CHAPTER XXVIITOM LEARNS SOMETHING
Tom's absence through the day had resulted in an accumulation of work upon his table. His duties were chiefly active but partly clerical. After supper he started to clear away these matters.
The camp had already been in communication with Mr. Temple, its founder, and plans had been made for an inspection of the washed-out cove by engineers from the city. It was purposed to build a substantial dam at that lowest and weakest place on the lake shore. There was a memorandum asking Tom to be prepared to show these men the fatal spot on the following morning.
Matters connected with the meeting of the resident Court of Honor next day had also to be attended to. Several dreamers of high awards would have a sleepless night in anticipation ofthat meeting. Hervey Willetts would probably sleep peacefully—if he went to bed at all.
It was half an hour or so before Tom got around to looking over the names of new arrivals. These were card indexed by the camp clerk, and Tom always looked the cards over in a kind of casual quest of familiar names, and also with the purpose of getting a line on first season troops. It was his habit to make prompt acquaintance with these and help them over the first hard day or so of strangeness.
In glancing over these names, he was greatly astonished to find on the list of Mr. Carroll's troop, the name of William Corbett. The identity of this name with that of the victim of the automobile accident greatly interested him, and he recalled then for the first time, that this troop had come from Hillsburgh, in the vicinity of which the accident had occurred. Yet, according to the newspaper, the victim of the accident had been killed, or mortally injured.
As Tom pondered on this coincidence of names there ran through his mind one of those snatches of song which Hervey Willetts was fond of singing:
Some boys were killed and some were not,Of those that went to war;And a lot of boys are dying now,That never died before.
Before camp-fire was started Tom hunted up Mr. Carroll.
"I see you have a William Corbett in your troop, Mr. Carroll," said he.
"Oh, yes, that's Goliath."
"He—he wasn't the kid who was knocked down by an auto?"
"Why, yes, he was. You know about that?"
Tom hesitated. The newspapers had not yet had time to publish the sensational accounts of Harlowe's tragic death on the mountain and the facts about this harrowing business had not been made public in camp.
"I thought the kid was killed," Tom said.
"Oh, no, that was just newspaper talk. It's a long way from being mortally injured in a newspaper to being killed, Mr. Slade."
"Y-es, I dare say you're right," said Tom, still astonished.
"Yes, the little codger has a weak heart," said Mr. Carroll. "When the machine struck him itknocked him down and he was picked up unconscious. Probably he looked dead as he lay there. I dare say that's what frightened the man in the machine. No, it was just his heart," he added. "A couple of the boys in my troop knew the family, mother did washing for them or something of that sort, and so we got in touch with the little codger and there was our good turn all cut out for us.
"You know, Slade, we have a kind of an institution—troop good turn. Ever hear of anything like that? So we brought him along. He's a kind of a scout in the chrysalis stage. He doesn't even know what happened to him. A good part of his life has been spent in hospitals; he'll pick up though. I think the newspaper reporters did more harm than the autoist. Do you know, Slade, I think the man may have just got panicky, like some of the soldiers in the war."
"I've seen a fellow shrink like a whipped cur at the sound of a cannon and then I've seen him flying after the enemy like a fiend," said Tom.
"Yes, human nature's a funny thing," said Mr. Carroll.
Tom's mind was divided between admirationof this kind, tolerant, generous scoutmaster and astonishment at what he had learned.
"Well, that's news to me," he said.
"Yes, the main thing is to build the little codger up now," Mr. Carroll mused aloud.
"Mr. Carroll," said Tom, "Gilbert didn't say anything about going up the mountain with me last night?"
"N-no, I don't know that he did."
"The trustees didn't want anything said about the matter here in camp, or the whole outfit would be going up the mountain. But I suppose the papers will have the whole business by to-morrow, and you might as well have it now. The fellow who ran down the kid was found crushed to death on the mountain last night. His name was Aaron Harlowe."
Tom told the whole harrowing episode to Mr. Carroll, who listened with interest, commenting now and again upon the tragic sequel of the auto accident. It was plain, throughout, however, that his chief interest was in his little charge, Goliath.
"That's a very strange thing," he said; "it has a smack of Divine justice about it, if one cares tolook at it that way. Have you any theory of just how it happened?"
"I haven't got any time for theories, Mr. Carroll; not with four new troops coming to-morrow. It's a closed book now, I suppose. There are some funny things about the whole business. But one thing sure, the man's dead. I have a hunch he got crazed and rattled and hid here and there and was afraid they'd catch him and finally went up the mountain. He thought he had killed the kid, you see. I'd like to know what went on inside his head, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I would."
Several of Mr. Carroll's troop, seeing him talking with Tom, approached and hung about as this chat ended. Wherever Tom Slade was, scouts were attracted to that spot as flies are attracted to sugar. They stood about, listening, and staring at the young camp assistant.
"Well, how do you think you like us up here?" Tom asked, turning abruptly from his talk with their scoutmaster. "Think you're going to have a good time?"
"You said something," one piped up.
"Where's Gilbert?" another asked.
"Oh, he'll be back in a little while," Tom said. "I sent him on an errand and I suppose he got lost."
"He didnot!" several vociferated.
"No?" Tom smiled.
"You bet he didn't!"
"Well," said Tom, laughing, "if you fellows want to get into the mix-up, keep your eyes on the bulletin board. Everything is posted there, hikes and things. You'll like most of the things you see there."
"I'm crazy about tomatoes," one of the scouts ventured.
Tom smiled at Mr. Carroll and Mr. Carroll smiled at Tom.
There seemed to be a sort of unspoken agreement among them all that Hervey Willetts should be thought of ruefully, and in a way of disapproval. But, oddly enough, none of them seemed quite able to conceal a sneaking liking for him, shown rather than expressed.
And there you have an illustration of Hervey's status in camp....
CHAPTER XXVIIITHE BLACK SHEEP
The scouts were all around the camp-fire when Gilbert Tyson returned with his captives. As they crossed the road and came upon the camp grounds, the stranger seemed apprehensive and ill at ease, but Hervey with an air of sweeping authority informed him that everything was all right, that he would fix it for him.
"Don't you worry," he said; "I know all the high mucks here. You leave it to me." He was singularly confident for one in disgrace. "I'll get you a job, all right. When you see Slady or Uncle Jeb you just tell them you're a friend of mine." Robin Hood seemed somewhat reassured by the words of one so influential. By way of giving him a cheery reminder of certain undesirable facts and reconciling him to a life of toil,Hervey sang as they made their way to the office.
"You gotta go to work,You gotta go to work,You gotta go to work—That's true.And the reason why you gotta go to workISThe work won't come to youSEE?"I gotta go to bed,I gotta go to bed,Like a good little scout—You see.And the reason why I gotta go to bedISThe bed won't come to me.D'you see?The bed won't come to me."
This ballad of toil and duty (which were Hervey's favorite themes) was accompanied by raps on Gilbert's head with a stick, which became more and more vigorous as they approached the office. Here the atmosphere of officialdom did somewhat subdue the returning prodigal son and he removed his precious hat as they entered.
This matter was in Tom Slade's hands and he was going to see it through alone. From camp-firehis watchful eye had seen the trio passing through the grove and he was in the office before they reached it.
The office was a dreadful place, where the mighty John Temple himself held sway on his occasional visits, where councilmen and scoutmasters conferred, and where there was a bronze statue of Daniel Boone. Hervey had many times longed to decorate the sturdy face of the old pioneer with a mustache and whiskers, using a piece of trail-sign chalk.
At present he was seized by a feeling of respectful diffidence, and stood hat in hand, a trifle uncomfortable. Robin Hood was uncomfortable too, but he was in for it now. He was relieved to see that the official who confronted him was an easy-going offhand young fellow of about his own age, dressed in extreme negligée, sleeves rolled up, shirt open, face and throat brown like the brown of autumn. It seemed to make things easier for the trio that Tom vaulted up onto the bookkeeper's high desk, as if he were vaulting a fence, and sat there swinging his legs, the very embodiment of genial companionship.
"Well, Gilbert, you got away with it, huh?"
"Here he is," said Gilbert proudly. "I found him in a kind of cave in the woods——"
"Gilbert deserves all the credit for finding me," Hervey interrupted. "You've got to hand it to him, I'll say that much."
"It isn't everybody who can find you, is it?" said Tom.
"Believe me, you said something," Hervey ejaculated.
"Well, I'm going to say some more," Tom laughed.
"This is my friend," said Hervey; "Robin Hood, but I don't know his real name. He's a good friend of mine, and he can play the banjo only he hasn't got one with him, and I want to get him a job."
"Any friend of yours——" Tom began and winked at Gilbert.
"What did I tell you?" said Hervey. "Didn't I tell you I'd fix it?"
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Hood," said Tom. "We're expecting to be pretty busy here, I can say that much," he added cautiously.
"I was just roaming the woods," said the stranger. "I haven't got any home; out of luck. The boys insisted on my coming."
"Strangers always welcome," said Tom cheerily.
It was, indeed, true that strangers were always welcome. Temple Camp was down on the hobo's blue book as a hospitable refuge. Stranded show people had known its sheltering kindness. Moreover, Tom was not likely to make particular inquiry about Hervey's chance acquaintances. The wandering minstrel had brought in laid-off farm hands, a strolling organ grinder with a monkey, not to mention two gypsies, a peddler of rugs and other strays.
"Well, Tyson," said Tom, clasping his hands behind his head and swinging his legs in a way of utmost good humor, "suppose you take Mr. Hood over to camp-fire and see if he can stand for some of those yarns. Tell Uncle Jeb he's going to hang around till morning. You stay here, Hervey. I'd like to hear about your adventures. Let's see, how many lives have you got left now?"
"Believe me, I didsome stunt," said Hervey.
CHAPTER XXIXSTUNTS AND STUNTS
For a minute or two, Tom sat swinging his legs, contemplating Hervey.
"When it comes to stunts," said he, "you're down and out. You belong to the 'also rans.'"
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"I can——"
"Oh, yes, you can do a lot. You ought to join the Camp-fire Girls. You were asked to stay at camp—I'm not talking about yesterday. I'm talking about all summer. There's an easy stunt. But you fell down on it. Don't talk to me about stunts."
"Do you think it's easy to hang around camp all the time? It's hard, you can bet."
"Sure, it's astunt. And you can't do it. LittlePee-wee Harris can do it, but you can't. Don't talk stunts to me. I know what a stunt is."
"What's a stunt?" Hervey asked, trying to conceal the weakness of his attitude with a fine air of defiance.
"Why, a stunt is something that is hard to do, that's all."
"You tell me——"
"I'll tell you something I want you to do and you're afraid to do it—you'reafraid."
"I won't take a dare from anybody," Hervey shouted.
"Well, you'll take one from me."
"You dare me to do something and see."
"All righto. Idareyou to go up to your troop's cabin after camp-fire and tell Mr. Denny that you've been a blamed nuisance and that you're out to do the biggest stunt you ever did. And that is to do what you're told. Tell him I dared you to do it, and tell him what you said about not taking a dare from anybody. Tell him you never knew about its being a stunt.
"Of course I know you won't do it, because it's hard, and I know you're not game. I just want to show you that you're a punk stunt-puller.Idareyou to do it! IDAREyou to do it!"
"I won't take a dare from anybody!" said Hervey, excitedly.
"Oh, yes, you will. You'll take one fromme. You're a four-flusher, that's what you are. Go ahead. Idareyou to do it. You won't take a dare, hey? Idoubledare you to! There. Now let's see. Go up there and tell Mr. Denny you're going to get away with the biggest thing you ever tried—the biggest stunt. And to-morrow morning before the Court meets you come in here and see Mr. Fuller and Uncle Jeb and me. Now don't ask any questions. You came in here all swelled up, regular fellow and all that sort of thing, and I'm calling your bluff."
"You call me a bluffer?" Hervey shouted.
"The biggest bluffer outside of Pine Bluff."
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"I wouldn't take a dare from you or anybody like you!"
"Actions speak louder than words."
"I never saw the stunt yet——"
"Well, here it is right now. I dare you. Idareyou," said Tom, jumping down and looking rightin Hervey's face, "I DOUBLE DARE YOU!"
Hervey grabbed his hat from the bench.
"A kid that gives a double dareFor shame and grins he must prepare."
he shouted.
"That's me," said Tom.
Before he realized what had happened, he heard the door slam and he found himself alone, laughing. Hervey had departed, in wrath and desperation, bent upon his next stunt.
CHAPTER XXXTHE DOUBLE DARE
Mr. Denny's troop had turned in with the warmth of the roaring camp-fire still lingering in their cheeks when the black sheep went up the hill. The scoutmaster, sitting in his tepee, was writing up the troop's diary in the light of a railroad lantern. He showed no great surprise at his wandering scout's arrival.
"Well, Hervey," said he. "Back again? I told you it would be better to wait till morning. Missed the train, eh? You see my advice is sometimes best after all." He did not look up but continued writing. If Hervey had expected to create a sensation he was disappointed. "Better go to bed and catch the nine fifty-two in the morning," said Mr. Denny kindly.
"I came back because Tom Slade sent for me.I've got to get a medal, but I don't care anything about that."
"So? What's that for?"
"I always said that fellow Slade was a friend of mine, but I wouldn't let him put one over on me, I wouldn't."
"You mean he was just fooling you about the medal?"
"Maybe you can tell," said Hervey. "Because anyway I didn't do anything to win a—the Gold Cross."
Mr. Denny raised his eyebrows in frank surprise. "The Gold Cross?"
"I don't care anything about that, anyway," said Hervey; "but I wouldn't take a dare from anybody; I never did yet."
"No?"
"He said—that fellow said—he said I wouldn't dare to come up here and tell you that I can—do anything I want to do."
"That's just what you've been doing, Hervey."
"But you know I'm good on stunts? And he said—this is just what he said—he said I couldn't do that kind of a stunt—staying here when I'm told to. He dared me to. Would you take adouble dare if you were me? They're worse than single ones."
"N-no, I don't know that I would," said Mr. Denny, thoughtfully.
"He said I wouldn't dare—do you know what a four flusher is?"
"Why—y-es."
"He said I wouldn'tdareto come up here and tell you that I know I'm wrong to make so much trouble and he said I couldn't do a stunt like staying in camp. Would you let any fellow call you a Camp-fire Girl—would you? Gee Williger,thatstunt's a cinch!"
Mr. Denny closed his book, leaving his pen in it as a book-mark, and clasping his hands, listened attentively. It was the first slight sign of surrender. He looked inquiringly and not unkindly at the figure that stood before him in the dim lantern light. He noted the torn clothing, the wrinkled stocking, the outlandish hat with its holes and trinkets. He could see, just see, those clear gray eyes, honest, reckless, brave....
"Yes, Hervey?"
"Of course you don't have to keep me here, I don't mean that. Because that's another thing,anyway. Only I want you to tell Slade that Ididdare, because I wouldn't take a double dare not even from—from Mr. Temple, I wouldn't. So then he'll know I'm not afraid of you. Because even you wouldn't say I'm a coward."
"No."
"I can do any stunt going, I'll let him know, and I won't take a double dare from anybody. Because I made a resolution when I was in the third primary grade."
"And you've always kept it?"
"You think I'd bust a resolution? You have bad luck for eight years if you do that."
"I see."
"No, siree!"
"And so you think you could do this stunt?"
"I can do any stunt going. Do you know what I did——"
"Just a second, Hervey. I'd like to see you get away with that stunt."
"But I'm not asking you to keep me here," Hervey said, giving his stocking a hitch, "because I'm a good loser, I am. But I want you to tell that fellow Slade—I used to think he was a friend ofmine—I want you to tell him that I bobbed that dare."
"Bobbed it?"
"Yes, that means put it back on him."
Mr. Denny paused.
"Why don't you tell him yourself, Hervey?"
"Because he doesn't have to believe me."
"Has any one ever accused you of lying, Hervey?"
"Do you think I'd let anybody?"
"Hmm, well, I think you'd better bob that dare yourself. But of course you ought to follow it up with the stunt."
"Oh, sure—only——"
"I'll give you the chance to do that. My sporting blood is up now——"
"That's just the way with me," said Hervey; "that's where you and I are alike."
"Yes. I think we'll have to put this fellow Slade where he belongs."
"You leave that to me," said Hervey.
There was a pause of a few moments. The whole camp had turned in by now and distant voices had ceased. A cricket chirped somewhereclose by. An acorn fell from a tree overhead and rolled down the roof of the troop cabin a few yards distant, the sound of its falling emphasized by the stillness. Hervey hitched up his stocking again. Mr. Denny watched him. Perhaps he was studying this wandering minstrel of his more closely than ever before. It may have been that the silence and isolation were on Hervey's side....
"Anyway, you don't have to keep me here, because—and I didn't come back for that."
"Hervey, you spoke about a medal—the Gold Cross. You don't mean the supreme heroism award, of course. Slade didn't try to lure you back with hints about such a thing?"
"Hanged if I know what he meant."
"He sent a note after you? Have you it with you?"
"I made paper bullets out of it to shoot at lightning bugs on the way home."
"Did he actually mention the Gold Cross?"
"I think he did—sure I never did anything to win that, you can bet."
"No. And I think Slade adopted very questionabletactics to get you back. Doubtless his intentions were good——"
"I wouldn't let that fellow ruinmyyoung life—don't worry."
"Well, you'd better turn in now, Hervey, and don't stay awake thinking about dares and stunts and awards."
And indeed Hervey did not stay awake thinking of any such things, especially awards. In more than one tent and cabin on that Friday night were sleepless heads, tossing and visioning the morrow which would bring them merit badges, and perhaps awards of higher honor—silver, bronze....
But the head of Hervey Willetts rested quietly and his sleep was sound. He took things as they came, as he had taken the letter out of Gilbert's hands. There was a mistake somewhere, or else Tom Slade had caught him and brought him back by a mean trick and a false promise. But he did not hold that against Tom. What he held against Tom was that Tom had made him take a double dare. He knew he had done nothing to win so high an honor as that golden treasure,so rare, so coveted.... What he had done was already ancient history and forgotten. And it had no relation to the Gold Cross. And so he slept peacefully.
The thing that he most treasured was his decorated hat, and so that this might not get away from him again, he kept it under his pillow....
CHAPTER XXXITHE COURT IN SESSION
From his conversation with Tom, Mr. Denny knew (if indeed he had not known it before) that the young assistant had a strong liking for this bah, bah black sheep. He knew that Tom had been responsible for Hervey's latest truancy and he believed that Tom, knowing that a little trick was the only way to bring Hervey back, might have played such a little trick, then sent him up the hill to square himself.
Mr. Denny was quite in sympathy with the stunt and double dare business, but he did not approve of trying to circumvent Hervey by dangling the Gold Cross before his eyes. He was afraid that Hervey would not forget this and that the disappointment would be keen. As we know, Tomwas dead set against this kind of thing. Mr. Denny did not know that. But he did know that Hervey was unfamiliar with the rigorous requirements for winning the highest award, for most of the pages in Hervey's handbook had been used to make torches and paper bullets. Mr. Denny was resolved that Tom Slade should not get away with such tactics unrebuked. He was resolved to speak to the Honor Court about it in the morning. He would not have one of his boys made the victim of vain hopes....
Early in the morning, Tom took a little stroll with Robin Hood and improved his acquaintance. Tom liked odd people as much as Hervey did and he found this unfortunate stranger rather interesting. One thing, in particular, he learned from him which was of immediate interest to him and which Hervey, with characteristic heedlessness, had forgotten to mention.
"I dare say we can dig you up something to do," said Tom, "when the work on the dam gets started. That'll be in two or three days, I guess. Suppose you hang around."
"I'd like to stay right here for the rest of thesummer," said the young fellow. "I'm out of luck and I'm all in."
"France?" Tom queried. For soldiers out of luck were not uncommon in camp.
"No, just hard luck; lost my grip, that's all."
"Well, hang around and maybe you'll pull together. I've seen lots of shell-shock; had it myself, in fact."
"Oh, it's nothing like that."
"Come in and see the Supreme Court in session, won't you? It's great. We have this twice during the summer. Reminds you of the League of Nations in session.... H'lo, Shorty, what are you here for? More merit badges?"
Outside the main pavilion the choicest spirits of camp were loitering; Pee-wee Harris still working valiantly on the end of his breakfast, Roy Blakeley of the Silver Foxes, Bert Winton on from Ohio with the Bengal Tigers, and Brent Gaylong, leader of the Church Mice from Newburgh. He was a sort of scoutmaster and patrol leader rolled into one, was Brent, a lanky, slow moving fellow with a funny squint to his face, and a quiet way of seeing the funny side of things. You had only to look at him to laugh.
"Tickets purchased from speculators not good," he was saying.
Inside, the place was half filled with scouts, with a sprinkling of scoutmasters. The members of the resident Court of Honor were already seated behind a table and business was going forward. Much had already been despatched.
After a little while Mr. Denny came in and sat down. Other scoutmasters sauntered in, and scouts singly and in groups. One proud scout went out with three new merit badges and was vociferously cheered outside.
Another didn't quite make the pathfinder's badge; another the camp honor flag for good turns. Still another got the Life Scout badge, and so it went. Honor jobs for the ensuing week were given out. There were many strictly camp awards, not found in the handbook. The Temple Paddle was awarded to a proud canoeist. Scouts came and went. Sometimes the interest was keen and sometimes it lagged.
Hervey Willetts came sauntering up from the boat landing, his hat at a rakish angle, and trying to balance an oar-lock on his nose. He hadan air of wandering aimlessly so that his arrival at the pavilion seemed quite a matter of chance. A morning song was on his lips:
The life of a scout is sweet,is sweet,The rubbish he throws in the street,the street.He uses soft words,And he shoots all the birds;The life of a scout is sweet.
Being a lone, blithe spirit, a kind of scout skylark as one might say, he had not many friends in camp. The rank and file laughed at him, were amused at his naïve independence, and regarded him, not as a poor scout, but rather as not exactly a scout at all. They did not see enough of him; he flew too high. He was his own best companion.
Consequently when he sauntered with a kind of whimsical assurance into that exalted official conclave most of them thought that he had dropped in as he might have dropped into the lake. There was a little touch of pathos, too, in the fact that the loiterers outside did not speak to him as hepassed in. It was just that they did not know him well enough; he was not one of them. He was the oddest of odd numbers, a stormy petrel indeed, and they did not know how to take him.
So he was alone amid three hundred scouts....
CHAPTER XXXIIOVER THE TOP
Tom had waited patiently for Hervey to arrive. His propensity fornotarriving had troubled Tom. But whether by chance or otherwise there he was, and Tom lost no time in getting to his feet.
"Before the court closes," he said, "I want to ask to have a blank filled out to be sent to the National Honor Court, on a claim for the Gold Cross award. I would like to get it endorsed by the Local Council to-day so it will get to National Headquarters Monday."
You could have heard a pin drop in that room. The magic words Gold Cross brought every whispering, dallying scout to attention. There was a general rustle of straightening up in seats. The continuous departing ceased. Faces appeared at the open windows.
The Gold Cross.
Mr. Denny looked at Tom. The young assistant, in his usual negligée, was very offhand and thoroughly at ease. He seemed to know what he was talking about. All eyes were upon him.
"If you want the detailed statements of the three witnesses written out, that can be done. But the National Court will take the recommendation without that if it's endorsed by the Local Council. That was done in the case of Albert Nesbit, who won the Gold Cross here three years ago. I'd rather do it that way."
"What is the name, Mr. Slade?"
"Willetts—Hervey Willetts. You spell it with two T's."
"This can be done without witnesses, on examination, Mr. Slade."
"The winner isn't a good subject for examination," said Tom; "I think the witnesses would be better."
"Just so."
"I might say," said Tom, "that this is the first chance I've had to tell about this thing. On the night of the storm I sent Willetts from the cove and told him to catch the bus and stop it beforeit reached the bridge. I didn't think he could do it but I didn't say so. He had two miles to go through the storm, running all the way. The wind was in his face. Of course we all know what the storm was. His scoutmaster had told him not to leave camp. If this was an emergency then it comes under By-law Twenty-seven. You'll have to decide that. It was on account of the flood I took him, not on account of the bus. The lake was running out."
"Did he reach the bus?" Mr. Fuller asked.
"He reached the bus, but he doesn't know how. The last he remembered is that he fell because his foot was caught in a hole. I don't know, nobody knows how he did that thing. Here's a man who was in the woods that night and saw him. He met him about half way and says he was so exhausted and excited he couldn't speak. He told this man that he had tohurry on to save some people's lives. He meant the people in the bus. How he got from the place where he fell to the bus is a mystery. When he did get there he couldn't speak, so he grabbed one of the horses. His foot was wrenched and he was unconscious.
"When they got him in the bus he mutteredsomething and they thought he was talking about his foot. It was the bridge he was talking about. But what he said prompted Mr. Carroll to send another scout forward, andhestopped the bus. That's all there is to it. He got there and it nearly killed him. Darby Curren, who is here to tell you, thought he was a spook.
"Now these three people, Mr. Hood, Darby Curren and Mr. Carroll, can tell you what they know about it. It's one of those cases where the real facts didn't come out. Hervey Willetts saved the lives of twenty-two people atgrave dangerto his own. That satisfies the handbook. He doesn't care four cents about the Gold Cross, but right is right, and I'm here to see that he gets it. Stand up, Hervey. Stand out in the aisle." Suddenly Tom was seated.
So there stood the wandering minstrel, alone. Even his champion was not in evidence. Nor was his troop there to share the glory with him. His scoutmaster was there, but he seemed too dazed to speak. And so the stormy petrel stood alone, as he would always stand alone. Because there was no one like him.
"Willetts is the name? Hervey Willetts?"
"I got a middle name, but I don't bother with it."
"What troop?"
And so the cut and dried business, so strange and unattractive to Hervey, of filling in the blank, went on. He did not greatly care for indoor sports. There was a lull in the general interest. Scouts began lounging and whispering again.
In that interval of restlessness, an observant person might have noticed, sitting in the back part of the room, the rather ungainly figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, organizer of the Church Mice of Newburgh. He seemed to be the center of a clamoring, interested, little group.
Roy Blakeley's brown, crinkly hair could be seen through the gaps made by other heads. Gaylong's knees were up against the back of the seat in front of him, thus forming a sort of slanting desk, on which he held a writing tablet. His head was cocked sideways as if in humorous but stern criticism of his own work. On somebody's suggestion he wrote something then crossed it out. There were evidently too many cooks at the broth, but he was ludicrously patient and considerate, being no doubt chief cook himself. There wassomething very funny about his calm, preoccupied demeanor amid that clamoring throng. The proceedings in the room interested him not.
Nor did the business interest many others now. There was a continuous drift toward the door and the crowd of loiterers outside increased and became noisy. The wandering minstrel stood alone.
The voice of the chairman droned on, "Hill cabin twenty-two. Right. We will talk with these gentlemen afterwards. It may be a week or two before you get this, Willetts. It has to come from the National Court of Honor. Meanwhile, the Camp thanks you, and is proud of you, for your extraordinary feat of heroism. It's most unusual——"
"Trust him for that," some one interrupted.
"I could run faster than that if I had sneaks," said Hervey.
"I'm afraid no one would have seen you at all, then," said Mr. Carlson.
"All you've got to do is double your fists and look through them and you can see a mile. It's like opera glasses."
"STAND UP, HERVEY. STAND OUT IN THE AISLE.""STAND UP, HERVEY. STAND OUT IN THE AISLE."Tom Slade's Double Dare.Page180
"So? Well, let us shake hands with you, my boy."
The next thing Hervey knew, Mr. Denny's arm was over his shoulder, while with his other hand he was shaking the hand of the young camp assistant.
"That's all right, Mr. Denny," said Tom.
"Slade, I want you to know how much I respect you——"
"It's all in the day's work, Mr. Denny."
"I want you to know that Hervey appreciates your friendship. You believe he——"
"I believe he's a wild Indian," Tom laughed. "Or maybe a squirrel, huh? Hey, Hervey? On account of climbing.... You know, Mr. Denny, those are the two things that can't be tamed, an Indian and a squirrel. You can tame a lion, but you can't tame a squirrel."
Mr. Denny listened, smiling, all the while patting Hervey's shoulder.
"Well, after all, who wants to tame a squirrel?" said he.
So these two lingered a few minutes to chatabout lions and Indians and squirrels and things. And that was Hervey's chance to get away.
No admiring throng followed him out. His own troop was not there and knew nothing of his triumph. Probably he never thought of these things. A scoutmaster grabbed his hand and said, "Wonderful, my boy!" Hervey smiled and seemed surprised.
Outside they were sitting around on railings and steps and squatting on the grass. There was a little ripple of murmuring as he passed through the sprawling throng, but no one spoke to him. That was not because they did not appreciate, but because he wasdifferentand a stranger. Perhaps it was because they did not know just how to take him. He didn't exactly fit in....
His ambling course had taken him perhaps a hundred feet, when he heard some one shout, "Let'er go!"
Before he realized it, his own favorite tune filled the air, they were hurling it straight at him and the voices were loud and clear, though the words were strange.
"Everybody!"
"He's one little bully athlete,so fleet;At sprinting he's got us all beat,yes, beat.He can climb, he can stalk,He can win in a walk;He's a scout from his head to his feet—THAT'S YOU.He's a scout from his head to his feet."
He turned and stood stark still. Some of them, in the vehemence of their song, had risen and formed a little compact group. And again they sang the verse, the wordsTHAT'S YOUpouring out of the throat of Pee-wee Harris like a thunderbolt. Hervey blinked. His eyes glistened. Through their haze he could see the lanky figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, sitting upon the fence, his feet propped up on the lower rail, a pair of shell spectacles half way down his nose, and waving a little stick like the leader of an orchestra. He was very sober and looked absurdly funny.
"Let him have the other one!" some one shouted.
Gaylong rapped upon the fence with his little stick, and then gave it a graceful twirl which was an improvement on Sousa.
The voices rose clear and strong:
"We don't care a rap for the flings he springs;He doesn't mean half of the things he sings.We're all down and outWhen it comes to a scoutThat can run just as if he had wings and things.That can run just as if he had wings!"
If Hervey had waited as long on the log in the quicksand as he waited now, there would have been no Gold Cross. But he could not move, he stood as one petrified, his eyes glistening. The wandering minstrel had been caught by his own tune.
"Over the top," some one shouted.
He was surrounded.
"That's you! That's you!"
they kept singing. He had never been caught in such a mix-up before. He saw them all crowding about him, saw Roy Blakeley's merry face and the sober face of Brent Gaylong, the spectacles still half way down his nose and the baton over his ear like a lead pencil. They took his hat, tossed it around, and handed it back to him.
"No room on that for the Cross," said Gaylong;"he'll have to pin it on his stocking; combination Gold Cross and garter. Supreme heroism—keeping a stocking up——"
There was no getting out of this predicament. He could escape the quicksand but he couldn't escape this. He looked about as if to consider whether he could make a leap over the throng.
"Watch out or he'll pull a stunt," one shouted.
But there was really no hope for him. The wandering minstrel was caught at last. And the funny part of the whole business was that he was caught by one of his own favorite tunes. The tunes which had caught so many others....