Chapter XXIX: Brent and Simpson

Brent Gaylong understood Pee-wee, and he understood Temple Camp. The next day, as if by accident, he fell in with Billy Simpson. Gaylong had a kind of genius for falling in with people _by accident_. Billy was scrutinizing a rock along the trail which went up through the woods to the main road.

“Scout signs?” Brent queried.

“Looks like a _turn to left_ sign,” said Billy, still absorbed in it; “but I don’t see any trail to the left, do you?”

“Why don’t you get one of the fellows to help you, Simpson? I mean, to show you the trails around here. Any one of them would be glad to. Must be kind of hard, doping things out by yourself.”

“I guess that’s the way I’m made,” said Billy.

“You know, Simp--”

“That’s a good name for me, I guess.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” said Brent, lifting himself lazily onto a stone wall in a familiar, friendly way. His very manner of doing this encouraged Simpson to do the same.

“You know, Simpson, you can’t expect two hundred fellows to run after you. You’re only one; you’ve got to run after them.”

“Don’t rub it in,” said Simpson, “I know I’m not popular.”

“You were so enthusiastic that night we were out on the lake,” Brent said kindly. “I think the trouble is you don’t mix in; you don’t let them know what you can do.”

“Look at Everson--”

”I know, but Everson did something _big_; he saved a fellow’s life. You do something big and then’ll fall all over themselves; they’ll make a pathway to your door as old somebody-or-other said. That’s the short, quick way. Otherwise you just have to mix in.”

“Yes,” said Billy with a pitiful air of self disgust, “but there are scouts here that don’t do anything so very big and they--look at Blakeley.”

“I know, Blakeley has personality, he attracts, sort of like a magnet.”

“So have you,” said Billy.

“Thanks,” Brent said.

“Trouble with me is I want to do something big and I don’t know how to do it. What you said about little stuff and little scouts sticks in my mind. I know I don’t feel at home with them. That isn’t my fault, is it?”

“Surely not,” said Brent, thoughtfully, as if he were honestly trying to understand this strange, unhappy fellow.

“I just can’t hand a trustee a whisk-broom and--you know what I mean. And it’s the same with stunts. If I can’t do something _big_ I won’t do anything at all.”

“Well, that’s the heroic spirit, I suppose,” Brent mused, trying to favor Billy and to see his side of the thing.

“Oh, I guess nobody understands,” Billy said, disheartened with himself.

“You needn’t be afraid to open up with me,” said Brent in his whimsical way. “I’m a good target; all you have to do is just shoot. You see I haven’t got any talents and things to frighten you away with.... What seems to be the trouble, Billy?” he shot out suddenly.

That quick, friendly candor, seeming to invite candor in return, caught Billy Simpson the same as it had caught Pee-wee. You could not get away from old Doctor Gaylong....

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Billy, despairingly. “I can’t understand myself, I suppose. Maybe you’ll understand. All alone by myself I can do things--”

“Paddle,” Brent reminded him cheerily.

“Yes, and in the presence of a great big crowd I could do something--I wouldn’t care if a million people were watching me. If I saw big crowds standing around and they were cheering and all that, I’d forget myself and wouldn’t be--”

“Self-conscious? Sure, go on,” said Brent.

“I wouldn’t be afraid then. I suppose you think I’m crazy, huh? Afraid of a dozen or so fellows and not afraid of a thousand! I can’t do anything unless I forget myself. Maybe you’ll say I’m just spectacular. I guess I’m morbid. I’m all the time dreaming about being a hero--”

“And meanwhile you don’t make friends,” Brent said kindly.

“I can’t help it, I can’t butt in, I just can’t.”

There followed a pause. Brent felt very sorry for this fellow who could not seem to fall in line with others; who could overcome his shyness and self-consciousness only on some occasion quite out of his reach. Those who dream of being heroes are seldom heroes. Billy did not seem to fit into the scout program or the scout habit. And his undoubted talents were going to waste.

“Will Simpson,” drawled Brent, partly to cheer him and partly to come around to the main purpose of the talk, “I’ll say this much for you--you’re not little. You may be even too big for this crowd. Only you’re not having much fun. Anyway, you’re no sharpen-the-pencil-for-teacher scout. You’re no tie-my-handkerchief-in-a-knot-so-as-not-to-forget-my-good-turn scout, that’s sure.”

“Thanks,” said Billy; “I started out that way but you set me right.”

“I’m like a guide-post,” laughed Brent; “I point the way but never go there. I wonder whether you’d be interested in a--what you might call a middle class good turn, Simpson? I’ve got a job lot of good turns I’m trying to dispose of. This one isn’t very big, and it isn’t very little. It’s a little under your size perhaps. What would you think of letting Harris sit in the boat with Bennett in the races? It seems he did that last summer, and he’s sort of counting on it. He has an inspiration, it seems; you know he gets those. I guess nobody has told him about you being promised the place. I don’t suppose you care two straws about it.”

“If I hadn’t cared about it I wouldn’t have asked,” said Billy.

“Good,” said Brent, “then that makes the good turn all the gooder. It sort of comes up to your size--”

“I’m not willing to do it,” Simpson broke in.

“Oh,” said Brent, rather taken aback; “all right, I just thought I’d ask. You’re in the kid’s patrol, or rather he used to be in your patrol, and I thought maybe you’d be interested in him. He’s kind of--kind of an odd number just now. Poor little codger. He’s full of troop spirit and he wants to be there when Bennett pulls in. I think Bennett will win, don’t you?”

“He’s got a kinky side and he works too hard,” said Simpson. “He’ll win if he doesn’t go to pieces.”

“Well then, why not let the kid act as ballast? Acting as ballast, you wouldn’t exactly call that something _big_, would you? You and I were chatting about good turns and all that sort of stuff; now here’s one made to order for you. A middle sized one, that’s what I call it.... Not interested?”

“Nothing doing,” said Simpson.

“Well then, the kid will have to stand on shore. I only thought--he’s sort of--sort of--out--”

“Oh yes, I know,” said Simpson. “I suppose you think it would be a good thing for me to get out of the Raven Patrol and let him go back in.”

“I never thought of that,” said Brent, not unkindly but with a little suggestion of disappointment and surprise. “I’d call _that_ something really big. Almost too big.”

“The largest size made, huh?” said Billy. “Well, you needn’t worry, I’m not going to do that just at present. I’m not a quitter.”

“Well, there’s no hard feeling?” Brent asked, still sorry for him. “If I happen to have a job lot of heroic acts, vast multitude stuff, I’ll bring them around and let you look them over. You may find something to fit you.”

There was just the faintest note of sarcasm in this last remark, and Billy Simpson realized that he had lost some measure of regard from the only real friend he had in camp.