Dirty little hoodlum that he once was, he was now the most picturesque, romantic figure in the camp. In Tom Slade, beloved old Uncle Jeb, camp manager, seemed to have renewed his own youth. Scouts worshipped at the shrine of this young confidant of the woods, trustees consulted him, scoutmasters respected him.
As he emerged around the corner of the storage cabin, several scouts who had taken their station within inhaling distance of the cooking shack fell in with him and trotted along beside him.
"H'lo, Slady, can we go with you?"
"I'm going to wash my hands," said Tom, giving one of them a shove.
"Good night! I don't want to go."
"I thought you wouldn't."
In Tent Avenue the news of his passing got about and presently a menagerie of tenderfoots were dogging his heels.
"Where you been, Slady? Can I go? Take me? Take us on the lake, Slady?"
As he passed the two-patrol cabins Goliath slid down from the woodpile and challenged him. "Hey, big feller, I got a souvenir. Want to see it? I know who you are; you're boss, ain't you?"
"H'lo, old top," said Tom, tousling his hair for him. "Well, how do you think you like Temple Camp?"