Billy Simpson did not immediately follow Brent Gaylong to the camp-fire
but stayed to haul the canoe up and put the paddle and lazy-back in the
locker. He was very particular to disabuse his mind of the remotest
thought that this was a good turn. Brent Gaylong had started him
thinking, as Brent Gaylong had a way of doing. Brent had not even
offered to attend to this trifling duty. Billy paused a moment, paddle
in hand, pondering. He could see the ambling figure of his friend,
visible as in a spotlight, as he approached the campfire. He heard a
chorus of merry voices greet him.
“Here’s old Brent!”
“Look who’s here; old Grouch Gaylong!”
“Tell us a yarn, Brent.”
“Go on, tell us a funny one.”
“Good old Brent! Sit down here with us; take this milk stool.”
“Tell us a story, go on, Brent.”
“Hurrah for old Doctor Gaylong.”
“Give the professor of philosophy a seat!”
“Give him a couple of seats.”
“Go on, criticise us, Brent!”
Billy Simpson listened wistfully. He envied the popularity of his
whimsical, humorous friend. He was going to win many badges, oh many,
_many_. But would he ever win the frank love of the whole camp? He was a
scout, yes. But Brent Gaylong was a personality. Brent Gaylong, Pee-wee
Harris, they were more than just scouts; they were _characters_. They
had reached the hearts of the camp. One had ambled in, the other had
rushed in. But both of them dwelt in the hearts of the camp.
Would he, Bill Simpson, ever do that? He could talk with Brent or with
any other scout there. He was a good chum. But he could not handle them
all. He was just a little too shy for that. He was even shy with the
Ravens, his own patrol. Scout Harris had the camp eating out of his
hand. He admitted it. And surely he must have known. On a question of
eating, who was a greater authority than he?
Billy Simpson might have hurried after Brent, but he did not, and now it
was too late, and he just could not approach the camp-fire alone. There
were so many of them there! He was not afraid of any one of them. He was
not exactly _afraid_ of all of them. But he was shy. He would draw
attention if he joined them now. He was not good in a crowd like
Brent--and Pee-wee....
He perched on the railing of the float and looked off on the
moon-glinted water of the lake, and on the dark surrounding hills. He
was not afraid of all the wonderful scout stunts that he was going to
do, and so he thought of those. Those, at all events, did not abash him.
Astronomy, the First Class badge, Angling, Athletics, Cooking, Forestry,
Marksmanship, First Aid, star scout, _eagle scout_!
_Eagle scout!_ The man in the moon looked down on Billy Simpson sitting
on the railing, and winked his eye, as if to say, “Go to it, Billy.” And
in his joy, his elation, with all these honors of scouthood swarming in
his mind he looked up at the man in the moon and said, with the very joy
of Christmas time beating in his heart, “Yes, and I’ll study you too,
old top. And you stars, too, I’ll make you show me the way home yet, I
will. A scout,” he mused, “a scout can speak to a scout--with signals--a
scout can speak to a scout miles and miles off--”
He paused in his joyful reverie, and gazed out upon the glinting water.
Yes, a scout was speaking to him already--from far off! For bobbing
toward him in the moonlight was the gallant balloon of the Catskill
Garage, dripping from its adventurous voyage, and dragging after it the
dancing olive bottle with its invisible message to the world.
Billy Simpson might keep away from the festive throng, but he could not
get away from Scout Harris.