The Boy Scouts Down in Dixie: The Strange Secret of Alligator Swamp
9781465674227
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
“That’s always the way it goes!” “Why, what’s the matter with you now, Step Hen; you seem in a peck of trouble?” “Who wouldn’t be, when some fellow went and hid his hat away? Didn’t you all see me hang the same on this peg sticking out from the trunk of the pine tree, when we-all came ashore to eat lunch; because that’s what I did, as sure as anything?” “Oh! you think so, do you?” “I know it as well as I know my name. Think because I’ve got a stuffy cold in my head just like Bumpus here says he has, and can’t smell, that I don’t know beans, do you? Well, you can see for yourself, Davy Jones, my nice new campaign hat ain’t on the peg right now.” “Do you know why that’s true, Step Hen? Because a thing never yet was known to be in two places at the same time. And unless my eyes are telling me what ain’t so, you’ve got your hat on right at this minute, pushed back on your head! Told you, boys, Step Hen ought to get a pair of specs; now I’m dead sure of it.” The boy who seemed to answer to the queer name of Step Hen threw up a hand, and on discovering that he did have his hat perched away back on his bushy head of hair, made out to be quite indignant. “Now, that’s the way you play tricks on travelers, is it? I’d just like to know who put that hat on my head so sly like! Mr. Scout-master, I wish you’d tell the fellows who love to play pranks to let me alone.” “I’d be glad to, Step Hen, only in this case I happened to see you take your hat down, and clap it on your own head, though I reckon you did it without thinking what you were doing; so the sooner you forget it the better.” A general laugh arose at this, and Step Hen, subsiding, continued to munch away at the sandwich he gripped in one hand. There were just eight lads, dressed in the khaki suits of Boy Scouts, some of which were new, and others rather seedy, as though they had seen many a campaign. But those who wore the brightest uniforms did so because their others had become almost disreputable, and fit only to be carried along for use in case of absolute necessity. While they sit there, enjoying their midday meal, with two pretty good-sized paddling boats tied up, showing just how they managed to reach this lonely place on the border of one of the almost impenetrable swamps in Southern Louisiana, let us take advantage of the stop to say a few words concerning these lively lads. Of course the boy reader who has had the pleasure of possessing any or all of the previous volumes in this series, will readily recognize these sturdy fellows as the full membership of the Silver Fox Patrol connected with Cranford Troop of Boy Scouts. Under the leadership of Assistant Scout-master Thad Brewster they had been having some pretty lively outings for the last two years; at one time in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina; then up in Maine; afterwards finding a chance to pay a hunting and exploring trip to the far distant Rocky Mountains, and finally on the preceding summer cruising upon the vast stretches of Lake Superior. Besides the patrol leader, Thad, there were Allan Hollister, who had seen much actual life in the woods, and was perfectly at home there; a tall lanky fellow, with such a long neck that his chums had long ago named him “Giraffe;” a dumpy, fat scout, whose jolly red face was almost the color of his hair, and who came when any one called “Bumpus;” a very neat and handsome boy who had been christened Edmund Maurice Travers Smith, but who did not object when all that was shortened to just plain, every-day “Smithy;” an acrobatic chap who loved to stand on his head, and play monkey, Davy Jones by name; Step Hen himself, otherwise Stephen Bingham; and last but not least one Robert Quail White, a native of the South, and whose rather odd name was soon happily changed among his mates to plain “Bob White,” which, as all boys know, is the popular way a quail is designated in the country.
