Tom Slade with the Colors | Page 9

the ribbon badge.
"Mrs. Culver pressed it for me," said Tom. "It had a stain, but she got it off with gasoline."
"Good for her."
"Would--do you think it would be all right to wear my Gold Cross?"
"You bet!" said Mr. Temple, busy with his mail. "If I had the scouts' Gold Cross for life-saving, I'd wear it, and I'd have an electric light next to it, like the tail light on an automobile to show the license number."
Tom laughed. He found it easy to laugh. He was nervous, almost to the point of panic, but his heart was dancing with joy.
"All right, my boy," laughed Mr. Temple. "Go along now, and good luck to you."
As Tom went out of Mr. Temple's office he seemed to move on wings. He was half frightened, but happy as he had never been in all his life. His cup of joy was overflowing. He had been through the ordeal of more than one generous ovation from his comrades in the troop; he had stood awkward and stolid with that characteristic frown of his while receiving the precious Gold Cross which this night he would wear.
But this was different--oh, so different! He, Tom Slade, was to help receive the governor of the state and one of Uncle Sam's famous generals. The Boy Scouts were to be represented because the Boy Scouts had to be reckoned with on these occasions, and he, Tom Slade, organizer of the Elk Patrol and now assistant to the scoutmaster, was chosen for this honor.
"I'm glad I had my suit pressed," he thought.
What a day it had been for him so far! He had had a little chat with Margaret Ellison, she had said she liked him--anyway, she had almost said it, and she had taken the little emblem from him and had said that if he made up his mind to do a thing he would do it. He remembered the very words. Then he had gone downstairs and received this overwhelming news from Mr. Temple. What if he had planted his seeds wrong and bored holes slantingways instead of straight? He was so proud and happy now that he added the official, patented scout smile to his sumptuous regalia and smiled all over his face.
He was usually rather timid about speaking to the men in the bank unless they spoke to him first, for the bank was an awesome place to him; but to-day he was not afraid, and his recollection of the pleasant little chat upstairs reminded him of a fine thing to do.
"Is Rossie Bent here?" he asked, stopping at the teller's cage.
"Bent!" called the teller.
Tom waited in suspense.
"Not here," called a voice from somewhere beyond.
"Not here," repeated the teller, and added: "Asleep at the switch, I dare say."
Evidently the people of the bank had Roscoe's number. A strange feeling came over Tom which chilled his elation and troubled him. Irresistibly there rose in his mind a picture of a waiting automobile, of a dark figure, and a silent departure late at night.
"I guess maybe he's just stopped to register, hey?" said Tom.
"Stopped for something or other, evidently," said the teller.
"Could I speak to Mr. Temple's secretary?" Tom asked.
Mr. Temple's secretary, a brisk little man, came out, greeting Tom pleasantly.
"Congratulations," said he.
"I meant to ask Mr. Temple if I could have a couple of reserved seat tickets for the patriotic meeting to-night," said Tom, "but I was kind of flustered and forgot about it. I could get them later, I guess, but if you have any here I'd like to get a couple now because I want to give them to some one."
"Yes, sir," said the secretary, in genial acquiescence; "just a minute."
Tom went up in the elevator holding the two tickets in his hand. If his joy was darkened by any growing shadow of apprehension, he put the unpleasant thought away from him. He was too generous to harbor it; yet a feeling of uneasiness beset him.
As he entered the office, Margaret Ellison, smiled broadly.
"You knew what it was?" he said boldly.
"Certainly I knew, and isn't it splendid!"
"I got two tickets," said Tom, "for reserved seats down front. They're in the third row. I was going to give them to Roscoe and tell him to take--to ask you to go. But he's--he's late--I guess he stopped to register. So I'll give them to you, and when he comes up you can tell him about it."
"I'll give them to him and say you asked me to."
"All right," Tom said hesitatingly; "then he'll ask you."
"Perhaps."
She disappeared into the little inner office where Mr. Burton was waiting to dictate his mail, and Tom strolled over to the big window which overlooked Barrel Alley and gazed down upon that familiar, sordid place.
It was a long road from that squalid tenement down there