A scoutmaster, a real, live scoutmaster, a pal of his? Why that was more wonderful than reading a signal.  Peter’s hands rubbed together nervously and he hedged, as a scout should never do.

“I want that scout to get that cup, the one that sent the message.  Could—­maybe could I see that cup—­if it’s in this car?”

In the excitement of the night, Scoutmaster Ned had forgotten all about the stunt cup (as they had come to call it).  He now brought it forth from under the rear seat and unwound the flannel rag that was around it and polished it a little as he held it up.  It shone in the bright morning sunlight and Peter saw his face in it.  That was strange, that Peter Piper of Piper’s Crossroads should see his own face looking at him from the radiant surface of a scout prize cup.  He had never even seen such a good mirror before.  He just gazed at it, and continued to gaze, as Scoutmaster Ned held it up. Awarded for the—­it shone so, he could hardly make out the words—­for the best all scout stunt of the season.

“It cost a lot of money, didn’t it?”

“Oh, something less than a couple of thousand dollars.  Look nice, standing on a scout’s table, huh?” Scoutmaster Ned gave it another little rub and contemplated it admiringly.  “We had enough of a fuss getting it, that’s sure.  See that Maltese Cross on it?  That’s our bi-troop sign.  We have two troops; always hang together.  A troop’s one bunch in scouting.  That kid thought the Maltese Cross meant that the cup was to drink malted milk out of.  He’s a three-ring circus, that kid.”

“It was a stunt to send that—­to make that light, wasn’t it?” Peter asked.

“Well, I’ll say it was,” said Scoutmaster Ned, giving the cup another admiring rub.

That settled it for Peter.  He could not match his poor little exploit against such miraculous performances.  The sight of those uniforms in the broad daylight had cowed him.  The sight of Nick Vernon’s signalling badge had brought him to his sober senses, and he felt ashamed even of his dreams and his pretending.  The brief glimpse he had had of Scout Harris in all his flaunting array, going forth to new conquests surrounded by infatuated disciples, these things settled it for poor Peter.  He thought himself lucky not to have drawn attention and been made a fool by those heroes.  Maybe they would not all have been as considerate as Scoutmaster Ned.  The safest thing, as well as the thing nearest to his heart, was to stand for Nick Vernon.  He could stand for him even if he was afraid of him.  After all, a pioneer scout was not really and truly a scout....

“I don’t know why I put the rope up,” he said nervously; “I just did.  There is a—­a bad place in the road if you’re going fast—­I’ll—­I just as soon show it to you—­if you don’t believe me.  I thought maybe the light—­but anyway I wasn’t sure—­and I’ll show you that bad place.  I guess he’ll sure win the cup, won’t he; the scout that made the light?”