CHAPTER X A BATTLE FOR HONOR

Reaching Woodcraft late the next afternoon Walter at once hurried to the dark room adjoining Dr. Merriam’s office to develop his plates. To his dismay he found that needed chemicals for fresh developer were lacking, and he was unwilling to risk his plates in the old and necessarily weak developer on hand. There was nothing for it but to possess himself in such patience as he could until a fresh supply could be obtained from the city. Dr. Merriam promised to send at once. Leaving Big Jim to report to the doctor the results of their trip Walter sought the wigwam.

He found Tug rewinding his split bamboo and Billy Buxby assisting with a ceaseless stream of unheeded advice.

“Behold the mighty hunter!” exclaimed Billy with an exaggerated bow of mock deference as Walter entered.

[162] “What luck?” asked Tug, as he tied the final knot and reached for the shellac.

Walter rapidly sketched a brief account of his two days at Lonesome Pond, but in his enthusiasm over the deer hunt forgot to mention his double catch of trout. “Anything new here?” he asked finally.

Tug shook his head. “Nothin’ much. Harrison came in with a three-pound brook trout this morning, and unless some one gets in to-night with something better that will give the Senecas the score for this week. Say, the gloom in this little old shanty is something fierce. If it was any one but Harrison there’d be no kick comin’. He’s gettin’ such a swelled head he can’t see anybody outside his own tribe. I’d like to punch it for him,” growled Tug savagely.

“Say,” he added as he looked up, “what’s the matter with you, you grinning Cheshire cat?”

“Nothing much,” replied Walter, “only day before yesterday I landed a double, for a total of five pounds; brook trout, too.”

Tug and Billy fell on him as one. “Say it again! Say it again!” begged Tug as they pinned Walter to the floor and sat on him.

[163] “I got two trout at one cast, and they weighed five pounds. Does that beat it?” gasped Walter, giving up the struggle.

“Counts same as one fish,” whooped Billy joyously.

“Well, we win anyway, for one of them weighed over three and a half,” said Walter, giving a sudden heave that sent Billy sprawling. “Now what’s the matter, you old gloom chaser?”

“Walt, you ain’t foolin’, are you? Tell me, you rabbit-footed tenderfoot, have you got proof?” implored Tug.

“Big Jim’s word for it, and a photo,” replied Walter.

Tug’s face cleared. “That’s good enough. Oh, my eye, wait till that record is posted to-night!” he chortled.

Tug was not disappointed. The record held, and the Delawares celebrated that night with a bonfire and war dance in which Walter, to his confusion, found himself the central figure. Harrison’s chagrin was too evident to escape notice, and his defeat was rubbed in with a malice born of his growing unpopularity.

[164] The next morning when Walter met him and offered his hand Hal passed on as if the other lad were a stick or a stone. The insult was witnessed by several Delawares and by members of Hal’s own tribe. That night a meeting of indignation was held by the Delawares, and in spite of Walter’s protest and the efforts of Woodhull and one or two of the older boys, it was voted to send Harrison to Coventry so far as the Delawares were concerned, that is, he was not to be spoken to or recognized in any way.

In his own wigwam Hal was only a degree less unpopular. The leaders tried to induce him to make an apology, pointing out to him that he was violating both the spirit and word of the Scout’s oath, but the effort was without avail. The high-strung, undisciplined boy, accustomed from babyhood to having his own way, fawned upon by all with whom he had hitherto come in contact because of his father’s great wealth, was utterly unable to adjust himself to the new conditions which surrounded him, to the democracy of which he was now a part yet of which he had no understanding. So he went his headstrong way, [165] and if in his heart were bitterness and misery he made no sign.

The Senecas stood by him with half-hearted loyalty because he was a fellow tribesman, but there was not one whom he could call a friend. So he became more and more isolated, spending his days fishing, the proudest, loneliest boy in all the big camp. The fact that he continued to score with big fish gave him a measure of standing with his tribe, and to maintain this became his chief object in the daily life.

Walter was thinking of this and wondering what the outcome would be as early one morning he headed his canoe for a setback some three miles from camp, which he had discovered the day before. The entrance was so hidden in a tangle of alders and brush that it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could pick out the channel. He had passed the spot dozens of times without suspecting that anything lay beyond.

Patiently and carefully he worked his way through the tangle, once having to get out and lift the canoe over a jam of a dozen stranded logs. Beyond this the channel was comparatively [166] clear. Unexpectedly it abruptly opened into a broad body of water perhaps half a mile long, deep in the middle, and with the upper end covered with an acre or more of lily-pads.

Walter’s eyes sparkled. “Gee, I bet there’s pickerel in here!” he exclaimed, unconsciously speaking aloud.

“Bet yer life thar is,” said a voice with a chuckle.

Walter turned to find a rude raft anchored behind the half submerged top of a fallen hemlock, and on it sat Pat Malone, catching young striped perch for bait.

“Hello!” exclaimed Walter. “What are you doing here?”

“Seem ter be fishin’,” replied Pat, a broad grin spreading across his freckled face.

Walter grinned in return. “Well, what are you catching?” he asked.

“Mostly fish—some skeeters,” was the prompt retort.

Pat lifted a wriggling three-inch perch from the water. “Do you call that a fish?” asked Walter.

“Mebbe it is an’ mebbe it isn’t,” said the lumber boy as he dropped the victim into a [167] battered old pail half filled with water. “How about this?” He reached behind him and held up at arm’s length a huge pickerel.

Walter allowed a long low whistle of admiration escape him. “Are there any more like that in here?” he asked eagerly.

“Shure,” replied Pat. “That’s nothin’ but a minnie ’longside some old whopperlulus in here.”

“What’d you catch him with?”

“Bait an’ a hook an’ line.”

Walter laughed. “Pat, you win,” said he. “I don’t want any of your secrets, but I should like to catch just one fish like that one.”

A crafty look swept over the freckled face grinning across at him. “Yez licked me once.”

Walter nodded.

“An’ yez said that if iver yez had the chance yez’d show me some o’ thim thricks what done it.”

Again Walter nodded.

“Will yez do it now if Oi’ll show yez where thim big fish is an’ how ter ketch ’em?” asked Pat eagerly.

“I’ll do it anyway, and you don’t need to [168] show me anything about the fish,” replied Walter heartily, driving the canoe ashore as he spoke.

Together they forced their way through the underbrush until they found a cleared place. “This isn’t to be another fight?” asked Walter, a sudden suspicion flashing into his mind.

“Course it ain’t! What kind av a low-down hedgehog do ye take me fer, anyway?” retorted his companion indignantly.

Walter put out his hand and apologized promptly, ashamed to think that he should have been guilty of entertaining such a thought. Then he began by briefly explaining the rules governing boxing, pointing out that a blow below the waist line constitutes a foul, that a man knocked down is allowed ten seconds in which to get on his feet again, and during that time must not be touched by his opponent; that wrestling is not allowed, and that matches usually are conducted by rounds of three minutes each, with a minute for rest in between.

“No true sportsman will ever hit a man when he’s down,” concluded Walter.

[169] This was difficult for the backwoods boy to grasp, and it was equally hard for him to understand why in a fight he should not scratch, kick and gouge, even use his teeth if opportunity offered, for in his hard life in the lumber camps he had witnessed many a rough and tumble fight where ethics are unknown, and where fighting men sink to the level of fighting beasts, employing every weapon with which nature has endowed them, and giving no mercy to a fallen foe.

But Pat was blessed with a strong sense of fair play, and when he had fully grasped the meaning of the rules they appealed to him instantly. “’Tis jist a square deal both byes gits in a foight!” he exclaimed, a light breaking over his puzzled face.

Then Walter showed him a few of the simplest guards, how to parry an opponent’s blow with one arm while countering with the other, how to protect the body with elbows and forearms while the hands shield the face, how to step inside, and how to duck under a swing, how, by watching his opponent, to anticipate the coming blow and be prepared to avoid it. Lastly he showed him the art of [170] side-stepping, the little shift of the feet which while keeping the body perfectly poised allows the blow to pass harmlessly to one side or the other, at the same time opening an opportunity to counter on the opponent.

Naturally quick, and with an Irishman’s inborn love of battle, Pat picked up the points readily and when at the end of an hour Walter flung himself on the ground for a breathing spell Pat executed a double shuffle.

“Shure it be the greatest dancin’ lesson av me loife!” he whooped joyously, side-stepping, ducking and lunging into empty space. “Come on, bye, come on! Oi can lick yez now! Come on, ye spalpeen! ’Tis Pat Malone will give yez the greatest lickin’ av yer life!”

Walter declined with thanks, lying back weak from laughter, while the young giant continued to dance around sparring, ducking and countering on an imaginary foe. “’Tis meself will clane out the Durant camp before anither sun is up as shure as Oi be the eldest son av me mither,” he chuckled, flinging himself beside Walter from sheer exhaustion.

When they had rested a bit Walter proposed that they go try the fish, and that Pat come [171] in his canoe. In an instant the young woodsman had forgotten his newly acquired accomplishments, for a new idea had suddenly possessed him.

“Tell me, bye, what’s this about catchin’ the biggest fish at Woodcraft Camp?” he asked eagerly.

Walter explained the contest fully, and told how eager he was to score over the Senecas.

“’Tis aisy,” broke in Pat.

“What do you mean?” asked Walter, a bit puzzled.

Pat struck one side of his nose with a dirty forefinger and winked solemnly. “Oi wonder now, have yez forgot the big pickerel yez have lyin’ down on the raft? ’Twill weigh ten pounds if it weighs an ounce.”

“But that isn’t mine!” exclaimed Walter. “It’s yours.”

“Is ut now?” said Pat, scratching his head. “Shure Oi disremimber ketchin’ ut. Oi’m thinkin’ yez must hev caught ut in yer shlape an’ didn’t know ut.”

Walter laughed and thanked his companion heartily, while he refused the gift. Then seeing the look of hurt disappointment on Pat’s [172] face he hastened to make clear why he could not accept the fish. “You see,” he concluded, “a Scout’s honor is always to be trusted, and it would not be honorable to try to win with a fish I did not catch myself. A man’s honor is the greatest thing he possesses.”

The other pondered this in silence for a few minutes trying to adjust his mind to a new idea. When he spoke it was slowly, as one feeling his way.

“Yez mane that ter score wid thot fish would be loike hittin’ a man when he’s down, or shtalin’ from a blind pup.”

“Exactly,” replied Walter.

“An’ do all the other byes feel the same way?”

“Of course they do.”

“No they don’t! Anyway, there’s wan that doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?” cried Walter startled.

“Oi mane thot there’s wan dirty blackguard has been winnin’ points roight along wid Pat Malone’s fish. Oi mane thot thot spalpeen thot yez call Harrison, the wan with his pockets lined with money, has been buyin’ [173] me big fish fer the last mont’ an’ payin’ me good money fer ’em. Oi mane thot if yez hadn’t happened in here this marnin’ yez moight hev seen him luggin’ in thot big pickerel this very noight. ’Tis his last fish he’s had from me, the low-down blackguard.” Then he added ruefully: “Sure ’tis a glad day fer Pat Malone an’ a sorry wan fer his pockets ter hev found out what honor manes.”

The two boys returned to the canoe and spent the remainder of the morning in a vain attempt to land another big pickerel. When they parted it was with a mutual respect and liking and a promise on Walter’s part to return the next day in quest of the big fellows. “Oi’m goin’ ter hunt frogs fer bait this afternoon an’ Oi’ll be waitin’ fer ye at sunup,” were Pat’s parting words.

It was a sober boy who paddled back to Woodcraft that afternoon. What he had learned that morning filled him with mingled feelings of contempt and gladness—contempt, for the fellow Scout who had so perjured himself and violated his Scout’s oath, and gladness that his faith in the unkempt boy of the woods had been so fully justified. Any lingering [174] doubt of Pat Malone’s innocence of the theft of Mother Merriam’s pin which he might have entertained had been banished by what he had learned of the boy that morning.

And in his own mind the boy was fighting a battle. Where lay the path of duty? What did his honor as a Scout demand of him? To go report what he had learned? To become a bearer of tales? The very thought was abhorrent to him! On the other hand had he any moral right to allow his fellow tribesmen to suffer through the dishonesty of which he held the proof? And Hal’s own tribesmen, was it fair to them to allow them to profit by points to which, though no fault of theirs, they had no right?

It was a relief to see Harrison’s canoe approaching the landing as he pulled his own out. He would put it up to Hal to do the square thing—redeem himself by playing the man for once.

“Hal,” said Walter in a low tone as the other landed, “I know where you get your fish.”

Hal turned and faced him. “What are you talking about?” he said roughly.

[175] Walter flushed and instinctively his fists doubled, but he kept a check on his temper. “You have bought your record fish of Pat Malone,” he said evenly.

It was the other’s turn to flush, but he maintained his air of bravado.

“That’s silly,” he jeered.

“No it isn’t, and you know it,” replied Walter.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked the other sulkily, seeing that denial was useless.

“I don’t know,” replied Walter sadly. “Say, Hal, why don’t you go own up to Dr. Merriam and ask him to try and put you right with the fellows?”

“What do you take me for? I’m in bad enough now. If you don’t blab who’s going to know it? And if you turn telltale I guess my word’s as good as yours,” sneered Hal.

“For two cents I’d punch——” began Walter hotly, then pity for the unfortunate boy before him calmed him. “Hal, I’m not going to say anything to-night, anyway. Do the right thing. Remember your Scout’s oath,” he begged.

[176] “Remember it yourself,” growled Hal. “There’s mighty little honor in telling tales.” And with this parting shot he strode off to the wigwam.

Walter’s preoccupation and sober face were bound to attract the attention of his mates, and he came in for a lot of guying.

“Who is she, Walt?”

“Is her papa a big chief?”

“Take us round and give us a knock-down, Walt.”

“Romance of the big woods! Walt, the tenderfoot, falls in love with an Indian princess!”

Walter’s replies to all these sallies were only half-hearted, and seeing that something was really amiss with him the boys dropped their banter. He retired to his bunk early, only to twist and toss uneasily all night long. Over and over till his brain grew weary he kept repeating the perplexing question, “Ought I to tell? Ought I to tell? Ought I to tell?”

The problem was no nearer a solution when in the gray of dawn he slipped a canoe into the water the next morning and turned her [177] bow toward the setback. Pat was waiting for him on the old raft and, true to his word, he had a pocket full of lively little frogs, which were giving him no end of trouble in their efforts to escape. Walter took him aboard, and they were soon skirting the lily-pads at the upper end.

Here Pat bade Walter rig his rod and, producing a lively green frog from his pocket, he impaled it on the hook by thrusting the barb through its lips, explaining that in this way the frog’s swimming was not seriously interfered with. He then took the paddle and handled the canoe while Walter cast. The frog had hardly struck the water before there was a swirl at the very edge of a patch of lily-pads followed by a strike that made the reel sing. A couple of good rushes and then, as is the way with pickerel, the fish was brought alongside with hardly a struggle. Pat deftly scooped it into the canoe and killed it with a blow that broke its spine. It was fair for a beginning, weighing perhaps four pounds, and Walter prepared to try again.

For half an hour they worked along the pads, taking several smaller fish.

[178] At length they approached an outlying patch of pads where the water was deep and black. Two canoe lengths short of it Pat stopped the canoe. Then he sorted over his remaining supply of frogs till he found one that suited his critical fancy. With this he rebaited Walter’s hook. “Now, ye throw roight over ter the very edge o’ thim pads, and don’t ye be in no hurry,” he commanded.

The first cast was short, but at the second attempt the frog landed with a spat at the very edge of the pads and began to swim vigorously in an effort to reach and climb up on them. Suddenly the water fairly boiled, and Walter all but lost his balance and upset the canoe, so sudden and vicious was the strike.

“Ye have him! Ye have him! Shure ’tis the king av thim all, an’ ’tis mesilf that knows ut, for ’tis tree times thot the ould feller has walked off wid me line and hooks!” yelled Pat excitedly. “Don’t let him get foul o’ thim pads!”

Walter soon found that he had the fight of his life on to keep the wary old warrior in clear water, but inch by inch he worked the [179] fish away from the pads until finally he felt that the danger was past and that it was only a matter of time when the prize would be his. A few more heavy lunges, which threatened by the mere weight of the fish to break the slender rod, and the battle was over. Softly Pat slid his hand along till his stout fingers closed in the gills and the prize was in the canoe, where Pat speedily put an end to the snapping of its cruel looking jaws by severing the spinal cord with his knife.

Walter brought out his scales, and could hardly believe that he read them aright. “Thirteen pounds and a half!” he gasped.

“An’ there’s two av me hooks in his mouth, bad cess ter him,” said the matter-of-fact Pat, deftly extracting his property.

Pat was for trying for another big fellow, but Walter had had enough for that morning. Besides, he was anxious to show his prize at camp, so reeling in his line they started for the mouth of the backset.

“Pat, did Harrison ever have much luck in here?” asked Walter.

Pat stared at his companion for a minute before he found speech. “What, do ye mane [180] ter tell me ye be thinkin’ Oi iver showed him where Oi was ketching the fish he bought?” demanded Pat. “Not he nor any ither o’ the Woodcraft byes knows about this setback. ’Tis lucky ye was ter be findin’ the way in yer own self. Ye will kape ut ter yerself now, will ye not?”

Walter promised that he would.

“Say, bye, did ye tell the docther av the low-down thrick this Harrison has been afther playin’?” Pat suddenly inquired.

Walter confessed that he had not. Then in a sudden burst of confidence he told the Irish lad all about the dilemma in which he had become involved. “What would you do, Pat?” he concluded.

“Me? Shure Oi dunno at all, at all. Oi’m thinkin’ Oi’d side-step,” replied Pat, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“But that’s the trouble, I can’t side-step,” responded Walter.

The freckled face of the woods boy sobered. “’Tis a quare thing, this honor ye be tellin’ about, but Oi’m thinkin’ ’tis a moighty foine thing too,” he said. Then, his Irish humor rising to the surface, he added: “There be [181] wan thing Oi wud do; Oi’d knock the block clane off av that blackguard that’s made all the throuble.”

Walter laughed. “I’d like to,” he confessed.

They were now at the entrance and setting Pat ashore Walter turned his canoe toward camp. His arrival with the big pickerel, to say nothing of the smaller ones, created a wave of excitement among the boys who were in camp, and great jubilation among the Delawares. It happened that Harrison was among those present.

“So,” he sneered when no one was near, “you’ve tried the silver bait! How much did you pay for the bunch?”

Walter turned on his heel and walked away. All the joy of the day had vanished. He wanted to be alone to fight out to a finish the battle of honor. So immediately after noon mess he slipped away unseen, and sought the cool depths of the forest to find in the peace of the great woodland the solution of his difficulty.

Late that afternoon, his mind made up, he turned toward camp. As he approached he [182] became aware of an air of suppressed excitement about the camp. Buxby was the first to see him.

“Hi, Walt! Have you heard the news?” he shouted.

“No,” said Walter. “What is it?”

“The Senecas’ records have been wiped out; Harrison’s been buying those fish,” whooped Billy.

Walter’s first thought was that Hal had done the right thing and had confessed, and a great load fell from his shoulders. But Billy’s next words brought him up short.

“Pat Malone came in this afternoon and told the big chief that he’d been selling fish to Hal right along. Brought in what money he had left, and said he guessed it wasn’t quite the square thing for him to keep it. What do you think of that?”

“What did the doctor do?” asked Walter.

“Told Pat that as he had sold the fish in good faith the money was his, especially as the camp had had the benefit of them. Then he called Hal in and paid him back all that he had given Pat. Then he wiped out from the Senecas’ score all of Hal’s records. Don’t [183] know what he said to Hal, but the word’s been passed that the incident is closed. Gee, but I’d hate to feel the way Hal must! I guess Pat’s squared himself with the bunch on that pin business. A feller that would do what he did wouldn’t steal.”

After the first burst of indignation the feeling of the camp settled into contempt, mingled with pity, for the boy who had so besmirched his honor. No reference was ever made to his disgrace, but for the most part he was left severely alone, only a few, of whom Walter was one, endeavoring to hold out a helping hand. So the camp settled down to the usual routine once more.