UNCLE JEB
At five o'clock every seat around the open air platform was occupied.
Every bench out of Scout Chapel, the long boards on which the hungry
multitude lined up at supper-time, every chair from Council Shack and
Main Pavilion, and many a trunk and cedar chest from tents and cabins
and a dozen other sorts of makeshift seating accommodations were laid
under contribution for the gala occasion. And even these were not
enough, for the whole neighboring village turned out in a body, and
gaping summer boarders strolled into the camp in little groups, thankful
for something to do and see.
There was plenty doing. Those who could not get seats sprawled under the
trees in back of the seats and a few scouts perched up among the
branches.
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.