He had no notion of where he was going; he was going nowhere in
particular. For aught I know he was going to ponder on the
responsibility which had been thrust upon him by the scout powers that
be, of judging stalking photographs preliminary to awarding the Audubon
prize offered by the historical society in his home town. Perhaps he was
under the influence of a little pensive regret that the season was
coming to an end and wished to have this lonely parting with his
beloved hills and trees. It is of no consequence. About all he actually
did was to kick a stick along before him and pause now and again to
examine the caked green moss on trees.
When he had reached a little eminence whence the view behind him was
unobstructed, he turned and looked down upon the camp. Perhaps in that
brief glimpse the whole panorama of his adventurous life spread before
him in his mind's eye, and he saw the vicious little hoodlum that he had
once been transformed into a scout, pass through the several ranks of
scouting, grow up, go to war, and come back to be assistant at the camp
where he had spent so many happy hours when he was a young boy.
And now there was not one thing down there, nor shack nor cabin nor
shooting range nor boat nor canoe, nor hero's elm (as they called it),
nor Gold Cross Rock, which had the same romantic interest as had this
young fellow to the scouts who came in droves and watched him and
listened to the talk about him and dreamed of being just such a real
scout as he.
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