"Well, we, then—it's going to wipe out all hard feeling and everything is going to be all hunk. You'll make a better scoutmaster to the whole bunch than I will. I'm better at work than I am at discipline, Tom. I can't pull that moral suasion bunk at all. I'm pretty nifty at swinging an axe, but I'm weak on the good turn and duty stuff."
"You did me a good turn, all right," Tom said, with simple gratitude in his tone.
"But I mean the big brother stuff," his companion said; "I'm not so much of a dabster at that. You're the one for that—you're a scoutologist."
"A what?" Tom said.
"A scout specialist. One who has studied scoutology. You're the one to manage, what's-his-name, Peewee? And that other kid—Ray——"
"Roy," Tom corrected him.
"I was in hopes you'd weaken and decide to stay and we'd—they'd—elect you generalissimo of the allied troops, like old Foch."
Tom only shook his head. "I don't want to be here," he said; "I don't want to be here when they come. After they see the cabins you can tell them how I didn't know who you were until long after I—I made the mistake. They'll admit that this was the only thing for me to do; they'll admit it when they know about it. The only thing is, that I thought about it before they did, that's all. You got to admit it's the scout way, 'cause a scout wouldn't try to sneak out of anything the easy way."
"I don't know if it's the scout way," his companion said, "but it's the Tom Slade way."
"I got to be thankful I was a scout," Tom observed.