In some miraculous fashion the necessary permission was obtained by each and every one of the boys of Troop Five, and bright and early on the morning after school closed the whole crowd was packed into the motor-truck, jouncing southward over roads very much the worse for spring thaws. It was, in fact, a vastly more uncomfortable trip than the one last summer. But overhead the skies were cloudless; warm breezes, faintly odorous of spring and growing things, caressed their cheeks, and youth was in their hearts. What cared they for hard seats, for jolts and jounces, for mud-holes, delays, and the growing certainty of a late arrival? A thrilling week, golden with possibilities, lay before them, and nothing else mattered. They chattered and sang and ate, and stopped by wayside springs, and ate again. The sun was setting when they lumbered into Clam Cove and tumbled out of the truck to find the old Aquita waiting at the landing. Then came the chugging passage of the bay, and the landing at the new dock they had not even heard of, but where they did not pause long, so eager were they all to inspect the mess-shack, bulking large and unfamiliar through the gathering dusk.

It wasn’t really a shack at all, but a commodious log structure some forty feet by twenty–big, airy, and spacious. There were benches and tables of rough yet solid construction, bracket-lamps, many windows, and a cavernous stone fireplace in which a roaring blaze of logs leaped and crackled. The size and scale of it all fairly awed the boys, and they stared eagerly around for Mr. Thornton. To their disappointment the banker was not to be seen.

“He had to go to Washington unexpected,” explained the man in charge to Mr. Curtis. “But he sent word you was to make yourselves at home, and he’d be back just as soon as he could.”

This put a momentary damper on the affair, but it was not of long duration. There was too much to see and do in the short time at their disposal for regrets of any sort. There was little accomplished that night, however. After a hearty supper, beds were made up on the floor and every one was glad to turn in early.

They were up with the sun, and then began a strenuous period of mingled work and play which filled to overflowing each waking hour of the three days that followed. They got out the tents and erected them in the old places. They took hikes and motor-boat trips; they fished and explored, talked to each other with signal-flags, and put in a commendable amount of time on their drill. They were so constantly employed extracting the last atom of enjoyment from the brief vacation that they quite failed to notice the slight abstraction of their scoutmaster, or the manner in which he watched the mails and fairly devoured the daily paper. Not one of them found time even to glance at that paper himself, much less think of, or discuss the affairs of the nation and the world. Then, suddenly, came the awakening.

It was toward noon on the fourth day of their stay–a Tuesday; they remembered that afterward. The crowd had been for a hike to Lost Mine, and, returning, had dawdled lazily, for the air was almost oppressively balmy. Dale, Ranny, and Court Parker were considerably ahead of the others, and as they reached the parade-ground they came suddenly upon Harry Vedder, whose turn it had been to fetch the mail and paper. The plump boy’s face was flushed and moist; his expression fairly exuded importance.

“Well!” he stated, without waiting for them to speak. “It’s come.”

Ranny stared. “Come?” he repeated. “What are you talking about, Dumpling? What’s come?”

Vedder puffed out his fat cheeks. “War!” he said solemnly.

For an instant no one spoke. Dale felt a queer, tingling thrill go through him. The thing seemed unreal, impossible. Somehow these past few weeks of delay and hesitation had thrust the idea farther and farther into the background of his mind. He caught a glimpse of Parker’s face, dazed and incredulous.

“What!” gasped Ranny. “You mean with–”

“Yep,” nodded Vedder. “The President made a fine speech last night to Congress, or something. I heard ’em talking about it at the post-office. Everybody’s as excited as the dickens. I guess it’s in all the papers, too, only Mr. Curtis’s wasn’t open.”

Dale’s eyes sought headquarters tent. Under the rolled-up flap he could see the scoutmaster sitting on his cot, his head bent intently over an outspread paper. Again that curious tingling went through the boy. Behind him the shouts and laughter of the approaching crowd seemed suddenly incongruous and out of place. He glanced again at Vedder, whose round face still radiated self-importance, and wondered how the boy could look so smug and complacent.“Did Congress declare war?” asked Ranny, abruptly.

“I dunno; I guess so. They’re going to raise a whopping army. I heard one man say everybody from nineteen to twenty-five would have to go.”

“Have to go!” shrilled Court Parker. “Why, they’ll want to go, won’t they? I wish I was more than sixteen.”

Unconsciously the four were moving toward the scoutmaster’s tent. Others, hearing a word or two, caught up with them, and the news was passed quickly along. The throng paused at the tent entrance. Dale caught a glimpse of the newspaper across the top of which flared in black capitals:

“It’s true, then, Mr. Curtis!” Ranny Phelps exclaimed. “I thought it was coming. When are they going to–”

“Hold your horses, Ranny,” interrupted the scoutmaster. He stood up and came toward them, his face curiously elated. “There’s no time to answer a lot of questions now. Mess-call will sound any time. Hustle and wash up, fellows, and after dinner we’ll talk this over.”Curious and excited as they were, no one protested. They scattered to their tents, chattering volubly, and the mess-call found them still speculating and asking questions of one another. During the meal the discussion continued but in a slightly more subdued key. A state of things which at first had seemed merely exciting and soul-stirring was coming home more keenly. They were beginning to make individual applications. Captain Chalmers would be called out, of course. Though over thirty, Mr. Curtis himself might enlist. Then some one thought suddenly of Wesley Becker, who was just nineteen. That seemed the strangest thing of all, for Wes, despite his semi-leadership, was merely one of themselves. But of course it was all the merest speculation; they didn’t really know anything yet. So when the meal was over and Mr. Curtis rose slowly in his place, there was a long, concerted sigh of relaxing tension.

“Fellows,” began the scoutmaster, quietly, “I want to read you the President’s message delivered to Congress last night. You won’t find it dull. On the contrary it’s about the most vivid, vital piece of writing I have ever read. It puts clearly before us the situation we are facing. It will make you prouder than ever of your country and its head.”And without further preamble he began to read that wonderful document which has stirred the world and has taken its place among the immortal utterances of men. And as he read, eyes brightened, boyish faces flushed, brown hands gripped the rough edges of bench or table, or strained tightly over clasped knees. He finished, and there came a brief, eloquent moment of utter silence, followed by a swift outburst of wild applause.

The scoutmaster’s face lit up with a smile. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he said. “Makes you feel mighty proud to have a man like that at the helm.” He folded the paper and laid it on the table before him. “And now,” he went on, his shoulders squaring a bit, “I want to say a few words myself. A state of war exists, for Congress cannot help but back up the man who wrote that message. It’s been coming for a long time. Many of us have felt it and tried to plan a little in advance. Your signaling and first aid and drilling have all been with that idea in view. What I want now is that you shall give more time than ever to those things–practically all the rest of your time in camp here. Remember George Lancaster, that English chap who was in Troop One several years ago. To-day he’s one of the best signalers in the British army. It will mean hard work, but, unless I’m far wrong, work will swiftly come to be the great slogan throughout the country. Will you do this, fellows? Stand up, every one who’s willing.”

There was a rush, a clatter–a bench was overturned–in ten seconds not a boy remained seated.

“Fine!” smiled Mr. Curtis. “I thought I could count on you. When Mr. Thornton comes on Friday we’ll show him something that will surprise him. And we’ll give those folks at the rally something to think about, too.”

“But are we still going to have the rally, sir?” asked Bob Gibson.

Mr. Curtis laughed. “Of course we are,” he said emphatically. “You mustn’t think, Bob, that a state of war is going to disrupt the entire country. That would be hysterical. There’ll be unusual doings, of course. Things will be a bit different in many ways. But school and chores and all the ordinary routine of your daily lives must go on as they always have. Suppose we get out now and work up a little program for Mr. Thornton’s benefit.”

The days that followed, so radically different from anything the boys had planned, showed up their spirit admirably. Of course there were grumblers; those develop in any situation where discipline is involved. There were many moments of weariness and discouragement, too, when it seemed as if proficiency could never be attained. But underneath it all, stirring, invigorating, that wonderful sense of service–service to another, service to their country, perhaps, upheld and strengthened them. What they were doing was not merely play. Some day or other, far away or near, it would be of value; and the measure of that value no man could tell.

Mr. Thornton was due to reach camp Friday afternoon. The Aquita, in charge of Wesley Becker and another scout, went over to meet him, and as soon as the motor-boat was seen returning, a bugle blast summoned the others hastily from their tents.

“Fall in!” ordered Mr. Curtis, crisply. “Phelps will take charge while I go down to the dock.”

Only their eyes moved, but these followed him to the landing and they saw Mr. Thornton step ashore and pause for a moment or two of conversation before heading for the parade-ground. The banker’s face looked tired and his shoulders drooped a little. But as he caught sight of the scouts drawn up in a straight, soldierly line behind the colors his head went up and his eyes brightened with surprise and interest.“’Tention, troop!” called Mr, Curtis, sharply. “Right dress!–Front!–Present arms!”

The “arms” were, of course, their staves, but the manoeuver was executed with a snap and precision which many a company of militia might have envied. Then came the command, “Count off!” followed by, “Fours left–march!” and the squad swung smartly down the parade-ground.

In the half-hour of manoeuvering which followed–and this included some fairly difficult formations for new recruits–every boy gave the best that was in him. And when it was all over, the expression on Mr. Thornton’s face was quite reward enough. At the command, “Fall out!” they surged around him, shaking him by the hand, thanking him exuberantly, and all trying at once to tell him how much more wonderful everything was than they had expected.

The council-fire that night was built out on the point instead of in the great stone fireplace. Because of Mr. Thornton’s presence, a special program had been arranged. There were scout games and stunts in abundance, songs galore, and a number of other features which had proved effective last summer. But it wasn’t quite all gaiety and careless amusement. Mingling with the joking and laughter and occasional bit of skylarking was a touch of sober seriousness. It was their last night in camp together. Moreover, from that momentous Tuesday things had never been really quite the same. Their daily drills and practice were rousing in them a sense of responsibility. They knew that all over the country preparations for war were being pushed energetically. There had been time also, to hear from home–of how this brother talked of enlisting in the marines, or that cousin, a member of Captain Chalmers’s own regiment, who had been ordered to hold himself in readiness to join the colors. And so at the end, standing shoulder to shoulder around the blaze, their young voices ringing out in the stirring strains of “America,” more than one throat tightened, and there were few who did not feel a tingling thrill beyond the thrill those verses usually evoked.

There came a pause. Then slowly John Thornton rose and stood for a moment facing them in silence.

“I want to thank you, boys,” he said at length, in tones which emotion had rendered brusk and almost harsh. “It–it has been a privilege and more than pleasure to see your surprising work this afternoon and to be with you in this way to-night. I am proud of you–prouder than you can ever know. I can say nothing more than this,” and his voice rang out suddenly with a note that stirred them inexplicably: “If only the youth of our country will measure up to your standards in the crisis that is before us, we need fear nothing for the future.”