Back across the still bosom of Black Lake, again and again, the cheers reverberated, drowning the closing words of Mr. Ellsworth's speech.

Pee-wee Harris, standing on the seat, waved his scarf and shouted himself hoa.r.s.e. Roy, with the announcement megaphone, called, "Oh, you Toma.s.so!"

Raymond Hollister clapped his hands.

"Spooch, spooch-speak a spooch!" called Roy.

Tom, with his face scarlet, shook his head as Mr. Ellsworth looked at him and the scoutmaster held up a staying hand in sympathy with his embarra.s.sment. "He says he'd rather eat," he said.

"Three cheers for the eats!" shouted Roy, irrepressibly.

"The eats" after being uproariously cheered, were forthwith a.s.sailed until there was nothing left of them, and all agreed that the meal beat the regulation Temple Camp Sunday dinner twenty ways. And that was saying a good deal.

"And now," said Mr. Ellsworth, "since this celebration originated in the fertile brain of the renowned leader of the Silver Foxes--"

"Wait, give them a chance to cheer me," interrupted Roy.

"I think it is my duty to put the balance of our program into his able hands."

"Excuse me while I blush," said Roy.

"There are, I believe, a few remembrances and these it shall be his pleasure to bring forward. I present to you," he added, smiling, "the most silvery fox of them all, Roy Blakeley."

"Why pick on me?" said Roy. "I thought I was going to be the b.u.t.tered toast master, but it seems I'm to be the souvenir slinger. I should worry. I go where duty calls, and I wouldn't run after any job-especially if it's a good runner.

"Scouts and sprouts," he continued, with a sly glance at Pee-wee; "now you're supposed to say, 'Hear, hear!'"

"Hear, hear!" they called, laughingly.

"I thank you. There are several things for the Honorable Toma.s.so Slade, otherwise known as Thomas the Silent, or Sherlock n.o.body Holmes of Bridgeboro, N. G. Toma.s.so Slade is a home-made scout-I mean a _self_-made scout-and he's made so as he can't smile." (He was beginning to smile however.) "The first present is from his boyhood's friend, Roy Blakeley (that's me) and it is intended to make him laugh."

He handed across the table a turkey feather with a bow of ribbon tied about it. "And this," he added, lifting the huge elk's head to the board and smiling at Tom's surprise, "is from Mr. Rushmore; its history, by Mr.

Rushmore himself, is writ, wrot, wrote-on that piece of paper tied to the horns."

Tom lifted the panel with the n.o.ble head and magnificent antlers and as the boys crowded about him he could only look toward Jeb with his eyes swimming.

"That's all right, Tommy," smiled Jeb, as pleased as Tom himself.

The cat's collar belt was handed over amid much laughter, and various other small tokens, some humorous and all of a kind easily made or procurable in the woodland community. The wireless set almost knocked Tom off his feet, and when it was followed by the bugle with the Elk patrol names engraved upon it, he was overwhelmed.

Thomas Slade William Bronson Theodore Bronson Connover Bennet George O'Connor Charles O'Connor Wade Van Ester

He blinked as he gazed at the highly polished metal, at the names which had meant labor and long effort for him, and which bespoke his success.

His hand almost shook as he fumbled the silken ta.s.sel of the beautiful instrument, and the familiar names upon it seemed like fifty names wrought into an intricate design.

"That's all right, Tom," said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling and placing a rea.s.suring hand on his shoulder. "They understand."

But it was Roy who came to his rescue, as he had done more than once before, and saved him further embarra.s.sment.

"Blow it, Toma.s.so," said he. "Maybe you can blow up your other recruit if you blow loud enough."

"Sure, maybe it'll be like the shot heard round the world," said Pee-wee.

"Or like the music of old Ichabod Crane, which they say is still heard in Sleepy Hollow," said Mr. Ellsworth. "Perhaps it will be heard months hence."

"Blow for him, anyway," said Roy. "He'll come some day, you can bet, and we'll all wish it at the same time, while you're blowing, Tom. Go ahead!"

Tom raised the bugle to his lips laughing, and as he blew l.u.s.tily the echo of its attenuated final note was borne back with the freshening night breeze, like a faint answer from the encompa.s.sing hills.

"He is here," said an impa.s.sive voice.

They all stood staring, the scouts still at their places and those cl.u.s.tered about Tom, and saw Garry Everson standing in his place in the characteristic att.i.tude which was familiar to them all, one hand on his hip, the other in his pocket.

As they stared at him, Jeffrey Waring, gulping nervously, rose from his seat and stood beside him for a second. Then, at Garry's nod, he moved around to Tom's side.

"Tell him your name," said Garry, smiling, "They'll want it for the bugle, you know."

"My name is Harry Stanton," he said, hesitatingly, but seriously.

"And you fellows," said Garry quietly, "had better take him home to his mother and father before you make any other plans. I'm not going to do _your_ work for you. I've done my part. It's for you to take him back.

May I look at that bugle?"

But Tom did not hand him the bugle. He stood rooted to where he stood, staring like an idiot.

Some one stooped and picked up the bugle which had fallen to the ground.

CHAPTER XI GARRY'S STORY AND HARRY STANTON'S

It was around the glowing camp fire on that memorable night that the wondering boys heard Garry Everson's simple, unboastful tale of the new kind of first-aid which had helped him to solve the mystery of Jeffrey Waring and put Tom Slade in the way of realizing his fondest dream-that of returning Harry Stanton to his young sister and his home.

"If we looked like beans, I'd say you were trying to string us," observed Roy, as he sat in his familiar posture near the fire, his knees drawn up and his hands clasped about them. "It beats anything _I_ ever heard. Our beloved scoutmaster will have to go away, way back and sit down."

Mr. Ellsworth, still half incredulous, shook his head. "The pity of it is," said he, "that there's no merit badge for this kind of first-aid.

There can be no doubt of the truth of this thing, I suppose?" he added.

Garry laughed good-naturedly. "I wish I could be as sure of his having the boat for his own-now that he's somebody else. It's one peacherino."

"And you suspected that first night, you say?"

"Well, no-not exactly. You fellows have got to remember that my father was an alienist, if you know what that is, and I've heard him tell about just such troubles as Harry's. So I don't deserve much credit. Only I had to be very careful. You can see yourselves it wasn't a case for bandages and splints and things."

"It would be pretty hard to give you too much credit," Doc Carson said.

"The first thing I noticed," Garry went on, "was the way Tom stared when he first saw him that night up in the woods. He was sure he'd seen him before. I didn't think much about that though till afterwards when other little things set me thinking and then I remembered about it and I began to put two and two together. When Jeffrey told me where he belonged I remembered about the old gentleman in Vale Centre who came home one time with a young fellow he called his nephew and how all the people in the village wondered who the nephew was. They didn't live near enough for me to know much about them and I don't know as I ever saw Jeffrey until that night up on the mountain.

"Well, it was while we were bringing Mr. Waring down through the woods on the stretcher that Tom said something about the Stantons-he just mentioned the name sort of off-hand, and I noticed that Jeffrey stared at him and looked sort of worried or puzzled, kind of, and then started in again chattering in that way of his.