There were others, too, with attainments less
conspicuous and who were not in this gala troop, but the whole camp was
out to honor its heroes, one and all.
Roy Blakeley, of the Silver Foxes, had a wooden rattle which he claimed
could be heard for seven miles--eight miles and a quarter at a pinch.
The Tigers, with Bert Winton at their head, had some kind of an original
contrivance which simulated the roar of their ferocious namesake. The
Church Mice, from down the Hudson, with Brent Gaylong as their
scoutmaster, had a special squeal (patent applied for) which sounded as
if all the mice in Christendom had gone suddenly mad. Pee-wee had his
voice--enough said.
The Panthers and the Leopards, with Mr. Warren, watched the departure of
this rainbow troop with wistful glances. Then the scoutmaster took his
chagrined followers to their bare cabins, stripped of all that had made
them comfortable and homelike in their long stay at camp. Hervey was not
among them. No one in all the camp knew how he had suffered from
homesickness in those two days. He wanted to be home--home with his
mother and father.
To his disappointed troop Mr. Warren said:
Scouts, we have not won the coveted award. But in this fraternal
community, every award is an honor to every scout. We will try to
find pride in the achievements of our friends and camp comrades. Our
mistake was in selecting for our standard bearer one whose
temperament disqualified him for the particular mission which he
undertook.
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