Mr. John Temple, philanthropist, founder of Temple Camp and friend of scouting, had evidently sensed a delicate and perhaps difficult situation, and had gone to the rescue. He was given a fine welcome on the stage and the burst of applause by the audience showed that his public spirit and generosity were well known. Every town has its wealthy and distinguished citizen; the good work of such men lives after them in libraries and hospitals. Mr. Temple was Bridgeboro’s most distinguished character—next to Pee-wee. And even Pee-wee paid him the compliment of declaring, “He buys more railroads every day than I do ice cream cones.” If he did, he must have owned practically all the roads in the country.
After an interval of suspense, which was seen in an acute stage among the scouts, Mr. Atwater turned to the audience and said, “Stand up again, Edwin Carlisle.”
The demeanor of this Carlisle boy was scoutish in the highest degree. Many were already wondering what he had done to warrant his selection as the winner of the great award. He had been on the point of receiving it when Ira had “shot up” the meeting. He had stood patiently and cheerfully waiting while he saw the honor that was his slipping away from him with every sentence of Ira’s drawling talk.
He had reseated himself with no sign of disappointment or resentment when told to do so. And now he stood again among his comrades, cheerful, willing, obedient. And there he stood with Yellowstone Park dangling before his eyes and knew not what to think, but seemed content to abide by the issue. Mr. Temple had seen him (shrewd man that he was he had watched him amid the tumult when no one else had watched him) and Edwin Carlisle, scout of Westboro, was safe.
After a little while (it seemed an hour) Mr. Atwater withdrew from an earnestly whispered conference and stood up to address the audience again. Mr. Temple took a seat in the row of chairs facing the audience. He seemed purposely to choose a seat beside Ira who sat, one knee over the other, bending forward with his arms about his knee. The hunched attitude was familiar to Westy and took him back to the kitchen porch at the farm where he had listened to Ira’s dubious reminiscences. Mr. Temple spoke genially to him from time to time, and once laughed audibly at something Ira said. It might possibly have been the kidnapping episode.
“Westy Martin,” said Mr. Atwater, “stand up.”
Westy stood, all bewildered. He was so close to the stage that one nervous hand rested upon the molding which bordered it. A curious contrast he seemed to the boy standing in the darkness of the hall some distance back. But Ira Hasbrook caught his eye and winked a kind of lowering wink at him, and Westy smiled back.
“You heard what this man said, Martin; is it true?”
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