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.