Hal rose and faced his comrades. His knees shook so that he could hardly stand, and little streams of perspiration trickled down his face. But there was that new set to the jaw, and though he gulped painfully once or twice, he plunged into the task he had set himself.
“Fellow Scouts,” he began, “I—I want to apologize to all of you for what I have done and for the disgrace I’ve brought on the tribe. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was doin’. I knew that the fellows didn’t like me, and—and I wanted to be popular,” he blundered on. “I thought if I scored a lot of points for the tribe that maybe I should be and—and I didn’t see any other way. I’ve made an awful mess of things, and I see it now. I’d like a chance to start over again, and—and maybe really do something for the tribe. I—I—want to make good and—and have some friends among the fellows,” he ended lamely.
He sat down weakly, and buried his face on his arms. At a sign from the chief the tribe filed out quietly. When the last one had gone he walked over and put his hand on the bowed head at the end of the table. “Hal,” he said gently, “you have made good. That was the bravest act I’ve ever seen in Woodcraft Camp. We’re prouder to have you a Seneca than we would be to win that deer’s head. That was the supreme test, and we’re proud, all of us, to have a fellow tribesman with the sand to meet it as you have done. You’ll find that you have won your friends, boy.”
Later, when Hal had recovered his self-possession somewhat and went out among his comrades, he found that it was as Avery had said. On all sides were friendly hands to greet him, and in a quiet unobtrusive way his fellow Scouts made it clear to him that at last he was one of them. He had already made good.
CHAPTER XV
CRAFTY MIKE
When Walter parted from Hal at Speckled Brook he quickened his pace to make up for lost time. Presently he came in sight of the Durant camp. Pat Malone, whose official capacity at the camp was that of “chore boy,” was on his way to the spring with a couple of empty pails. His usual good-natured grin lighted his face at Walter’s approach.
“Oi’d begun t’ think ye was afther fergittin’ ye had an ingagement wid yer frind av th’ woods,” he called.
“Hello, Pat! Sorry I’m late,” replied Walter, offering to carry one of the pails.
Pat waved him aside. “Shure, wud ye be takin’ th’ bread an’ butter out av the mouth av a poor worrkin’ man?” he demanded. “’Tis me job fer which Oi draws me pay, an’ now Oi’ve lost me market fer fish Oi’m thinkin’ Oi’d best be shure av me shtupendous sal’ry.”