"I'll say so; they're some hungry bunch," Hervey commented.

"And you gave me your word that you wouldn't leave camp without my permission. _You think as little about breaking your word as you do about breaking your leg, Hervey_," Mr. Denny added with sober emphasis.

Hervey began poking the ground again with his stick.

"That's just the truth, Hervey. And it can't go on any longer."

"Am I out of the troop?" Hervey asked, wistfully.

"N--no, you're not. But I want you to learn to be as good a scout in one way as you are in another. You have won merit badges with an ease which is surprising to me----"

"They're a cinch," Hervey interrupted.

"I want you to go home and stop doing stunts and read the handbook. I want you to read the oath and the scout laws, so that when the rest of us come home you can give me your hand and say, 'I'm an all round scout, not just a doer of stunts.'"

"H--how soon are--the rest of you coming back?" Hervey asked with just the faintest suggestion of a break in his voice.

"Why, you know we're here for six weeks, Hervey. Don't you know anything about your troop's affairs? You know how much money we have in our treasury, don't you?"

Hervey did not miss the reproach. He said nothing, only kept tracing the circle with his stick. Finally it occurred to him to mark two eyes, a nose and a mouth in the circle. Mr. Denny sat studying him. I think Mr.

Denny was on the point of weakening. Hervey seemed sober and preoccupied. But the face on the ground seemed to wink at Mr. Denny as if to intercede in its young creator's behalf.

Mr. Denny gathered his strength as one does on the point of taking an unpalatable medicine.

"Yesterday, Hervey, I expressly reminded you of your promise not to leave camp. I did that because I thought the storm might tempt you forth."

"They call me----"

"Yes, I know; they call you the stormy petrel. You went across the lake with others. They returned but you did not return with them. Where you went I don't know. And I'm not going to ask you, Hervey, for it makes no difference. I understand young Mr. Slade was there, but _that_ makes no difference. Blakeley and one of his troop, Westy Martin, reached camp and reported conditions in the cove----"

"He's all right, Blakeley is----"

"Hours pa.s.sed, no one knew where you were. I was too proud, or too ashamed, to go and ask Slade if he knew. I am jealous of our troop's reputation, Hervey--even if you are not----"

Hervey leaned against the cabin, looking abstractedly at his handiwork on the ground.

"There was great confusion and excitement here," Mr. Denny continued.

"The whole camp turned out to save the lake, to stem the flood. But you were not here. Your companions in our troop worked till they were dog tired. But where were you? Helping? _No_, you were off on some vagabond journey--disobedient, insubordinate."

Mr. Denny spoke with resolute firmness now and his voice rang as he uttered his scathing accusations.

"You were a traitor not only to your troop, but to the camp--the camp which held out the hand of good fellowship to you when you came here. A _slacker_----"

Hervey broke his stick in half and threw it on the ground. His breast heaved. He looked down. He said nothing. Mr. Denny studied him curiously for a few seconds.

"That is the truth, Hervey. One wrong always produces another. You were disobedient and insubordinate, and that led to--what?"

Hervey gulped, but whether in shame or remorse or what, Mr. Denny could not make out, He was to know presently.

"It led to shirking, whether intentional or not. And to-night, because there is no train, you are going to sleep in the camp which you deserted. You will, perhaps, row on the lake which others have saved for you. You see it now in its true light, don't you? You had better go and thank Blakeley and his comrade for what they did, if you have any real feeling for the camp."

"I----"

"Don't speak. Nothing you could say would make a difference, Hervey. I know from Mr. Carroll and his boys where you showed up. I know they found you clinging to one of the stage horses. I was there later and saw you. You might have been plunged into that chasm with all the rest of them and been crushed to pieces, if one of those scouts hadn't gone ahead, as he was _told_ to do, and if he hadn't kept his mind on what he had been _told_ to do, instead of disregarding his scoutmaster and----"

He paused, for Hervey was shaking perceptibly. He watched the boy curiously. Should he go on with this thing and see it through? He summoned his resolution.

"No, Hervey, as I said, I have written to your father. I have said nothing against you, only that you are too much for me here, where my responsibility is great. I want you to get your things together and take the train in the morning. We'll expect to see you when we come home.

There is no hard feeling, Hervey. When we come home you're going to start all over again, my boy, and learn the thing right. You----"

With a kind of spasmodic effort Hervey raised his head and, with a pride there was no mistaking, looked his scoutmaster straight in the face. He was trembling visibly. If there was any contrition in his countenance, Mr. Denny did not see it. He was quite taken aback with the fine show of spirit which his young delinquent showed. There was even a dignity in the old cap with its holes and badges, as it sat perched on the side of his head. There was a touch of pathos, even of dignity too, in his fallen stocking.

"I--I--wouldn't stay here--now--I wouldn't--I--not even if you _asked_ me--I wouldn't. I wouldn't even if you--if you got down on your knees and begged me----"

"Hervey, my boy----"

"No, I won't listen. I--I wouldn't stay even _to-night_--I wouldn't. Do you think I need a train? I--I can hike to Jonesville, can't I? You say I'm--I'm no scout--Tom Slade he said----"

"Hervey----"

"I don't--anyhow--I don't care anything about the rest of them. I wouldn't stay even for supper. Even if you--if you apologized--I wouldn't----"

"Apologize? Why, Hervey----"

"For what you said--called me--I wouldn't. I don't give a--a--d.a.m.n--I don't--for all the people here--only except one--and I wouldn't stay if you got down on your knees and begged me--I wouldn't----"

Mr. Denny contemplated him with consternation in every feature. There was no stopping him. The accused had become the accuser. There was something stirring, something righteous, in this fine abandon. In the setting of the outburst of hurt pride even the profane word seemed to justify itself. The tables were completely turned and Hervey Willetts was master of the situation.

CHAPTER XX

TOM ADVISES GOLIATH

It was late afternoon when Tom Slade, tramping home after his day spent with the minions of the law, crossed the main road and hit into the woods trail which afforded a short cut to camp.

It was the laziest hour of the day, the gap between mid afternoon and supper time. It was a tranquil time, a time of lolling under trees and playing the wild game of mumbly-peg, and of jollying tenderfoots, and waiting for supper. Roy Blakeley always said that the next best thing to supper was waiting for it. The lake always looked black in that pre-twilight time when the sun was beyond though not below the summit of the mountain. It was the time of new arrivals. In that mountain-surrounded retreat they have two twilights--a tenderfoot twilight and a first cla.s.s twilight. It was the time when scouts, singly and in groups, came in from tracking, stalking and what not, and sprawled about and got acquainted.

But there was one who did not come in on that peaceful afternoon, and that was the wandering minstrel. If Tom Slade had crossed the main road ten minutes sooner, he might have seen that blithe singer going along the road, but not with a song on his lips. The sun of that carefree nature was under a cloud. But his loyal stocking kept descending, and his suit-case dangled from a stick over his shoulder. His trick hat perched jauntily upon his head, Hervey Willetts was himself again. Not quite, but _almost_. At all events he did not ponder on the injustice of the world and the cruelty of fate. He was wondering whether he could make Jonesville in time for the night train or whether he had better try for the boat at Catskill Landing. The boat had this advantage, that he could shinny up the flagpole if the pilot did not see him. The train offered nothing but the railing on the platforms....

If Tom had been ten minutes earlier!

The young camp a.s.sistant left the trail and hit down through the grove and around the main pavilion. The descending sun shone right in his face as he neared the lake. It made his brown skin seem almost like that of a mulatto. His sleeves were rolled up as they always were, showing brown muscular arms, with a leather wristlet (but no watch) on one. His pongee shirt was open almost down to his waist. His faded khaki trousers were held up by a heavy whip lash drawn tight around his waist.

Not a single appurtenance of the scout was upon him. He was rather tall, and you who have known him as a hulking youngster with bull shoulders will be interested to know that he had grown somewhat slender and exceedingly lithe. He had that long stride and silent footfall which the woods life develops. He was still tow-headed, though he fixed his hair on occasions, which is saying something. You would have been amused at his air of quiet a.s.surance. Perhaps he had not humor in the same sense that Roy Blakeley had, but he had an easy, bantering way which was captivating to the scouts.