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It is the duty of Woodcliff Lake to supply water to many thousands of homes and the quietude of its shores and water breathes a kind of cleanliness and purity, which imparts to the lake a character quite its own. An unique feature of it is the causeway which bisects it, forming twin lakes, as it seems to the nearby beholder.
Had it not been for a certain occurrence he would have sailed with the swarms of boys who went across in the spring and summer of 1918. But he never went to France. On a pleasant Sunday morning in April of that year, Joe Blythe started for Woodcliff to dine at the home of a family he did not know the home and family of Miss Bates. As we know, he never reached that hospitable roof.
"I don't care," Pee-wee insisted; "the letter is to his mother and I'm going to see that she gets it." "Are you going to get a soda while you're up at Woodcliff?" Roy asked him. "That's all right," Pee-wee said with great vehemence; "if you got a letter that went astray you'd want it, wouldn't you?" "You're talking in chunks," Roy said. "Go ahead and see the girl if you want to.
And now, since the sun had reappeared and they had decided to take things a little easier, Pee-wee announced his intentions of going on a pilgrimage to Woodcliff to hunt up the mysterious Helen Shirley Bates, and to ascertain from her the address of her soldier friend whom she had entertained at dinner during the war.
"It's a mystery," said Pee-wee. "Do you know what I'm going to do?" "Break it to us gently," Roy said. "Some day soon I'm going to hike to Woodcliff and see that girl and find out what that soldier's name is and I'm going to send the letter to his mother." "What's the use of doing that?" Vic Norris asked. "The soldier has probably been home two years by now."
Upon mailing the letter to its proper address, and not until then, would Scout Harris, R.P. F.B.T. B.S.A., put his hat on right side out. He also took some fudge which he had made as a tribute to his unknown Woodcliff friend. He was prepared to chop her to pieces or to give her candy, whichever the occasion required.
But fortunately the calling card appeared to confirm this date. It was a card of fine quality and beautifully engraved with the name of Helen Shirley Bates. In the lower left hand corner was engraved Woodcliff, New Jersey. On the back of the card was written in a free feminine hand For dinner Sunday April 14th, 1918. One o'clock. "What do you make out of it? What does it mean?
After a hike of about eight miles, part way across country and part way along roads, the three scouts reached the beautiful Woodcliff Lake which lies in a northwesterly direction from the old camp. Upon its shore they rested and ate the compact little lunch which they had brought.
"How far is Woodcliff?" he asked, out of breath, and as if caught by a sudden idea. "'Bout six or seven miles," Roy said. "We don't know just exactly where we're going except that it's somewhere around Woodcliff Lake." "I might make my last test," Warde panted. "I just happened to think of it." He looked rather appealingly at Roy who was his patrol leader.
And so these three who had taken the hike to Woodcliff, and discovered the tell-tale notice, and mailed the formidable envelope to somebody or other, they knew not whom, trudged along together now, and the resolute, loyal, unreasoning spirit of Pee-wee Harris was like a contagion, giving the others hope where indeed there seemed no hope, and diffusing something like cheer.
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