not thought to be a really
A-1 scout....

The two scoutmasters of the arriving troops remained in the bus with the
first aid scouts and a queer little codger who seemed to be lame; the
others walked. Hervey Willetts had ridden on top of that bus (contrary
to orders), but he had never before lain quietly on the seat of it and
been watched by two scoutmasters. He was always being watched by
scoutmasters, but never in just this way....

So the old bus lumbered on. Soon he opened his eyes and mumbled
something.

"Yes, my boy," said one of the scoutmasters; "what is it?"

"S--sma--smashed--br--," he said incoherently.

"Yes, we'll have a doctor as soon as we reach camp," the scoutmaster
said soothingly. "Try to bear it. Don't move it and perhaps it won't
pain so."

Hervey shook his head petulantly as if it were not his foot he spoke of.
"Br--oken--the--br--look out----" And again he seemed to faint away.

The scoutmaster was puzzled.

In a few moments he spoke again, his eyes closed. But the word he spoke
was clear.

"Ahead," he whispered.

The scoutmaster was still puzzled but he opened the bus door and called,
"Gilbert, suppose you and a couple of the boys go on ahead and watch
your step." Then to the other scoutmaster he said, "I think he's a bit
delirious."

So it happened that it was Gilbert Tyson of the troop from Hillsburgh,
forty or fifty miles down the line, who shouted to Darby Curren to stop,
that the bridge had been washed away.

A funny part of the whole business was that the little duffer in the
bus, who was attached to that troop, thought that Tyson was the hero of
the occasion. He was strong on troop loyalty if on nothing else. So far
as he was concerned (and he was very much concerned) Tyson had saved the
lives of every scout in those two troops. Subsequent circumstances
favored this delusion of his. For one thing, Hervey Willetts cared
nothing at all about glory. You could not fit the mantle of heroism on
him to save your life. He never talked about the affair, he was seldom
at camp, except to sleep, and he did not know how he had managed the
last few yards of his triumphal errand. For another thing, the
Hillsburgh troop kept to themselves more or less, occupying one of the
isolated "hill cabins." As for Tom Slade, he seldom talked much. He had
seen too many stunts to lose his head over a new one, and he was a poor
sort of publicity agent for Hervey.

Thus Goliath, as the little codger ca