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 class 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 assistant 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 assurance. 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.

Dirty little hoodlum that he once was, he was now the most picturesque, romantic figure in the camp. In Tom Slade, beloved old Uncle Jeb, camp manager, seemed to have renewed his own youth. Scouts worshipped at the shrine of this young confidant of the woods, trustees consulted him, scoutmasters respected him.

As he emerged around the corner of the storage cabin, several scouts who had taken their station within inhaling distance of the cooking shack fell in with him and trotted along beside him.

"H'lo, Slady, can we go with you?"

"I'm going to wash my hands," said Tom, giving one of them a shove.

"Good night! I don't want to go."

"I thought you wouldn't."

In Tent Avenue the news of his passing got about and presently a menagerie of tenderfoots were dogging his heels.

"Where you been, Slady? Can I go? Take me? Take us on the lake, Slady?"

As he passed the two-patrol cabins Goliath slid down from the woodpile and challenged him. "Hey, big feller, I got a souvenir. Want to see it? I know who you are; you're boss, ain't you?"

"H'lo, old top," said Tom, tousling his hair for him. "Well, how do you think you like Temple Camp?"

Goliath had hard work to keep up with him, but he managed it.

"I had two pieces of pie," he said.

"Good for you."

"Maybe I'll get to be a regular scout, hey?"

"Not till you can eat six pieces."

"Were you ever in a hospital?"

"Yop, over in France."

"I bet you licked the Germans, didn't you?"

"Oh, I had a couple of fellows helping me."

"A fellow in my troop is a hero; he's going to get a badge, maybe. A lot of fellers said so."

"That's the way to do," said Tom.

"His name is Tyson, that's what his name is. Do you know him?"

"You bet."

"He saved all the fellers in that wagon from getting killed because he shouted for the wagon to stop. So he's a hero, ain't he?"

"Well, I don't know about that," said Tom cheerily; "medals aren't so easy to get."

"There was a crazy feller near that wagon. I bet you were never crazy, were you?"

"Not so very."

"Will you help him to get the medal—Tyson?"

"Well, now, you let me tell you something," said Tom; "don't you pay so much attention to these fellows around camp. The main thing for you to do is to eat pie and stew and things. A lot of these fellows think it's easy to get medals. And they think it's fun to jolly little fellows like you. Don't you think about medals; you think about dinner."

"But after I get through thinking about dinner——"

"Then think about supper. You can't eat medals."

Goliath seemed to ponder on this undesirable truth. He soon fell behind and presently deserted Tom to edify a group of scouts near the boat landing.

Of course, Tom did not take seriously what Goliath had said about awards. He knew Tyson and he knew that Tyson would be the last one in the world to pose as a hero. But he also knew something of the disappointments which innocent banter and jollying had caused in camp. He knew that the wholesome spirit of fun in Roy Blakeley and others had sometimes overreached itself, causing chagrin. There was probably nothing to this business at all but, for precaution's sake, he would nip it in the bud.

One incidental result of his little chat with Goliath was that he was reminded of Hervey's exploit, a matter which he had entirely forgotten in his more pressing preoccupations. Tom was no hero maker and he knew that Hervey would only trip on the hero's mantle if he wore it. As time had gone on in camp, Tom had found himself less and less interested in the pomp and ceremony and theatrical clap-trap of awards. Bravery was in the natural course of things. Why make a fuss about it?

For that very reason, he was not going to have any heads turned with rapturous dreams of gold and silver awards. He was not going to have any new scouts' visit blighted by vain hopes. He did not care greatly about awards, but he cared a good deal about the scouts ...