Read Ebook: Tom Slade in the north woods by Fitzhugh Percy Keese Hastings Howard L Howard Livingston Illustrator

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Ebook has 1047 lines and 49557 words, and 21 pages

Seated comfortably in my library, Tom at once plunged into what I suppose might be called the human interest side of his story. I must confess I am not greatly interested in leather, nor even in millionaires' camps. Nor was I altogether carried off my feet by Tom's vision of a new camp. But I listened with rapt attention to his account of the tragic incident which had made Leatherstocking Camp a place of bitter memory to its owner.

I drew a quick breath. "It wasn't young McClintick?"

"It was young McClintick."

"Heavens!" I said. "That was terrible."

"It was just another of those fatal accidents that happen in the gaming season," Tom said. "Most every year you read of some such thing."

Tom shook his head. "The game wardens up there told my friends, the surveyors, that Mr. Weston couldn't bring himself to go into the lodge and see if young McClintick was there asleep. He knew the old man never went in the lake and that there wasn't anybody else for miles around. You see there were just three of them there. I understood Mr. Weston was an old friend of Mr. McClintick. He did think that maybe a game warden or a fire-ranger had happened into the neighborhood and gone in the water. All he had to do was to go into the lodge and see if young McClintick was there in his bed. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He just waited around, all gone to pieces, for an hour or so."

"I would say that must have been the most terrible half hour that ever passed in any human life," I reflected. "Well, what then?"

"Oh, I don't know," Tom said. "Of course, both he and Mr. McClintick knew the worst before long. It sort of broke up the friendship. Naturally would, don't you think so? Yet I guess the old man wasn't--that is, didn't exactly hold it against him."

"Just an accident," I mused. And Tom and I sat silent for a few moments, both musing.

"Did you talk to Mr. Temple like that?" I queried.

"Yes, and he said, 'It's always good to see you, Tommy.'"

"Tom," I said, "do you know, if I were that man--Weston, was it?--do you know, I think I'd feel worse than if I had murdered. You see a murderer is defective, he doesn't see straight, his mind isn't right, he has no imagination, he doesn't suffer remorse. A man who has deliberately killed doesn't suffer because he's abnormal."

"Highbrow stuff?" Tom commented.

"I know," Tom said.

"What must be his feelings?" I mused. "I think I would be a complete wreck after that. I think I would be forever haunted by the thought of my ghastly blunder. After all, the most horrible thing may be just a mistake. I wonder how Mr. Weston was affected." For a few moments I sat musing; I could not think of the possibilities of that deserted camp. I could only think of the tragic occurrence which cast its shadow over it. To go there after poor Mr. McClintick had turned his grief-wrung face from it forever would seem almost like wearing a dead man's shoes.

"Oh, hardly that, Tommy," I said. "Besides, it would cost money to put it in shape. You can't turn a rich man's hunting lodge into a scout camp overnight, you know. You'd have to build shacks and a dormitory; you'd have either to build or transport boats and canoes there; you'd have to spend a lot of money, in short. According to your account this place is in the wilderness. Mr. Temple is a very rich man, my boy; but he's also a very shrewd and practical man."

"Oh, you shouldn't talk like that about Mr. Temple," I said. "Mr. Temple is as good as his word every time, and you know it. For my part--maybe I'm more sentimental than you--I'd have a kind of a queer feeling about the place. Sort of spooky--no?"

"Sure not," Tom laughed. "Why, two boys have lost their lives at Temple Camp since the place opened up."

"And scouting."

"You're young enough," Tom said with spirit. "All you need is to sleep outdoors in the summer."

"Thank you, I have a home to sleep in," I said.

"And if we get this thing started, you're going to come up there," he declared.

"And while you're careering around doing a hundred things at once, I'll have to wander around the lake and think about the tragedy that made the new camp possible."

"Oh, try to forget it," said Tom.

"And there's another thing," I said. "What would Temple Camp ever do without you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't cut out Temple Camp," he exclaimed. "I'd just take a summer off to get this new camp started."

I just shook my head. I'd give a good deal to have his fine spirit and energy.

I wish not to intrude into this narrative. Of the extraordinary adventures which I am now to record, Tom was unquestionably the hero. But since I am a trustee of the new camp and was present there in the exciting season of its formation, I suppose I am the logical one to group these remarkable incidents into a story. As for Tom, he cannot remain seated long enough to write a letter.

You must bear with me a little time while I tell briefly the somewhat humdrum details incident to the launching of this enterprise. Yet even here was a spice of mystery. I went up that very evening to see our town's most benevolent and distinguished citizen, Mr. John Temple. I know him, as every one in town knows him; perhaps a little better than some, for I have met him on the golf course. He is none of your open-handed story book philanthropists, tossing princely sums here and there, one of those scout angels who rewards the juvenile hero with a thousand dollars for a brave deed. But he is a very rich man, and a vastly generous one. I have always believed that the conspicuous success of Temple Camp is to be ascribed, not only to his liberal endowment of it, but to his wise and painstaking oversight. It is his pet and his pride.

Well, I went up to see him and on my way there a rather singular thing happened. Scarcely had I reached the first corner when I was accosted by a man whom I thought to be the same one that I had noticed loitering in front of my house during Tom's call. To this day, I do not know for a certainty whether or not he was the same man. If he was, he must have put on an overcoat in the interval. Notwithstanding his scraggly beard he appeared rather more presentable than the man I had noticed near Tom's car. Yet I thought he was the same man.

Be that as it might, he addressed me by name and asked me if I knew whether the Adirondack camp property, as he called it, had been sold.

"May I ask who you are?" I said with intentional curtness.

As I did not pause he fell in step with me. "No offense," he said. "I heard young Mr. Slade was interested in buying it. I'd like to get a job up that way; my health ain't so good."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be much of a recommendation," I said rather coldly. "And what makes you think that I should know anything about it?"

"I heard it was for sale," he stammered confusedly.

At the corner I paused just long enough to say, "You had better consult those who are interested. The matter is none of my business, and none of yours. Do you belong here in town?"

The man was obviously embarrassed; he had evidently counted on a better success in chance acquaintanceship. He fell behind me and soon I hit on an explanation of his presumption. I came to the conclusion that he was an aggressive real estate man who was after information about a transaction from which he might squeeze a profit. I thought he might represent interests which would be keen to make a quick purchase of the camp property if a prompt resale were assured.

I did not mention this incident in my talk with Mr. Temple, for I wished not to give him the impression that I was trying to urge him to a quick decision. But I was very glad indeed that he seemed really interested in the property and disposed to act promptly. I had thought of my call as in the nature of a favor to Tom, but had feared it would be unavailing. But I was quite reassured. Tom thinks it was I who did the trick, but frankly, I believe that Mr. Temple had the matter in mind when I called on him.

Well, to make an end of this business phase of the story, Mr. Temple told me he intended to get in touch with his broker at once, and also with the national scout people. Mr. Gerry and Mr. Donaldson, of our local council, went up with Tom and had a look at the property. And later, Mr. Temple himself went with old Uncle Jeb Rushmore, the good old scout of Temple Camp. I kept out of the business until the new camp was actually opened and then I became a trustee.

As soon as the deal had gone through Tom went up to the property with a couple of young men from this town to stay there through the spring and try to get the place in some sort of shape for the summer. One of these young men was the fellow they call Skipper Tim who is steward down at the boat club during the boating season. He was well chosen. The other was Totterson Burke--Tot Burke, they call him. He's freight agent here in town and used to be in the life saving service along the coast. I may say here that I think Tom Slade's circle of available friends represents every out-of-the-ordinary and adventurous calling on the face of the earth. They went up in Tom's flivver, of course, stopping at Temple Camp to get some tools needed in felling trees and building cabins. Here they picked up Piker Pete, who is fire-lookout up on Cloudburst Mountain in back of Temple Camp, and took him along. I understand he is called Piker because he scans the country and not because he is in any sense stingy.

As for myself, I did not go till later, when I went up with Brent Gaylong. That was in the summer. And before that something very startling happened.

Once the proposition of the new camp was settled, and Tom and his hardy adventurers had gone to brave the winter in those howling wilds, I forgot all about the enterprise which now seems likely to mean so much to scouting. Tom wrote me twice, mailing his letters at Harkness on the Ausable River, about eight miles east of the camp. He told me that they had a storehouse and two cabins up. His letters breathed a warmth of enthusiasm which I suppose helped to palliate the rigors of the biting winter. I inferred that they were working hard and withal having a good time of it. He wrote that the game wardens made free with his hospitality and were always welcome with their fireside yarns.

I must confess that when I thought of the spot at all it was as the deserted camp of the bereaved leather king; not all the pother about the new enterprise could drive from my memory the vivid picture of the tragic accident which had occurred there. To me, that would always cast a shadow over the place. That fine youth shot through the head as he took an early morning swim in the lake! And the bereaved father, to whom the spot was now become a place of sorrowful memory! It seemed almost like taking advantage of his grief to buy the property at a sacrifice figure. But Mr. Temple only laughed at me when I spoke to this effect.

Now toward the end of the winter I did something which I suppose was a trifle presumptuous. This was, I think, a couple of months before I went up to the camp. I have a little place in Cedarville, a slight distance inland from Long Branch which, as you know, is on our New Jersey coast. Here I while away the summer months playing golf. At that time the Cedarville Golf Club was having a campaign for membership, for its exceptionally fine course had begun to attract the attention of golf enthusiasts in other communities.

Well, not to make a long story of it, I was struck by an inspiration. Tom had mentioned that Mr. Harrison McClintick had a place at Long Branch. Here would be a fine name to juggle with in our campaign. Surely he played golf; all millionaires play golf. He must join the Cedarville Club, and lend his name to our intensive drive.

So when I was down at my little place on a week-end I ran over to Long Branch. I only suspected that Mr. McClintick would be there; finding millionaires in their homes is a kind of hunting sport in itself. I was somewhat crestfallen to learn that Seven Towers, his magnificent place, had been sold. I have seen few houses so palatial. It was a young man on the adjoining estate, a gardener or perhaps superintendent, who told me of the sale of the place. And he told me of other matters which somewhat changed the color of my thoughts.

Leaning against my car with one foot on the running board he chatted quite freely about the McClintick fortune. "Why, as I understand it, he sold out because he couldn't keep it up," said he. "He used to have a place in Newport too, but I heard that's been sold. Easy come and easy go, you know. He made it all in the war."

"So I heard," I said. "I happen to know the interests that bought his camp in the Adirondacks. He had a sadder reason for selling that."

To my astonishment the young man only pursed his lips and looked rather quizzical. "Guess the old gent was glad enough to get the money," he said.

"He's had reverses then?"

"That's what they say," my informant replied.

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