Consternation reigned. In the front row, where the First Bridgeboro Troop sat, confusion prevailed. Pee-wee, in accordance with the old precept of “Off with the old love, on with the new,” forgot for the moment Warde’s chagrin and shouted uproariously for Westy.

“It’s going to be in our troop anyway!” he yelled. “It’s just the same only different!”

And meanwhile, a trim-looking boy, Edwin Carlisle, was standing in the audience waiting patiently and smiling, somewhat embarrassed.

Mr. Atwater turned and conferred with his colleagues on the platform. Pee-wee, restrained by his nearest neighbors, subsided into silence. Westy (probably more utterly wretched than any one in the hall) tried to silence excited questioners. “Who is he?” “Is it true?” “Is he crazy?” “Did you ever see him before?” “I bet it’s the truth!” These and similar whispered comments were showered upon him and he could only keep looking about sheepishly, as if he were ashamed to have the spectators behold this fuss.

The boy, Edwin Carlisle, standing quietly among his sitting colleagues some distance off, made a rather pathetic picture. His was not an easy rÔle but he bore himself with a demeanor of patience and good humor.

And meanwhile, the outlandish stranger who had “shot up” the meeting remained like a statue half-way down the aisle calmly awaiting an answer to his question. Once it seemed as if he were on the point of lighting his pipe, but he did not do that.

It was Mr. Atwater who put an end to this rather embarrassing interval.

“Just be seated—a few moments—my boy,” he said, addressing the Carlisle boy. Then to Ira he said, “Suppose you come up here on the platform, my friend, if you don’t mind; we’d like to speak with you.”

Ira did not seem to mind. He ambled the rest of the way down the aisle, turned to the left past a troop of scouts who stared at him as if he were a trapper or a cowboy, and up the steps to the stage. Then for the first time everybody saw him. Mrs. Ashly (conspicuous in the Woman’s Club) arose as if on a sudden impulse and shook hands with him cordially. He looked out of place but not ill at ease. He had walked through the audience as a man might walk through a forest.

Scarcely was he on the platform when something happened. A rather large man, with a big, round, rugged face stood up in the audience. He was an elderly man and dangled a pair of glasses as he spoke.

“May I join you ladies and gentlemen on the platform?” he asked.

“You bet you may,” came the genial response from Mr. Atwater. “If we had known you were there, Mr.——”

“It’s Mr. Temple! It’s Mr. Temple!” whispered Pee-wee excitedly. “Oh, boy, it’s Mr. Temple! Now there’s going to be something doing—shhh!”

“Listen to who’s saying shhh!” whispered Roy.

“Shhhh, there’s going to be something doing, there’s going to be something doing,” said Pee-wee.

“There is,” said Roy grimly. “You’re going to be thrown out if you don’t shut up.”