“Have to go!” shrilled Court Parker. “Why, they’ll want to go, won’t they? I wish I was more than sixteen.”
Unconsciously the four were moving toward the scoutmaster’s tent. Others, hearing a word or two, caught up with them, and the news was passed quickly along. The throng paused at the tent entrance. Dale caught a glimpse of the newspaper across the top of which flared in black capitals:
PRESIDENT CALLS FOR WAR DECLARATION
“It’s true, then, Mr. Curtis!” Ranny Phelps exclaimed. “I thought it was coming. When are they going to–”
“Hold your horses, Ranny,” interrupted the scoutmaster. He stood up and came toward them, his face curiously elated. “There’s no time to answer a lot of questions now. Mess-call will sound any time. Hustle and wash up, fellows, and after dinner we’ll talk this over.”
Curious and excited as they were, no one protested. They scattered to their tents, chattering volubly, and the mess-call found them still speculating and asking questions of one another. During the meal the discussion continued but in a slightly more subdued key. A state of things which at first had seemed merely exciting and soul-stirring was coming home more keenly. They were beginning to make individual applications. Captain Chalmers would be called out, of course. Though over thirty, Mr. Curtis himself might enlist. Then some one thought suddenly of Wesley Becker, who was just nineteen. That seemed the strangest thing of all, for Wes, despite his semi-leadership, was merely one of themselves. But of course it was all the merest speculation; they didn’t really know anything yet. So when the meal was over and Mr. Curtis rose slowly in his place, there was a long, concerted sigh of relaxing tension.
“Fellows,” began the scoutmaster, quietly, “I want to read you the President’s message delivered to Congress last night. You won’t find it dull. On the contrary it’s about the most vivid, vital piece of writing I have ever read. It puts clearly before us the situation we are facing. It will make you prouder than ever of your country and its head.”
And without further preamble he began to read that wonderful document which has stirred the world and has taken its place among the immortal utterances of men. And as he read, eyes brightened, boyish faces flushed, brown hands gripped the rough edges of bench or table, or strained tightly over clasped knees. He finished, and there came a brief, eloquent moment of utter silence, followed by a swift outburst of wild applause.
The scoutmaster’s face lit up with a smile. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he said. “Makes you feel mighty proud to have a man like that at the helm.” He folded the paper and laid it on the table before him. “And now,” he went on, his shoulders squaring a bit, “I want to say a few words myself. A state of war exists, for Congress cannot help but back up the man who wrote that message. It’s been coming for a long time. Many of us have felt it and tried to plan a little in advance. Your signaling and first aid and drilling have all been with that idea in view. What I want now is that you shall give more time than ever to those things–practically all the rest of your time in camp here. Remember George Lancaster, that English chap who was in Troop One several years ago. To-day he’s one of the best signalers in the British army. It will mean hard work, but, unless I’m far wrong, work will swiftly come to be the great slogan throughout the country. Will you do this, fellows? Stand up, every one who’s willing.”
There was a rush, a clatter–a bench was overturned–in ten seconds not a boy remained seated.