The Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories
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The Boy Scouts Book Of Campfire Stories THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF CAMPFIRE STORIES Page 1 The Boy Scouts Book Of Campfire Stories THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGEST AND BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD Downloaded from: “The Dump” at Scoutscan.com http://www.thedump.scoutscan.com/ Editor’s Note: The reader is reminded that these texts have been written a long time ago. Consequently, they may use some terms or use expressions which were current at the time, regardless of what we may think of them at the beginning of the 21st century. For reasons of historical accuracy they have been preserved in their original form. If you find them offensive, we ask you to please delete this file from your system. This and other traditional Scouting texts may be downloaded from the Dump. Page 2 The Boy Scouts Book Of Campfire Stories THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF CAMPFIRE STORIES EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY FRANKLIN K. MATHIEWS CHIEF SCOUT LIBRARIAN, BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA PUBLISHED FOR THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY INCORPORATED NEW YORK 1933 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Page 3 The Boy Scouts Book Of Campfire Stories BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION The campfire for ages has been the place of council and friendship and story-telling. The mystic glow of the fire quickens the mind, warms the heart, awakens memories of happy, glowing tales that fairly leap to the lips. The Boy Scouts of America has incorporated the “campfire” in its program for council and friendship and story-telling. In one volume, the Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories makes available to scoutmasters and other leaders a goodly number of stories worthy of their attention, and when well told likely to arrest and hold the interest of boys in their early teens, when “stirs the blood—to bubble in the veins.” At this time, when the boy is growing so rapidly in brain and body, he can have no better teacher than some mighty woodsman. Now should be presented to him stirring stories of the adventurous lives of men who live in and love the out-of-doors. Says Professor George Walter Fiske: “Let him emulate savage woodcraft; the woodsman’s keen, practiced vision; his steadiness of nerve; his contempt for pain, hardship and the weather; his power of endurance, his observation and heightened senses; his delight in out-of-door sports and joys and unfettered happiness with untroubled sleep under the stars; his calmness, self-control, emotional steadiness; his utter faithfulness in friendships; his honesty, his personal bravery.” The Editor likes to think that quite a few of the stories found in the Boy Scouts Book of Campfire[vi] Stories present companions for the mind of this hardy sort, and hopes, whether boys read or are told these stories, they will prove to be such as exalt and inspire while they thrill and entertain. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE Introduction 4 I. Silverhorns Henry van Dyke 5 II. Wild Horse Hunter Zane Grey 13 III. Hydrophobic Skunk Irvin S. Cobb 41 IV. The Ole Virginia Stewart Edward White 45 V. The Weight of Obligation Rex Beach 49 VI. That Spot Jack London 62 VII. When Lincoln Licked a Bully Irving Bacheller 68 VIII. The End of the Trail Clarence E. Mulford 79 IX. Dey Ain’t No Ghosts Ellis Parker Butler 88 X. The Night Operator Frank L. Packard 95 XI. Christmas Eve in a Lumber Camp Ralph Connor 112 XII. The Story That the Keg Told Me Adirondack (W. H. H.) Murray 119 Page 4 The Boy Scouts Book Of Campfire Stories I. – Silverhorns [1] By Henry van Dyke THE railway station of Bathurst, New Brunswick, did not look particularly merry at two o’clock of a late September morning. There was an easterly haze driving in from the Baie des Chaleurs and the darkness was so saturated with chilly moisture that an honest downpour of rain would have been a relief. Two or three depressed and somnolent travelers yawned in the waiting room, which smelled horribly of smoky lamps. The telegraph instrument in the ticket office clicked spasmodically for a minute, and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. The imperturbable station master was tipped back against the wall in a wooden armchair, with his feet on the table, and his mind sunk in an old Christmas number of the Cowboy Magazine. The express agent, in the baggage-room, was going over his last week’s waybills and accounts by the light of a lantern, trying to locate an error, and sighing profanely to himself as he failed to find it. A wooden trunk tied with rope, a couple of dingy canvas bags, a long box marked “Fresh Fish! Rush!” and two large leather portmanteaus with brass fittings were piled on the luggage truck at the far end of the platform; and beside the door of the waiting room, sheltered by the overhanging eaves, was a neat traveling bag, with a gun case and a rod case leaning against the wall. The wet rails glittered dimly northward and southward away into the night. A few blurred lights glimmered from the village across the bridge. Dudley Hemenway had observed all these features of the landscape with silent dissatisfaction, as he smoked steadily up and down the platform, waiting for the Maritime Express. It is usually irritating to arrive at the station on time for a train on the Intercolonial Railway. The arrangement is seldom mutual; and sometimes yesterday’s train does not come along until to-morrow afternoon. Moreover, Hemenway was inwardly discontented with the fact that he was coming out of the woods instead of going in. “Coming out” always made him a little unhappy, whether his expedition had been successful or not. He did not like the thought that it was all over; and he had the very bad habit, at such times, of looking ahead and computing the slowly lessening number of chances that were left to him. “Sixty odd years – I may get to be that old and keep my shooting sight,” he said to himself. “That would give me a couple of dozen more camping trips. It’s a short Page 5 The Boy Scouts Book Of Campfire Stories allowance. I wonder if any of them will be more lucky than this one. This makes the seventh year I’ve tried to get a moose; and the odd trick has gone against me every time.” He tossed away the end of his cigar, which made a little trail of sparks as it rolled along the sopping platform, and turned to look in through the window of the ticket office. Something in the agent’s attitude of literary absorption aggravated him. He went round to the door and opened it. “Don’t you know or care when this train is coming?” “Nope,” said the man placidly. “Well, when? What’s the matter with her? When is she due?” “Doo twenty minits ago,” said the man. “Forty minits late down to Moocastle. Git here quatter to three, ef nothin’ more happens.” “But what has happened? What’s wrong with the beastly old road, anyhow?” “Freight car skipped the track,” said the man, “up to Charlo. Everythin’ hung up an’ kinder goin’ slow till they git the line clear. Dunno nothin’ more.” With this conclusive statement the agent seemed to disclaim all responsibility for the future of impatient travelers, and dropped his mind back into the magazine again. Hemenway lit another cigar and went into the baggage room to smoke with the expressman. It was nearly three o’clock when they heard the far-off shriek of the whistle sounding up from the south; then, after an interval, the puffing of the engine on the upgrade; then the faint ringing of the rails, the increasing clatter of the train, and the blazing headlight of the locomotive swept slowly through the darkness, past the platform. The engineer was leaning on one arm, with his head out of the cab window, and Hemenway nodded as he passed and hurried into the ticket office, where the ticktack of a conversation by telegraph was soon under way. The black porter of the Pullman car was looking out from the vestibule, and when he saw Hemenway his sleepy face broadened into a grin reminiscent of many generous tips. “Howdy, Mr. Hennigray,” he cried; “glad to see yo’ ag’in, sah! I got yo’ section all right, sah! Lemme take yo’ things, sah! Train gwine to stop hy’eh fo’ some time yet, I reckon.” “Well, Charles,” said Hemenway, “you take my things and put them in the car. Careful with that gun now! The Lord only knows how much time this train’s going to lose. I’m going ahead to see the engineer.” Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman who had run a locomotive on the Intercolonial ever since the road was cut through the woods from New Brunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often on that line knew him, and all who knew him well[5] enough to get below his rough crust, liked him for his big heart. “Hallo, McLeod,” said Hemenway as he came up through the darkness, “is that you?” “It’s nane else,” answered the engineer as he stepped down from his cab and shook hands warmly. “Hoo are ye, Dud, an’ whaur hae ye been murderin’ the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye’ve been chasin’ him these mony years.” “Not much murdering,” replied Hemenway.