"Three cheers for the Boy Scouts!" came from a voice in the back of the crowded hall after the honors had been distributed and the advances in rank announced.
The shout that went up cracked the plaster on the ceiling of the venerable building.
"Speech, speech," shouted one of those individuals who always do raise that cry on the slightest excuse.
Rob Blake, very red and protesting, was hustled to the front of the stage on which the Scouts had been drawn up.
"I can't make a speech," he began.
"Hear! Hear!" shouted the crowd, most of whom couldn't.
"But on behalf of the Boy Scouts I want to thank you all and—and—"
The rest was drowned by the band which, having been quiescent for ten whole minutes, could maintain silence no longer and blared out into that favorite of all village bands, "Hail to the Chief."
"Come on, let's get out of here," whispered Rob to Merritt, whose breast was decorated with the coveted bronze cross and red ribbon, which is the highest honor a scout can attain.
As they slipped out upon the darkened street a boy came up to them with an outstretched hand.