, you’re already a Scout of considerable experience and advancement.”
"I’ll bring down the average on my half of the setup,” said Jebs. "I’m not even a Tenderfoot yet.”
"If you’re serious about joining the Scouts, you’ll be a Tenderfoot right now.” Mr. Chappell sat down on the bench. "This seat looks new. Did you boys make it?”
"Jebs was the boss of the job,” said Randy.
"He’ll be qualifying for a Merit Badge in carpentry,” said Mr. Chappell. He produced a Scout handbook and opened it. "If you’re ready to qualify as Tenderfoot, Jebs, there’s no time like the present.”
And Jebs qualified. Readily and adequately he answered a series of questions on the Scout Law and Oath, the history and display of the American Flag. With a length of cord from the stable he demonstrated one knot after another until he had passed that part of the examination.
Major Hunter came from his seat on the porch to join the group and meet the Scout executive. He listened with interest to the proposed plans for the Neighborhood Patrol.
"Since you’re both past fifteen years of age, you can rank as Senior Scouts,” Mr. Chappell told the boys, "and this will be an Explorer Patrol. What will you name it?”
"Beaver Patrol," said Jebs and Randy in the same breath, and both the Major and Mr. Chappell laughed.
"That seems to make it unanimous. Now, who’s going to be your adult councilor? You’ll want one.”
"I hardly know anybody in these parts,” confessed Randy. "I’ve lived here only a week. Jebs, who’s your nominee?” "Well,” said Jebs, "if he’d do it, the Major here.”
Major Hunter looked piercingly at Jebs, then at his grandson. His lean old hands crossed on the head of his stick. Finally he bowed slightly.
"Gentlemen, I’d be honored,” he said, with as much ceremony as though he had been offered a rare and choice honor decoration.
A few moments later the four of them, two men and two boys, were sitting together on the tree bench, while Mr. Chappell filled out a form that confirmed Jebs as a Tenderfoot Scout. Jebs accepted it with a sort of groan.
"Tenderfoot Scout,” he read aloud. "I ought to have been that four years ago, Randy tells me.”
"But a month from now you can take your Second Class tests,” Randy reminded him. "You’ll pass them without any trouble. And two months more, before school starts again, you’ll be a First Class Scout.”
Jebs had taken the manual and had turned to the First Class requirements. He read them through, then shook his head slowly.
"How can I make First Class?” he demanded of the world in general. "Swimming, signaling, first aid, cooking, that kind of thing — I can handle them, I reckon. But how about this final requirement? Unlucky Number Thirteen. I have to recruit a new Scout, or train a Tenderfoot for Second Class requirements.”
"Isn’t there another boy near by?” asked Mr. Chappell.
‘'Not within five or six miles,” said Jebs dolefully.
"Wait,” put in the Major, in his grave, understanding fashion. “Gentlemen, I submit that this special First Class requirement, which so bothers Jebs in advance he’s at the point of despair, need worry him the least. He’s already achieved it.”
“How do you mean, sir?” asked Jebs uncomprehendingly.
“Your recruit,” said the Major, "is right here.” He laid a finger on the front of his shirt. “You seem to have forgotten already, but you did ask me if I’d be your councilor, and I accepted. That brings me into the Scout movement, and it was Jebs who recruited me. Isn’t that right, Mr. Chappell? And can’t the achievement be put on the shelf, so to speak, to be included among the requirements passed when Jebs takes his First Class examination?”
Mr. Chappell considered the question a moment, smiling. “It’s a trifle irregular, Major Hunter. The book says, A boy as a Tenderfoot—”
“Mr. Chappell, I hope that I have a few qualities of boyhood left in me after all these many years,” insisted Major Hunter in stately fashion. “As for my being a Tenderfoot, well, we can handle that, too. Suppose you examine me for Tenderfoot rank here and now. Where’s that cord you were using for your knots, Jebs?” The wise hands of the Major began to twine and loop it into knot after knot, with swift skill. “Are you following me, Mr. Chappell? Am I qualifying with these knots? Now, as to the Scout Law and other Scout matters, I took time to dip into Randy’s handbook several times lately. There were no Scouts when I was a boy, but I wish there were. Ask me your test questions, now, and see if I answer them correctly.”
Jebs and Randy applauded, and Mr. Chappell at once began to question the Major. Before the afternoon sun had progressed far toward the horizon, the veteran was hailed as having passed his Tenderfoot requirements with flying colors.
"Then the recruiting requirement for First Class rank has already been passed by Tenderfoot Scout Jebs Markum,” Major Hunter told Mr. Chappell. "What else bothers you, Jebs?”
"Nothing else that I don’t think I can handle, sir,” replied Jebs. "Of course, what I’m anxious to do is some camping. I’ve never done any.”
"Never done any?” cried Randy in surprise. "Out here, with wilderness all around you in every direction?”
"Oh, that’s logical, Randy,” said Mr. Chappell. "Jebs has had nature on every side of him and he hasn’t felt impelled to camp, the way city boys are. But why not assign yourselves an overnight camp project? Randy, you ought to know how to conduct one.”
"I’ve helped conduct a good few,” said Randy. "My Merit Badges include camping, cooking, forestry, hiking, pathfinding. I can build a fire without matches, make a camp bed—”
"How about camping by Beaver Lake?” offered Jebs.
Beaver Lake called for explanations to the interested Mr. Chappell, who was pleased to hear of the boys’ preliminary studies of the beaver colony there.
"Go ahead, if Major Hunter gives you permission,” he said at last. "I want a full report on that camping activity. Well,” and he gathered up his papers, "I think we can call this Neighborhood Patrol fully organized. And it’s going to be a success for me as well as for you. I intend to talk a lot ^bout you for the purpose of organizing a couple of other Neighborhood Patrols elsewhere in this area.”
Good-bys were said, and Mr. Chappell drove away.
Major Hunter turned toward the stables. "Henry!” he called, and Uncle Henry emerged and came toward them.
"Henry,” said the Major, with an air of submitting the question to a final court, "do you think we should let these lads go camping down there by that beaver colony?”
"Well, Major,” replied Uncle Henry with an equal gravity of manner, "if they makes a camp you and me both says is fittin’, and watches out sharp for snakes and such things, and shows they knows they business, it oughta be a good thing for young folkses to do somethin’ like that.”
"Passed favorably by the board,” announced Major Hunter. "When do you think you’ll do it, boys?”
Randy studied the clear warm sky. "If the weather stays good, how about tomorrow night?”
<
br /> "I’ll have to fix it with my Dad, but I’m sure he’ll give his okay,” said Jebs. "How about coming over with me to ask him?”
"Right with you,” said Randy, and strode away with Jebs. Uncle Henry and the Major stayed by the bench, following the boys with their eyes.
"Them’s fine young gentlemens, Major,” said Uncle Henry. "You really thinks, sir, they gonta be all right out there in that timber? Maybe I might fix to camp somewheres near by and keep an eye an them without they knows about it.” But Major Hunter shook his grizzled head. "No, Henry,” he said. "They can handle it themselves.”
NOISES IN THE NIGHT
By the middle of the next afternoon, Jebs appeared at Laurels with a well-filled gunny sack on his shoulder.
"We can pay my dad the cost price of these provisions,” he told Randy. "It was kind of rugged, toting them all the way here from the store.”
"And it will be just about as rugged toting them into the woods from Laurels,” pronounced Randy with something of lofty disdain, as Jebs opened the sack and began to produce his varied supplies. "You’ve freighted in enough chow there to keep us a week.”
He picked up two cans. "Peaches and evaporated milk. We keep the milk, though we could make out with a can only half as big, and we leave the peaches. What’s this, oatmeal? Don’t need it on just an overnight hike. And a pound of bacon. A couple of slices each will be plenty. Eggs here, are they? It’s a wonder they didn’t get broken, jostling around during that two-mile portage you hiked. How many are in this bag?”
"A dozen,” said Jebs. "I wanted us to have plenty.”
"Uncle Henry’s already put out four fresh eggs for us,” said Randy. "Now, what else? A whole loaf of bread, a box of sugar cookies, fit to take along on a White House picnic, and two tins of corned beef hash. Enough canned frankfurters to freight a ship, about a peck of potatoes, coffee, half a pound of butter, a bunch of carrots, a package of — what?”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1953 Page 6