Half-way between Woodcraft and the Durant lumber camp the trail crosses Speckled Brook, once a noted trout stream famed for the size of the spotted beauties that lurked in the black depths of its pools, or hung on the edge of its boiling rapids watching for the unfortunate grub or fly struggling helplessly on the shimmering surface of its swift current. Persistent whipping day in and day out through the open seasons by anglers whose creed is little more than greed has robbed it of its fame for big strings, and the ruthless destruction of cover on its watersheds by the axe of the lumbermen has so reduced its water supply that a note of pathos has crept into the sweetness of its song and sadly marred the beauty of its forest setting.

Yet even now there is an indescribable charm about Speckled Brook, and in some of the deeper pools are finny warriors worthy [238] the skill and patience of lovers of the rod. Walter never could come within sound of its purling song without experiencing an irresistible desire to linger.

It was calling to him now as with noiseless step he strode along the trail toward the Durant camp. Since his trip to Lonesome Pond he had continually practiced “still walking,” whenever the opportunity offered. It had been the chief incentive for many a morning tramp. He had become fairly proficient by now, and on an ordinary trail walked with freedom and ease without giving conscious thought to his feet. Twice he had surprised deer and frequently approached smaller game to within close range of observation before they became aware of his presence. Each success brought with it a sense of growing skill, a feeling that in time he might fairly hope to pit his trained knowledge against the wonderful senses of the wild life around him with the advantage not wholly on their side.

Now as he came within sound of Speckled Brook he quickened his step that he might linger for a few minutes on the log bridge [239] over which the trail ran. It was hidden from his view by a sharp turn so that he was almost upon it before he became aware that someone was before him.

Seated on a stringer of the bridge, his face buried in his arms, was a khaki and flannel clad figure. An expensive split-bamboo rod lay beside him unheeded, the tip jerking up and down in a way that evidenced something more than the current tugging at the end of the line. It was a pathetic figure, contrasting strangely with the joy of the beautiful morning. Now and then there was a heave to the drooping shoulders, while a muffled sob mingled with the song of the brook.

Walter paused, irresolute. He had recognized Harrison at the first glance, and his heart went out to the boy who had sought the sanctuary of the wilderness to give way to his misery where none should see. With an inborn delicacy of feeling Walter turned softly, and without a sound stole back up the trail until the turn had effectually hidden him from view. The bitterest thing in a boy’s life is to be seen in his hour of weakness by another boy. Somehow it seems to rob him of [240] something of his manhood. Without analyzing it in this way Walter felt that it would be unfair to Hal to let him know that he had been seen crying.

At the end of a hundred yards or so Walter once more turned in the direction of the bridge, whistling shrilly. This time when he rounded the turn Hal was on his feet rebaiting his hook, while a ten-inch trout flapped at his feet. His hat was pulled low over his face, but on his cheeks were traces of tears hastily wiped away.

“Hello, Hal! What luck?” called Walter cheerily as he approached.

“I don’t know as it’s any business of yours. You see I’m not buying ’em, anyway,” was the surly and bitter reply.

Walter flushed, and an angry retort rose to his lips, but with it came a vision of the picture of utter misery he had witnessed a few minutes before. He stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Don’t, Hal,” he pleaded. “Let’s be friends.”

“You don’t want me for a friend; nobody does,” growled the other.

[241] “Hal, I came pretty near punching your head once, or trying to, anyway. Now I am coming back at you. When you say that I don’t want you for a friend you are not telling the truth. Now, are you going to punch my head or are you going to shake hands?” Walter once more extended his hand, all his good humor restored.

Slowly the other reached forth and gripped it. “I—I guess I’ll shake,” he said, a sheepish smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Then he pushed back his hat and faced Walter squarely. “It’s mighty white of you, Walt,” he blurted out hurriedly. “I do want you for a friend. I guess I need friends if any fellow ever did. Nobody’s got any use for me back there,” nodding in the direction of the camp, “and I can’t get away, because I haven’t anywhere to go. You see, my folks are all in Europe for the summer. I’m stuck here, and I’ve got to stay.”

“I’m glad of it,” said Walter heartily.

“Wh-what do you mean?” demanded Hal.

“Just what I say,” replied the other. “I’m glad of it. You’ve got in wrong here with the camp. If you went away now you’d [242] always be in wrong with the whole crowd. Maybe you think that if you got away and never came back it wouldn’t matter what the fellows think, but it would. They’d always remember you, not for what you really are but for what they think you are, and no matter how great a success you might make when you grow up you’d know all the time that a lot of people didn’t believe in you. You’ve made a lot of mistakes. Now you’ve got a chance to correct ’em right where you made ’em. You can’t forget ’em yourself, and don’t want to, but you can make the other fellows forget ’em; and they will, too, if you’ll give ’em a chance.

“Your dad’s got a lot of money, and I guess you’ve grown up to think that money is the only thing that counts. I s’pose it does count for a lot in the city, but out here in the woods it doesn’t count a little bit. It’s the fellow himself, the stuff that’s in him, and not what he’s got. You forget all about your dad, I mean his money, and sail in for everything that’s doin’ here, and you’ll find that the boys will meet you more’n half-way. Gee, I’m getting to be a regular preacher!”

[243] Hal laughed, the first genuine laugh he had had for many a long day. “It’s the best sermon I ever heard, Walt,” he said. His jaw suddenly shot forward in set lines. “By George, I believe you are right, and I’m going to fight it out right here!—If you’ll help me,” he added wistfully.

“Sure I’ll help!” replied Walter heartily, “and so will the rest of the fellows, if you’ll give ’em a chance.”

Hal gazed at the brook thoughtfully for a few minutes. “I—I hardly know how to begin,” he said hesitatingly.

“Go hunt up Chief Avery of the Senecas and tell him that you know you’ve made a mess of things and that you want to square yourself with the tribe and with the rest of the fellers. He’ll help you out, and tell you what to do. He’s white all through,” advised Walter.

“I know he is,” admitted Hal. “He’s been mighty decent to me. I guess if it hadn’t been for him the other fellows would have refused to speak to me at all. I wish—I wish there was some way I could make up some of those points the tribe lost when I was [244] found out. I can’t do it fishing, for honest, Walt, I don’t know the fishing grounds at all. I tried to bribe Pat Malone to tell me where he caught those big fish, but he knew which side his bread was buttered. Said he’d catch ’em for me, but I couldn’t make him loosen up and show me where I could catch ’em myself. There’s one fellow in the woods that money talks to all right, all right! He knew that as long as I had to have the points I’d pay for ’em, and he held me up a little stiffer each time. I don’t see what got into him to come peach on me. Did—did you put him up to it?”

Hal had the grace to blush as he asked the question, and before Walter could reply he hastened to apologize. “I know you didn’t. At first I was sure you did. I guess I was pretty sore. I thought you had it in for me, and I wouldn’t blame you a little bit if you had had. But I don’t see now what struck Pat. Do you know, I’ve always had more’n half a suspicion that he stole Mother Merriam’s pin. I guess he could tell something about it if he was pinned right down to it.”

[245] “Forget it, Hal,” Walter broke in. “You and most of the other fellows have got Pat sized up all wrong. I don’t know who stole the pin, but I do know it wasn’t Pat Malone. I tell you that there isn’t a Scout in Woodcraft Camp that righ............