No admiring throng followed him out. His own troop was not there and knew nothing of his triumph. Probably he never thought of these things. A scoutmaster grabbed his hand and said, "Wonderful, my boy!" Hervey smiled and seemed surprised. Outside they were sitting around on railings and steps and squatting on the grass. There was a little ripple of murmuring as he passed through the sprawling throng, but no one spoke to him. That was not because they did not appreciate, but because he was _different_ and a stranger. Perhaps it was because they did not know just how to take him. He didn't exactly fit in.... His ambling course had taken him perhaps a hundred feet, when he heard some one shout, "Let'er go!" Before he realized it, his own favorite tune filled the air, they were hurling it straight at him and the voices were loud and clear, though the words were strange. "_Everybody!_" "He's one little bully athlete, so fleet; At sprinting he's got us all beat, yes, beat. He can climb, he can stalk, He can win in a walk; He's a scout from his head to his feet-- THAT'S YOU. He's a scout from his head to his feet." He turned and stood stark still. Some of them, in the vehemence of their song, had risen and formed a little compact group. And again they sang the verse, the words _THAT'S YOU_ pouring out of the throat of Pee-wee Harris like a thunderbolt. Hervey blinked. His eyes glistened. Through their haze he could see the lanky figure of the tall fellow, Brent Gaylong, sitting upon the fence, his feet propped up on the lower rail, a pair of shell spectacles half way down his nose, and waving a little stick like the leader of an orchestra. He was very sober and looked absurdly funny. "Let him have the other one!" some one shouted. Gaylong rapped upon the fence with his little stick, and then gave it a graceful twirl which was an improvement on Sousa. The voices rose clear and strong: "We don't care a rap for the flings he springs; He doesn't mean half of the things he sings. We're all down and out When it comes to a scout That can run just as if he had wings and things. That can run just as if he had wings!" If Hervey had waited as long on the log in the quicksand as he waited now, there would have been no Gold Cross. But he could not move, he stood as one petrified, his eyes glistening. The wandering minstrel had been caught by his own tune. "Over the top," some one shouted. He was surrounded. "That's you! That's you!" they kept singing. He had never been caught in such a mix-up before. He saw them all crowding about him, saw Roy Blakeley's merry face and the sober face of Brent Gaylong, the spectacles still half way down his nose and the baton over his ear like a lead pencil. They took his hat, tossed it around, and handed it back to him.