CHAPTER VI WHAT CAME OUT OF A TEA PARTY

By five o’clock the next afternoon every member of the Young Aviators Club was at the Trevor home, including George Atkins and Roger Mercer, who had not been present at the fight, and the expelled Sammy Addington. Mr. Trevor did not know that Art had been forced to use considerable argument in a few cases. Marshal Walter’s action in visiting the homes of nearly all the boys had brought swift parental action. These actions ran all the way from Connie’s prohibition of river joys to sound thrashings. Some of the boys were convinced that Mr. Trevor’s invitation meant a second edition of punishment. They had to be assured that it was perfectly safe to be present.

“Boys,” began Mr. Trevor when his thirteen guests had been partly satisfied with cold meats and potato salad and were waiting for the ice cream and cake, “I’ve asked you here to talk to you about some things I learned and saw while I was abroad. And it isn’t about castles or cathedrals either. It’s about something you boys are interested in—camping out and games.”

Inquiring looks passed from boy to boy.

“I wish we could go camping like you took Art once,” suggested Wart Ware.

“Did you see boys camping out in England?” asked Sammy, whose smiling face could be seen next to Mrs. Trevor at the foot of the table.

“I certainly did,” answered Mr. Trevor. “And it was a mighty fine lot of boys, every one of them looking like a gentleman.” Guilty looks showed here and there about the table. “But I’ll come to that in a minute. I want to tell you a story first. How many of you ever heard of Baden-Powell?”

Dead silence followed. Then Alex Conyers said:

“It sounds like a health resort in Germany. Were you there?”

“It isn’t a health resort,” laughed Mr. Trevor. “It’s a man’s name. But, in a way he might be called a health reviser, for it is this man who is making so many strong vigorous gentlemen out of thousands—hundreds of thousands—of English boys. And it is this man who has set all young England camping out and learning the country and the ways of outdoor-things and playing games that injure no one. He has even made it unpopular and even unnecessary for boys to fight each other to find fun.”

This shot went home. Thirteen boys looked at their plates or at the ceiling in silence.

“Then he’s the Boy Scout man, isn’t he?” finally ventured Alex Conyers.

“He is. And that’s what I want to talk about. While I was in London I met a friend, a grown man like me, who has taken a great deal of interest in Boy Scouts and their work. On a Saturday he took me where an encampment of Scouts was being held. Never,” went on Mr. Trevor, leaning forward in his enthusiasm, “have I so much wanted to be a boy again. Boys, it was great. The encampment was in a valley near a heavy forest. There was a stream with rushes and swimming pools and a tall white staff with the Scout flag fluttering—a flag that went up at sunrise with salute and came down at sundown with the Scouts at ‘present arms.’ There were tents in the valley and among the trees; company cook-houses and dining tents and shelters for Scouts by twos and fours. Not even in the army are things neater or more in order.”

“What’d they do?” asked Colly Craighead impulsively.

“Obey orders like soldiers,” replied Mr. Trevor, “and play all day. And in their play they learn how to do a hundred things a boy can’t learn in school: how to track and capture an animal; how to trail a man like the Indians and old scouts used to do; how to take care of themselves in the woods—make camp with nothing; how to make a fire and cook; how to help persons in trouble, to dress a wound, to revive the drowning, to act promptly and effectively in all moments of danger; how to give a helping hand to old and young; and how, above all, to help themselves. In short, how to form good habits while at play—to be patriotic, honest and generous from choice.”

“Were you in a regular Boy Scout camp?” asked Art at the first chance.

“Saturday afternoon and Sunday,” answered Mr. Trevor. “That’s why I want to tell you boys about it.”

“An’ did this Mr. What’s-his-name make all the Boy Scouts?” inquired Duke Easton.

“General Baden-Powell is a famous English soldier,” answered Mr. Trevor with spirit. “And he loves his country so much that he wants all English boys to grow up to be patriotic and brave Englishmen,” he went on. “It’s not because he expects all Boy Scouts to become soldiers,” explained the host, “but many English Boy Scouts will. And those that do will have eyes and ears and hands to work with. Let me tell you why General Baden-Powell thinks everyone should know how to see things and know what they mean. It is an anecdote told me by General Baden-Powell himself.

“General Baden-Powell,” went on Mr. Trevor as the boys drew their chairs closer, “is, as I said, a great soldier. He has achieved honors of all kinds. And he became famous because, wherever England sent him—to Afghanistan, India, Egypt or Lower Africa—he saw things and figured out what they meant. And,” explained the story teller with a smile, “he saw things with his own eyes because he loved nature and was a hunter. When he came to America, old-time scouts were his friends. He knew Buffalo Bill, and with him shot elk and mountain sheep in the west. Then a time came when he was sent to Central Africa to put down the savage Matabeles. Then this thing happened:

“General Baden-Powell’s troops had been chasing the savages through an unknown region where, among the hills, the natives easily concealed themselves. The soldiers did their best to locate a certain band of Matabeles but without success. Before daybreak one morning Baden-Powell set out alone to see what he could find. Riding back and forth over the pathless veldt, or grassy plain, he at last crossed a new trail.

“This was indicated only by the fact that in places the grass had been bent aside. He finally found six distinct broken places showing that six persons had passed that way. The direction was indicated by the leaning grass. The travelers had passed that night because the disturbed grass had not yet righted itself as it would when the sun dried the dew.

“Hastening forward on this trail the observing soldier soon came to an open sandy place where he saw footsteps. The prints were those of women. He knew this by their size and the distance between them. He searched carefully for more signs—not only in the open place but round about it. He was rewarded. To the right he discovered a few leaves. There were no trees in that region. The leaves had been carried there. They were yet green. They had an odor. The scout recognized this as the odor of a native beer. Things began to clear.

“The trained observer remembered a settlement miles away where this beer was made. Among its ingredients were leaves such as he had found near the trail. But what was the significance of this? The beer spoiled easily. It had to be protected. The top of each big native bottle was usually stopped with a bunch of these leaves. But why were the leaves by the trail? Again the scout recalled a previously noted fact. The air was calm then but at four o’clock that morning there had been a stiff breeze. What was General Baden-Powell’s conclusion?

“At four o’clock that morning, six native women coming from the distant settlement had passed the sandy spot, carrying bottles of native beer stopped with leaves. He readily understood that they were taking the beer to the men in the hills. These hills were about two hours distant on foot. The women must have reached the hiding place about six o’clock. As the beer spoiled easily in the hot country it would be drunk at once. It was then seven o’clock. The Matabeles were at that moment probably far gone in intoxication.

“Hastening to his camp General Baden-Powell put his troop in motion, took the trail at once and before nine o’clock each conclusion had been proved correct. The enemy was discovered and overpowered and all because one man could see things and remember them.”

The heavy breathing of deeply interested listeners greeted the end of his story.

“That’s better’n ‘Dashing Charley or the Pawnee Scout,’” exclaimed Sammy Addington. “How many’d they kill?”

“Being a regular scout must be great,” suggested Connie. “But I guess they ain’t no really scouts now exceptin’ soldiers.”

“What’s the matter with this idea?” broke in Mr. Trevor earnestly. “And that’s why I asked you here. Why don’t you boys become Boy Scouts?”

Wider opened eyes and then a babble of voices indicated that the question had made a deep impression.

“You bet!” were the first intelligible words, and these were from Art.

“What’d you have to do?” added Connie. “Can anyone be a Boy Scout?”

“Do they have regular guns?” chimed in Sammy.

“Any boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen,” Mr. Trevor explained. “And all you have to do is to organize yourselves, select a leader and learn and obey the Scout laws. But,” he went on, turning to Sammy, “they don’t have guns. However, they do have a very useful scout staff—good, stout long sticks that come in handy for a lot of things and that are especially good on long hikes. There’s a fine uniform, too, that every boy loves. First there’s the Baden-Powell hat.”

Mr. Trevor reached behind him and picked up a sample hat that he had brought from England. It resembled a western cowboy’s headgear except that the brim was straight and stiff. Above the brim was a smart leather band and a buckle. The top was picturesquely pinched into a four-sided peak, while beneath the brim and hanging down behind was a light leather cord.

“What’s the little cord for?” came from several, while each boy sprang from his chair to get a better view.

“These hats were devised by General Baden-Powell for the English cavalry in tropic Africa,” explained Mr. Trevor. “The cord is to fasten beneath your hair on the nape of the neck. It holds the hat securely against the wind and in the wildest charge.”

“Cowboys have those strings to hold the hat,” exclaimed Connie.

“Very true,” answered Mr. Trevor. “That’s another thing General Baden-Powell saw on one of his trips to America. And he also saw that cowboy hats have loose, floppy brims. He made his hat with a stiff brim to keep the brim out of the eyes.”

“Our soldiers wore them in the Spanish-American War,” persisted Connie.

“Sure,” said Mr. Trevor smiling, “after General Baden-Powell showed them how good the hats were.”

By this time the hat was on Wart Ware’s head and every guest was clamoring to have a try on himself.

“In addition,” continued the host, “each Boy Scout has a knapsack to carry his mess kit; a khaki shirt with a fine sailor necktie and a belt. In England they wear ‘knickers’ and Scotch plaid stockings. And I tell you they look mighty fine when they march out with their patrol pennants on their staffs and the patrol flag in front.”

“But who tells you if you can be a Boy Scout and who bosses ’em?” asked one boy.

“You boss yourselves. You elect your own leader. Your company is called a patrol and the leader, whoever is selected, is called the patrol leader. When there are enough patrols in one locality they all select a scout master for the troop, for that’s what several patrols and their officer are called. And each patrol does as it pleases, goes into the country in pleasant weather, has camps in the summer and a club room to meet in in the winter.”

Another wave of enthusiasm was chilled by Phil Abercrombie.

“What’s all them hats and knapsacks and things cost?” he asked cautiously.

“I wouldn’t bother about that,” replied Mr. Trevor, “for you can get those things when you are ready. But they cost less than three dollars an outfit if all the patrol members buy them.”

“I’d want a hat anyway,” urged Wart Ware. “I think it’s swell.”

“Let’s stop a few minutes,” broke in Mr. Trevor, “while I tell you more closely what this all means.”

The boys went back to their seats, for the ice cream had just been served, while Mr. Trevor explained further:

“A patrol is made up of nine boys with a patrol leader, ten in all. But you may add to that as many as you like until you have enough to make two patrols. The boys select a patrol leader by vote. After this, each boy fills out a blank which he sends to the nearest Boy Scout headquarters. Then the headquarters secretary will tell you where you can buy your uniforms, and he will send you badges and the ‘Manual of Scout Laws.’

“Ten boys make a patrol; ten patrols form a troop. The leader of a patrol is a patrol leader. The leader of a troop is a scout master. In fair weather a patrol holds its drills and parades and executes its scouting maneuvers in the open air. In the winter a meeting place indoors is secured where instructions are given on specified evenings. No boy candidate can begin his work until he has taken the ‘Scout’s Oath.’”

“What’s that?” asked Connie so quickly that he dropped a spoonful of ice cream on his lap. “Go on,” he laughed as Mr. Trevor paused, “I’m gettin’ excited, that’s all.”

“He must swear:” explained his host, “First, to do his duty to God and his country; second, to help other people at all times; and third, to obey the Scout Law.”

“Tell us that,” cried Sandy Sheldon who had been so interested that he had held a spoonful of ice cream in the air until it was nearly melted. “That’s what I want to know.”

“I’d like to,” answered Mr. Trevor, who was all aglow over his experiment, “but I can’t. It’s too long. Each boy will have to read it for himself. But I have a few notes on it. It consists of nine articles,” he added taking out his memorandum book, “and it was written by General Baden-Powell himself. These are the subjects:

“‘Article I. A Scout’s honor is to be trusted. If he does not carry out the leader’s orders exactly his badge will be taken from him.

“‘Article II. A Scout is loyal to his government, to his officers and to his parents and his employers.

“‘Article III. A Scout’s duty is to be useful and to help others.

“‘Article IV. A Scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other Scout.

“‘Article V. A Scout is courteous. That is, he is polite to all, but especially to women and children, old people and cripples. He must take no reward for being courteous.

“‘Article VI. A Scout is a friend to animals.

“‘Article VII. A Scout obeys the orders of his parents, Patrol Leader or Scout Master without question; even if he gets an order he does not like he must do as sailors and soldiers do.

“‘Article VIII. A Scout smiles and whistles under all circumstances.

“‘Article IX. A Scout is thrifty—that is, he saves every penny he can and puts it in the bank.’

“Now, young gentlemen,” went on Mr. Trevor as he concluded the list of articles of the Scout Law, “you ought to have a fair idea of what it means to be a Boy Scout. I think it a grand idea. I invited you here to explain it as well as I could. I want Art to be a Boy Scout. Would you like to do it?” he asked, turning toward his son.

“You bet—I mean, I certainly would,” answered Art promptly.

“How many other boys would like to join a patrol?”

So unanimous was the response that it seemed ridiculous to ask for negatives.

“I congratulate you all, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Trevor proudly. “And this being Sunday, I want each boy to go home and talk it over with his parents, and those who get permission or don’t change their minds are asked to come here at eight o’clock to-morrow evening to arrange and select a patrol leader. And I want to add that it will give me great pleasure, if you will permit it, to present each member with a complete uniform.”