Westy Martin was a scout of the first class. He was a member of the First Bridgeboro Troop of Bridgeboro, New Jersey. Notwithstanding that he was a serious boy, he belonged to the Silver Fox Patrol, presided over by Roy Blakeley. According to Pee-wee Harris of the Raven Patrol, Westy was the only Silver Fox who was not crazy. Yet in one way he was crazy; he was crazy to go out west. He had even saved up a hundred dollars toward a projected trip to the Yellowstone National Park. He did not know exactly when or how he would be able to make this trip alone, but one “saves up” for all sorts of things unplanned. To date, Westy had only the one hundred dollars and the dream of going. When he had saved another hundred, he would begin to develop plans.
“I’ll tell you what you do,” Westy’s father had said to him. “You go up to Uncle Dick’s and spend the summer and help around. You know what Uncle Dick told you; any summer he’d be glad to have you help around the farm and be glad to pay you so much a week. There’s your chance, my boy. At Temple Camp you can’t earn any money.
“My suggestion is that you pass up Temple Camp this summer and go up on the farm. By next summer maybe you’ll have enough to go west, and I’ll help you out,” he added significantly. “I may even go with you myself and take a look at those geezers or geysers or whatever they call them. I’d kind of half like to get a squint at a grizzly myself.”
“Oh, boy!” said Westy.
“I wish I were,” said his father.
“Well, I guess I’ll do that,” said Westy hesitatingly. He liked Temple Camp and the troop, and the independent enterprise proposed by his father was not to be considered without certain lingering regrets.
“It will be sort of like camping—in a way,” he said wistfully. “I can take my cooking set and my rifle——”
“I don’t think I’d take the rifle if I were you,” said Mr. Martin, in the chummy way he had when talking with Westy.
“Jiminies, I’d hate to leave it home,” said Westy, a little surprised and disappointed.
“Well, you’ll be working up there and won’t have much time to use it,” said Mr. Martin.
Westy sensed that this was not his father’s true reason for objecting to the rifle. The son recalled that his father had been no more than lukewarm when the purchase of the rifle had first been proposed. Mr. Martin did not like rifles. He had observed, as several million other people had observed, that it is always the gun which is not loaded that kills people.
The purchase of the coveted rifle had not closed the matter. The rifle had done no harm, that was the trouble; it had not even killed Mr. Martin’s haunting fears.
Westy was straightforward enough to take his father’s true meaning and to ignore the one which had been given. It left his father a little chagrined but just the same he liked this straightforwardness in Westy.
“Oh, there’d be time enough to use it up there,” Westy said. “And if there wasn’t any time, why, then I couldn’t use it, that’s all. There wouldn’t be any harm taking it. I promised you I’d never shoot at anything but targets and I never have.”
“I know you haven’t, but up there, why, there are lots of——”
“There’s just one thing up there that I’m thinking about,” said Westy plainly, “and that’s the side of the big barn where I can put a target. That’s the only thing I want to shoot at, believe me. And I’ve got two eyes in my head to see if anybody is around who might get hit. That big, red barn is like—why, it’s just like a building in the middle of the Sahara Desert. I don’t see why you’re still worrying.”
“How do you know what’s back of the target?” Mr. Martin asked. “How do you know who’s inside the barn?”
“If I just tell you I’ll be careful, I should think that would be enough,” said Westy.
“Well, it is,” said Mr. Martin heartily.
“And I’ll promise you again so you can be sure.”
“I don’t want any more promises about your not shooting at anything but targets, my boy,” said Mr. Martin. “You gave me your promise a month ago and that’s enough. But I want you to promise me again that you’ll be careful. Understand?”
“I tell you what I’ll do, Dad,” said he. “First I’ll see that there’s nobody in the barn. Then I’ll lock the barn doors. Then I’ll get a big sheet of iron that I saw up there and I’ll hang it on the side of the barn. Then I’ll paste the target against that, see? No bullet could get through that iron and it’s about, oh, five times larger than the target.”
“Suppose your shot should go wild and hit those old punky boards beyond the edge of the iron sheet?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Good night, you’re a scream!” laughed Westy.
Mr. Martin, as usual, was caught by his son’s honest, wholesome good-humor.
“I suppose you think I might shoot in the wrong direction and hit one of those grizzlies out in Yellowstone Park,” Westy laughed. “Safety first is your middle name all right.”
“Well, you go up to Uncle Dick’s and don’t point your gun out west,” said Mr. Martin, “and maybe we can talk your mother into letting us go to Yellowstone next year.”
“And will you make me a promise?” asked Westy.
“Well, what is it?”
“That you won’t worry?”