"Are you-are you sure you won't change your mind?" he demanded.

"Surest thing you know."

"Those fellows don't take any interest in my boat," Jeffrey said.

"Well, I do," said Garry, "what was the name of that game? I can't seem to remember it."

"Mumbly-peg," said Jeffrey, contemptuously.

"Well, there's no use getting excited about it," laughed Garry.

CHAPTER X THE BIRTHDAY OF THE ELK PATROL

"Maybe I'm not much of a cook, but I'll make things hot for _you_ if you don't get away from here!"

Roy Blakeley, from the cooking lean-to, despatched an eggplant (which had not stood the physical test, as he said) straight at the scampering form of Pee-wee Harris, who had raided the sacred precincts of the larder for raisins and was now departing with scurrilous comments on his patrol leader. And the eggplant, faithful to its trust, landed plunk upon Pee-wee's round, curly head.

"Plant that and raise some scrambled eggs," Roy called after him.

Roy was a.s.sisting the camp cooks, for it was the second anniversary of the forming of the Elk Patrol, and there were to be "doings."

"If that kid had got a hair-cut when he ought to have, he'd have _felt_ that eggplant. That head of his is a regular shock absorber."

"How long is a hair-cut, anyway?" queried Roy, sitting on the table and stirring a bowl of batter.

"Never you mind them riddles," said the chief cook. "You git that batter ready-pour some more milk in from that pitcher."

"Then I'll have a batter and a pitcher both, hey?" said Roy. "Pretty soon I'll have a whole baseball team. But honest, this is what I mean. A boy gets a hair-cut. Is it a hair-cut the next day? It is a hair-cut the day after? When does it stop being a hair-cut? And here's another thing--"

"Never you mind," laughed the cook. "You git that stirred and then I'll let you make some raisin cakes-seein' as you say you can."

While Roy was busying himself in the cooking lean-to other scouts were forming the three mess-boards into one long table.

At five o'clock, an hour earlier than usual, the camp bugle sounded and patrols and troops, in formation, marched from their tents and cabins to the long board which was heaped with such a varied and bountiful repast as Temple Camp had never before seen. It was a pleasant scene as the boys came with their patrol pennants waving, and took their allotted places at the long rustic table under the trees.

Jeb Rushmore sat at the head of the table, one of the two visiting trustees on either hand. The scoutmasters sat each with his troop, and behind each patrol leader his staff bearing the patrol pennant was stuck in the ground so that one could easily distinguish the different patrols.

Scouts who were visiting camp singly or in teams or small parties, like Harry Arnold and his friend, were seated toward the foot of the board.

The three patrols of the well-organized Bridgeboro Troop, the Ravens, Silver Foxes and Elks, sat toward the head of the table on either side, close to the trustees. On the plate of each member of the Elk Patrol was a strip of ribbon bearing the words neatly printed by hand "Many Happy Returns."

"I've got two here stuck together," said Connie Bennet.

"That's because you think you're twice as good a scout as anyone else,"

piped up Roy. "You should worry."

The Elks were pinning these on amid much merriment when Garry Everson and his two companions came up the hill and took their seats near Harry Arnold, toward the foot of the table. Whatever show of coldness and resentment this odd trio (and particularly its leader) had borne lately, there was none visible now, save in a certain restraint on both sides and a lack of easy converse between Garry and those near him. Jeffrey seemed sober and half frightened, but little Raymond's face was wreathed in smiles. Jeb Rushmore waved pleasantly to them from the distant end of the long board and they acknowledged his salute.

Then the camp master drew himself together and lifted his long, lanky form to his feet.

"I dunno's I'm much on speechifyin'," he said, "'n' baout all I'm cal'latin' ter do is jes' ter set ye on the trail 'n' let ye folly it.

Onct thar come out west a gent from that thar Smithson Inst.i.tution in Wash'n'ton, 'n' hearin't I wuz used ter killin' grizzlies he sez, 'Pard, you're the man I want ter talk to 'baout grizzlies.' He wuz one o' them zoologist fellers. 'All I know 'baout grizzlies,' sez I, 'I can tell ye in two words-_Don't miss!_ I leave it t'the other feller ter write 'baout 'em.' 'An' it's the same here likewise-ez the feller sez. I leave it to the others t'do th'talkin'-'cause if I try t'do it myself I'll sure miss.

'An' I reckon as Mr. Ellsworth is the proper one. I never stood behind n.o.buddy when anythin' wuz goin' on-Gen'l Custer cud tell ye that-but I reckon I'll have ter make fer shelter naow 'n' leave him on the firin'

line."

He sprawled into his seat amid a very tempest of applause and cheering.

"Good old Jeb!" they called.

"Hurrah for Jeb Rushmore!"

"Bully for you, Jeb!"

He was forced to stand up three times in acknowledgement. Then Mr.

Ellsworth, scoutmaster of the First Bridgeboro Troop, arose.

"It seems," said he, "that Mr. Rushmore has, as usual, hit the mark--"

"There's where you said something!"

"He uses no rifle nowadays, but scouts by the dozen fall for him.

(Cheers) He may run for shelter, but he will never find any shelter from the love and the applause and the homage which every visitor at Temple Camp, young and old, has for him! (Great shouting.) He is a whole scout handbook in himself. I ask every scout at this board to stand and give three cheers for Jeb Rushmore!"

The boys were on their feet before the words were out of his mouth, and the l.u.s.ty echo swept back from the hills across the lake as if nature herself would pay her homage to the man who knew and loved her so well.

"And while we are standing let us give three cheers for the man who discovered Jeb Rushmore and brought him from Arizona-by the ears.

(Laughter.) You all know whom I mean-John Temple, the founder of Temple Camp!"

When the shouting had subsided, Mr. Ellsworth continued, "Scouts, we are not joining in this celebration to make a hero of any of our number.

There is but one hero at Temple Camp. He sits at the head of the table.

(Applause.) And if it were not for one fact I think I should have vetoed this merrymaking and the Bridgeboro Troop would have had its celebration by itself and not have obtruded its family joys upon others.

"We are here, scouts, to celebrate the second anniversary of the Elk Patrol of which Tom Slade is the leader-and organizer. It is not because Tom is a scout, but because he is a _scout-maker_, that we wish to honor him, and his all but completed patrol. And that is what I want every scout here to know and to take back with you to the several parts of the country from which you come. It is not enough to be a scout-one must be a _scout-maker_. He must reach out to the right and to the left-into the highways and byways-and muster his recruits. That is the only way that our great army-or rather, our great brotherhood-can grow. Do you get me?"

"We get you," they answered, laughing at his use of the slang which he was so ready to learn from them.

"Tom Slade holds the gold cross for an act of great bravery here last summer. He holds seven merit badges and is about to win two more. On the first night of his arrival here this summer, he had the s.p.u.n.k and the courage and persistence to choose a little party and lead them--"

Cheer upon cheer drowned his words. Tom himself sat, stolid as usual, but smiling in embarra.s.sment as scout after scout, cl.u.s.tering about him, slapped him on the shoulder. A few noticed that Garry smiled and applauded, but kept to his seat.

"Hurrah for Tom Slade!" they called again and again.

Mr. Ellsworth with difficulty continued, "And to lead them up into that wilderness over yonder, because he could not sit down, tired and travel worn as he was, while some one lay dying.

"Just a minute, scouts-listen and I will be through. These things are all to his credit-to the credit of his patrol, of his troop, of the whole scout family, here in this beloved land of ours. But when I think of Tom Slade-as I often do," he added, smiling, oh, so pleasantly, at Tom; "I think not only of how he raised himself out of dirt and mischief to this n.o.ble level where you see him, but of how he went back into the byways and found these boys who now form his splendid patrol. _I_ tried to get Connie Bennet and failed. (Laughter.) _I_ made a stab for the celebrated Bronson twins-nothing doing. They were too busy ringing other people's doorbells. (Laughter.) I made a grandstand play for others, but was turned down hard. Why? Because it takes a boy to recruit a boy. So all of you scouts pack that little fact down in the corner of your duffel bags and take it home with you. If every scout secured a scout, where there are ten thousand now there would be twenty thousand, and where there are five hundred thousand, there would be a million! I ask every scout here to stand up and as he gives three cheers for Tom Slade, scout-maker, to resolve that he will make at least one scout before he comes here another summer. And now three cheers for the Elk Patrol on its second birthday, and three cheers for Tom Slade, and three cheers for the eighth scout-whoever and wherever he may be-who before another summer shall make the Elk Patrol complete as well as honored!"