Teams from the other patrols scrambled for their flags,
too, and practiced until the last light began to go.
The night-fire grew brighter in the darkness. A hush fell over the camp.
The boys formed a circle about the blaze. Where they sat there was light
and warmth, but ten feet back were the trees, and darkness, and the
melancholy whispering of the breeze through stirring branches.
There was sober discussion of the morrow's contest. No voice lifted
itself loudly. Mr. Wall told an Indian story. The scouts drew closer to
the fire, and Bobbie glanced back over his shoulder. After a time heads
began to nod.
"Time to turn in," said the Scoutmaster. "Better fill your canteens. You
may want a drink during the night."
The brook was a hundred yards away, out in the darkness--and this was
Lonesome Woods. Bobbie said he never took a drink during the night.
"Aw!" cried Tim. "Let's go down there and fill them up."
He led the way. Bobbie decided that he might need a drink after all.
Twenty minutes later they were all in the tents. Out at the dying
camp-fire the bugler sounded "taps." As the mournful notes echoed, more
than one scout, under his blanket, felt goose-flesh.
Ordinarily, in camp, the first night is one of restlessness. But Chester
troop was tired.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139