From his conversation with Tom, Mr. Denny knew (if indeed he had not known it before) that the young assistant had a strong liking for this bah, bah black sheep. He knew that Tom had been responsible for Hervey's latest truancy and he believed that Tom, knowing that a little trick was the only way to bring Hervey back, might have played such a little trick, then sent him up the hill to square himself.

Mr. Denny was quite in sympathy with the stunt and double dare business, but he did not approve of trying to circumvent Hervey by dangling the Gold Cross before his eyes. He was afraid that Hervey would not forget this and that the disappointment would be keen. As we know, Tom was dead set against this kind of thing. Mr. Denny did not know that. But he did know that Hervey was unfamiliar with the rigorous requirements for winning the highest award, for most of the pages in Hervey's handbook had been used to make torches and paper bullets. Mr. Denny was resolved that Tom Slade should not get away with such tactics unrebuked. He was resolved to speak to the Honor Court about it in the morning. He would not have one of his boys made the victim of vain hopes....

Early in the morning, Tom took a little stroll with Robin Hood and improved his acquaintance. Tom liked odd people as much as Hervey did and he found this unfortunate stranger rather interesting. One thing, in particular, he learned from him which was of immediate interest to him and which Hervey, with characteristic heedlessness, had forgotten to mention.

"I dare say we can dig you up something to do," said Tom, "when the work on the dam gets started. That'll be in two or three days, I guess. Suppose you hang around."

"I'd like to stay right here for the rest of the summer," said the young fellow. "I'm out of luck and I'm all in."

"France?" Tom queried. For soldiers out of luck were not uncommon in camp.

"No, just hard luck; lost my grip, that's all."

"Well, hang around and maybe you'll pull together. I've seen lots of shell-shock; had it myself, in fact."

"Oh, it's nothing like that."

"Come in and see the Supreme Court in session, won't you? It's great. We have this twice during the summer. Reminds you of the League of Nations in session.... H'lo, Shorty, what are you here for? More merit badges?"

Outside the main pavilion the choicest spirits of camp were loitering; Pee-wee Harris still working valiantly on the end of his breakfast, Roy Blakeley of the Silver Foxes, Bert Winton on from Ohio with the Bengal Tigers, and Brent Gaylong, leader of the Church Mice from Newburgh. He was a sort of scoutmaster and patrol leader rolled into one, was Brent, a lanky, slow moving fellow with a funny squint to his face, and a quiet way of seeing the funny side of things. You had only to look at him to laugh.

"Tickets purchased from speculators not good," he was saying.

Inside, the place was half filled with scouts, with a sprinkling of scoutmasters. The members of the resident Court of Honor were already seated behind a table and business was going forward. Much had already been despatched.

After a little while Mr. Denny came in and sat down. Other scoutmasters sauntered in, and scouts singly and in groups. One proud scout went out with three new merit badges and was vociferously cheered outside.

Another didn't quite make the pathfinder's badge; another the camp honor flag for good turns. Still another got the Life Scout badge, and so it went. Honor jobs for the ensuing week were given out. There were many strictly camp awards, not found in the handbook. The Temple Paddle was awarded to a proud canoeist. Scouts came and went. Sometimes the interest was keen and sometimes it lagged.

Hervey Willetts came sauntering up from the boat landing, his hat at a rakish angle, and trying to balance an oar-lock on his nose. He had an air of wandering aimlessly so that his arrival at the pavilion seemed quite a matter of chance. A morning song was on his lips:

The life of a scout is sweet,
is sweet,
The rubbish he throws in the street,
the street.
He uses soft words,
And he shoots all the birds;
The life of a scout is sweet.

Being a lone, blithe spirit, a kind of scout skylark as one might say, he had not many friends in camp. The rank and file laughed at him, were amused at his naÏve independence, and regarded him, not as a poor scout, but rather as not exactly a scout at all. They did not see enough of him; he flew too high. He was his own best companion.

Consequently when he sauntered with a kind of whimsical assurance into that exalted official conclave most of them thought that he had dropped in as he might have dropped into the lake. There was a little touch of pathos, too, in the fact that the loiterers outside did not speak to him as he passed in. It was just that they did not know him well enough; he was not one of them. He was the oddest of odd numbers, a stormy petrel indeed, and they did not know how to take him.

So he was alone amid three hundred scouts....