There was a pathos in his answer to Pee-wee’s explosive enthusiasm. “I’ll join if you think they’d like to have me,” he said.

“What d’you mean, like to have you?” Pee-wee demanded. “I’m the boss of that patrol. I’m not the patrol leader, but just the same I’ve got a lot to say about it. Gee whiz, I’d like to hear anybody say they don’t want you. Just you let me hear them say it!”

“I should think any one would like to have dinner in the woods,” said Emerson, with a frankness that was pathetic.

“You don’t say dinner, you say grub,” said Pee-wee. “Or if you want to, you can say eats. Some scouts say feed. But I like eats best, don’t you?”

“You seem to be an authority on the subject,” said Emerson.

“That’s why you don’t get in with fellers, because you talk so grown-up, kind of,” said Pee-wee, referring to this nice observation of his friend.

“I suppose it doesn’t make much difference what you call it, as long as you eat plenty,” laughed Emerson.

“Oh, boy, I’m the one to do that,” said Pee-wee. “You just watch me when we get there. You’re going to go, ain’t you?” he asked, in a sudden burst of apprehension.

“If they’ll let me,” said Emerson. “I don’t know how they’ll feel about it.”

“There’s a place in my patrol, too,” said Pee-wee, ignoring these misgivings. “My patrol’s the Ravens; you have to learn to make a noise like a raven. Do you know ravens can talk? Just like parrots, they can. They talk all the time.”

“Is that why you’re a Raven?” Emerson asked.

“The Silver Foxes in my troop, they’re all crazy,” said Pee-wee. “Gee whiz, those fellers tried to tell me that your favorite book is Webster’s dictionary. They’re a bunch of jolliers in that patrol.

“Roy Blakeley—he’s their patrol leader—he says that a civil engineer means an engineer that’s polite; that shows how crazy he is, and they have him for leader. He says that goldfish are sun-fish that got sunburned. He tried to make me think they didn’t choose you for the traffic patrol, because you’re too rough. No wonder he can’t get a new member for his patrol because, gee, there are no more fellers in Bridgeboro crazy enough. They ought to be the loons instead of the Silver Foxes, that’s what I told him.

“Warde Hollister, he’s in that patrol, he says you ought to start the Rabbit Patrol but, oh, boy, I’m glad there’s a place in my patrol and I bet you’ll like us too. You know Artie Van Arlen? He’s leader in my patrol. And you know Bert Carson? The feller whose sister has a birthmark on her neck? It’s the shape of Cuba, but anyway we call him ‘Doc’ because he studied first aid—he’s in my patrol.”

Pee-wee paused, breathless, and for a few minutes as they followed the narrow trail no word was spoken.

“Do you like being in the woods?” Pee-wee asked.

“Yes, I do,” said Emerson.

Missionary and propagandist though he was. Pee-wee was not strong on tact. His unguarded talk, intended only to encourage, had chilled the budding interest of his friend. So that was the way they talked! His favorite book, the dictionary.... Too rough for the traffic patrol.... He should start the Rabbit Patrol....

“Gee whiz,” said Pee-wee, as he tramped doggedly along, “they’d never call you Arabella any more when you join the scouts, that’s one thing sure.”

Emerson had been hailed by this name, but he had never thought that he was known by it among the boys of Bridgeboro. He had not known (for such a boy never knows) that his nice phraseology was material for mirth. He had not known that his mincing walk and adult manner were ironically characterized as “rough.” The Bridgeboro boys had not often made fun of him to his face; particularly the scouts had not. But just the same, they had left him out of their lives and plans, and among themselves (as he now saw) his name had been a byword for effeminacy.

It is fatal for a boy to talk too well and use an approved phraseology. It was this misfortune which had won for Emerson his various posts of monitorship in school. And by a universal law no monitor can be popular. That was the pathos of it, that he was ostracized without really knowing the reason. But now he was beginning to see a little of the light in which the boys regarded him.

He had walked as far this night in the city as anybody could be expected to walk, and there was nothing against him on that score. He had also shown that he was human by partaking liberally of soda and candy, and there was nothing against him on that score. He had shown himself manly and self-reliant in the city, quite the leader. But he had “treated” Pee-wee instead of “blowing” him. He had talked of “seeing the sights” instead of “piking around.” Pee-wee’s enthusiasm ignored these defects, but would the boys see Emerson for the really generous, first-rate fellow that he was?

He did not ask himself this question, for he did not know that he was a generous, first-rate fellow. He only knew that he didn’t fit in, and he wondered why. That was why he felt shaky about joining the scouts and going to camp with them. When he had spoken of the “great outdoors” to several of them, they had laughed at the phrase. When he had once asked Connie Bennett where he was going in his “natty regalia,” Connie had answered, “To a pink tea, Arabella.” It was the “natty regalia” business which had done the mischief. But why? And how was Emerson to know?

There is only one way for a boy like Emerson to deal with a group of boys and that is with some sort of a knock-out blow.