Skinny McCord

CHAPTER X

WON

Over near the opposite shore of the lake there was a man fishing from a boat that morning. He sat motionless in the early solitude, a lonely figure against the somber background of wooded shore. Across the lake was a ribbon of light, like a silvery stream flowing in the dark water. It seemed to scatter into bits of tinsel where it touched the base of the densely covered heights. The lone fisherman was not in its path.

Suddenly he raised his rod, swinging the long line far off from the opposite side of his boat, and just then something caught his eye. About fifty yards distant an object was moving across the shimmering band. At first he thought it was a freakish manifestation of this glimmering sheen. Then he saw that it was a foreign object, progressing slowly, steadily. It reached the clearly defined border of this shining area; then he lost it for a few moments.

Now it appeared again coming straight toward him; by-times he caught a glimpse of a face; an arm appeared and disappeared regularly. On, on the swimmer came with slow, unswerving progress. The fisherman heard a distant bell; like an answering peal it echoed from the solemn heights near by. Distant voices could be heard, thin and spent. The man could not hear what they said as they seemed to dissolve in the air. But the bell continued ringing. He felt rather than heard distant excitement. The ringing and the voices were mellowed by the intervening space, yet he sensed that something was wrong over at the big camp.

The swimmer was now in plain view of the fisherman—close at hand. He did not seem to be in trouble, but a swim across Black Lake was by no means an easy feat, and the man hauled in his line and sculled over to intercept him.

"Don't touch me—keep away!" Skinny fairly yelled.

"Don't you want to come aboard?"

"No, you keep away from me!"

The fisherman did not know that this drenched and ghostly pale boy had done anything more than a rash stunt. He lifted him gently and laid him in the boat and started to row across toward camp. But he did not have to go far. Across the lake at top speed the camp launch came chugging, filled with eager, shouting passengers.

"Is he all right?" a voice called. "Isn't drowned, is he?"

"No, but he's fainted," the man called back.

"Did you pick him up?"

"No, he made the shore."

Up she came to the old flat-bottomed boat that rocked in the swell as Councilor Wallace caught hold of the unpainted rail while two scouts lifted Skinny into the launch. All the Elks were there, and Doc Carson, first aid scout of the Ravens, and Tom Slade, the young camp assistant. Yes, the little devil was all right. He opened his eyes and closed them again. Connie Bennett, his patrol leader, brushed the soaked hair away from the small white forehead, and the eyes opened again and the quivering lips smiled at Connie. "You're all right, kid!" said he gently. He pulled away a bit of water-weed that was plastered across the little fellow's face. "Want to try to sit up?"

"I see him a comin'," said the fisherman, "an' I kinder surmised somethin's wrong. He wuz swimmin' all ragged—I never see nuthin' like it. But he yells to me not ter touch 'im. Just screeches at me. Then he goes reelin' up the shore 'n' grabs hold on a tree 'n' goes twistin' roun' 'n' down he goes. Maybe he wuz escapin' thinks I."

"No, he wasn't escaping," said Connie. "He just had a kind of a craze on. He did a stunt and he thought he'd like to try a still bigger one."

"He's a lucky kid," said the fisherman as he rowed away.

"Lucky patrol," said one of the boys.

They took him over to camp and into Administration Shack and laid him on the couch there. And in a little while he was quite restored and able to go up the hill to his patrol cabin. His slim little form looked funny in a bathrobe as he trudged along, tripping now and again. The Elks clustered all about him proudly. Stut Moran playfully pulled the tasseled cord tight about him and tied it in a knot; it made him look still funnier, and he smiled that bashful smile of his to see them amused at his expense. "Looks like a champion prize-fighter on his way to the ring," said Stut.

"Well you've got a nice new dry suit anyway," said Connie. "And you're going to put it on and have your picture taken for both things that you did. Jumping jiminies, kid, you sure did break loose! What are you going to do next? Why, you crazy little midnight sneak! How the dickens did you suppose you were going to prove you swam across the lake when you got up at about fourteen-twenty A.M. and started off without any escort. Suppose that man hadn't been there. It's all right, kid, we're not kicking; we've got the Hiawatha canoe, gee we've got no kick. I'll say that. But cut out the hero stuff for a couple of days. Why, you skinny little grasshopper, you've been running wild!"

"Can I get it right away?" Skinny asked. "The canoe, can I get it right away quick? Right away now, can I get it?" he persisted, tripping over the bathrobe which was as much too big for him as his lost scout suit. "Can I honest and true get it right away now?"

"Who's going to stop us!" laughed Connie.

"We'll be out paddling in it this afternoon," said Vic Norris.

"Do you know what I was thinking?" Bert McAlpin asked.

"Skinny doesn't think, he acts," said Connie.

"No, but on the level," said Bert. "I never took such an awful lot of interest in it before—I mean the regatta—but, jiminies, as long as we've got the Hiawatha canoe why can't a couple of us train up and go in for the Mary Temple Cup? Skinny's too small, but it's all in the patrol anyway. You know what Roy Blakeley's all the time saying—united we stand, divided we sprawl. I say let's a couple of us train for the canoe races. Skinny's got us started now and we'll do big things. Oh boy, the white pennant! And now the canoe. Oh boy, Skinny's the big noise in camp."

He did not make much noise as he sat down on the edge of his cot, his clamorous comrades all about him. He had never tasted glory before. He had not only made a sensational hop, slap and jump into fame; he had aroused in his patrol the thirst for still greater achievement. He was bewildered, frightened.

"Listen here, kid," said Connie, "I'm so blamed excited I can hardly talk straight. Listen here. The breakfast horn will be sounding in a few minutes. We're not washed up yet, we got called up in such a hurry. While we're getting ready for breakfast you get on your new scout suit and we'll meet you over at 'eats.' Now no more blamed nonsense, you do what I tell you and put on your scout suit, and come over to 'eats' all dolled up right so the bunch will know the fellow that did these things is a scout. Understand?"

Skinny understood, and he just sat on the edge of his cot, nervous and anxious to be left alone. To these enthusiastic, planning comrades, his achievement was a climax. But it was no climax to him; it was just one step in what he intended to do. He was bewildered and nervous at their talk about future triumphs with the prize canoe. Connie's order to him about the new scout suit troubled him. You see, Skinny had not intended to be a hero. He was a hero worshipper, and his hero was Danny. He had never thought to complicate matters by being a hero himself. Now he saw that being a hero was a nuisance.

CHAPTER XI

IF

Skinny knew that Danny was wise, that he would not appear in camp before half past nine, because there was no boat or train which would permit his arrival before that time. Danny's attention to detail in his free and lawless progress commanded admiration if not respect. He never committed a silly blunder. Also Skinny knew that this runaway brother of his could not commit the perilous act of false registration until the office opened at ten o'clock. So there was time enough for what he had planned to do.

Hurriedly opening his old suit-case, he pulled out the only extra shirt and trousers that he had and put them on. Then he locked the suitcase again so that no prying comrade might discover that the new suit was not there. Just as he started from the cabin the breakfast horn sounded. He hurried along with that funny shuffling sideways gait of his and paused at the cooking shack to get an apple and a sandwich from Chocolate Drop, the colored chef. Any scout contemplating a short hike was welcome to this customary refreshment. He wanted it for Danny. He wondered how Danny had spent the night and hoped he had not been aroused by all the fuss caused by his early swim. At cooking shack he took occasion to ask Chocolate Drop if he knew where Helmer Clarkson stayed.

"He dat boy wots folks done send 'im big grapefruit 'n' boxes wi' dem figs. Sho he done sleep up dere yonder in one dem woods cabins. You know dat cabin wi' de skunk skin tacked on de do'? Lor' Massa Skincord, dat boy am rich! Him folk send him great big crate full of fruit. Dat ain't good fer no young boy, dat ain't. Bein' diffrent, dat am bad. I say ter Massa Slade, I say, dat ain't no camp scout business. Share one, share all, in dis yer camp, dat's wot I say. You gwine straight up dat path, you'll find it."

It was little enough that poor Skinny knew about the unwise procedure of rich parents with their sons at camp. I dare say Chocolate Drop was right; there was too much pampering. Certainly no one had ever sent Skinny a grapefruit or a box of figs. Something in the little fellow's wistful look touched the kindly heart of Chocolate Drop, who reigned unquestioned monarch in the fragrant cook shack, and he made up an extra sandwich and handed it to him together with four cookies. "You watch out you don' get bit by dem rattlesnakes," he warned. Rattlesnakes were the terror of Chocolate Drop's life. "You jes' good as dat Clarkson son. Now you scamper off ter breakfast."

But Skinny did not go to breakfast. He started up the hill, encouraged, elated. He was going to do business with a boy who had expressed a desire for a canoe, and whose people were so rich that they sent him figs and grapefruit. He did not know just exactly how he would approach such a boy; he dreaded this more than he had dreaded his swim across the lake. But, of course, rich boys could be talked to.

He was not exactly afraid; he felt that luck had favored him thus far. He had lifted the white pennant and had been able thereby to conceal the real purpose of his absence at night. He had won the Hiawatha canoe. And now he was going to sell it to a boy who was so rich that he received delicacies by parcel post. That would be easy. Then he would hurry on up to the old shanty in the cut and give Danny the food and the money. After that he would, of course, worry about Danny's escape from the reform school. But at least the dangers at Temple Camp would be averted.

On arriving at the cabin with the skunk skin tacked on the door, Skinny was astonished to find that it was the very cabin from which he had taken the white pennant. The place looked different in the daylight. He had not seen the skunk skin on his nocturnal raid, nor the quaintly worded sign above the door which read:

THE ALLIGATORS OF ALLEGHANY

But he saw clearly the hole from which he had so stealthily lifted the pennant staff. The Alligators had not gone down to breakfast; there were voices inside. He wondered whether his little masterstroke would leave them prejudiced against him. Hardly that, he realized, for scouts are good sports and cheerful losers. Perhaps they would even give him credit, as the saying is. He was not doubtful about scouts, but he was a little afraid of a rich boy.

The voices inside were loud and angry; the occupants of the cabin seemed all talking at once and excitedly.

"Awh, forget it, and come ahead down to eats, will you?"

"I'm through," said another boy.

"If you're talking of breakfast I haven't even started yet," said still another. "For the love of Mike, will you cut it out and come on down."

"I'm through," said the boy who had made this pronouncement before.

"All right, we're satisfied," another said.

"Do you take back what you said?"

"No, I don't take back what I said."

There was a pause and Skinny tremblingly knocked on the door. It was opened by a tall scout whom he had seen before.

"Does Helmer Clarkson live here!" he asked, his voice shaking a little. He had quickly decided that he would not mention the affair of the white pennant.

"Sure, you're welcome to him," said a boy from within. "We give six coupons free to anybody who'll take him."

"Cut that out," said another boy.

"Here, put him in your pocket and take him home," said still another as he pushed a rather small boy through the open door. It was evident that the victim of this hearty eviction was the Rockefeller of Temple Camp, Helmer Clarkson. He was an effeminate looking boy; rather sissified, Skinny thought. It was easy to believe that he was of a sort to be the recipient of dainties from home.

Skinny, in his simplicity, went straight to the point. "Do you want to buy a canoe!" he asked.

"What canoe?" asked a boy from inside.

"The Hiawatha Prize canoe," said Skinny, addressing Clarkson, as they all gathered about the doorway staring and listening. "I heard you wanted to buy a canoe and I'll sell you that one for as much—I mean—only fifteen dollars." He was too simple to place the price at a little more than Danny needed. The canoe was actually worth seventy dollars.

"What's the big idea?" somebody asked.

"You!" laughed another. "What are you doing with the prize canoe? You mean that one in the headquarters building?"

"I won it by swimming across the lake," said Skinny, blushing to the roots of his hair, "and I don't want it because—because it's my own business why I don't want it. So do you want to buy it for fifteen dollars? I heard you wanted one."

"I'm leaving this camp and I don't want it," said Helmer Clarkson.

"He hasn't got the price," a boy taunted.

For answer Helmer Clarkson displayed the contents of a neat wallet which almost staggered poor Skinny. "I've had enough of this camp," he said, "and I'm going home on the noon train from Catskill."

"It's only fifteen dollars," poor Skinny said. "Maybe I'd take ten."

"If you gave me the canoe for nothing I wouldn't stay here," said Helmer Clarkson in a very mincing manner. "If you'd come around two or three days ago—even yesterday—I might have given you twenty-five dollars for it. I can spend fifty dollars for one if I want to. But I've had enough of this crowd, thank you. I'm going home."

Poor Skinny's hopes were dashed. He cast a forlorn look at the scouts, who were laughing heartily. They were not laughing at him; for once he was not the victim. They were laughing (and that with a kind of tolerant contempt) at Helmer Clarkson.

"Yes, we got no canoes to-day," one boy sang.

"I don't want to play in your yard," sang another.

"Tell him why you're going home, Ellie," a third shouted.

"I'll tell him," another volunteered. "You know we had the white pennant up here—we took it away from that Virginia troop over near Turtle Cove. Each one of us is supposed to stay awake forty minutes every night and listen. Last night our little sleeping beauty—that's him—falls asleep at the switch. Somebody walked away with the pennant. We even knew somebody was hanging around, because just a little while before that I sneaked out and caught a fellow nosing about. On top of that Sweet-dream Ellie has to go to sleep when his turn was on. And—listen, get this—when we jump very gently on his neck he gets sore and says he won't play any more."

During the recital of this indictment, Helmer Clarkson held himself aloof in silent dignity. "I'm through with the scouts for good," said he. "It was only an experiment anyway. But I certainly do love canoing——"

"Sure, in the bathtub," interrupted one of the boys.

"Chief Dead-to-the-world sailing down the Alleghany River," mocked another.

"If it wasn't for my leaving," said Helmer, ignoring them, "I'd be only too glad to buy your canoe. I'd have given you more than fifteen dollars for it."

Skinny looked from one to the other of this cheery group; they seemed an interesting patrol, notwithstanding their family disturbance. Then his eyes fell on Helmer Clarkson in a woebegone, incredulous gaze. He realized that by his own act of "lifting" the pennant he had effectually prevented the sale of the canoe. If he had not stolen up in the dead of night, so softly that the dozing Helmer never heard him, he might now have fifteen dollars—thirty perhaps—with which to speed his erring brother forth to safety.

What a tragic word is IF!

CHAPTER XII

SCOUT LAW NUMBER TWO

He had taken the white pennant. He had won the Hiawatha Prize. He had brought glory to his patrol. But all he had to give Danny was two sandwiches and four cookies. Hero though he was, he could not face his colleagues, for he had no scout suit to put on. So long as there was hope of selling the canoe, he had not considered what his patrol would think of this. He had thought only of Danny. But now, as he trudged on up through the woods, a forlorn little fellow, he wondered what Connie and the others would say when they heard that he had tried to sell the prize canoe. They would certainly hear that, and he could not tell them why he had attempted such an unscoutlike business. There was never any buying and selling of prizes at Temple Camp.

He trudged up through the woods, cautiously looking back now and then. It seemed to him a very long time since he had seen Danny, so much had happened in the meantime. He found him sitting on the shelf in the shanty, his knees drawn up to form a reading desk on which the Scout Handbook lay open.

"Hey, Tiny, this is some book," said he. "Honest, do they do all these things, or is it just bunk? Here's a good one on page—page—here it is, sixty-six. This is the one for me. Here's a gold medal you get for saving a guy's life, only you've got to risk your own. If you lose your life you're out of luck. If you get away with it they hand you this——"

"I know all about it," said Skinny.

"That ain't so worse," said Danny, idly running over the pages. "Wait till I find—oh here it is, here's a pippin! Here's where a guy makes out he's a smuggler—page four hundred and thirty—and the bunch has to track him. If he gets to the nearest town he's K.O. I ought to be able to get away with that, Tiny." It was certainly in his line. "They got some good dope here, all right," he added. "You can even be one if you're not in with a bunch."

"That's a pioneer scout," said Skinny.

"Here's a nifty—listen to this one. They got a lot of badges you can win. Here's one on riding a horse——"

"I know all about them," Skinny repeated.

It was evident that scouts had merits which Danny could admire, but had no desire to imitate. His rather nonchalant attitude toward scouting troubled poor Skinny. He had spent the whole night in nervous tension, planning and striving to save Danny from his own folly. And here was Danny leisurely inspecting the Scout Handbook, commenting upon its features with eminent fairness, and apparently without a care in the world. It must be admitted that so far as looks were concerned there was not a boy at Temple Camp more scoutlike than he. Poor Skinny's suit fitted him to perfection; it was in line with this blithesome young scapegrace's luck that his ungainly little half-brother had in his innocence bought the suit too large. Though, indeed, poor Skinny would never in any suit look as natty as this self-sufficient brother of his. The only false note in Danny's ensemble was a rakish tilt of the scout hat, which gave him a rather too easy-going and sophisticated air.

"I brought you something to eat," said poor Skinny. "I was afraid they'd find you, those reform school people, but I'm glad they didn't. There's two sandwiches here, and four cookies. I bet you didn't sleep much—I bet."

"You lose your bet," said Danny. "I was dead to the cruel world. Some blamed bird or other, that was screaming like Hail Columbia, woke me up."

"Those are blue jays," said Skinny.

"They'd be black and blue jays if I caught them," said Danny. "I went over there to a spring and washed up. Then I came back and started giving this book the once-over. What time is it anyway? Can I go and do my act yet?" He ate the sandwiches while Skinny talked.

"I tried to get fifteen dollars for you so you wouldn't have to stay here and I swam across the lake so as to win the prize canoe; I did it early this morning, Danny, and I won it. But the feller I tried to sell it to because he's rich and has grapefruit sent him and everything—that feller wouldn't buy it, because he's mad at his patrol and he's going home, because they're sore at him on account of his not staying awake so nobody could take the pennant. I'm the one that took it. So I'm the one to blame, because I can't give you fifteen dollars."

Danny was a boy who was always ready to do anything. Consequently nothing that any other boy did astonished him. He was interested in propositions to do things. He was not so interested in things that had been done. So all he said was, "You should worry."

"I got to worry," said poor Skinny.

"And I've got to stay here and I might as well have some fun," said Danny.

Poor Skinny was aghast at Danny's utter inability to perceive the peril in which he stood. This impersonation of another boy at Temple Camp was to be merely another casual adventure in the blithesome career of Danny. He had lost no sleep over it, he apprehended no complications. He would cross bridges when he came to them. He was not annoyed by Skinny's near success in the matter of the canoe. What Skinny had done did not seem to impress him as an exploit. Since he was not able to supply fifteen dollars, Danny accepted scouting as a means of escape. And he was not going to worry about it.

"Will you promise—cross your heart—that you won't say I told you to do it?" Skinny asked, with panic fear in every feature. "Will you promise—honest and true, cross your heart—that you won't ever even look at me?"

"Go on down and get your breakfast, kid," said Danny.

"I tried to get you the money so you could go away."

"Sure, you should worry; go down and eat, Tiny."

"And you won't go to the office till about half past ten, because on account of the train?"

"Leave it to me, kid."

"You're going to get in a lot of trouble," Skinny warned, pathetically apprehensive.

Poor little fellow, he had done the best he could to avert this bizarre and perilous undertaking of Danny's. He had risked his life. He was doomed to trouble with his comrades because of the missing scout suit, and because of his attempt to sell the reward of his heroism. They would not even laugh at him and make fun of him any more. He wondered if he had better go ask the Alligators of Alleghany not to mention the offer he had made at their cabin. But that would only discredit him with them; it would look sneaky.

Such troubles to arise from good intentions and deeds of skill and prowess! Poor Skinny, his excursion into the field of heroism had not been propitious. And pressing down upon him more heavily than all these perplexities was the terrifying thought of Danny. What might happen there made Skinny shudder. Such an act of effrontery as his half-brother was launched upon quite unnerved this poor little scout who had been so humble and obscure. Yet he was staunch in loyalty to Danny. He would bear the scornful taunts (as he had always borne the humorous taunts) of Temple Camp if that were necessary. And when the worst came to the worst he would be loyal to Danny. It was odd that through all this disheartening mess, he did not once recall with pride and elation that he was the winner of the Hiawatha Prize. He had forgotten all about the canoe.

CHAPTER XIII

ALIAS DANVILLE BENTLY

He hurried along with his queer, shuffling gait to the big shed where meals were served in pleasant weather. He was always insignificant looking unless you looked straight into his eyes. There was something indescribable about those eyes that haunted one. They bespoke a latent frenzy that could carry that homely little frail body to any heights of heroism. But all you saw as he hurried along was a little codger who somehow reminded you of the slums. He had the scared look so familiar in homeless dogs.

As he moved between the long tables a few scouts who had never noticed him before, turned and stared at him. "Honest!" one scout asked his neighbor. "Sure, that's him," said another; "that's the one." By no means all of them knew of his triumphant swim. At one table they were talking about the "lifting" of the white pennant, but no one seemed to know that he was the hero of that affair. One would have to be a pretty big hero to divert the attention of the Temple Camp scouts while they were eating breakfast. One remark he did overhear as he made his way to the tables of his own troop. "Special bargain sale in prize canoes," he heard a boy say. "Business is not so good today," another boy answered. Skinny flushed but did not glance at the authors of this cheap sarcasm.

The Bridgeboro Troop occupied two tables, the Ravens and the Chipmunks at one, the Silver Foxes and the Elks at the other. As Skinny edged into his seat only one voice greeted him. The exuberant Roy Blakeley of the Silver Foxes called. "Hey Skinny, you were in the swim all right, but not here.

Sticks and stones can break your bones,
But looks can never hurt you."

But there Roy Blakeley was mistaken. Looks did hurt Skinny; they were like blows to his sensitive nature. And now nothing but black looks greeted him. Something was wrong evidently; something very serious. For there was no criticism, no half-humorous slurs and sallies. The members of his patrol passed him things at the table, and once or twice asked such service from him, and it was pitiful to see him respond with such alacrity. But no one talked with him—with this boy who had "lifted" the white pennant and won the Hiawatha canoe. He thought it must be because he had not donned his scout suit.

After breakfast he went off by himself and wandered up into the woods. He often did that to get away from the bantering scouts, but this morning he was beset with forebodings. Something was wrong, everything was wrong. The atmosphere he had felt at breakfast pervaded the whole quiet woodland. Something played on the strings of his delicate nature, causing them to vibrate with strange apprehension. He felt nervous, ill at ease; he knew something was going to happen. Up in the woods was an oriole's nest which he had been watching, for he intended to take it when it was deserted and claim the Audubon Prize. He sat down on a stump and looked at it now, hanging up in the tree like a dried rag. He had no more interest in the prizes. He had won the hardest one of all to win, and it had brought him nothing but trouble.

After a little while, he wandered back to camp again, haunted by that strange sense of foreboding. A lonesome, forlorn little waif he seemed; hopelessly an odd number; not one single sign of the scout about him. Just a little codger from Corkscrew Alley. Passing a few yards from Administration Shack he saw the usual coming and going by which he knew that the office was open. There were the usual loiterers on the porch, scoutmasters hurrying in and out, new boys glancing around as they emerged and pausing to read the notices.

Suddenly a rather tall boy with his scout hat tilted at a rakish angle came out, folding a paper. That was the set of rules that they gave to every new arrival. He also held a red card and Skinny knew what that meant, It meant he was registered as a scout without troop affiliation and was assigned to the big dormitory which, with several group cabins, formed what was called Pioneer Row.* So Danny had come through the routine of enrollment without trouble. Skinny was even proud of him, he looked so natty, so self-assured, so different from those bewildered looking new arrivals who glanced bashfully about seeming not to know what to do with themselves. There was one whole patrol of them and they seemed as helpless as a pack of sheep.

* A pioneer scout is one without a troop or patrol. See page 24 of the Scout Handbook.

As Danny stepped down off the porch he passed between two scouts who were catching ball and he raised his arm in an offhand way intercepting the ball and throwing it to a third boy. How proud Skinny would have been of this charmingly nonchalant brother, except for that frightful secret! Even as it was he felt relieved and a little proud, Danny was so attractive and seemed so safe—so equal to any emergency.

Skinny hardly knew where to go so he went down to the springboard. Still that vague feeling of presentiment beset him and made him nervous. Sitting on the springboard were Connie Bennett, his patrol leader, and several of the Elk Patrol. Seeing Skinny approaching, Stut Moran and Vic Norris strolled away. "Cut that out," Connie said to them, but they paid no attention.

Skinny could not bear the tension; his little frame was trembling with nervous excitement. "What's the matter?" he forced himself to ask. "If I don't want to wear my—a—scout suit I don't have to, do I? If I don't want to have my picture taken in it, I don't have to."

Hearing him speak, Stut and Vic turned and paused, Vic calling, "Come on, you scouts, let him alone. Don't you know what we said?"

The others started from the springboard to join Stut and Vic. Skinny remained on the springboard, scarlet with embarrassment. Like a little statue of lonely poverty he stood there on the board from which he had plunged for his sensational swim.

"Can't you tell me if it's about the suit?" he called almost imploringly.

They seemed to be conferring and he waited. Then Connie beckoned and he went to them, like a dog doubtful of its welcome. Thus it happened that one of the most memorable events of Temple Camp occurred on the grassy patch near the shore, just under the big willow tree where they painted the boats before launching them. Scouts will show you the spot now.

"I'm going to give you the chance to deny it, that's only fair," Connie said. "Did you try to sell the Hiawatha Prize to a patrol from out in Pennsylvania?"

"Yes, I did," Skinny said. He was trembling, not in fear, but in the pride of his frankness.

"You did!"

"Yes, I did—I said I did."

There was a tense pause.

"A prise! You tried to sell it for money," exclaimed Vic Norris incredulously.

"Didn't you know those scouts are going in for the canoe races the same as we are!"

"No, I didn't know that," Skinny protested, breathing heavily.

Such an altercation could not fail to attract lookers-on and perhaps a dozen boys were now standing about listening.

"Well, you knew we were going in the races with it," Connie said. "And you knew that prizes kind of go to patrols. You ask anybody in Temple Camp—ask Tom Slade—if he ever heard of a scout trying to sell a camp award. Jimmies, I didn't believe it when I heard it. You sneaked up to those fellows' cabin and asked them if they wanted to buy the Hiawatha canoe for fifteen dollars. Did you or didn't you?"

"If you can prove you didn't, we won't chuck you out," Bert McAlpin said.

"I said I did," said Skinny, standing his ground, but with a tremor in his voice, "but I didn't sneak."

"Good night!" groaned Hunt Ward disgustedly.

"What did you want to do it for?" Connie asked. He alone seemed disposed to be considerate.

"Because—it's none of anybody's business what I did it for," Skinny said.

"Why it's like the gold medal; would you sell that?"

"Yes, I would if I thought—if I was sure it was right to do it," Skinny said.

Perhaps some of the onlookers sympathized with him, he was so small, so insignificant looking; and withal so eager and earnest. Tears were rolling down his cheeks now and he raised his shabby little sleeve to wipe his eyes and still stood his ground in trembling defiance. "I would and it's none of nobody's business," he said.

"Oh, is that so?" sneered Stut Moran. "If you wanted money as bad as all that why couldn't you steal it like you did apples from Schmitter's Grocery when you'd have got in trouble if Mr. Ellsworth hadn't taken you into the troop?"

Skinny trembled, but said nothing. "Did I—I—did I act all right since I was in the troop?" he finally managed to get out.

"Sure, trying to sell prizes," Vic Norris shot at him angrily. "Gee we've had enough of Corkscrew Alley in our troop. You don't belong in the troop anyway, you dirty little slum rat, you——"

There was a slight stir in the group and there in front of Victor Norris stood a boy he had never seen before, a boy whose scout hat was tilted at a rakish angle and whose half-closed eyes were like cold steel.

"Do you take that back?" said he.

"You mind your own business; I take nothing back," said Vic.

The blow fell so swiftly that he was sprawling on the ground before the onlookers knew what had happened. They will tell you now at Temple Camp that that blow sounded as if it fell on a wooden surface, so terrific was the force of it. The dazed victim rubbed his eye half-consciously and made as if to rise. Like lightning his assailant brushed aside an interfering spectator and looked behind him to see if any official might be approaching. "Don't get up till you take it back," he said in quick, businesslike fashion. "You'll just go down again. Keep away, you fellers. Well?"

"I take it back," cried Vic Norris.

"Tell him, don't tell me," said the strange boy, indicating Skinny.

And he strolled away as if the matter no further concerned him.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PIONEER SCOUT

But it was not Vic Norris who was hurt; it was Skinny. He would not, he could not, tell them the truth. He must live in the shadow of their cruel thoughts. Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster of the troop, arrived in camp on Friday for the week end, and tried to smooth over the difficulty. But Skinny would not tell him why he had made his astonishing offer to the departed Helmer Clarkson. Nor would he say why he would not wear his scout suit. He was as stubborn as a little mule in those matters. Mr. Ellsworth told the Elks that they would just have to take Skinny as they found him, that there was no explaining him. He reminded them that at all events they had the canoe, and the white pennant.

So they took Skinny as they found him, and they found him different. He seemed worried and preoccupied, and took little interest in the patrol. They never asked him to wear his scout suit and he continued to be, what he had always been in camp, an odd little figure in a faded blouse. Those in the Bridgeboro troop who were most discerning noticed how he seemed always in fear. But when they made fun of him, as they were wont to do at camp-fire, he smiled bashfully in the same old way and was delightfully ill at ease.

He occasionally went out in the prize canoe with scouts of his patrol and sat wedged into one end like a funny little figurehead. You would never have dreamed that he was the boy who had won that trim craft which skimmed so lightly in the water. But he seemed to appreciate being taken out in it. Perhaps after all it was not Skinny who had won the canoe. It was the frenzied and despairing soul of Skinny which had done that. Anyway, they often took him out in it and he sat very still and upright as he was told to do.

The Elks soon lost the white pennant; a scout in a Vermont troop walked away with it one night during Vic Norris' watch, so Vic had two black eyes in a way of speaking. Bert McAlpin tried to get it back and was caught red-handed. Then Connie himself tried and got a good laugh from the Vermonters. Skinny was not particularly interested in these attempts; he was too much worried about Danny to concern himself with patrol exploits. He saw Danny every day and occasionally spoke with him, but they were not much together. The terrible thing that Danny was doing made Skinny afraid of him; he stood in awe of such daring and effrontery.

As for Danny, he was not in the least troubled. On the very day of his arrival he hiked to Catskill, keeping off the highway, and sent a telegram collect, in the name of Temple Camp, advising the father of Danville Bently that his son would be expected on August Second. Having come safely through the formality of enrollment, no embarrassing questions were asked him and indeed he had no further intercourse with the management. Temple Camp is a big place and he was soon absorbed in its life. Nobody cared where he lived or anything else about him; they were all too busy with scouting.

And he was busy with scouting too. He might have taken his second class tests, he might even have qualified for the first class, but he cautiously refrained from any step which might bring him face to face with trustees and councilors. Since he did not seek the first class ranking he could not try for merit badges. He became, in short, one of those nondescript scouts who are to be found in every summer camp, boys who have taken the scout oath and put on scout suits and let it go at that. He was too large to be thought of as a tenderfoot; moreover his prowess and skill lifted him out of that class. He was good at everything, but he did not fit his exploits into the scout program.

He bunked in Pioneer Row with that miscellaneous company whose members had come to Temple Camp without troop or patrol. Many of them were instances of the one lucky boy in some homekeeping scout unit. Some of them were active and clever, but they were deprived of the advantages of group spirit. A boy scout is better off with his patrol in a vacant lot than alone at the best of scout camps. The big sleeping quarters of Pioneer Row had more the atmosphere of a boarding school dormitory than of a scout camp. In a sense they did form one big troop—too big.

After the first few days of his life in this rather inglorious department of the spreading community, Danny lost all fear of being found out at camp. The whole thing had been so easy! And Temple Camp was so embracing and friendly! He was an adaptable boy and he felt quite at home. He still feared the grim authorities of the reform school, for he knew that he had been committed to that hated institution by the State and that the long arm of the law was reaching out for him. But as the days passed and nothing happened, his fear subsided. He was so cozy and remote that discovery from either quarter seemed an altogether unlikely sequel of his good fortune. And August Second was so far away!

Once or twice he feared that Skinny might inadvertently, or in a spasm of outraged conscience, say something. But nothing happened and whatever fears he had were lulled to sleep. Yet there was one person there whom he should have feared and that was himself. But he not only did not fear himself; he did not fear anybody. The only trouble was that he would have to sneak away before August Second. Well, he thought, the authorities would have ceased their search for him by that time, and he would go away on a ship.

All the boys in Pioneer Dormitory liked Danny. He was more sophisticated than most of them and they stood somewhat in awe of him. He seemed to know a good deal about the world and they respected him for it. His rather nonchalant attitude toward scouting had something engaging in it; but there was one serious boy who was not too ready to fall under his spell.

This was Holman Sharpe, a pioneer scout from a farm in New Hampshire. He was not summering away from his troop; he had no troop. Nor was he, as so many of those boys were, the single remaining member of a disintegrated troop. He was a registered pioneer. In the lonely section where he lived there were no boys to form a troop. So he had sent to National Headquarters for blanks and had been enrolled as a pioneer scout, which was a very different thing from the unattached scouts of Pioneer Row.

This boy went in for scouting with both hands and feet and the easy-going Danny was greatly amused by him. He was one of those boys who take themselves very seriously. Such boys are found in schools and colleges, wrestling with their studies to the exclusion of everything else, forgetting life in the interest of learning. Scouting is not a good field in which to do this. There is nothing about scouting to study; it is just a form of life. But this boy conceived it as a sort of curriculum and the Handbook as a sort of text book. He was certainly born to be a student. It is not so certain that he was born to be a scout.

To this serious New England boy, Temple Camp was a sort of university, the merit badges all representing study courses. He was out for promotion; he did not care so much about fun. His Handbook was all marked up with memorandums of his progress and notes of his plans. He was a canny boy and did not forget about the future. He even took into consideration the time when he would be too old for scouting and had his plans all made for joining the Veteran Scout Association. In an envelope he had three dollars laid away with which to buy the veteran pin several years hence.

Everything in the Handbook was law and gospel to him and he had set about the strenuous labor of squeezing it dry. He would get his money's worth at Temple Camp by doing every single thing that was even casually suggested in the scouting program. He had never had any give and take with other boys and he could not conceive of scouting being carried lightly and airily, as Roy Blakeley of the Silver Foxes, carried it. He went in for scouting with a vengeance.

What Danny did, he did easily, and he was highly entertained by the way Holman would come in carrying his Handbook and some maps and papers, and sit down on his cot, which was next to Danny's, to go over them and enter notes in his field book.

"Busy with your homework?" Danny would quiz.

"I've just hiked fourteen miles," Holman answered him one day. "I'm going to write it up to-night, and there's test four all finished on the first class badge. If you took all the miles you've used up flopping around in the woods to-day, I bet they'd run over fourteen and you'd have a seven mile double to lay up on your first class tests. I mixed some dough and cooked my dinner, too, while I was off, so I'm claiming the cooking badge on that. I don't know whether I'll get it or not."

"Did you ever study algebra!" Danny queried.

"Well, it's not exactly a part of scouting," said Holman.

Danny, sitting on Holman's cot with his knees drawn up, pulled his hat down over his forehead, which gave him a sophisticated, even a tough, look. "But I had the fun of flopping around in the woods," said he. "You hike so fast you never see anything."

"Make hay while the sun shines," said Holman in his businesslike way. "Why, you were telling me about following those marks and you came plunk on a rattlesnake; he's a pretty big one, I guess."

"He was; he isn't any more," said Danny.

"You've got to look out how you kill those fellows. But what I was going to say was, you could use that stuff on the stalking test if you wanted to. Did you have any witnesses?"

"Only the rattlesnake and he's dead," said Danny.

"I'm only telling you how you waste your chances," said Holman. "You can do things, all right, only you don't think. I heard a scout over at the Kit Carson tents say you jumped over Outlet Brook."

"Yere?"

"I've got it planned out so I can use one stunt on two tests."

"Wholesale only, huh! What's that red book?" Danny asked, kicking it.

"That? That's the English Handbook. I'll wager you that's the only one in camp. I guess you never even read the American one, do you?"

"Oh, I gave it the once over; there's some pretty good dope in it. Ever think you'd like to make a stab for the Gold Cross?"

"Life saving with imminent risk?" (Holman quoted accurately). "That's something pretty high up; that's out of the ordinary."

"I was thinking I'd grab it—just for a stunt," said Danny.

Holman shook his head, "That's one of the big things—that's the very biggest," said he. He knew all about it.

"That's the one for me," said Danny.

"I sort of don't like the way you refer to it,"

"That's the snappiest one in the book," said Danny.

"Talking about books," said Holman, "you ought to look over this English Handbook; it's by General Baden-Powell. There's a section in it about deduction; deducing facts from clues and signs. Why you can even look at a scout's shoes and tell where he has been if you know how."

"I don't care where's he's been," said Danny.

"It's an interesting phase of scouting just the same."

"Phase, huh? That's just detective stuff. You don't want to be one of those guys, do you?"

"Oh, that's part of scouting—mental effort."

"Yere?"

"Now, for instance, I've noticed something. I even made a note of it."

"I bet you did."

"I don't believe there's a scout in this camp ever noticed that tattoo mark on your arm."

Danny started.

"Surprises you, eh!" Holman laughed. He did not often laugh. "Yes sir," he said in a way of small triumph, "I noticed it when you rolled up your sleeve; the time you reached down in the water after the compass that little big-eyed youngster is always losing. You rolled it away up—remember! I noticed. I said, 'That boy has known a sailor.' Now am I right?"

"Right—the first time."

"I wondered why the letters were D. M. since I knew your name was Danville Bently. But I hit on it. Now tell me if I'm right."

"Sure, you're always right."

"They name ships the Molly B and all like that. If a ship is called after a woman named Molly B. Smith, they just call it the Molly B. I'll wager that M is your middle initial—Danville M. as you might say."

"Geeee, that's wonderful!" said Danny. "That's simp-ly wonderful! I bet you're going to keep it to yourself too."

"Oh, trust me for that," said Holman Sharpe.

Their talk was interrupted by the little tenderfoot office boy from Administration Shack who called from the open doorway at the end of the long row of cots.

"Danville Bently, you're wanted in the office," said he.

CHAPTER XV

THE SERENADE

Danny was nervous, but he did not show it. He had never before been summoned to the office. He had thought that by keeping out of scout activities he would be safe in the refuge of self-imposed obscurity. Lost in the nondescript company of the big dormitory, and keeping as much as he could out of touch with the management he had hoped and believed that his daring stunt of impersonation would succeed.

Now, as he made his way up toward the main body of the camp, he wondered, almost tremblingly, what was amiss. Had poor little Skinny's conscience given way under the strain? No, he knew better than that. The thin cord would never break. Would he find himself face to face with the warden of Blythedale School? Or perhaps with the real Danville Bently? There is many a slip....

The usual group was lolling about the steps of the official building. From his place on the railing, Roy Blakeley called, "Hey what are you doing up here at the hole of holes? (meaning holy of holies). And how are things down in Pie Row? How is Sophomore, Senior, Post-graduate Sharpe these beautiful days! I hear he's going to hire a bookkeeper. Hey Bent, why don't you come up to camp once in a while so we won't forget what you look like? Don't remember to do your good turn daily."

In the office the young clerk in khaki showed Danny into the sanctum of the powers, where he waited nervously while Councilor Wainwright finished reading a letter. "Well my boy," said that official, glancing up pleasantly; "how do you think you like camp?"

"It's one camp, all right," said Danny. "It's big enough, I'll say."

"We thought perhaps we'd hear from you—see your name up on the board or something, glorifying Florida."

Danny winced a bit at this. "We've got a scout down there that takes care of all those things for us," said he. It was this good-humored nonchalance of his which drew people to him. Discerning men construed his slightly sneering attitude to mean that he was impatient of little people and little things. The councilor chuckled appreciatively. "It takes all kinds to make a square mile of camp," he said.

"Now, Bently," he continued, deliberately going to the matter in hand, "this is what I wanted to see you about. Sometimes things get around to headquarters rather late. I understand you punched a boy the first day you were here."

"Did he tell you?"

"Of course he didn't. That was a good scout you punched."

"It was a good punch I gave him."

"I heard it was. But, of course, he had just lost his temper."

"I did a good turn, I helped him to find it."

"Well, my boy, we won't go into that now. We usually find up here that a boy who is free with his fists is—well, it's a kind of a habit with him. There are those who hit and those who don't. I think I can't recall a single instance up here of a boy hitting another boy who didn't before the season was over do the same thing again. Now, honor bright, you've slugged fellows before, haven't you?'

"Sure, a guy named Kinney back in——"

"So you see. Now I just want to warn you not to do that sort of thing again. If you do, you'll go right back to Florida, Bently. This camp isn't the Madison Square Garden or the Chicago Stadium. We don't expect our guests to take the law in their own hands—ever. Of course, what I say to you applies to every boy here, and there's going to be a notice out there on the board so none of you young Jack Dempseys can come back at us. Any boy that uses his fists leaves this camp—quick. Just you read what it says in the Handbook on being a gentleman. You ever get any hints out of the Handbook?"

"There's some pretty good dope in that," said Danny.

"I'll say there is."

"And there's a lot of play-in-the-backyard stuff too."

Councilor Wainwright laughed heartily at this frank young critic. "Well, let's hear from you on some of the good stuff," said he. "You scouts down in the dormitory,—we hardly know you're alive up here. All right, my boy, no hard feelings."

Danny went out, greatly relieved. More than that, he inhaled a kind of fresh assurance that everything would be all right. Loyal little Skinny was like the Rock of Gibraltar. Blythedale Reform School was so far away. Danny felt more secure than ever in this woodland refuge. And Danville Bently, the real Danville Bently was—why, by this time he was in Europe with his people. The only person that Danny had to fear was himself. Well, that would be all right, he would keep his fists where they belonged. No danger. He even felt that he had gained something; Councilor Wainwright seemed to like him.

But there was a black cloud on the horizon. You would not think of calling Roy Blakeley a black cloud, yet he was the black cloud in this instance. He was a boy who would sit contentedly on a fence thinking of nothing in particular, then suddenly be aroused to mirthful enterprise as by an inspiration. Surely he was one of the spirits of Temple Camp. Boys returned home in the autumn and talked of him all winter. His patrol, the Silver Foxes, shone by his own reflected light. They were (to quote the voice of Temple Camp) a bunch of jolliers.

If Danny had not been called to the office it is probable that Roy would never have conceived the mischievous idea of descending with his bantering cronies upon the defenseless Pioneer Row. But his piquant sallies to Danny upon his visit to the seat of the powers reminded him that he had neglected Pie Alley, which was his name for that lowly suburb. Roy invariably acted upon every random inspiration.

"Come on, let's go down to Pie Alley and kid the life out of Sophomore Senior, the Student Prince of scouting," said he.

"We'll tell him he's awarded a typewriter machine," said Warde Hollister.

"We'll tell him all the tests for merit badges have been changed," said Ralph Warner.

They would have been accompanied by a clamorous escort except that it was rest hour and most scouts were either asleep or reading in reclining postures in their cabins. So no one went upon this memorable expedition but Roy and two of his patrol, Ralph Warner and Warde Hollister. Reaching the big, sprawling, shingled dormitory, they serenaded the subject of their call like knights of old. They knew that Holman Sharpe would be resting. Holman did everything that was on the scout program. He was getting his money's worth.

Roy was something of a balladist and he saluted the victim with a minstrel lay:

"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, come out of the door
The badge list is changed and there's ninety-six more."

This failing to arouse him they tried again.

"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, get up and come out
And the fourth test on plumbing we'll tell you about."

Still again they tried to lure him with soft melody.

"Oh Sharpy, dear Sharpy, come out with scout stealth
And we'll hand you the medal for personal health."

Holman Sharpe did not come out, but he looked out through the open window.

CHAPTER XVI

THE ACCUSED

"Don't you scouts know it's rest hour?" said Holman. "You'd better look in your handbooks and see what's on page three thirty-seven. What are you scouts doing down here at this time of day?"

"It's a lie!" said Roy. "You can't believe a word the Handbook says—you can't even believe the punctuation. It says you can find comfort in the woods and we looked all around and didn't find any—we even used our searchlights, I'll leave it to Warde. Hey, Sharpy, come on out, the National Council has decided that a hobby-horse isn't an animal so you can't name a patrol after it. Honest, I'll leave it to Ralph Warner. You can't press the leaves of a hat-tree either—there's a new rule—so if you have any you better throw them away. The rules are all changed, you can't get the printing badge by finding footprints any more. Hey, come on out, Sharpy."

Holman did not immediately respond to this merry summons, but Danny who was in the dormitory strolled out smiling and sat on the steps. Holman's methodical activities amused him, but he had never poked fun at him.

"Hey, Florida," said Roy; "how 'bout it—isn't it true they're going to give crutches for veteran scouts? You better put in your application while you're young, Sharpy. You better start saving up."

Holman emerged upon the porch. There was nothing sissified about this boy; it was not for that reason that they took delight in "jollying" him. It was that he was so terribly sober and earnest. He was going to be a scout by the book; he thought that if he could pass an examination in scouting he would be a scout. He was studying it, cramming, and he thought that boys who were just naturally scouts and did not study it very hard, were slackers.

Roy had fifteen merit badges and had enjoyed the fun of getting them. But this serious boy was not having the time of his life being a scout. He should have been at boarding school, where he would have won honors. Handbooks and tests and awards will help, of course, but scouting is a matter of fine spirit. The scout who thinks only of getting ahead, of swimming fifty yards because the book prescribes it, is apt to forget about his comrade scouts. A curriculum is a pretty poor sort of a pal.

"I should think you scouts would know this is rest hour," said Holman. "If you want to get anywhere in scouting you've got to relax. You come around here with your nonsense when I'm supposed to be storing up a little energy."

"Tell us all about that," encouraged Ralph Warner, winking at Danny, who was highly amused.

"On account of your yelling I'll have to make it up to-morrow when I ought to be stalking," said Holman.

"There may be some truth in that," teased Warde. "Hey, Sharpy, why don't you go out on a hike with your friend and neighbor some night for no reason at all?"

"With Bently, you mean? I'd never accomplish much. I guess he's a sort of more of a tramp than a scout. I'd never learn much from him. I've only got eight weeks here."

"You let him say that about you, Florida?" Warde asked.

"Sure, let him go as far as he likes," laughed Danny. "I don't claim to be a scout."

"I don't see what you're here for then?" said Holman.

"I can tell you the reason," said Roy. "He's here because he's here. Am I right, Florida?"

"Surest thing," laughed Danny. He was hugely entertained as he sat on the steps watching this show.

"He's wasting his father's money," said Holman. "If that's any comfort to him."

"How do you know his father's got any money!" Warde shot back.

"He deduced it by deduction," said Danny.

"If he'll let me help him on scout stuff, I'll be glad to do it," said Holman.

"There's your chance, Florida," Warde and Ralph shouted together.

"I don't believe I could make the grade," said Danny.

"You could if you tried; you don't try," said Holman.

"Hey, Sharpy," said Roy, "there's something we came here to see you about. Let's quit fooling. These two silver-plated foxes and myself were appointed a committee to come here and ascertain—did you get that word, ascertain? We have to find out if it's true what all the fellows are saying that you went down to Catskill with Tom Slade in his Ford and then came back and said that you crossed Valley Creek by means of a ford and then claimed the new discovery prize on account of finding a way to get over Valley Creek not by the bridge. If you did that it was dishonest and conduct unbecoming to a scout. Are you claiming that prize or not? Yes or no—or both. Did you deliberately accidentally deceive the Council or not?"

"You'd better look out how you talk about dishonesty and deceiving," said Holman rather heatedly.

"I call your attention to law one on page something or other of the Scout Handbook," Roy persisted.

"That's the wrong page," said Warde.

"Then it's page sumpty-sump," said Roy. "A scout's honor is to be toasted—trusted. If he violates his honor by telling a lie—comma—or cheating—comma—he may be directed otherwise told to hand over his scout badge—period. Holman Sharpe of Pie Alley, if you did that we demand that you hand over your scout badge to this committee of solid-silver foxes. Lying cannot be tolerated in Temple Camp—unless you're lying down so as to relax and store up energy."

By this time Danny was laughing aloud; there was just the faintest suggestion of Skinny about his countenance when he laughed. But Holman Sharpe was clearly ruffled and he advanced, not exactly menacingly, but with something in his manner which showed that he did not at all catch the humor of their reference to dishonesty and deception. He was a serious and literal boy and construed the use of these words in any case as a slur and an insult.

"You said something about a scout's honor," he said. "It's on page thirty-four if you want to know where it is. You better look out how you talk about mine. The first thing you scouts know, one of you will get what he good and plenty deserves." Granted, this boy knew a good deal about scouting; but he did not know much about scouts.

"If I said anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it," said Ralph.

"Well you said—your leader said that lying isn't tolerated at this camp. That's as much as calling me a liar." Now he did advance, flushed and angry.

"Cut it out," said Roy good-naturedly, seeing which way the tide was setting.

"As long as you spoke of a scout's honor—" Holman began.

"Cut it out, you blamed simp," said Ralph, his tone changing suddenly to disgust.

"I'll remind you of law ten,* too," said Holman.

* This law refers to bravery and standing up for the right.

"Yere, we know all about it," said Ralph. "Don't tell us about scouting. We were here before you ever heard of this camp. You better learn to take a joke——"

"Sure, that's another law," said Roy.

"And as long as you're making such a fuss about lying," said Ralph contemptuously, "if you want me to make you out a liar, I'll do it. How about calling Florida a tramp? Who the dickens do you think you are, calling scouts tramps? Wasting his father's money; can you beat that? Gee, as long as you want to be serious, I'll say you were lying."

This was intended more as a compliment to Danny, whom they all seemed to like, than as a slur to Holman. Certainly nothing was further from the minds of these young Silver Foxes than to start a quarrel. But the serious Holman always carried his "honor" around with him as he did his field book. He chose to take Ralph's remark as an insult and he struck him more from a sense of duty than from anger.

Scarcely did the astonished Ralph realize what had happened when Danny sprang between, spreading his arms to separate the two. "That's enough, cut it out," he said. But indeed there was no chance of a fight. Holman having done his duty stalked into the dormitory. Warde and Roy, highly aroused by his act, followed him protesting. So there for the moment stood Ralph, his hand against his face with Danny standing before him saying, "That's enough, no more."

Just at that moment Councilor Wainwright, carrying his big flat chart book and inspection record, came around the corner of the building and paused suddenly.

"At it again, Bently?" he queried with grim cordiality.