daily is considered of chief importance.  Nothing can supersede that.  It stands above and apart from all awards.  Kindness, brotherliness, helpfulness—­there is no metal precious enough to make a badge for these.”

As Mr. Temple turned to take the first award from Mr. Wade the assemblage broke into wild applause.  Perhaps Mr. Warren, sitting among his disappointed troop, hoped that Mr. Temple’s words would be taken to heart by the absent member.  But none of the troop made any comment.

After the distribution of a dozen or so merit badges, Mr. Temple called out, “Alfred McCord, Elk Patrol, First Bridgeboro, New Jersey Troop.”

There was a slight bustle among the Bridgeboro boys to make way for their little member who started threading his way among the throng, his thin little face lighted with a nervous smile of utter delight.

“Bully for Alf!” some one called.

“Greetings, Shorty,” another shouted.

He stood before Mr. Temple on the platform, trembling all over, and yet the picture of joy.  His big eyes stared with a kind of exaltation.  For once, his hair was smooth, and it made his face seem all the more gaunt and pale.  This was the crucial moment of his life.  He stood as straight as he could, his little spindle legs shaking, but his hand held up in the full scout salute to Mr. Temple.  Oh, but he was proud and happy.  If Hervey Willetts, wherever he was, saw him one brief thrill of pride and satisfaction must have been his.

“Alfred McCord,” said Mr. Temple; “your friends and I greet you as a scout of the second-class.  Let me place on you the symbol of your achievement.”

He stepped forward, just one step.  Oh, but he was happy.  He stood upon the platform, but he walked on air.  Mr. Temple shook hands with him—­Mr. John Temple, founder of Temple Camp!  Yes, sir, Skinny and Mr. John Temple shook hands.  And then the little fellow turned so that the audience might see his precious badge.  And the wrinkles at the ends of his thin little mouth showed very clearly as he smiled—­oh, such a smile.

Then the scouts of Temple Camp showed that their wonted disregard of Skinny was only because they did not understand him, queer little imp that he was.  For cheer after cheer arose as he stood there in a kind of bewilderment of joy.

“Hurrah, for the star tracker!”

“Three cheers for the sleuth of the forest!”

“No more tenderfoot!”

“Hurrah for S-S-S!” Which meant Skinny, second-class scout.

“I congratulate you, Alfred,” said Mr. Temple, pleased at the ovation.  “You have the eyes that see, and this feat of tracking which I have heard of is a fitting climax to all your efforts to win your goal—­to finish what you began.  Let every tenderfoot follow your example.  And may the scouts of the second-class welcome you with pride.”

Skinny saw Mr. Temple’s hand raised, saw the fingers formed to make the familiar scout salute—­the full salute.  The full salute for him!  He saw this and yet he did not see it; he saw it in a kind of daze.