“Never forget the daily good turn, Dale, or let it slump into a perfunctory sort of thing such as you would have to do anyway whether you were a scout or not. A fellow can’t always find big things, of course; but when the opportunity comes, he isn’t a true scout if he cannot sacrifice his own comfort or pleasure or inclination to bring help or happiness to some one who really needs it.”
Dale squirmed a little at the recollection and tried to go on with the book he was reading. But the tale had lost its savor, and presently he raised his eyes from the printed page and frowned.
“Nobody else thought anything about it!” he muttered rebelliously. “Besides, to-morrow’s Thanksgiving; that’s different from any other day.”
A little later he put away the book, said good night, and went up to his room. Having closed the door, he opened his closet and took out his scout suit. It had come only the day before; already he had looked at it more than twenty times, but the novelty had not yet worn off. He wondered if fellows who had theirs merely for the asking felt half as proud of it as he, who had worked for every penny of its cost. He passed one hand caressingly over the smooth olive khaki, and then an odd thought popped suddenly into his head.
He had tried it on, twice, but as yet he had not actually worn it. Mightn’t it mean even more to him if he wore it first in the performance of a good turn that really counted?
Though the boy felt it only vaguely, and formulated it not at all even in his mind, it was something of that spirit of consecration that of old dominated the young candidates for knighthood, guarding their armor through the long night-watches. Dale’s face took on an expression of determination, and as he put away his things his mind was oddly lightened.
Next morning he sallied forth, a trifle self-conscious in all the glory of his new khaki, but warmed by the look in his mother’s eyes as she waved good-by from the door-step. Taking the shortest cut, he proceeded to the rectory, and when Mr. Schofield appeared he saluted punctiliously.
“May I have one of the baskets, sir?” he asked.
The rector smiled. “Ah! You’re going to take it to–” He paused questioningly an instant; then his smile deepened. “Certainly,” he said cordially. “They’re over in the parish-house. The ladies are packing them now. Tell Mrs. Mason I said you were to have a good one.”
Ten minutes later Dale was making his way briskly toward the Beldon Turnpike, a large market-basket on one arm. The legs of a plump fowl protruded from the covering; there were vegetables within, a can of soup, celery, oranges, bananas, and a small pie. The weight was not a light one, but Dale whistled cheerfully as he strode along.