“Gentlemen:
“On the 29th day of June, of this year, a boy of your organization—Harry Arnold by name—living in Oakwood, N. J., rescued my little son from drowning in Lake Champlain. He appeared to deprecate his performance and refused a trifling reminder of my gratitude on the ground of some law which he says governs your members. I understand that this same code of by-laws requires strict obedience to superiors. Will you kindly correct what, I am sure, must be an erroneous conception of his duty in this particular matter, and have the proper authorities instruct him that it is his duty to accept the trifling gift which I offered. I will add that the gift was not of money.
“The saving of my son’s life and his subsequent acquaintance with his rescuer has brought great happiness into a rather frail little life, which has not escaped the notice of two anxious parents, and the whole occurrence has directed my interest to the organization which can produce or at least bring such boys to the front. It has been the greatest pleasure of my summer sojourn in the country to fall in with this boy, to watch his activities, and to talk with him (to say nothing of his interesting companion). He is in all ways a splendid, noble boy, and it is gratifying to think what a man such a boy will make.
“It has occurred to me that many of the companies of scouts in this part of the country are less favored by fortune than the troop to which this boy belongs, and that they lack the advantages which a rural life affords. The country where these Oakwood boys have spent their summer is healthful and historic. If the gentlemen interested in your very worthy enterprise are disposed to accept some testimonial of my good wishes and interest, I should be pleased to talk with them as to the idea of erecting a pavilion with grounds and all camping facilities, suitably endowed, where troops of these less fortunate Boy Scouts may camp.
“I shall be glad to arrange some plan by which a summer outing, transportation, etc., included, might be made feasible for many companies of boys where the same is not possible now, and I should like the name of this particular boy to be identified in some way with it.
“Awaiting your views upon the matter, I beg to remain,
“Very sincerely yours,
“R. E. Danforth.”
Every eye was upon Harry as the gentleman refolded the letter, and he was blushing scarlet. Charlie Greer, sitting next him, patted his shoulder, saying, “You’ll have to stick it out, old man.” Harry’s nervous, embarrassed glance caught Gordon among the Hawks opposite, who was grinning with delight and satisfaction. Then the audience broke into applause, and some enterprising enthusiast called for Mr. Danforth. This started the ball rolling. They dragged him down the aisle to the stage. Red Deer was there to haul him up, aided by the sturdy warriors of the local council. He emerged from the tumult into the center of the stage, somewhat the worse for his experience and rather abashed to be brought into such prominent notice, but with a genial smile on his wrinkled face. They tried to make him speak, but he laughed and shook his head. So they ordered him into one of the vacant chairs among the local councilmen. And there he sat, with a genial twinkle in his shrewd eyes, his scanty gray locks shining under the electric lights.
Then the speaker asked Harry Arnold to stand. It looked for a moment as if there were going to be no response—a kind of awkward suspense. Then he rose, holding the back of his chair with one hand, as if he would resume his seat the first minute he got a chance. Roy Carpenter, leader of the Hawks, made a motion and every member of both patrols rose. This was too much for Harry. In a kind of daze he saw the councilman holding a small plush box. He saw the Hawk Patrol opposite, standing with their hands raised in the full salute. He caught the glitter of Red Deer’s spectacles. He saw Mr. Danforth smiling at him. He felt a hand on his shoulder from behind. “Brace up, Harry boy,” whispered Tom Langford; “it’s only a minute.”