“By Sam Hooker, you’re right, boy,” cried the ranchman heartily, “and it’s a privilege to meet such a bunch of fine lads.  I thought all you Easterners were a bunch of stuck-up tenderfeet, but I find I’m wrong—­anyhow so far as the Boy Scouts are concerned.”

A few minutes later the rancher and his son were hastening to the railroad station, followed by the boys’ eyes.  As they entered the depot, just in time to catch the New York train—­they waved a hearty farewell and the boys waved and shouted in return.

“We’ve only known them a few hours, but I feel as if I’d just said good-bye to two friends,” said Rob as they turned away and prepared to go back to the island in their boat and break camp.

“So do I!” said Tubby; “I wonder if we’ll ever see them again.”

“No, I guess they’re kind of ships that pass in the night,"’ laughed Merritt, “however, I’m glad we did them a good turn.”

The boys, however, were destined to meet the ranchers again and to have many strange and exciting adventures, among which the ultimate downfall of Silver Tip was to be one.  Could they have looked into the future, too, they would have seen that in the Far West they were to face dangers and difficulties of which they had as yet never dreamed and were to be the victims of the malicious contrivings of Bill Bender and our old, acquaintance, Jack Curtiss.

A few weeks after the events related above there was great excitement in Hampton over the announcement that Merritt’s courageous act of life-saving and the achievements of the other young scouts of the Eagle Patrol were to receive official recognition.  A field secretary of the organization arrived at the village one evening and was met at the depot by the Patrol in full uniform, and with the village band drawn up at their head.  Proudly, under the Eagle standard, they marched to the Town Hall, which had been illuminated in a style the villagers would never have believed possible and were greeted by the local committee headed by Commodore Wingate and Mr. Blake.

“Three cheers for the Boy Scouts!” came from a voice in the back of the crowded hall after the honors had been distributed and the advances in rank announced.

The shout that went up cracked the plaster on the ceiling of the venerable building.

“Speech, speech,” shouted one of those individuals who always do raise that cry on the slightest excuse.

Rob Blake, very red and protesting, was hustled to the front of the stage on which the Scouts had been drawn up.

“I can’t make a speech,” he began.

“Hear!  Hear!” shouted the crowd, most of whom couldn’t.

“But on behalf of the Boy Scouts I want to thank you all and—­ and—­”

The rest was drowned by the band which, having been quiescent for ten whole minutes, could maintain silence no longer and blared out into that favorite of all village bands, “Hail to the Chief.”