he fell because his foot was caught in a hole. I don't know, nobody
knows how he did that thing. Here's a man who was in the woods that
night and saw him. He met him about half way and says he was so
exhausted and excited he couldn't speak. He told this man that he had to
_hurry on to save some people's lives_. He meant the people in the bus.
How he got from the place where he fell to the bus is a mystery. When he
did get there he couldn't speak, so he grabbed one of the horses. His
foot was wrenched and he was unconscious.

"When they got him in the bus he muttered something and they thought he
was talking about his foot. It was the bridge he was talking about. But
what he said prompted Mr. Carroll to send another scout forward, and
_he_ stopped the bus. That's all there is to it. He got there and it
nearly killed him. Darby Curren, who is here to tell you, thought he was
a spook.

"Now these three people, Mr. Hood, Darby Curren and Mr. Carroll, can
tell you what they know about it. It's one of those cases where the real
facts didn't come out. Hervey Willetts saved the lives of twenty-two
people at _grave danger_ to his own. That satisfies the handbook. He
doesn't care four cents about the Gold Cross, but right is right, and
I'm here to see that he gets it. Stand up, Hervey. Stand out in the
aisle." Suddenly Tom was seated.

So there stood the wandering minstrel, alone. Even his champion was not
in evidence. Nor was his troop there to share the glory with him. His
scoutmaster was there, but he seemed too dazed to speak. And so the
stormy petrel stood alone, as he would always stand alone. Because there
was no one like him.

"Willetts is the name? Hervey Willetts?"

"I got a middle name, but I don't bother with it."

"What troop?"

And so the cut and dried business, so strange and unattractive to
Hervey, of filling in the blank, went on. He did not greatly care for
indoor sports. There was a lull in the general interest. Scouts began
lounging and whispering again.

In that interval of restlessness, an observant person might have
noticed, sitting in the back part of the room, the rather ungainly
figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, organizer of the Church Mice
of Newburgh. He seemed to be the center of a clamoring, interested,
little group.

Roy Blakeley's brown, crinkly hair could be seen through the gaps made
by other heads. Gaylong's knees were up against the back of the seat in
front of him, thus for