The savage gorilla is mild, is mild; Compared to the boy scout so wild, so wild. He don't go to bed, And he stands on his head, The life of a scout is wild! Gilbert stood petrified with astonishment. In all his excursions through the scout handbook he had never encountered any such formula for scouting as this. No scout hero in _Boys' Life_ had ever consecrated himself to such a program. There was a pause within, during which Gilbert crept a little closer. He hardly knew any of the boys in camp yet, and the strange voice meant nothing to him. He knew that no member of _his_ troop was there. "Want to hear another?" the singer asked. "Shoot," was the laconic reply. "This one was writ, wrot, wrote for the Camp-fire Girls around the blazing oil stove. "If I had nine lives like an old tom cat, I'd chuck eight of them away. For the more the weight, the less the speed, And scouts don't carry any more than they need; And I'd keep just one for a rainy day. "Good? Want to hear more? Second verse by special request. They're off: "If I could turn like an old windmill, I'd do good turns all day; With noble deeds the day I'd fill. But you see I'm _not_ an old windmill. And I ain't just built that way, I ain't." Gilbert decided that however unusual were these ballads of scouting, they did not emanate from thief or hobo; and he climbed resolutely over the log. Even the comparative mildness of the savage gorilla to this new kind of scout did not deter him. The scout anthem continued. "If I was a roaring old camp-fire, You bet that I'd go out; Oh, I'd go out and far and near, For a camp-fire has the right idea; And knows what it's about!" Gilbert crept along the farther side of the log till he came to an opening among the tangled roots. It was a very small but cozy little cave that he found himself looking into. In a general way, it suggested a wicker basket or a cage, except that it was black and damp. Within was a little fire of twigs. Tending it was a young fellow of perhaps twenty years of age, wearing a plaid cap. He was stooping over the little fire. Nearby, in a sort of swing made by binding two hanging tentacles of root, sat the wandering minstrel, swinging his legs to keep his makeshift hammock in motion. Gilbert Tyson contemplated him in speechless consternation. There he was, the ideal ragged vagabond, and he did not cease swinging even when he discovered the visitor. "H'lo," he said; "gimme my hat, that's just what I wanted; glad to see you." Dumbfounded, Gilbert tossed the hat over to him. "I wouldn't sell that hat," said Hervey, putting it on, "not for a couple of cups of cup custard. Sit down. Here's the chorus.