Roy Blakeley, of the Silver Foxes, had a wooden rattle which he claimed could be heard for seven miles--eight miles and a quarter at a pinch.

The Tigers, with Bert Winton at their head, had some kind of an original contrivance which simulated the roar of their ferocious namesake. The Church Mice, from down the Hudson, with Brent Gaylong as their scoutmaster, had a special squeal (patent applied for) which sounded as if all the mice in Christendom had gone suddenly mad. Pee-wee had his voice--enough said.

The Panthers and the Leopards, with Mr. Warren, watched the departure of this rainbow troop with wistful glances. Then the scoutmaster took his chagrined followers to their bare cabins, stripped of all that had made them comfortable and homelike in their long stay at camp. Hervey was not among them. No one in all the camp knew how he had suffered from homesickness in those two days. He wanted to be home--home with his mother and father.

To his disappointed troop Mr. Warren said:

Scouts, we have not won the coveted award. But in this fraternal community, every award is an honor to every scout. We will try to find pride in the achievements of our friends and camp comrades. Our mistake was in selecting for our standard bearer one whose temperament disqualified him for the particular mission which he undertook. No shortcoming of cowardice is his, at all events, and I blame myself that I did not suggest one of you older boys.

If we have not won the distinction we set our hearts on, our stay here has been pleasant and our achievement creditable, and for my part I give three cheers for the scouts who are to be honored and for the fortunate troops who will share their honors.

This good attempt to revive the spirits of his disappointed troop was followed by three feeble cheers, which ought to have gone on crutches, they were so weak.

Hervey was not in evidence throughout the day, and since no news is good news, one or two unquenchable spirits in his troop continued to hope that he would put in a dramatic appearance just in the nick of time, with the report of a sensational discovery--the tracks of a bear or a wild cat, for instance. It is significant that they would have been quite ready to believe him, whatever he had said.

But Mr. Warren knew, as his troop did not, of Hervey's saying that he wasn't so stuck on eagles, and he was satisfied from the talk that he had had with him that Hervey's erratic and fickle nature had a.s.serted itself in the very moment of high responsibility. He could not help liking Hervey, but he would never again allow the cherished hopes of the troop to rest upon such shaky foundation.

Whatever lingering hopes the troop might have had of a last minute triumph were rudely dispelled when Hervey came sauntering into camp at about four o'clock twirling his hat on the end of a stick in an annoyingly care-free manner. Tom Slade saw him pa.s.sing Council Shack intent upon his acrobatic enterprise of tossing the hat into the air and catching it on his head, as if this clownish feat were the chief concern of his young life.

"You going to be on hand at five?" Tom queried in his usual off-hand manner.

"What's the use?" Hervey asked. "There's nothing in it for me."

Tom leaned against the railing of the porch, with his stolid, half interested air.

"Nothing in it for me," Hervey repeated, twirling his hat on the stick in fine bravado.

"So you've decided to be a quitter," Tom said, quietly.

Hervey winced a bit at this.

"You know you said you weren't so stuck on eagles," Hervey reminded him, rather irrelevantly.

"Well, I'm not so stuck on quitters either," Tom said.

"What's the good of my going? I'm not getting anything out of it."

"Neither am I," said Tom.

"You got stung when you made a prophecy about me, didn't you?" Hervey said with cutting unkindness. "You and I both fell down, hey? We're punk scouts--we should bother our heads."

Again he began twirling his hat on the stick. "I couldn't sit with my troop, anyway," he added; "I'm in Dutch."

"Well, sit with mine, then; Roy Blakeley and that bunch are all from my home town; they're nice fellows. You know Pee-wee Harris--the little fellow that fell off the springboard?"

"I ought to like him; we both fell down."

"Well, you be on hand at five o'clock and don't make matters worse, like a young fool. If you've lost the eagle, you've lost it. That's no reason you should slight Mr. Temple, who founded this camp. We expect every scout in camp to be on hand. You're not the only one in camp who isn't getting the Eagle award."

"You call me a fool?"

"Yes, you're twenty different kinds of a fool."

"Almost an Eagle fool, hey?"

He went on up the hill toward his patrol cabin, tossing his hat in the air and trying to catch it on his head. As luck would have it, just before he entered the little rustic home of sorrow, the hat landed plunk on his head, a little to the back and very much to the side, and he let it remain in that rakish posture when he entered.

The effect was not pleasing to his comrades and scoutmaster.

CHAPTER XX

UNCLE JEB

At five o'clock every seat around the open air platform was occupied.

Every bench out of Scout Chapel, the long boards on which the hungry mult.i.tude lined up at supper-time, every chair from Council Shack and Main Pavilion, and many a trunk and cedar chest from tents and cabins and a dozen other sorts of makeshift seating accommodations were laid under contribution for the gala occasion. And even these were not enough, for the whole neighboring village turned out in a body, and gaping summer boarders strolled into the camp in little groups, thankful for something to do and see.

There was plenty doing. Those who could not get seats sprawled under the trees in back of the seats and a few scouts perched up among the branches.

Upon the makeshift rustic platform sat the high dignitaries, scoutmasters, trustees--the faculty, as Hervey was fond of calling them.

In the big chair of honor in the center sat Mr. John Temple and alongside him Commissioner Something-or-Other and Committeeman Something Else. They had come up from the big scout wigwam, in the dense woods on the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third Street, New York.

Resounding cheers arose and echoed from the hills when old Uncle Jeb Rushmore, retired ranchman and tracker, and scout manager of the big camp, took his seat among the high dignitaries. He made some concession to the occasion by wearing a necktie which was half way around his neck, and by laying aside his corn-cob pipe.

Tom Slade, who sat beside his superior, looked none the less romantic in the scout regalia which he wore in honor of the occasion. His popularity was attested as he took his seat by cries of "Toma.s.so!" "Oh, you, Toma.s.so!" "Where did you get that scout suit, Toma.s.so?" "Oh, you, Tommy boy!"

Tom, stolid and with face all but expressionless, received these tributes with the faintest suggestion of a smile. "Don't forget to smile and look pretty!" came from the rear of the a.s.semblage.

As was usual at Temple Camp festivities, the affair began with three resounding cheers for Uncle Jeb, followed by vociferous appeals for a speech. Uncle Jeb's speeches were an inst.i.tution at camp. Slowly dragging himself to his feet, he sprawled over to the front of the platform and said in his drawling way:

"I don't know as thar's anything I got ter say. We've come out t'the end of our trail, en' next season I hope we'll see the same faces here. You ain't been a bad lot this year. I've seen wuss. I never seed a crowd that ate so much. I reckon none uv yer hez got homes and yer wuz all starved when yer come.

"Yer made more noise this season than anything I ever heard outside a Arizona cyclone. (Laughter) You've been noisy enough ter make a thunder-shower sound like a Indian lullaby. (Roars)

"If these here honor badges thet Mister Temple is goin' ter hand out'll keep yer quiet, I wish thar wuz more uv them. As the feller says, speech is silver and silence is gold, so I'm for gold awards every time. Onct I asked Buffalo Bill what wuz th' main thing fer a scout n' he says _silence_. (Uproarious laughter) So I reckon th'

best kind uv a boy scout is one that's deaf and dumb, but I ain't never seen none at this camp. I guess they don't make that kind.

"I wish yer all good luck and I congratulate you youngsters that are getting awards. If yer all got your just deserts----"

"I get three helpings," came a voice from somewhere in the audience. It was the voice of Pee-wee Harris. "I get _my_ just desserts!"

Amid tumultuous cheering and laughter, old Uncle Jeb lounged back to his seat and Mr. John Temple arose.

CHAPTER XXI