Scouting, Volume 39, Number 5, May 1951 Page: 4
40 p. : ill. ; 28 cm.View a full description of this periodical.
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When theu
Call uour BLUFF
Am;
FRONT LINE STUFF
To the hundreds of readers who wrote
about "We Vote 'Em In — And Out"
(March Scouting) : Yes, the situation
was real. Yes, your letters will be sum-
marized in an early issue of Scouting.
ffllor the last time," I bellowed, "LAY OFF THAT
( BUGLE!" It was my first overnight with the
Troop as the new Scoutmaster, and so far I was
batting a big fat king-size zero. I realized they
were taking advantage of me some because I was
a greenhorn, but I'd been grinning and bearing it a
little longer than was good for me. Already our
program was a washout, and discipline was a thing
of the remote past. I was not happy.
It was the bugler who'd been causing most of
the trouble. He'd been blowing that fool thing all
afternoon, sometimes regular calls blown at the
wrong time, sometimes vice versa, and sometimes
wavering wails and groans like the death rattle of
a bull moose.
The more he blew it, the more I told him to stop.
The more I told him to stop, the more he blew it.
It was as simple as that. A pure contest of wills,
wherein he, as the Troop's most accomplished sad-
ist, had been selected by unspoken but unanimous
consent to "test" their new and unproved leader.
Me.
I got the idea that the way I handled this ob-
vious frame-up would make me or break me with
the boys, who were watching me almost as hard
as they were pretending not to.
The bugle was blaring again. A long, loud,
brassy Bronx cheer. A derisive blat in "B" flat.
When it stopped I could hear the muffled snicker-
ing from the bugler's tent, and feel a dozen pairs
of eyes hard on me. I knew it was time to act.
I walked over to the bugler's tent. He was
sprawled on his sleeping bag, the bugle at the
ready. Just as I stuck my head inside the tent he
blatted. It was deafening.
When I stopped twitching I started talking.
"Joe," I rapped, "I've warned you a dozen times
this afternoon about that bugle. This is the last
time. If I hear that bugle once more — if I hear
one more note, understand? — you go home! Get
that? Home!"
He just stared at me. I stared back. After a
moment he lay the bugle down, and I knew I'd
won. Without another word I left the tent and
started away, congratulating myself.
I'd walked perhaps a dozen steps when it came
— a yammering, sneering bugle bleat that had
"so's yer old man!" written all over it.
I stopped in my tracks. Three mighty unpleas-
ant things flashed simultaneously through my
aching head:
1. My bluff was being called — but good.
2. My neck was out — way out.
3. I hated my big mouth.
It came to me there were only two choices; send
bugler Joe home, as per threat, or, back down and
say I didn't mean it after all. If I actually sent
him home, I knew I'd be as popular as a water
moccasin in the bath tub. If I backed down, I'd lose
face with the boys as a barking dog with no bite.
So what did I do?
First, still smarting from Joe's trumpeted chal-
lenge, I strode to his tent and growled, "All right,
pack up! You're leaving!" He gave me a sullen
glare, and without a word started to roll up his
sleeping bag. Then I withdrew to my own tent.
Within five minutes I was waited upon by a dele-
gation of my three Patrol Leaders. They laid it
right on the line.
"If you send Joe home, we're goin' too!"
"What about the rest of them?" I asked.
"Most of 'em are packing now."
"That's the way it is, then?"
"That's the way it is."
"All right. Tell Joe to unpack."
That's right. I surrendered. When they called
my hand I backed down, I lost face, I ate crow.
Instead of chasing only one unpopular choice, I'd
taken both. And I lost ground accordingly.
That hike has long since shuddered to its close,
and I've managed to gain back the ground I lost
there. But I think I learned a lesson or two that
week-end. Here they are:
What to do with a bugler — or any Scout — like
Joe. If you feel he's baiting you, let him. He's
trying to get your goat — don't let him! If it's a
"test," why not pass it? Show your gang that
you're a right guy, greenhorn or not. Kids, being
human, always prefer a Plus Gus to a Negative
Ned. Plus up!
When discipline is called for, don't maneuver
yourself, as I did, into a dilemma from which
retreat will be embarrassing or downright impos-
sible. Don't blab yourself into a bear-trap of your
own devising. Keep that little old neck of yours in!
Get me right, now. I'm not telling you never
to take a forthright stand on anything, or to be
a Scoutmaster Milquetoast. I'm just advising you
to avoid those point-of-no-return, my-way-or-else
declarations which slam the door on compromise,
and make it so-o-o easy for somebody to lop off
that limb you're hanging on.
SCOUTING
FOR ALL SCOUTERS
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Boy Scouts of America. Scouting, Volume 39, Number 5, May 1951, periodical, May 1951; New York, New York. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth329196/m1/6/: accessed March 28, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Boy Scouts of America National Scouting Museum.