he volunteered.
The two dressed quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping Cubs.
In the bunk above Dan’s, Brad Wilber, the Den Chief, rolled restlessly. By contrast, Chips Davis, half his lean body protruding from a blanket, slept peaceful as a babe. The other Cubs, Midge Holloway, Red Suell, Fred Hatfield and Mack Tibbets, were equally dead to the world.
Sam stooped to tuck the blanket around Chips’ exposed torso. Then, with slickers buttoned, he and Dan went out into the night.
A gust of wind dashed rain into their faces, blotting out a view of the Holloway house on the hill. The area near the cabin had dissolved into a sea of mud.
Sam’s flashlight picked out the graveled path which led to the dock.
During the night, the river steadily had risen. Fed by rampant streams to the north, the swollen waters gradually had nibbled away the sandy beach. The boat, tied securely the night before, now pounded against the dock on a slack rope.
While Dan retied it, Sam Hatfield pushed away a floating log which had lodged against the dock post.
“River’s up another four inches,” he observed gloomily. “And now, more rain.”
“Think we ought to call it quits?”
“That’s for the fellows to decide,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “It was swell of Midge’s father to let us use this place. It’s almost like having a regular camp.
“The Cubs sure appreciate it. But they’re fed up with the weather. Another day of this and we’ll be sprouting webs on our feet.
“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
