"Roy," said Tom, still hesitating in the doorway of his own patrol cabin, "can I speak to you a minute?"

Roy came out and silently followed Tom to a point out of hearing of the others.

"I--I don't care so much what the others think," said Tom. "If they want to think I'm a coward, all right. But I want to tell _you_ how it was so _you_ won't think so."

"Oh, you needn't mind about me," said Roy.

"You and Garry--I----"

"I guess _he_ knows what to think, too," said Roy, coldly. "I guess he has his opinion of the First Bridgeboro Troop's courage."

"That's why I care most," said Tom, "on account of disgrace for one being disgrace for all--and honor, too. But there's something----"

"Well, you should have thought of that," Roy interrupted impetuously, "when you stood there and let a strange fellow rescue one of your own patrol. You practically asked him to do it--everybody saw."

"There's something----"

"Oh, sure, _there's something_! I suppose you'll be able to dig something out of the Handbook, defending cowards! You're great on the Handbook."

Again that something came up in Tom's throat and the ugly word cut him so that he could hardly speak.

"No, there isn't anything in the Manual about it," said he, in his slow monotone, "because I looked."

Roy sneered audibly.

"But I thought there might be another law--a 13th one about----"

"Oh, you make me sick with your 13th law!" Roy flared up. "Is that what you were dreaming about when you stood on the end of that board and beckoned to Garry----"

"I didn't beckon, I just looked----"

"Just looked! Well, I don't claim to be up on the law like you, but the 10th law's good enough for me,--'A scout is brave; he has the courage to face danger in spite of fear.' This fellow will have the bronze cross, maybe the silver one, for rescuing one of _our_ troop, one of _your own_ patrol. _You_ know how we made a resolution that the first honor medal should come to us! And here you stand there watching and let a stranger walk away with it!"

"Do you think he'll get it?" Tom asked.

"Of course, he'll get it."

Tom smiled slightly. "And _you_ think I'm a coward?"

"I'm not saying what I think. I never _did_ think so before. I know that fellow will have the cross and they'll be the honor troop because in _our_ troop we've got----"

"Don't say that again, Roy; please don't--I----"

Roy looked at him for one moment; perhaps in that brief s.p.a.ce all the history of their friendship came rushing back upon him, and he was on the point of stretching out his hand and letting Tom explain. But the impulse pa.s.sed like a sudden storm, and he walked away.

Tom watched him until he entered the patrol shack, and then went on to his own cabin. Jeb Rushmore was out with the cla.s.s in tracking, teaching them how to _feel_ a trail, and Tom sat down on his own couch, glad to be alone. He thought of the members of his own troop, in and about his own patrol cabin, ministering to Dory Bronson. He wondered what they were saying about him and whether Roy would discuss him with others. He didn't think Roy would do that. He wondered what Mr. Ellsworth would think--and Jeb Rushmore.

He got up and, fumbling in his duffel bag, fished out the thumbed and dilapidated Handbook, which was his trusty friend and companion. He opened it at page 64. He knew the place well enough, for he had many times coveted what was offered there. There, standing at attention and looking straight at him, was the picture of a scout, very trim and natty, looking, as he had often thought, exactly like Roy. Beside it was another picture of a scout tying knots and he recalled how Roy had taught him the various knots. His eyes scanned the type above till he found what he sought.

"The bronze medal is mounted on a red ribbon and is awarded to a scout who has actually saved life where risk is involved.

"The silver medal is mounted on a blue ribbon and is awarded to a scout who saves life with considerable risk to himself.

"The gold medal is mounted on white ribbon and is the highest possible award for heroism. It may be granted to a scout who has gravely endangered his own life in actually saving the life of another."

"It'll mean the silver one for him, all right," said Tom to himself, "and that's three more weeks. I wish it could be the gold one."

Idly he ran through the pages of the book, pausing here and there. On page 349 were pictures of scouts rescuing drowning persons. He knew the methods well and looked at the pictures wistfully. Again at page 278 was some matter about tracking, with notes in facsimile handwriting. This put the idea into his mind that he might insert a little handwriting of his own at a certain place, and he turned to the pages he knew best of all--33 and 34. He read the whole twelve laws, but none seemed quite to cover his case. So he wrote in a very cramped hand after Law 12 these words:

"13--A scout can make a sacrifice. He can keep from winning a medal so somebody else can get it. Especially he must do this if it does the other scout more good. That is better than being a hero."

He turned to the fly leaf and wrote in sprawling, reckless fashion: "I am not a coward. I hate cowards." Then he tore the page out and threw it away. He hardly knew what he was doing. After a few minutes he turned to page 58, where the picture of the honor medal was. As he sat gazing at it, loud shouting arose in the distance. Nearer and nearer it came, and louder it grew, until it swelled into a l.u.s.ty chorus. Around the corner of the pavilion they came, two score or more of scouts, yelling and throwing their hats into the air. Tom looked up and listened. Through the little window he could glimpse them as they pa.s.sed, carrying Garry Everson upon their shoulders, and shrieking themselves hoa.r.s.e. Pee-wee was there and Artie Val Arlen, of the Ravens, and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough, running to keep up and yelling proudly for his chief and idol.

"Hurrah for the silver cross!" they called.

"Three cheers for the honor scout!"

"Three cheers and three extra weeks!"

They paused within a dozen feet of where Tom sat, and pushing, elbowing, fell into the woods path leading up to Hero Cabin. Tom listened until their voices, spent by the distance, were scarcely audible. Then he fell to gazing again at the picture of the medal.

CHAPTER XVI

OSTRACIZED

The question was as to the bronze cross or the silver one, and it was the silver one which came. Roy, who had been the most observant witness, testified before the Honor Court that the frantic struggling of the rescued scout must have incurred danger to the rescuer and that only his dexterity and skill had saved him.

But after all, who can say how much risk is involved in such an act. It is only in those deeds of sublime recklessness where one throws his life into the balance as a tree casts off a dried leaf that the true measure of peril is known. That is where insanity and heroism seem to join hands. And hence the glittering cross of the yellow metal lying against its satin background of spotless white stands alone by itself, apart from all other awards.

There was no thought of it here and least of all by Garry himself. When asked by the court how much he believed he had jeopardized his life, he said he did not know, and that at the time he had thought only of saving Dory Bronson. He added that all scouts know the different life-saving "wrinkles" and that they have to use their judgment. His manner had a touch of nonchalance, or rather, perhaps of indifference, which struck one or two of the visiting scoutmasters unfavorably. But Jeb Rushmore, who was in the room, sitting far back with his lanky arms clasped about his lanky limbs, and a shrewd look in his eyes, was greatly impressed, and it was largely because of his voice that the recommendation went to headquarters for the silver medal. In all of the proceedings the name of Tom Slade was not once mentioned, though his vantage point on the spring-board ought to have made his testimony of some value.

So Garry Everson and his little one-patrol troop took up their abode in Hero Cabin, and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough raised and lowered the colors each day, as Tom had done, and ate more heartily down at mess, and made birchbark ornaments in the sunshine up at his beloved retreat, and was very proud of his leader; but he had little use for Tom Slade, because he believed Tom was a coward.

In due time the Silver Cross itself came, and scouts who strolled up to visit the cabin on the precipice noticed that sometimes the little sandy-haired fellow wore it, so that it came to be rumored about that Garry Everson cared more about him than he did about the medal. There were times when Garry took his meals up to him and often he was not at campfire in the evenings. But the little fellow improved each day and every one noticed it.

In time the feeling toward Tom subsided until nothing was left of it except a kind of pa.s.sive disregard of him. Organized resentment would not have been tolerated at Temple Camp and it is a question whether the scouts themselves would have had anything to do with such a conspiracy.

But the feeling had changed toward him and was especially noticeable in certain quarters.

Perhaps if he had lived among his own troop and patrol as one of them the estrangement would have been entirely forgotten, but he lived a life apart, seeing them only at intervals, and so the coldness continued. As the time drew near for the troop to leave, Tom fancied that the feeling against him was stronger because they were thinking of the extra time they might have had along with the honor they had lost, but he was sensitive and possibly imagined that. He sometimes wondered if Roy and the others were gratified to know that these good friends of their happy journey to camp could remain longer. But the camp was so large and the Honor Troop stayed so much by itself that the Bridgeboro boys hardly realized what it meant to that little patrol up at Hero Cabin. Tom often thought wistfully of the pleasant cruise up the river and wondered if Roy and Pee-wee thought of it as they made their plans to go home in the _Good Turn_.

Two friends Tom had, at all events, and these were Jeb Rushmore and Garry Everson. The Honor Troop was composed mostly of small boys and all except the little boy who was Garry's especial charge were in Tom's tracking cla.s.s. He used to put them through the simpler stunts and then turn them over to Jeb Rushmore. Apparently, they did not share the general prejudice and he liked to be with them.

One afternoon he returned with three or four of these youngsters and lingered on the hill to chat with Garry. He had come to feel more at home here than anywhere else.

"How's the kid?" Tom asked, as the sandy haired boy came out of the cabin and pa.s.sed him without speaking.