THE SILVER CROSS
In spite of their long and careful preparation, the members of Troop
Five were not a little keyed up and excited when the night of the big
scout rally finally arrived. Each boy dressed with unusual care, and
the majority reached the parish-house some time before the hour named
for assembling. From here they marched in good order to the old-fashioned
frame building, whose entire third floor constituted the masonic hall,
where the performance was to come off. Another troop was close on
their heels, and, in their hurry to get there first, the boys pushed
and jostled one another on the narrow, twisting stairs. But in the
hallway above they paused to fall in, and at the word of command from
Mr. Curtis they marched through the double doors into the brightly
lighted assembly-room, wheeled smartly to the right, and took up their
position at one side of the doorway.
The hall was already well filled and resounded with the buzz of
conversation. Pretty girls in Red Cross costumes flitted among the
audience seeking contributions and memberships. By eight o'clock the
rows of chairs that packed over half the big room were occupied, and
there were people standing. When the doors were finally closed and the
entertainment began, the place was almost uncomfortably jammed by a
throng of proud mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters of the
performers, to say nothing of a great many other members of the
community who were interested in the movement or curious to see the
result of the past year's work.
The first thing on the program was a review and inspection of the entire
scout body by Captain Chalmers, who had unexpectedly obtained leave of
absence for the occasion. When this was over, there followed a brief
pause, during which the captain, standing before the long, double row
of boyish figures, in their trim, immaculate uniforms, conferred in
whispers with Scoutmaster Curtis, whom he had summoned from the line.
Instantly a faint, scarcely perceptible stir swept down the lines of
waiting scouts. What was coming? they asked themselves eagerly. Dale
Tompkins caught the captain's glance fixed on him for a moment, and
wondered uneasily whether anything was the matter with his equipment. He
had no time to grow seriously disturbed, however, before Mr. Curtis
returned to the head of the troop and the captain faced the audience.
"I dare say you have all heard more or less about our scout law and
the high principles it inculcates in every boy who promises to obey
it," he said in his pleasant, easy manner. "I'd like to tell you briefly
about the way two scouts right here in our own town applied some of the
most vital of these principles. The first incident happened late last
fall, when a powerfully charged electric wire was blown down in a storm
and dangled in the street. A small boy saw it, and, without realizing the
danger, grasped it in both hands. Instantly the current, passing into
his body, made him helpless. He screamed with pain and struggled to tear
himself loose, but in the throng that quickly gathered no one dared to
touch him. No one, that is, until one of the scouts I speak of appeared.
He had been a tenderfoot only a few days, but he was a true scout at
heart. Without hesitation he gripped the child by one shoulder and was
instantly flung the width of the street. Recovering, he remembered
something he had read about electricity and insulation, remembered
that paper was a good non-conductor and rubber even better. In a flash
he had wrapped about his hands some of the newspapers he carried, flung
down his waterproof delivery-bag to stand on, and went again to the aid
of the child, this time successfully. It was not only a brave deed, but
he kept his head; and when the danger was over he slipped quietly away
without waiting for either praise or thanks."
A burst of applause and hand-clapping came from the audience, and while
waiting for it to subside the captain glanced again toward Dale Tompkins.
This time he did not meet the boy's questioning glance, but saw only
drooping lids and a face flushed crimson. His smile deepened a little as
he raised one hand for silence.
"A few months later the other scout was skating with a companion on
Crystal Lake. He could swim only a few strokes, but when the second boy
broke through the ice he did not hesitate an instant in going to his
rescue. He was dragged into the water and nearly drowned, but he, too,
kept his head and held up his friend until help came.
"I like to think that the actions of those two boys was typical rather
than exceptional. I don't believe there is a scout here," his glance
swept the line of khaki-clad figures for an instant, "who, given the
chance to risk his life for another, would not respond exactly as these
boys did. When I heard of what they had done I applied to our national
council for honor medals such as are awarded to scouts for the saving of
life. They arrived some time ago, but I awaited this occasion to present
them. Scouts Dale Tompkins and Frank Sanson will please step forward."
Amid the thunder of applause that followed, Captain Chalmers turned and
faced the line of scouts again, two small square boxes in his hand.
Dazed, bewildered, and blushing furiously, Dale stood as if rooted to
the spot until Harry Vedder gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. Then he
stumbled forward a few steps, realized that another halting figure was
beside him, and, recovering a little, but with face still flushing, he
crossed the interminable space to where the captain stood.
One thing only was he thankful for at that moment--the heartening touch
of Sanson's shoulder against his own. To have faced the ordeal alone
would have been almost intolerable. He did not raise his eyes above the
third button on the captain's coat, and so he missed the look of pride
and approval the man bent on him as he pinned the silver cross upon the
boy's left breast.
"It is a great pleasure for me to give you this," he said, "and to thank
you in the name of the national council for having proved so great a
credit to the scouts."
Dale's hand went up, and he saluted. "Thank you, sir," he said in a low
tone.
"And remember, both of you," went on the captain, when he had placed the
second cross on Sanson's coat, "that it isn't the medal that counts, but
the deed which has earned it."
As the boys turned and marched back to their places the applause burst
out again with renewed vigor until it seemed as if it would never cease.
But at length it died away and the entertainment proceeded. Troop Three
started off with an exhibition of signaling which was swift, snappy,
and on the minute. Then came some tent-erecting, and, following that,
two troops combined to give an elaborate and graphic exhibition of their
expertness in first aid, which met with much favor. When this was over,
the troops who had finished lined up and stood at ease on either side
of the center to give Troop Five room for their evolutions.
Bob Gibson's position was directly in front of the closed double doors
leading into the hall. He had scarcely taken it before he became
conscious of a distinct odor of something burning. For a moment he was
uneasy; then he remembered that there was a register just behind him, and
decided that the janitor had probably chosen this auspicious moment to
consume in the furnace the rubbishy accumulation of several offices
on the lower floors.
When the applause that greeted their appearance had subsided, Mr. Curtis
stepped forward to explain briefly the purpose of their drill. He had
scarcely spoken more than a sentence or two when Gibson became aware of
a slight stir among some of the audience and noticed that a number of
those in the front row seemed to be staring fixedly at his feet.
A flush mounted to Bob's forehead. He was quite sure his shoes were
immaculately polished. He also realized perfectly that he ought not
notice the audience, but remain rigidly at attention. But presently
curiosity got the better of discipline. He shot a furtive glance at
his feet--a glance that flashed sidewise beyond the trim shoes and
well-fitting leggings to rest in dumb, horrified amazement on the crack
extending below the double doors, through which a thin line of smoke
was slowly trickling.