OVER THE TOP
Tom had waited patiently for Hervey to arrive. His propensity for _not_
arriving had troubled Tom. But whether by chance or otherwise there he
was, and Tom lost no time in getting to his feet.
"Before the court closes," he said, "I want to ask to have a blank
filled out to be sent to the National Honor Court, on a claim for the
Gold Cross award. I would like to get it endorsed by the Local Council
to-day so it will get to National Headquarters Monday."
You could have heard a pin drop in that room. The magic words Gold Cross
brought every whispering, dallying scout to attention. There was a
general rustle of straightening up in seats. The continuous departing
ceased. Faces appeared at the open windows.
_The Gold Cross._
Mr. Denny looked at Tom. The young assistant, in his usual negligee, was
very offhand and thoroughly at ease. He seemed to know what he was
talking about. All eyes were upon him.
"If you want the detailed statements of the three witnesses written out,
that can be done. But the National Court will take the recommendation
without that if it's endorsed by the Local Council. That was done in the
case of Albert Nesbit, who won the Gold Cross here three years ago. I'd
rather do it that way."
"What is the name, Mr. Slade?"
"Willetts--Hervey Willetts. You spell it with two T's."
"This can be done without witnesses, on examination, Mr. Slade."
"The winner isn't a good subject for examination," said Tom; "I think
the witnesses would be better."
"Just so."
"I might say," said Tom, "that this is the first chance I've had to tell
about this thing. On the night of the storm I sent Willetts from the
cove and told him to catch the bus and stop it before it reached the
bridge. I didn't think he could do it but I didn't say so. He had two
miles to go through the storm, running all the way. The wind was in his
face. Of course we all know what the storm was. His scoutmaster had told
him not to leave camp. If this was an emergency then it comes under
By-law Twenty-seven. You'll have to decide that. It was on account of
the flood I took him, not on account of the bus. The lake was running
out."
"Did he reach the bus?" Mr. Fuller asked.
"He reached the bus, but he doesn't know how. The last he remembered is
that he fell because his foot was caught in a hole. I don't know, nobody
knows how he did that thing. Here's a man who was in the woods that
night and saw him. He met him about half way and says he was so
exhausted and excited he couldn't speak. He told this man that he had to
_hurry on to save some people's lives_. He meant the people in the bus.
How he got from the place where he fell to the bus is a mystery. When he
did get there he couldn't speak, so he grabbed one of the horses. His
foot was wrenched and he was unconscious.
"When they got him in the bus he muttered something and they thought he
was talking about his foot. It was the bridge he was talking about. But
what he said prompted Mr. Carroll to send another scout forward, and
_he_ stopped the bus. That's all there is to it. He got there and it
nearly killed him. Darby Curren, who is here to tell you, thought he was
a spook.
"Now these three people, Mr. Hood, Darby Curren and Mr. Carroll, can
tell you what they know about it. It's one of those cases where the real
facts didn't come out. Hervey Willetts saved the lives of twenty-two
people at _grave danger_ to his own. That satisfies the handbook. He
doesn't care four cents about the Gold Cross, but right is right, and
I'm here to see that he gets it. Stand up, Hervey. Stand out in the
aisle." Suddenly Tom was seated.
So there stood the wandering minstrel, alone. Even his champion was not
in evidence. Nor was his troop there to share the glory with him. His
scoutmaster was there, but he seemed too dazed to speak. And so the
stormy petrel stood alone, as he would always stand alone. Because there
was no one like him.
"Willetts is the name? Hervey Willetts?"
"I got a middle name, but I don't bother with it."
"What troop?"
And so the cut and dried business, so strange and unattractive to
Hervey, of filling in the blank, went on. He did not greatly care for
indoor sports. There was a lull in the general interest. Scouts began
lounging and whispering again.
In that interval of restlessness, an observant person might have
noticed, sitting in the back part of the room, the rather ungainly
figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, organizer of the Church Mice
of Newburgh. He seemed to be the center of a clamoring, interested,
little group.
Roy Blakeley's brown, crinkly hair could be seen through the gaps made
by other heads. Gaylong's knees were up against the back of the seat in
front of him, thus forming a sort of slanting desk, on which he held a
writing tablet. His head was cocked sideways as if in humorous but stern
criticism of his own work. On somebody's suggestion he wrote something
then crossed it out. There were evidently too many cooks at the broth,
but he was ludicrously patient and considerate, being no doubt chief
cook himself. There was something very funny about his calm,
preoccupied demeanor amid that clamoring throng. The proceedings in the
room interested him not.
Nor did the business interest many others now. There was a continuous
drift toward the door and the crowd of loiterers outside increased and
became noisy. The wandering minstrel stood alone.
The voice of the chairman droned on, "Hill cabin twenty-two. Right. We
will talk with these gentlemen afterwards. It may be a week or two
before you get this, Willetts. It has to come from the National Court of
Honor. Meanwhile, the Camp thanks you, and is proud of you, for your
extraordinary feat of heroism. It's most unusual----"
"Trust him for that," some one interrupted.
"I could run faster than that if I had sneaks," said Hervey.
"I'm afraid no one would have seen you at all, then," said Mr. Carlson.
"All you've got to do is double your fists and look through them and you
can see a mile. It's like opera glasses."
[Illustration: "STAND UP, HERVEY. STAND OUT IN THE AISLE." Tom Slade's
Double Dare. Page 190]
"So? Well, let us shake hands with you, my boy."
The next thing Hervey knew, Mr. Denny's arm was over his shoulder, while
with his other hand he was shaking the hand of the young camp assistant.
"That's all right, Mr. Denny," said Tom.
"Slade, I want you to know how much I respect you----"
"It's all in the day's work, Mr. Denny."
"I want you to know that Hervey appreciates your friendship. You believe
he----"
"I believe he's a wild Indian," Tom laughed. "Or maybe a squirrel, huh?
Hey, Hervey? On account of climbing.... You know, Mr. Denny, those are
the two things that can't be tamed, an Indian and a squirrel. You can
tame a lion, but you can't tame a squirrel."
Mr. Denny listened, smiling, all the while patting Hervey's shoulder.
"Well, after all, who wants to tame a squirrel?" said he.
* * * * *
So these two lingered a few minutes to chat about lions and Indians and
squirrels and things. And that was Hervey's chance to get away.
No admiring throng followed him out. His own troop was not there and
knew nothing of his triumph. Probably he never thought of these things.
A scoutmaster grabbed his hand and said, "Wonderful, my boy!" Hervey
smiled and seemed surprised.
Outside they were sitting around on railings and steps and squatting on
the grass. There was a little ripple of murmuring as he passed through
the sprawling throng, but no one spoke to him. That was not because they
did not appreciate, but because he was _different_ and a stranger.
Perhaps it was because they did not know just how to take him. He didn't
exactly fit in....
His ambling course had taken him perhaps a hundred feet, when he heard
some one shout, "Let'er go!"
Before he realized it, his own favorite tune filled the air, they were
hurling it straight at him and the voices were loud and clear, though
the words were strange.
"_Everybody!_"
"He's one little bully athlete,
so fleet;
At sprinting he's got us all beat,
yes, beat.
He can climb, he can stalk,
He can win in a walk;
He's a scout from his head to his feet--
THAT'S YOU.
He's a scout from his head to his feet."
He turned and stood stark still. Some of them, in the vehemence of their
song, had risen and formed a little compact group. And again they sang
the verse, the words _THAT'S YOU_ pouring out of the throat of Pee-wee
Harris like a thunderbolt. Hervey blinked. His eyes glistened. Through
their haze he could see the lanky figure of the tall fellow, Brent
Gaylong, sitting upon the fence, his feet propped up on the lower rail,
a pair of shell spectacles half way down his nose, and waving a little
stick like the leader of an orchestra. He was very sober and looked
absurdly funny.
"Let him have the other one!" some one shouted.
Gaylong rapped upon the fence with his little stick, and then gave it a
graceful twirl which was an improvement on Sousa.
The voices rose clear and strong:
"We don't care a rap for the flings he springs;
He doesn't mean half of the things he sings.
We're all down and out
When it comes to a scout
That can run just as if he had wings and things.
That can run just as if he had wings!"
If Hervey had waited as long on the log in the quicksand as he waited
now, there would have been no Gold Cross. But he could not move, he
stood as one petrified, his eyes glistening. The wandering minstrel had
been caught by his own tune.
"Over the top," some one shouted.
He was surrounded.
"That's you! That's you!"
they kept singing. He had never been caught in such a mix-up before. He
saw them all crowding about him, saw Roy Blakeley's merry face and the
sober face of Brent Gaylong, the spectacles still half way down his nose
and the baton over his ear like a lead pencil. They took his hat, tossed
it around, and handed it back to him.
"No room on that for the Cross," said Gaylong; "he'll have to pin it on
his stocking; combination Gold Cross and garter. Supreme
heroism--keeping a stocking up----"
There was no getting out of this predicament. He could escape the
quicksand but he couldn't escape this. He looked about as if to consider
whether he could make a leap over the throng.
"Watch out or he'll pull a stunt," one shouted.
But there was really no hope for him. The wandering minstrel was caught
at last. And the funny part of the whole business was that he was caught
by one of his own favorite tunes. The tunes which had caught so many
others....