A tense silence prevailed. Pee-wee gasped, speechless. Even the exuberant Roy stared. “What do—you—know—about—that!” Doc Carson whispered to Artie Van Arlen. As Westy had been staring spellbound all along, no turn in his thoughts was visible in his features. Warde Hollister, of all the boys in the troop, seemed unperturbed. Level-headed and sensible scout that he was, he had let the others do the hoping, and the shouting.

“We don’t get it,” whispered Dorry Benton.

“Look!” whispered Wig Weigand to Warde.

But the figure that came sauntering down the aisle was not Edwin Carlisle, the hero. A queer enough figure he looked in that representative assemblage in his faded trousers and blue flannel shirt. Rough, uncouth and unaccustomed to such environment, he still bore a certain air of serene heedlessness to all this pomp and circumstance, as if he were concerned only with that which was really significant and vital. One could not say of him that he seemed at home, for that would be paying the place an unconscious tribute. His calm assurance and easy strength seemed to imply that the whole world was his home and that one place was much like another to him.

He paused half-way down the aisle and then for the first time the boys in the front row saw him, just as he began to speak. Westy Martin stared aghast like one seeing a ghost and his heart thumped in his throat as he listened.

“I d’no’s I oughter speak out ’n meetin’, as the feller says, but I got somethin’ ter say in this here jamboree.”

A silence like the silence of the grave followed. One astonished girl (it might have been Doris Martin) said something undistinguishable in an amazed, audible whisper.

“I been in the Yallerstone,” drawled the speaker, “an’ I like what you said—you gent. But I’m interested in somethin’ bigger ’n the Yallerstone an’ that’s a kid yer got here. He’s big enough ter make the Yallerstone look like one er them there city grass-plots I see. I’m talkin’ ter you, mister, an’ before you go ter makin’ any plunge yer better listen. I was goner speak out when you says somethin’ ’baout shootin’ deer, but I didn’.

“I’m down off a farm up Dawson way owned by his uncle—this here kid I’m talkin’ ’baout. And if he’s settin’ roun’ here anywheres an’ hears me tell any lies ’baout him he can up an’ call me a liar. Then I’ll let him have—jes—two—shots—that’ll shut ’im up.”

“Gracious!” Some lady said shuddering. “Is he a lunatic?”

“Two shots, one big and one little I got in my pocket and I’ll tell him to his face that he’s a little rascal of a prince. Yer happen ter be anywheres around, Westy?”

Silence, save for nervously fidgeting figures and people down in front turning and craning to see this strange apparition.

“Stand up, Westy, cause yer got ter go through with it and I’m down off the farm ter take care o’ that. Some o’ you youngsters make him stand up, wherever he is.”

They made him stand up, and there he stood, nervous, ashamed, gulping. He longed to be near Ira, to say “This is my friend,” yet he could not bring himself even to look at him.

“There yer are—thanks, you boys. Now, mister, that there kid had a hunderd dollars saved up ter go to Yallerstone Park; he worked fer it, chorin’ roun’ on the farm, helpin’ me hayin’ an’ what all. He starts home with his hunderd dollars an’ sees a deer in the woods what’s been dropped but ain’t killed—don’t leave ’im sit down, you boys.

“Now, mister, he shoots that deer in the head and kills it ter end its sufferings. He don’t know no more ’baout shootin’ than a drunken maniac but at two or three inches he killed his deer. All right, mister. Then he goes ter Barrett’s, a little settlement up our way. I d’no what he goes fer. But I’m thinkin’ he goes ter see the man that shot that deer first off. Leastways, when that man got the blame like he deserved, this kid he up and says it was him killed the deer. So ’twas, the little rascal, but you see how ’twas. Well, he gets arrested an’ he pays out his precious hunderd dollars and comes home and says he killed a deer and gets a good tongue lashin’ and loses his gun, but he sticks fast.

“Now all I come here fer now is ter let you folks in onter that stunt o’ his an’ ask you if he gets his trip to the Yallerstone that he cheated himself out of, or not. I don’t know nuthin’ ’baout kind turns ’cause I ain’t never did none, but I wanter know if this here kid gets his trip out Yallerstone way or not. Now, if I’m lyin’ he’ll tell yer so, ’cause I understand these scout fellers don’t lie. I jes wanter know if he gets his trip out Yallerstone way or not.”