“It is a great pleasure for me to give you this,” he said, “and to thank you in the name of the national council for having proved so great a credit to the scouts.”
Dale’s hand went up, and he saluted. “Thank you, sir,” he said in a low tone.
“And remember, both of you,” went on the captain, when he had placed the second cross on Sanson’s coat, “that it isn’t the medal that counts, but the deed which has earned it.”
As the boys turned and marched back to their places the applause burst out again with renewed vigor until it seemed as if it would never cease. But at length it died away and the entertainment proceeded. Troop Three started off with an exhibition of signaling which was swift, snappy, and on the minute. Then came some tent-erecting, and, following that, two troops combined to give an elaborate and graphic exhibition of their expertness in first aid, which met with much favor. When this was over, the troops who had finished lined up and stood at ease on either side of the center to give Troop Five room for their evolutions.
Bob Gibson’s position was directly in front of the closed double doors leading into the hall. He had scarcely taken it before he became conscious of a distinct odor of something burning. For a moment he was uneasy; then he remembered that there was a register just behind him, and decided that the janitor had probably chosen this auspicious moment to consume in the furnace the rubbishy accumulation of several offices on the lower floors.
When the applause that greeted their appearance had subsided, Mr. Curtis stepped forward to explain briefly the purpose of their drill. He had scarcely spoken more than a sentence or two when Gibson became aware of a slight stir among some of the audience and noticed that a number of those in the front row seemed to be staring fixedly at his feet.
A flush mounted to Bob’s forehead. He was quite sure his shoes were immaculately polished. He also realized perfectly that he ought not notice the audience, but remain rigidly at attention. But presently curiosity got the better of discipline. He shot a furtive glance at his feet–a glance that flashed sidewise beyond the trim shoes and well-fitting leggings to rest in dumb, horrified amazement on the crack extending below the double doors, through which a thin line of smoke was slowly trickling.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE RIOT WEDGE
For a long moment Bob Gibson stood like one petrified. He thought of the crowd, of the narrow, twisted stairs, of panic. What ought he do? What was there possible for him to do? He tried to remember what the scout book said about fires and panics, but his brain seemed numb. Before it had cleared there came a choking cry from the other side, and Bennie Rhead, the youngest scout in the troop, slipped out of the line, and before any one could stop him, had jerked open the door to let in a rolling cloud of dense black smoke.
Like a flash Wesley Becker leaped after him, dragged him back, and slammed the door; but the damage was done. There was a long, gasping, concerted sigh, as of hundreds of people catching their breath in unison; in a second more the hall resounded with that cry which chills the blood and sends shivers chasing down the spine. To Gibson, standing pale and frightened, it seemed as if that whole close-packed assemblage surged up like some awful monster and rushed toward him, a bedlam of shrill sound; while out of doors the wild clamor of the fire-alarm suddenly burst forth to add horror to the scene.