Tom had waited patiently for Hervey to arrive. His propensity for not arriving had troubled Tom. But whether by chance or otherwise there he was, and Tom lost no time in getting to his feet.

"Before the court closes," he said, "I want to ask to have a blank filled out to be sent to the National Honor Court, on a claim for the Gold Cross award. I would like to get it endorsed by the Local Council to-day so it will get to National Headquarters Monday."

You could have heard a pin drop in that room. The magic words Gold Cross brought every whispering, dallying scout to attention. There was a general rustle of straightening up in seats. The continuous departing ceased. Faces appeared at the open windows.

The Gold Cross.

Mr. Denny looked at Tom. The young assistant, in his usual negligÉe, was very offhand and thoroughly at ease. He seemed to know what he was talking about. All eyes were upon him.

"If you want the detailed statements of the three witnesses written out, that can be done. But the National Court will take the recommendation without that if it's endorsed by the Local Council. That was done in the case of Albert Nesbit, who won the Gold Cross here three years ago. I'd rather do it that way."

"What is the name, Mr. Slade?"

"Willetts—Hervey Willetts. You spell it with two T's."

"This can be done without witnesses, on examination, Mr. Slade."

"The winner isn't a good subject for examination," said Tom; "I think the witnesses would be better."

"Just so."

"I might say," said Tom, "that this is the first chance I've had to tell about this thing. On the night of the storm I sent Willetts from the cove and told him to catch the bus and stop it before it reached the bridge. I didn't think he could do it but I didn't say so. He had two miles to go through the storm, running all the way. The wind was in his face. Of course we all know what the storm was. His scoutmaster had told him not to leave camp. If this was an emergency then it comes under By-law Twenty-seven. You'll have to decide that. It was on account of the flood I took him, not on account of the bus. The lake was running out."

"Did he reach the bus?" Mr. Fuller asked.

"He reached the bus, but he doesn't know how. The last he remembered is that he fell because his foot was caught in a hole. I don't know, nobody knows how he did that thing. Here's a man who was in the woods that night and saw him. He met him about half way and says he was so exhausted and excited he couldn't speak. He told this man that he had to hurry on to save some people's lives. He meant the people in the bus. How he got from the place where he fell to the bus is a mystery. When he did get there he couldn't speak, so he grabbed one of the horses. His foot was wrenched and he was unconscious.

"When they got him in the bus he muttered something and they thought he was talking about his foot. It was the bridge he was talking about. But what he said prompted Mr. Carroll to send another scout forward, and he stopped the bus. That's all there is to it. He got there and it nearly killed him. Darby Curren, who is here to tell you, thought he was a spook.

"Now these three people, Mr. Hood, Darby Curren and Mr. Carroll, can tell you what they know about it. It's one of those cases where the real facts didn't come out. Hervey Willetts saved the lives of twenty-two people at grave danger to his own. That satisfies the handbook. He doesn't care four cents about the Gold Cross, but right is right, and I'm here to see that he gets it. Stand up, Hervey. Stand out in the aisle." Suddenly Tom was seated.

So there stood the wandering minstrel, alone. Even his champion was not in evidence. Nor was his troop there to share the glory with him. His scoutmaster was there, but he seemed too dazed to speak. And so the stormy petrel stood alone, as he would always stand alone. Because there was no one like him.

"Willetts is the name? Hervey Willetts?"

"I got a middle name, but I don't bother with it."

"What troop?"

And so the cut and dried business, so strange and unattractive to Hervey, of filling in the blank, went on. He did not greatly care for indoor sports. There was a lull in the general interest. Scouts began lounging and whispering again.

In that interval of restlessness, an observant person might have noticed, sitting in the back part of the room, the rather ungainly figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, organizer of the Church Mice of Newburgh. He seemed to be the center of a clamoring, interested, little group.

Roy Blakeley's brown, crinkly hair could be seen through the gaps made by other heads. Gaylong's knees were up against the back of the seat in front of him, thus forming a sort of slanting desk, on which he held a writing tablet. His head was cocked sideways as if in humorous but stern criticism of his own work. On somebody's suggestion he wrote something then crossed it out. There were evidently too many cooks at the broth, but he was ludicrously patient and considerate, being no doubt chief cook himself. There was something very funny about his calm, preoccupied demeanor amid that clamoring throng. The proceedings in the room interested him not.

Nor did the business interest many others now. There was a continuous drift toward the door and the crowd of loiterers outside increased and became noisy. The wandering minstrel stood alone.

The voice of the chairman droned on, "Hill cabin twenty-two. Right. We will talk with these gentlemen afterwards. It may be a week or two before you get this, Willetts. It has to come from the National Court of Honor. Meanwhile, the Camp thanks you, and is proud of you, for your extraordinary feat of heroism. It's most unusual——"

"Trust him for that," some one interrupted.

"I could run faster than that if I had sneaks," said Hervey.

"I'm afraid no one would have seen you at all, then," said Mr. Carlson.

"All you've got to do is double your fists and look through them and you can see a mile. It's like opera glasses."

"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 assistant.

"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 grass. There was a little ripple of murmuring as he passed 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 shell 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....