“What’s your thought, Dan? Do we stick, or shall we call enough—enough?”
“I hate to be a quitter. It’s easy enough to trot home to our folks. I’d say, let’s hang on another day the way we planned. Maybe the weather man will give us a break.”
“Good,” said Mr. Hatfield in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that, Dan. The question is, will the other Cubs agree?”
“They’re all good sports. If only we could swim or hike, everything would be swell.”
“It can’t rain forever,” said Mr. Hatfield cheerfully. “Fact is, it’s slackening now. If the weather clears, I may have an idea or two for stirring up a little fun.”
From experience, Dan knew that Sam Hatfield, athletic director at Webster City High School, never lacked ideas. For that matter, neither did Midge’s father, Burton Holloway, who was the organization’s official Den Dad.
The camp-out on Mr. Holloway’s property at the edge of Webster City had been planned as a climax to the outdoor activities of the Den. Only the weatherman, it seemed, had pulled a fast one.
The first glimmer of a gray, muggy dawn filtered through the woodland as Dan and the Cub leader climbed the slope to the log cabin.
“I’ll start a fire,” Mr. Hatfield volunteered.
Anticipating rain, the Cubs, before retiring, had stored a good supply of birch bark, pine needles and dry wood in a natural ravine shelter twenty yards from the cabin.
Dan now helped Mr. Hatfield scrape the ground bare of soggy leaves. Kindling the fire carefully, the Cub leader soon had a cheerful blaze going which began to radiate heat. Dan’s spirits rose.
“Say, the rain is quitting!” he said jubilantly. “And here comes Midge’s father!”
Burton Holloway, a lean man of athletic build, rapidly descended the stone steps from the house.
“You’re all invited to our place for breakfast,” he announced. “Have a bad night of it?”
“No, we were snug and warm in the cabin,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “As for breakfast, I don’t think we should impose on Mrs. Holloway. We’ll make out.”
“Suit yourselves,” the Den Dad smiled. “Anyway, tell the Cubs to come to the house for anything they need.”
By the time the camp fire had burned down to cherry red coals, the Cubs began to straggle from the cabin. Chips Davis, a tall stripling for his eleven years, was first to thrust his seal-like head out into the cold mist.
“Another lousy day,” he bemoaned. “Four of ’em in a row. Great!”
“Pipe down and get busy,” Dan growled. “A Cub is supposed to be game.”
“Sure, that’s what it says in the manual. But the wise guy who wrote that book was sitting at his typewriter in a nice cozy room with steam heat and—”
“Pipe down, I say!” Dan repeated. “Or if you can’t take it, there’s a nice hot breakfast waiting for you up at the house.”
Chips glared at Dan, and then suddenly relaxed.
“Forget it, Dan. Can’t you take a joke?”
Dan let the matter ride. “If you’re sticking with the gang, it’s your turn to help cook breakfast,” he reminded him.
“Yes, Mr. Denner! Waffles, creamed chicken and fresh strawberries coming right up.”
Chips bowed low, a mocking grin overspreading his freckled face. Only the mischief in his blue eyes took the edge from his words.
Now Chips never had entirely accustomed himself to Dan’s election as official denner of the Cubs. Always he had seemed to resent those two gold stripes on the younger boy’s left sleeve. Seldom did he miss a chance to rub it in if ever Dan ventured a suggestion.
“Where’s Brad?” he asked abruptly. “He’s supposed to help too.”
Almost as if he had heard his name spoken, Brad thrust his touseled dark head out the cabin doorway. Thirteen and large for his age, the Den Chief wore the uniform of a Scout.
“Top o’ the morning,” he chirped. “Did I hear my name?”
“The little boss was just saying you’re supposed to help get breakfast,” Chips informed him.
“Chips, I’m not trying to boss anyone,” Dan said, with an effort, holding his temper in check. “Every fellow is supposed to do his share. That’s all.”
“Take it easy, lads,” said Brad in his quiet, friendly voice. “This rotten weather has us all on edge. Chips and I will tackle that breakfast in nothing flat. Just give me a chance to wash up.”
The threatened disagreement was brushed away as of no consequence.
With a warm feeling of gratitude to Brad, Dan went into the cabin to make up his bed. Good old Brad! Even tempered and with an efficient way of getting things done, one always could depend on him to iron out friction.
Inside the cabin, the other Cubs were scrambling into their long blue trousers and jerseys. But the usual clamor of excited voices was lacking. Even Red, who often kept the Cubs in high spirits with his wise cracks, seemed subdued.
“What are we doin’ today?” he asked plaintively. “Another session of whittling Indian totem poles?”
“Mr. Hatfield has something in mind,” Dan informed the Cubs. “He may tell us at breakfast.”
Following Dan’s example, the Den members folded blankets which could not be aired outside, and straightened the cabin. By the time Midge and Mack brought water from the house, a well-cooked breakfast was ready.
As they squatted around the fire eating their fill of bacon and eggs, Mr. Hatfield outlined the morning plans.
“It won’t take long to clean up the dishes,” he remarked. “Then what say to a boat jaunt across the river?”
“Not to the village again?” protested Chips. “We have more supplies now than we’ll need until we leave here.”
“I thought we might hike to Paul Silverton’s pheasant farm.”
“Not the wealthy sportsman?” demanded Mack Tibbets, all interest.
“That’s right. He raises unusual imported birds as a hobby. Of course, it will be pretty wet underfoot, and if any of you would rather stay here or go home—”
“Who wants to stay?” Red demanded. “We’ve been cooped up long enough. Let’s get those dishes washed pronto!”
“Hey, look fellows!” broke in Mack suddenly. “Is that the real thing or a mirage?”
By this time the sun had straggled through the clouds and was casting a few feeble beams over the drenched camp.
“The sun! Whoopee!” shouted Red, capering about like an Indian. “Aw, who turned it off?”
As if to tantalize the Cubs, the sun after its brief debut again slipped under a cloud. But a moment later, out it popped again, this time for several minutes. The Cubs, greatly cheered, went at their morning duties with a will.
By ten o’clock, knapsacks were packed with sandwiches, chocolate bars and extra wool socks.
“All set?” Mr. Hatfield asked. “We’ll have to make two boat trips across the river. I’ll take the first load with Midge, Fred, Dan and Red. Then I’ll return for the others.”
“Let’s go,” Dan urged, leading the way to the dock.
The mahogany dinghy which Mr. Holloway assigned to the Cubs’ use was durable and easily rowed. At a sign from the Cub leader, Dan picked up the oars,