TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The First Arrival 1

II. Tom Surprises the Camp 17

III. Roy’s Campfire Yarn 25

IV. The Old Trail 42

V. Adventure of the Rescue Party 53

VI. The Mountain Shelter 63

VII. “Under Which King?” 80

VIII. Jeffrey Waring 87

IX. A New Kind of First Aid 107

X. The Birthday of the Elk Patrol 113

XI. Garry’s Story and Harry Stanton’s 127

XII. Pee-wee Triumphant 138

XIII. At the Stanton’s 148

XIV. First Bridgeboro B.S.A. Becomes a Full Troop 164

XV. Cruising in the “Honor Scout” 170

XVI. The Invisible Badge 180

XVII. Lost! 192

XVIII. The Tragic Adventure of the Freckled Scout 201

XIX. “So Long—See You Later!” 222

TOM SLADE
ON THE RIVER

CHAPTER I
THE FIRST ARRIVAL

“But suppose they shouldn’t come.”

“Son, when I wuz out in Colorady, in a place we called Devil’s Pass, I gut a grizzly backed up agin’ a ledge one day ’n’ heving ony one bullet ’twas a case uv me or him, as yer might say. My pardner, Simon Gurthy, who likewise didn’t hev no bullets, ’count uv bein’ stripped b’ the Injins, he says, ‘S’posin’ ye don’t fetch him.’ ’N’ I says, ‘S’posin’ I do.’”

Jeb Rushmore, with methodical accuracy, spat at a sapling near by.

“And did you?” asked his listener.

Jeb spat again with leisurely deliberation. “’N’ I did,” said he.

“You always hit, don’t you, Jeb?”

“Purty near.”

The boy edged along the log on which they were sitting and looked up admiringly into the wrinkled, weatherbeaten face. A smile which did not altogether penetrate through the drooping gray mustache was visible enough in the twinkling eyes and drew the wrinkles about them like sun rays.

“They’ll come,” said he.

The boy was satisfied for he had absolute confidence that his companion could not make a mistake.

“But suppose you hadn’t hit him—I mean fetched him?”

“Son, wot yer got to do, yer do. When I told General Custer onct that we’d get picked off like cherries offen a tree if we tried rushin’ a pack uv Sioux that was in ambush, he says, ‘Jeb, mebbe it cain’t be done, I ain’t sayin’, but jest the same, we got ter do it.’ Some on us got dropped, but we done it.”

“Did General Custer call you by your first name?”

“Same’s you do.”

This was too much for the little fellow. “Gee, it must have been great to have General Custer call you by your first name.”

“Wal, now, I ben thinkin’ ’twas purty fine this winter hevin’ yew call me by my fust name, ’n’ keep me comp’ny here. We’ve got ter be close pards, me an’ you, hain’t we, son?”

“Gee, I’m almost sorry they’re coming—kind of.”

They were certainly coming—“in chunks,” as Roy Blakeley would have said, and before night the camp would be a veritable beehive. All summer troops would be coming and going, but just now the opening rush was at hand, and the exodus from eastern towns and cities, following the closing of schools, would go far to fill the camp even to its generous capacity before this Saturday’s sun had set.

The Bridgeboro Troop, from the home town of the camp’s generous founder, Mr. John Temple, would arrive sometime in the afternoon “with bells on” according to the post card which little Raymond Hollister had brought up from the post office the day before.

They were cruising up the Hudson to Catskill Landing in their cabin launch, the Good Turn, and would hike it up through Leeds to camp. The card was postmarked Poughkeepsie, and read:

Desert Island of Poughkeepsie, Longitude 23, Latitude 40-11.

“Put in here for gasoline and ice-cream soda. Natives friendly. Heavy gales. Raining in sheets and pillow-cases. Mutiny on board. Pee-wee