'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 to a place on
the committee which was to receive the governor of the state. Over there
to the left, next to Barrey's junk shop, was poor Ching Wo's laundry,
into which Tom had hurled muddy barrel staves. And that brick house with
the broken window was where "Slats" Corbett, former lieutenant of Tom's
gang, had lived.

A big lump came up in his throat as he thought over the whole business
now and of where the scout trail had brought him. Oh, he was happy!

The bright spring sunshine which poured in through the window on that
wonderful morning, the flags which waved gayly here and there, seemed
to reflect his own joy, and he was overwhelmed with the sense of
triumph.

"That was a good trail I hit, all right," he said to himself. He could
not have said it out loud without his voice breaking.

One thing he wished in those few minutes of exultation. He wished that
his mother might be there to see him on the stage, a conspicuous part of
that patriotic demonstration, with the Gold Cross of the scouts upon his
left breast. That would make the cup of joy overflow.

But since that could not be, the next best thing would be the knowledge
that Margaret Ellison would be sitting there in the third row, looking
ever so pretty, and would see him, and notice the Gold Cross and wonder
what it meant.

"I'm glad I never wore it to the office," he mused.

And Roscoe Bent, with all his sprightly manners and fine airs, would see
where this good scout trail, which he had ridiculed, had brought Tom.

"It's a bully--old--trail--it is," he said to himself; "it's one good
old trail, all right."

He took out his handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps the bright
sunlight was too strong for them.

CHAPTER V

THE MAIN TRAIL