Upon the makeshift rustic platform sat the high dignitaries, scoutmasters, trustees—­the faculty, as Hervey was fond of calling them.  In the big chair of honor in the center sat Mr. John Temple and alongside him Commissioner Something-or-Other and Committeeman Something Else.  They had come up from the big scout wigwam, in the dense woods on the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third Street, New York.

Resounding cheers arose and echoed from the hills when old Uncle Jeb Rushmore, retired ranchman and tracker, and scout manager of the big camp, took his seat among the high dignitaries.  He made some concession to the occasion by wearing a necktie which was half way around his neck, and by laying aside his corn-cob pipe.

Tom Slade, who sat beside his superior, looked none the less romantic in the scout regalia which he wore in honor of the occasion.  His popularity was attested as he took his seat by cries of “Tomasso!” “Oh, you, Tomasso!” “Where did you get that scout suit, Tomasso?” “Oh, you, Tommy boy!”

Tom, stolid and with face all but expressionless, received these tributes with the faintest suggestion of a smile.  “Don’t forget to smile and look pretty!” came from the rear of the assemblage.

As was usual at Temple Camp festivities, the affair began with three resounding cheers for Uncle Jeb, followed by vociferous appeals for a speech.  Uncle Jeb’s speeches were an institution at camp.  Slowly dragging himself to his feet, he sprawled over to the front of the platform and said in his drawling way: 

“I don’t know as thar’s anything I got ter say.  We’ve come out t’the end of our trail, en’ next season I hope we’ll see the same faces here.  You ain’t been a bad lot this year.  I’ve seen wuss.  I never seed a crowd that ate so much.  I reckon none uv yer hez got homes and yer wuz all starved when yer come.

    “Yer made more noise this season than anything I ever heard outside
    a Arizona cyclone. (Laughter) You’ve been noisy enough ter make a
    thunder-shower sound like a Indian lullaby. (Roars)

“If these here honor badges thet Mister Temple is goin’ ter hand out’ll keep yer quiet, I wish thar wuz more uv them.  As the feller says, speech is silver and silence is gold, so I’m for gold awards every time.  Onct I asked Buffalo Bill what wuz th’ main thing fer a scout n’ he says silence. (Uproarious laughter) So I reckon th’ best kind uv a boy scout is one that’s deaf and dumb, but I ain’t never seen none at this camp.  I guess they don’t make that kind.

    “I wish yer all good luck and I congratulate you youngsters that are
    getting awards.  If yer all got your just deserts——­”

“I get three helpings,” came a voice from somewhere in the audience.  It was the voice of Pee-wee Harris.  “I get my just desserts!”

Amid tumultuous cheering and laughter, old Uncle Jeb lounged back to his seat and Mr. John Temple arose.