“Yes,” said Gordon.
“Have an apple, Kid?” said Morrel, pointing to a basket.
“Sure!” said Gordon.
The camp-fire burned late that night, for Gordon Lord recounted their adventures. It was an unabridged version and held the boys spellbound till midnight. It was in vain that Harry tried to modify this or that detail which reflected credit on himself, and it was in vain that Red Deer looked ruefully at his watch when one or other of the party added fuel to the already imposing blaze. Being a wise scoutmaster, he saw that Gordon’s enthusiasm, like the measles, must run its little course, and the sooner it was over the better.
“Now,” said Gordon, finally, “it’s time to discuss our attack on Fort Ticonderoga and—”
But here Red Deer put his foot down, and the discussion was put over until the next day.
That night Gordon and Harry slept in their own tent, with their own patrol, under the Beavers’ banner. And they slept hard. But Dr. Brent, alone in his little tepee, broke the rules unseen, and sat up until the wee hours of the morning. The week they had spent in camp had not been an idle one, and he had in a good-sized wallet various papers and memoranda which would mean promotion and awards upon their return to Oakwood.
For one thing, Brick Parks, in spite of his red head, had succeeded in getting near enough to a variety of birds and woods creatures to shoot them with his camera, which is the only way a scout shoots except in case of need. He needed only to develop his films and make prints, and the stalker’s badge would be his.
Then there was Howard Brent, the doctor’s nephew, who had at last, after a terrific struggle, mastered the Morse code, and would, so the camp gossip said, cease to be a tenderfoot before the summer was over.
Matthew Reed would glory in the marksmanship badge, if he kept up his crack target work, and Dan Swift and Johnnie Walden would wear the first-class badge before another camping season.