But the spasm of raillery was soon over. They were more concerned with Skinny's discomfiture than with finding the fugitive compass. And they did not find it; it had rolled gayly off and baffled all these trackers and pathfinders. Skinny did not let his uproarious comrades know how much he really did want to find it. He was even glad when the excitement was over. He hoped they would resume camp-fire yarns and forget all about it. He had suffered quite enough this agony of being in the public eye. But the fire was burning low now and there were no more camp-fire yarns. There was a continuous exodus from the spot. Sitting there one might see scouts, singly and in groups, moving into the darkness, up the hill or along Cabin Lane or toward Tent Village, as they called it, to their quarters. Slowly the reflection of the fire in the lake near by diminished until there was nothing but a tiny red glow on the black water. "So long, see you in the morning," was repeated again and again as patrols went their several ways off into the solemn stillness of the big scout community, It was more than a camp, this lakeside foundation started by Mr. John Temple; it was a sort of scout city in the wilderness. One could be quite alone and unnoticed there, if he so chose, even as one may be a hermit in the metropolis. Soon only half a dozen or so of the merry, lolling throng remained, and these sat meditating as they waited for the fire to die. There were always a few to linger like this; a few who had that gentle sentiment that likes to see the old year go out, or watch beside a dying fire. Old Uncle Jeb and Tom Slade, camp assistant, always waited to trample out the last embers. With them sat two or three of the older boys. "Poor kid, it's a lot of fun to see him all flustered," one said. "He's even got a regular scout suit," said another. "He drove down to Kingston with Curry in his Ford and bought it and now he's afraid to wear it. Somebody told me he's been saving up for it ever since last summer. And now he's afraid to wear it." "Curry told me it's about forty-'leven sizes too big," drawled lanky Brent Gaylong. "But I s'pose Skinny figures on growing up to it. Probably he means to wear it when he's National Scout Commissioner. A scout has to be prepared as I understand." "Look out, you'll burn your shoe," said Tom. "If _you_ dressed more like a scout it wouldn't hurt you any." "I have the soul of a scout," drawled Brent. "I don't need the tinseled regalia. What do you suppose would happen," he said meditatively after a pause, "if Skinny were to be awarded the Gold Cross and all the high dinkums of scouting were here to pull the presentation stuff to the plaudits of the multitude! What do you think he'd do if old man Temple made one of his speeches about him!" "I think he'd drop dead," said Tom. "But Skinny is no coward; he's just bashful and sensitive."