WHAT CAME OUT OF A TEA PARTY
By five o’clock the next afternoon every member of the Young Aviators
Club was at the Trevor home, including George Atkins and Roger
Mercer, who had not been present at the fight, and the expelled Sammy
Addington. Mr. Trevor did not know that Art had been forced to use
considerable argument in a few cases. Marshal Walter’s action in
visiting the homes of nearly all the boys had brought swift parental
action. These actions ran all the way from Connie’s prohibition of
river joys to sound thrashings. Some of the boys were convinced that
Mr. Trevor’s invitation meant a second edition of punishment. They had
to be assured that it was perfectly safe to be present.
“Boys,” began Mr. Trevor when his thirteen guests had been partly
satisfied with cold meats and potato salad and were waiting for the ice
cream and cake, “I’ve asked you here to talk to you about some things
I learned and saw while I was abroad. And it isn’t about castles
or cathedrals either. It’s about something you boys are interested
in――camping out and games.”
Inquiring looks passed from boy to boy.
“I wish we could go camping like you took Art once,” suggested Wart
Ware.
“Did you see boys camping out in England?” asked Sammy, whose smiling
face could be seen next to Mrs. Trevor at the foot of the table.
“I certainly did,” answered Mr. Trevor. “And it was a mighty fine lot
of boys, every one of them looking like a gentleman.” Guilty looks
showed here and there about the table. “But I’ll come to that in a
minute. I want to tell you a story first. How many of you ever heard of
Baden-Powell?”
Dead silence followed. Then Alex Conyers said:
“It sounds like a health resort in Germany. Were you there?”
“It isn’t a health resort,” laughed Mr. Trevor. “It’s a man’s
name. But, in a way he might be called a health reviser, for it is
this man who is making so many strong vigorous gentlemen out of
thousands――hundreds of thousands――of English boys. And it is this man
who has set all young England camping out and learning the country and
the ways of outdoor-things and playing games that injure no one. He
has even made it unpopular and even unnecessary for boys to fight each
other to find fun.”
This shot went home. Thirteen boys looked at their plates or at the
ceiling in silence.
“Then he’s the Boy Scout man, isn’t he?” finally ventured Alex Conyers.
“He is. And that’s what I want to talk about. While I was in London
I met a friend, a grown man like me, who has taken a great deal of
interest in Boy Scouts and their work. On a Saturday he took me where
an encampment of Scouts was being held. Never,” went on Mr. Trevor,
leaning forward in his enthusiasm, “have I so much wanted to be a
boy again. Boys, it was great. The encampment was in a valley near a
heavy forest. There was a stream with rushes and swimming pools and
a tall white staff with the Scout flag fluttering――a flag that went
up at sunrise with salute and came down at sundown with the Scouts at
‘present arms.’ There were tents in the valley and among the trees;
company cook-houses and dining tents and shelters for Scouts by twos
and fours. Not even in the army are things neater or more in order.”
“What’d they do?” asked Colly Craighead impulsively.
“Obey orders like soldiers,” replied Mr. Trevor, “and play all day. And
in their play they learn how to do a hundred things a boy can’t learn
in school: how to track and capture an animal; how to trail a man like
the Indians and old scouts used to do; how to take care of themselves
in the woods――make camp with nothing; how to make a fire and cook; how
to help persons in trouble, to dress a wound, to revive the drowning,
to act promptly and effectively in all moments of danger; how to give a
helping hand to old and young; and how, above all, to help themselves.
In short, how to form good habits while at play――to be patriotic,
honest and generous from choice.”
“Were you in a regular Boy Scout camp?” asked Art at the first chance.
“Saturday afternoon and Sunday,” answered Mr. Trevor. “That’s why I
want to tell you boys about it.”
“An’ did this Mr. What’s-his-name make all the Boy Scouts?” inquired
Duke Easton.
“General Baden-Powell is a famous English soldier,” answered Mr.
Trevor with spirit. “And he loves his country so much that he wants all
English boys to grow up to be patriotic and brave Englishmen,” he went
on. “It’s not because he expects all Boy Scouts to become soldiers,”
explained the host, “but many English Boy Scouts will. And those that
do will have eyes and ears and hands to work with. Let me tell you why
General Baden-Powell thinks everyone should know how to see things and
know what they mean. It is an anecdote told me by General Baden-Powell
himself.
“General Baden-Powell,” went on Mr. Trevor as the boys drew their
chairs closer, “is, as I said, a great soldier. He has achieved honors
of all kinds. And he became famous because, wherever England sent
him――to Afghanistan, India, Egypt or Lower Africa――he saw things and
figured out what they meant. And,” explained the story teller with a
smile, “he saw things with his own eyes because he loved nature and was
a hunter. When he came to America, old-time scouts were his friends.
He knew Buffalo Bill, and with him shot elk and mountain sheep in the
west. Then a time came when he was sent to Central Africa to put down
the savage Matabeles. Then this thing happened:
“General Baden-Powell’s troops had been chasing the savages through an
unknown region where, among the hills, the natives easily concealed
themselves. The soldiers did their best to locate a certain band of
Matabeles but without success. Before daybreak one morning Baden-Powell
set out alone to see what he could find. Riding back and forth over the
pathless veldt, or grassy plain, he at last crossed a new trail.
“This was indicated only by the fact that in places the grass had
been bent aside. He finally found six distinct broken places showing
that six persons had passed that way. The direction was indicated by
the leaning grass. The travelers had passed that night because the
disturbed grass had not yet righted itself as it would when the sun
dried the dew.
“Hastening forward on this trail the observing soldier soon came to
an open sandy place where he saw footsteps. The prints were those of
women. He knew this by their size and the distance between them. He
searched carefully for more signs――not only in the open place but round
about it. He was rewarded. To the right he discovered a few leaves.
There were no trees in that region. The leaves had been carried there.
They were yet green. They had an odor. The scout recognized this as the
odor of a native beer. Things began to clear.
“The trained observer remembered a settlement miles away where this
beer was made. Among its ingredients were leaves such as he had found
near the trail. But what was the significance of this? The beer spoiled
easily. It had to be protected. The top of each big native bottle was
usually stopped with a bunch of these leaves. But why were the leaves
by the trail? Again the scout recalled a previously noted fact. The air
was calm then but at four o’clock that morning there had been a stiff
breeze. What was General Baden-Powell’s conclusion?
“At four o’clock that morning, six native women coming from the distant
settlement had passed the sandy spot, carrying bottles of native beer
stopped with leaves. He readily understood that they were taking the
beer to the men in the hills. These hills were about two hours distant
on foot. The women must have reached the hiding place about six
o’clock. As the beer spoiled easily in the hot country it would be
drunk at once. It was then seven o’clock. The Matabeles were at that
moment probably far gone in intoxication.
“Hastening to his camp General Baden-Powell put his troop in motion,
took the trail at once and before nine o’clock each conclusion had
been proved correct. The enemy was discovered and overpowered and all
because one man could see things and remember them.”
The heavy breathing of deeply interested listeners greeted the end of
his story.
“That’s better’n ‘Dashing Charley or the Pawnee Scout,’” exclaimed
Sammy Addington. “How many’d they kill?”
“Being a regular scout must be great,” suggested Connie. “But I guess
they ain’t no really scouts now exceptin’ soldiers.”
“What’s the matter with this idea?” broke in Mr. Trevor earnestly. “And
that’s why I asked you here. Why don’t you boys become Boy Scouts?”
Wider opened eyes and then a babble of voices indicated that the
question had made a deep impression.
“You bet!” were the first intelligible words, and these were from Art.
“What’d you have to do?” added Connie. “Can anyone be a Boy Scout?”
“Do they have regular guns?” chimed in Sammy.
“Any boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen,” Mr. Trevor
explained. “And all you have to do is to organize yourselves, select a
leader and learn and obey the Scout laws. But,” he went on, turning to
Sammy, “they don’t have guns. However, they do have a very useful scout
staff――good, stout long sticks that come in handy for a lot of things
and that are especially good on long hikes. There’s a fine uniform,
too, that every boy loves. First there’s the Baden-Powell hat.”
Mr. Trevor reached behind him and picked up a sample hat that he had
brought from England. It resembled a western cowboy’s headgear except
that the brim was straight and stiff. Above the brim was a smart
leather band and a buckle. The top was picturesquely pinched into a
four-sided peak, while beneath the brim and hanging down behind was a
light leather cord.
“What’s the little cord for?” came from several, while each boy sprang
from his chair to get a better view.
“These hats were devised by General Baden-Powell for the English
cavalry in tropic Africa,” explained Mr. Trevor. “The cord is to fasten
beneath your hair on the nape of the neck. It holds the hat securely
against the wind and in the wildest charge.”
“Cowboys have those strings to hold the hat,” exclaimed Connie.
“Very true,” answered Mr. Trevor. “That’s another thing General
Baden-Powell saw on one of his trips to America. And he also saw that
cowboy hats have loose, floppy brims. He made his hat with a stiff brim
to keep the brim out of the eyes.”
“Our soldiers wore them in the Spanish-American War,” persisted Connie.
“Sure,” said Mr. Trevor smiling, “after General Baden-Powell showed
them how good the hats were.”
By this time the hat was on Wart Ware’s head and every guest was
clamoring to have a try on himself.
“In addition,” continued the host, “each Boy Scout has a knapsack to
carry his mess kit; a khaki shirt with a fine sailor necktie and a
belt. In England they wear ‘knickers’ and Scotch plaid stockings. And I
tell you they look mighty fine when they march out with their patrol
pennants on their staffs and the patrol flag in front.”
“But who tells you if you can be a Boy Scout and who bosses ’em?” asked
one boy.
“You boss yourselves. You elect your own leader. Your company is called
a _patrol_ and the leader, whoever is selected, is called the _patrol
leader_. When there are enough patrols in one locality they all select
a _scout master_ for the _troop_, for that’s what several patrols and
their officer are called. And each patrol does as it pleases, goes into
the country in pleasant weather, has camps in the summer and a club
room to meet in in the winter.”
Another wave of enthusiasm was chilled by Phil Abercrombie.
“What’s all them hats and knapsacks and things cost?” he asked
cautiously.
“I wouldn’t bother about that,” replied Mr. Trevor, “for you can get
those things when you are ready. But they cost less than three dollars
an outfit if all the patrol members buy them.”
“I’d want a hat anyway,” urged Wart Ware. “I think it’s swell.”
“Let’s stop a few minutes,” broke in Mr. Trevor, “while I tell you
more closely what this all means.”
The boys went back to their seats, for the ice cream had just been
served, while Mr. Trevor explained further:
“A patrol is made up of nine boys with a patrol leader, ten in all.
But you may add to that as many as you like until you have enough to
make two patrols. The boys select a patrol leader by vote. After this,
each boy fills out a blank which he sends to the nearest Boy Scout
headquarters. Then the headquarters secretary will tell you where you
can buy your uniforms, and he will send you badges and the ‘Manual of
Scout Laws.’
“Ten boys make a patrol; ten patrols form a troop. The leader of a
patrol is a patrol leader. The leader of a troop is a scout master.
In fair weather a patrol holds its drills and parades and executes
its scouting maneuvers in the open air. In the winter a meeting place
indoors is secured where instructions are given on specified evenings.
No boy candidate can begin his work until he has taken the ‘Scout’s
Oath.’”
“What’s that?” asked Connie so quickly that he dropped a spoonful of
ice cream on his lap. “Go on,” he laughed as Mr. Trevor paused, “I’m
gettin’ excited, that’s all.”
“He must swear:” explained his host, “First, to do his duty to God and
his country; second, to help other people at all times; and third, to
obey the Scout Law.”
“Tell us that,” cried Sandy Sheldon who had been so interested that he
had held a spoonful of ice cream in the air until it was nearly melted.
“That’s what I want to know.”
“I’d like to,” answered Mr. Trevor, who was all aglow over his
experiment, “but I can’t. It’s too long. Each boy will have to read
it for himself. But I have a few notes on it. It consists of nine
articles,” he added taking out his memorandum book, “and it was written
by General Baden-Powell himself. These are the subjects:
“‘Article I. A Scout’s honor is to be trusted. If he does not carry out
the leader’s orders exactly his badge will be taken from him.
“‘Article II. A Scout is loyal to his government, to his officers and
to his parents and his employers.
“‘Article III. A Scout’s duty is to be useful and to help others.
“‘Article IV. A Scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other
Scout.
“‘Article V. A Scout is courteous. That is, he is polite to all, but
especially to women and children, old people and cripples. He must take
no reward for being courteous.
“‘Article VI. A Scout is a friend to animals.
“‘Article VII. A Scout obeys the orders of his parents, Patrol Leader
or Scout Master without question; even if he gets an order he does not
like he must do as sailors and soldiers do.
“‘Article VIII. A Scout smiles and whistles under all circumstances.
“‘Article IX. A Scout is thrifty――that is, he saves every penny he can
and puts it in the bank.’
“Now, young gentlemen,” went on Mr. Trevor as he concluded the list of
articles of the Scout Law, “you ought to have a fair idea of what it
means to be a Boy Scout. I think it a grand idea. I invited you here to
explain it as well as I could. I want Art to be a Boy Scout. Would you
like to do it?” he asked, turning toward his son.
“You bet――I mean, I certainly would,” answered Art promptly.
“How many other boys would like to join a patrol?”
So unanimous was the response that it seemed ridiculous to ask for
negatives.
“I congratulate you all, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Trevor proudly. “And this
being Sunday, I want each boy to go home and talk it over with his
parents, and those who get permission or don’t change their minds are
asked to come here at eight o’clock to-morrow evening to arrange and
select a patrol leader. And I want to add that it will give me great
pleasure, if you will permit it, to present each member with a complete
uniform.”