“Getting all cleared up?” Tom asked in his usual sober but pleasant way.

Hervey Willetts was about to fly off the handle but something in Tom’s quiet, keen glance deterred him.

“You fellows going home soon?”

“Tuesday morning,” volunteered the Panthers’ patrol leader.  “We usually don’t stick to the finish.  We’re a troop of quitters, you know.”

“What did you quit?” asked Tom, taking his informant literally.

“Oh, never mind.”

“It’s all right, as long as you don’t quit each other,” Tom said, and strolled on to inspect the work of the other troops.

Hervey followed him and in a kind of reckless abandonment said, “Well, you see you were wrong after all—­I don’t care.  You said I’d win it.  So I put one over on you, anyway,” he laughed in a way of mock triumph.  “Tom Slade is wrong for once; how about that?  The rotten egg put one over on you.  See?  I’m the rotten egg—­the rotten egg scout.  I should bother my head!”

“Go back and pick up those stones, Willetts,” said Tom quietly, “and pile them up down by the woodshed.”

“You didn’t even tell them I saved that little bird, did you?” Hervey said, giving way to his feelings of recklessness and desperation.  “What do you suppose I care?  I don’t care what anybody thinks.  I do what I do when I do it; that’s me!  I don’t care a hang about your old badges—­I——­”

“Hervey,” said Tom; “go back and pile up those stones like I told you.  And don’t get mad at anybody.  You do just what I tell you.”

“Did you hear——­”

“Yop.  And I tell you to go back there and keep calm.  I’m not interested in badges either; I’m interested in scouts.  They’ll never be able to make a badge to fit you.  Now go back and do what I told you.  Who’s running this show?  You or I?”

CHAPTER XIX

THE GALA DAY

As long as the cheerful blaze near the lakeside gathers its scouts about it on summer evenings, Temple Camp will never forget that memorable Saturday night.  It is the one subject on which the old scout always discourses to the new scout when he takes him about and shows him the sights.

The one twenty-two train from the city brought John Temple, founder of Temple Camp, sponsor of innumerable scout enterprises, owner of railroads, banks, and goodness knows what all.  He was as rich as the blackberry pudding of which Pee-wee Harris (official cut-up of the Ravens) always ate three helpings at mess.

His coming was preceded by telegrams going in both directions, talks over the long distance ’phone, and when at last he came in all his glory, a rainbow troop consisting of honor scouts was formed to go down to Catskill Landing and greet him.  One scout who would presently be handed the Gold Cross for life saving was among the number.  Others were down for the Star Scout badge, and the silver and the bronze awards.  Others had passed with peculiar distinction the many and difficult tests for first-class scout.  One, a little fellow from the west, had won the camp award for signaling.  There were others, too, with attainments less conspicuous and who were not in this gala troop, but the whole camp was out to honor its heroes, one and all.