They went down the steps and crossed the lawn. The girl, running ahead, seemed not to notice the lone figure on the bench with its back toward her till she was within a few feet of it. Then she paused in surprise and as she did so, Harry Stanton rose and turned to face her, the while grasping the back of the bench nervously....

The several accounts of the three scouts as to what happened then, differed materially. There was no doubt that Ruth stepped quickly back in momentary fright, grasping the arm of Pee-wee who happened to be nearest her. Pee-wee said that her hand was trembling and that she "clutched him in terror." Roy maintained that the "clutching in terror business" came out of a heroic scene from one of Alger's books. Tom said that for a moment she seemed about to run, which Pee-wee admitted, claiming that she thought better of it when she found that he was near. All agreed that she was first panic-stricken and then greatly agitated as Roy took her hand and drew her to the bench.

At all events, it was only for a moment or two and then she and her brother were in each other's arms. There is no authentic account of what happened then, for the three visitors, being good scouts, strolled to the hedge which bordered the lawn and looked at the scenery beyond. It must have been beautiful scenery and very affecting, for Pee-wee's eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g, and Tom's and Roy's were not exactly what you would call dry....

CHAPTER XIII AT THE STANTONS'

The return of Harry Stanton to his home was a nine days' wonder in the village. Poor Mrs. Stanton seemed almost unable to comprehend the wonderful reality of his actual presence and she kept him by her constantly, even to the point of accompanying him back and forth from the river. The boys noted these affectionate attentions with dismay, for they wished to make a cruise in the beautiful boat, with its proud owner as their companion.

"You leave it to me," said Pee-wee. "I know how to handle mothers; we've got to wait for the something or otherological moment."

The days which followed were days of stress but of happiness to all concerned. Mr. Stanton lost no time in going to Poughkeepsie where he got all the information that could be obtained from Mr. Waring's executor and friends as to how the eccentric but kindly old gentleman came into possession of the so-called nephew on whom he had showered wealth and sympathetic attention.

Because he _had_ been eccentric, his intimates knew but little of his affairs, but the facts, as Mr. Stanton was able to piece them together, were that Mr. Waring had lost his wife and only son and that he had never been the same afterward. He lived the life of a recluse in his lonely, luxurious home. Two years before he had started up the Hudson in his beautiful boat, accompanied by a valet and a man to run the craft, intending to visit some remote spot where he had enjoyed the trout fishing in his early years.

All that his business friends knew in addition to this was that he had returned almost immediately, bringing with him an apparently weak-minded boy whom he called his nephew and whose self-appointed guardian and benefactor he became.

Mr. Stanton tried to find the two men who had accompanied their employer on that mysterious cruise. The valet had died, but he located the other man working in a munitions plant not far from Poughkeepsie. From this man, who spoke only broken English, he learned something of his son's rescue.

While cruising upstream at night, he said, they had heard a cry from the water and throwing the searchlight about had located a drowning person, whom they pulled aboard. It was a boy, the man said, whose head had been frightfully injured, the skull being cracked, as was discernible through his plastered, soaking hair. He was bruised in several other places and lost consciousness as soon as they got him aboard the launch.

They had turned the boat at once and returned home, where the victim, still unconscious, was attended by "great doctors." The man had not lived at Mr. Waring's house and he knew very little more except what he had heard indirectly. The boy jabbered, he said, and did not know who he was and talked nonsense. Then he had heard that an operation was performed, that the edges of the broken skull were lifted up into place, and that the boy was better but "nutty." He had later heard a rumor that the boy was dead. That was all he knew.

Mr. Stanton had had no difficulty in locating James, the chauffeur, whom Jeffrey Waring had mentioned in connection with his pigeons, and from him he had received a more coherent account of Mr. Waring's second cruise, which was destined to have a fatal sequel for himself and momentous consequences for his ward.

James had, he said, entered Mr. Waring's employ the year before and found the old gentleman's nephew to be a "queer lad" who, he understood, had once had a dreadful accident of some sort. He got excited easily, the man said, and at such times said the most extravagant things. He had pigeons and dogs and lived an odd sort of life by himself.

In the early part of the summer Mr. Waring had again planned a trip to his favorite fishing retreat, believing that the quiet and remoteness of the place would help the boy, who was already greatly improved. The doctors, so the man said, had recommended the camping trip.

They had made an uneventful but pleasant trip up the river in the _Rambler_ and after they had moored her near Catskill Landing Mr. Waring had sent James back to Vale Centre to attend to his regular duties there.

That was all that Mr. Stanton could learn and he returned home somewhat puzzled as to whether Mr. Waring had ever tried to locate Harry's people, or whether he intended to do so when the boy should have regained his health and mental poise. He had lavished wealth and kindness on the stricken lad, that was certain; the last days of his life had been spent in a sojourn to a remote spot dear to his own memory in the hope that it might hasten the boy's recovery; and the Stantons could not think otherwise of him than as one, peculiar indeed, but of the purest motive and overflowing with kindness. Nor did they ever learn exactly what had happened to Harry while in the water, though they held to the belief that he had been injured by the paddlewheel of some steamer.

That Garry Everson, scout, had completed the work which the old gentleman had begun was now realized by all and with it the boys realized the quiet patience with which he had borne their coldness and even their taunts.

"He's a real hero," said Pee-wee.

"All others are imitations," agreed Roy.

During Mr. Stanton's absence, Mr. Ellsworth had made a flying trip to Bridgeboro to arrange for the troop's absence for another week or two, and meanwhile the scouts camped on the boat, spending much of their time at the Stanton place, where they played tennis and basket-ball and taught the parrot to say "I'm a scout," and "Poor Pee-wee."

Those were days of great delight to Ruth Stanton. In contemptuous defiance of Pee-wee's proud a.s.sertion that "boys could do things that girls couldn't do" she beat him again and again at tennis, and beat the rest of them, too, for she was an old hand at the game.

For the first time, too, her brother showed his interest and skill in outdoor games; his fondness for tennis seemed to come back on him in a rush, and though he sometimes got rattled and did not think quickly enough, his playing was rapid and accurate in the main and he and Ruth came out first in the tournament in which they all joined.

"And wait till you see Harry swim!" she said proudly, as, racket in hand, she sank onto a garden bench; "he can swim across the river and back; do you know how far that is?"

"I know how far it is over; I don't know how far it is back," said Roy.

"You think you're smart, don't you!"

"I'll give you a correct imitation of a boy scout raising a racket," Roy said, holding his racket high in the air. "Next imitation, that of a boy scout following a trail," he added, going on his hands and knees and with an absurd air of scrutiny and stealth following the chalk mark around the tennis court.

"Isn't he too silly!" laughed Ruth.

Roy resumed his seat beside her. "Did you hear about the Germans bombarding a man's garden and sh.e.l.ling all his peas?"

"Really-" began Ruth. "Oh, nonsense, it's a joke!"

"Why is a boy scout?" he persisted.

"What's the answer?"

"There isn't any. Here's another. What's the aim of a scout?"

"Well?"

"A correct aim. Did you hear about the scout that went camping without any duffel bag or baggage, yet he carried fifteen good-sized articles in his back pocket?"

"He couldn't! How could he?"

"He had a copy of _Boys' Life_ with fifteen articles in it. Which has the most stories, _Boy's Life_ or the Mutual Life? Here's another. If _Every Boys' Library_ caught fire, how would the smoke come out?"

"Silly!"

"In volumes, of course. Say, if it's cowardly to strike a person who is on the ground, is it all right to hit the trail? Here's another--"

"You seem to know so much about them," Ruth interrupted. "Tell me what an Honor Scout is?"

"Is it a riddle?"

"No, it isn't a riddle; I really want to know."

"An Honor Scout is a scout that has a sense of honor. There's only one scout in our troop that has any sense of honor-that's Honorable Toma.s.so Slade alias Sherlock n.o.body Holmes. He has the gold cross. Honorable Garry Everson has the silver cross. That means he has some sense of honor, but not so much."

"I don't believe a word you're telling me," she said.

Roy looked at her through the strings of his racket. "Boy Scout behind prison bars," said he, teasingly.

"_You_ tell me," she said, turning to Doc Carson.

"_I'll_ tell you," said Pee-wee; "you've got to look out for him, he's a jollier. An Honor Scout is one that has saved somebody's life-and gets an honor medal-see? If he takes a big chance and-and-kind of plunges into the jaws of death-kind of-"

"How?" said Roy.