"So? Well, let us shake hands with you, my boy."

The next thing Hervey knew, Mr. Denny's arm was over his shoulder, while with his other hand he was shaking the hand of the young camp a.s.sistant.

"That's all right, Mr. Denny," said Tom.

"Slade, I want you to know how much I respect you----"

"It's all in the day's work, Mr. Denny."

"I want you to know that Hervey appreciates your friendship. You believe he----"

"I believe he's a wild Indian," Tom laughed. "Or maybe a squirrel, huh?

Hey, Hervey? On account of climbing.... You know, Mr. Denny, those are the two things that can't be tamed, an Indian and a squirrel. You can tame a lion, but you can't tame a squirrel."

Mr. Denny listened, smiling, all the while patting Hervey's shoulder.

"Well, after all, who wants to tame a squirrel?" said he.

So these two lingered a few minutes to chat about lions and Indians and squirrels and things. And that was Hervey's chance to get away.

No admiring throng followed him out. His own troop was not there and knew nothing of his triumph. Probably he never thought of these things.

A scoutmaster grabbed his hand and said, "Wonderful, my boy!" Hervey smiled and seemed surprised.

Outside they were sitting around on railings and steps and squatting on the gra.s.s. There was a little ripple of murmuring as he pa.s.sed through the sprawling throng, but no one spoke to him. That was not because they did not appreciate, but because he was _different_ and a stranger.

Perhaps it was because they did not know just how to take him. He didn't exactly fit in....

His ambling course had taken him perhaps a hundred feet, when he heard some one shout, "Let'er go!"

Before he realized it, his own favorite tune filled the air, they were hurling it straight at him and the voices were loud and clear, though the words were strange.

"_Everybody!_"

"He's one little bully athlete, so fleet; At sprinting he's got us all beat, yes, beat.

He can climb, he can stalk, He can win in a walk; He's a scout from his head to his feet-- THAT'S YOU.

He's a scout from his head to his feet."

He turned and stood stark still. Some of them, in the vehemence of their song, had risen and formed a little compact group. And again they sang the verse, the words _THAT'S YOU_ pouring out of the throat of Pee-wee Harris like a thunderbolt. Hervey blinked. His eyes glistened. Through their haze he could see the lanky figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, sitting upon the fence, his feet propped up on the lower rail, a pair of sh.e.l.l spectacles half way down his nose, and waving a little stick like the leader of an orchestra. He was very sober and looked absurdly funny.

"Let him have the other one!" some one shouted.

Gaylong rapped upon the fence with his little stick, and then gave it a graceful twirl which was an improvement on Sousa.

The voices rose clear and strong:

"We don't care a rap for the flings he springs; He doesn't mean half of the things he sings.

We're all down and out When it comes to a scout That can run just as if he had wings and things.

That can run just as if he had wings!"

If Hervey had waited as long on the log in the quicksand as he waited now, there would have been no Gold Cross. But he could not move, he stood as one petrified, his eyes glistening. The wandering minstrel had been caught by his own tune.

"Over the top," some one shouted.

He was surrounded.

"That's you! That's you!"

they kept singing. He had never been caught in such a mix-up before. He saw them all crowding about him, saw Roy Blakeley's merry face and the sober face of Brent Gaylong, the spectacles still half way down his nose and the baton over his ear like a lead pencil. They took his hat, tossed it around, and handed it back to him.

"No room on that for the Cross," said Gaylong; "he'll have to pin it on his stocking; combination Gold Cross and garter. Supreme heroism--keeping a stocking up----"

There was no getting out of this predicament. He could escape the quicksand but he couldn't escape this. He looked about as if to consider whether he could make a leap over the throng.

"Watch out or he'll pull a stunt," one shouted.

But there was really no hope for him. The wandering minstrel was caught at last. And the funny part of the whole business was that he was caught by one of his own favorite tunes. The tunes which had caught so many others....

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

QUESTIONS

Hervey had now no incentive to leave the vicinity of camp. Doubtless he could have performed the great stunt without outside help (now that he knew it to be a stunt) but luck favored him as it usually did, and the new work going forward in the cove was enough to occupy his undivided attention.

He made his headquarters there and hobn.o.bbed with civil engineers and laborers in the true democratic spirit which was his. The consulting engineer they called him, which was odd, because Hervey never consulted anybody about anything. The men all liked him immensely.

Another to benefit by the work on the new dam was Robin Hood, or Mr.

Hood as he was respectfully called. He ran the flivver truck between the camp and the cove, carrying stone, and also cement and supplies which came by the railroad. They had to cut a road from the main road through to the cove.

But one thing was not brought by the flivver, and that was the suction dredge, a horrible monster, a kind of jumble of house and machinery which came on a big six-ton truck and was launched into the lake. Its whole ramshackle bulk shook and shivered when it was in operation sucking the bottom of the lake up through a big pipe and shooting it through another long pipe which terminated on the land. Thus sand and gravel were secured and at the same time the lake was dredged by this mammoth vacuum cleaner. The pipeline which terminated on the sh.o.r.e was supported on several floats a few yards apart, and the first scout to perform the stunt of walking on this pulsating thing was----

Guess.

About a week after work on the dam had begun, Tom rode over to the cove on the truck with Robin Hood. He had struck up a friendship with the stranger and liked him, as every one did. The young man was quiet, industrious, intelligent. He did not encourage questions about himself, but Tom was the last one to criticise reticence.

Moreover, labor was scarce and willing workers in demand. One thing which gave the young man favor in camp was his liking for the younger boys, who frequently rode back and forth with him.

"Well, it's beginning to look like a dam, isn't it?" Tom said, as they rode along. "You won't be able to get much more stone up behind the pavilion.... The dam ought to raise the lake level about five or six feet, the engineers say. That'll mean moving a couple of the cabins back. Storm was a good thing after all, huh?"

"I guess it will be remembered around these parts for a good many years," Tom's companion said.

"And you were out in the thick of it," said Tom, in his usual cheery way. "Up on the mountain it was terrible."

"On the mountain? I was--I was just in the woods. It was bad enough there."