The Boy Scouts of the Signal Corps — Context and Discussion

CHAPTER I. GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

“Hi! you, Billy Worth!” cried the leader of the Wolf patrol, a tall youth of seventeen named Hugh Hardin, addressing his assistant. “Scramble out of that bunky, my boy, in two wags of a Wolf’s tail, or I’ll have scout’s law on you!”

“All right, chief! Coming!” was the prompt response, as Billy, thus adjured, turned over in his bunk and thrust one long leg over the edge.

His bare brown foot, dangling perilously near the head of another boy whose bunk was beneath Billy’s, proved too great a temptation for the lad. Pulling a whisp of straw from his mattress, he proceeded to tickle the sole of that foot, thereby causing Billy to elevate it hastily with a loud squeal.

As he did so, Hugh made a dexterous sweep of his arms, and, grasping Billy around the knees, almost flung him over one broad shoulder and deposited him none too gently on the floor.

“Ouch!” whooped Billy.

His shout and the dull thump of his fall aroused other inmates of the cabin who had not already wakened in time to witness the onslaught.

“Help! Murder!” yelled a scout of the patrol.

“Shut up!” another boy said, laughing, as he sprang from his bunk. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

“Not hurt, are you, old man?” inquired Hugh, a trifle anxiously, for he seldom cared to perpetrate practical jokes. “I didn’t mean to——”

No response from Billy. He lay where he had fallen, with one arm outstretched, the other pillowing his head. His face was covered by a limp hand, but between his fingers he slyly peeped out, and his twinkling eyes sought the serious face of Hugh, who was bending over him.

“Billy’s done for!” said the lad who had tickled him. “Let’s put him to bed, chief, for he will be happier there.”

Ignoring this facetious suggestion, Hugh bent still lower; he even dropped upon one knee, and put his hands on Billy’s shoulder.

“Wake up, son!” he urged, smiling and giving his chum a gentle shake. “First round is over, and in ten seconds you will be counted out.”

This was the chance for which Billy had been waiting. Now he saw that Hugh was completely off his guard. Suddenly his free hand shot out, grasped Hugh’s ankle from behind, gave it a strong push—and the next instant Hugh measured his length on the floor. Before Hugh could fully realize what had happened to upset his equilibrium, Billy gathered up his own sprawling limbs, and hurled himself upon his fallen leader.

“Down and out, am I?” he gurgled. “Who said so? Come on, we’ll——”

“Sure! We’ll see!” As he spoke, Hugh struggled free from the other’s hold, and met the reprisal with his usual jolly laugh. “Good for you, Billy! Good one on me! O-ho!”—he dodged nimbly a “half-Nelson” which Billy had vainly attempted—“none of your famous strangle-holds, now!”

Then ensued a rough-and-tumble match, the outcome of which was awaited in joyous suspense by every scout in the cabin. They all gathered in a wide circle around the wrestlers, showering liberal encouragement. Had the match been between Hugh or Billy and a member of the other patrol, however friendly, it might not have been greeted with the same impartiality.

The circle soon narrowed, for not more than three minutes elapsed before both contestants were down on their sides, facing each other. Hugh, being quicker and less stockily built than his chum, was the first to make a final overthrow. In a trice, he pulled Billy under him; and, though Billy put up a good fight, he crumpled flat under Hugh’s weight.

“You win!” he gasped. “Get off my arm,—it hurts!”

“Sorry, son,” said Hugh, when murmurs of applause had died away. “Shall I put you back to bed now?”

Laughter greeted Hugh’s query, for Billy Worth bore an undeserved reputation of being a sluggard. On his part, he took the laugh good-humoredly.

“Is that what you call doing a daily good turn?” he inquired of Hardin, with a grin. “You’ve begun the day nicely, I must say!”

“_You_ did the good turn, old scout!” called Walter Osborne, of the Hawk patrol, from across the room. “I never saw a neater tumble!”

“I’ll take a fall out of you for that, Walt!” threatened Billy, cheerfully. “If we have archery practice to-day, you’ll miss a feather from your wing!”

“Hear! Hear!” came a chorus of voices.

“Fly at him, Walt!” urged one of young Osborne’s patrol.

“Go to it, beak and claws,” added another.