"Will you--will you take me out in it?" he asked. "Just once--will you?"

"The canoe?" Hervey said. "You'll have to ask my troop, Alf, old top; it belongs to them. What would a happy-go-lucky nut like I am be doing, paddling around in a swell canoe like that?"

"Let me--let me see the badge," little Skinny insisted.

But already Hervey had handed the badge over to his troop. Probably he thought that it would interfere with his climbing trees or perhaps fall off when he was hanging upside down from some treacherous limb or scrambling head foremost down some dizzy cliff. No doubt it would be more or less in the way during his stuntful career....

CHAPTER XXIV

THE RED STREAK

There was one resident at Temple Camp who did not attend that memorable meeting by reason of being sound asleep at the time. This was Orestes, the oriole, who had had such a narrow squeak of it up at the foot of the mountain. Orestes always went to bed early and got up early, being in all ways a model scout.

It is true that just at the moment when the cheering became tumultuous, Orestes shook out her feathers and peered out of the little door of her hanging nest but, seeing no near-by peril, settled down again to sweet slumber, never dreaming that the cheering was in honor of her scout rescuer.

The housing problem did not trouble Orestes much. One tree was as good as another so long as her architectural handiwork was not desecrated, and having once satisfied herself that her little home still depended from the very branch which she had chosen, she did not inquire too particularly into the facts of that magic transfer. The branch rested across two other branches and Orestes was satisfied.

That was a happy thought of Tom's to call the oriole Orestes, which means dweller in the woods, but thanks to Hervey the name became corrupted in camp talk, and the nickname of Asbestos caught the community and became instantly popular.

The shady area under Asbestos' tree was already a favorite lounging place for scouts, and lying on their backs with knees drawn up (a favorite att.i.tude of lounging) they could see that mysterious little red streak in their little friend's nest. In the late afternoon, which was ever the time of sprawling, the sun had a way of poking one of his rays right down through the dense foliage plunk on Asbestos' nest, and then the little red streak shone like Brick Warner's red hair after he had been diving. But no one ventured up to that little home to investigate that freakish streak of color.

"I'd like to know what that is?" Pee-wee Harris observed as he lay on his back, peering up among the branches.

Half a dozen scouts, including Roy Blakeley and Hervey Willetts, were sprawling under the tree waiting for supper, on the second afternoon after Hervey's triumph. Waiting for supper was the favorite outdoor sport at Temple Camp. Orestes was already tucked away in bed, having dined early on three gra.s.shoppers and an angleworm for dessert.

"That's easy," said Roy Blakeley; "Asbestos is a red--she's an anarchist. We ought to notify the government."

"Asbestos is an I.W.W. He ought to be deported," Hervey said.

"He's a _she_," Pee-wee said.

"Just the same I'd like to know what that red streak really does mean,"

Roy confessed.

"It's better than a yellow streak anyway," Hervey laughed; "maybe it's her patrol color."

"That's a funny thing about an oriole," another scout observed; "an oriole picks up everything it sees, string and ribbon and everything like that, and weaves it into its nest."

"They should worry about building material," Roy said.

"I read about one that got hold of a piece of tape and weaved it in,"

said the scout who had volunteered the information. "Maybe that's tape."

"Sure, she ought to work for the government, there's so much red tape about her," Roy observed.

"It's the color of cinnamon taffy," Pee-wee said.

"There you go on eats again," Roy retorted; "it's the color of pie."

"What kind of pie?" Pee-wee asked.

"Any kind," Roy said; "take your pick."

"You're crazy," Pee-wee retorted.

Their idle banter was interrupted by Westy Martin of Roy's and Pee-wee's troop who paused at the tree as they returned from the village. Westy was waving a newspaper triumphantly.

"What do you know about this?" he said, opening the paper so that the scouts could see a certain heading.

"Oh, me, oh, my!" Roy said. "Isn't Temple Camp getting famous? Talk about _red!_ Oh, boy, watch Hervey's beautiful complexion when he hears this. He'll have cinnamon taffy beat a mile."

w.i.l.l.y-nilly, Roy s.n.a.t.c.hed the news sheet from Westy and read:

TEMPLE CAMP HAS NEW HERO

Yesterday was a gala day up at the scout camp. More than five hundred people from hereabouts, as well as the whole population of the famous scout community, cheered themselves hoa.r.s.e when Mr. John Temple, founder of the big camp, distributed the awards for the season.

For the first time in four years Temple Camp produced an Eagle Scout in Hervey Willetts of a Ma.s.sachusetts troop who won the award under circ.u.mstances reflecting unusual credit on himself and bringing honor to his troop comrades. Mr. Temple's remarks to this young hero were flattening in the last degree----

"You mean flattering," Pee-wee shouted.

"Excuse myself," said Roy.

and it was decided to give Hervey the award, because Scout Harris proved excruciatingly--I mean exclusively--I mean conclusively--that a bird is an animal just the same as Mr. Temple is, only different----

"Let me see that!" shouted Pee-wee. "You make me sick! Where is it?"

"Here's something to interest you more," Roy said; "here's the real stuff--a kidnapping. A kid was taking a nap and got kidded."

"Where?" Pee-wee demanded.

"There," Roy said, pointing triumphantly to a heading which put the Temple Camp notice in the shade. "Just read that."

But for that sensational article, doubtless Hervey would have been more of a newspaper hero instead of being stuck down in a corner. The article was indeed one to arouse interest and call for big headings, and the scouts, gathered about Roy, peered over his shoulders and read it eagerly.

MILLIONAIRE HARRINGTON'S SON KIDNAPPED

ALARM SENT OUT FOR CHILD MISSING MORE THAN WEEK

TRAIN HAND GIVES CLEW

Police authorities throughout the country have been asked to search for Anthony Harrington, Jr., the little son of Anthony Harrington, banker, of New York. The child, aged about ten, disappeared about a week ago and since then an exhaustive search privately made has failed to yield any clew of the little fellow's whereabouts.

When last seen the child was playing on the lawn of his father's beautiful estate at Irvington-on-Hudson on Friday a week ago. From that time no trace of him has been discovered.