Wilfred was proud of his patrol; proud to be a Raven. His diffidence, as well as his restricted activities, kept him from plunging into the strenuous patrol life. But he asked many questions about awards and showed a keen interest and pride in the honors which his patrol had won. Yet, withal, he seemed an outsider; not a laggard exactly, but a looker-on. The Ravens let him follow his own bent.

Two friends he had; one in his patrol and one outside it. Wig Weigand took the trouble to seek him out and talk with him, and was well rewarded by Wilfred’s quiet sense of humor and a certain charm arising from his wistfulness. His other friend was Archie Dennison who belonged in a troop from Vermont. This boy had somewhat of the solitary habit and he and Wilfred often took leisurely strolls together.

One day (it was soon after Wilfred’s arrival in camp) he and Wig were sprawling under a tree near their cabin. The others were diving from the springboard and the uproarious laughter which seemed always to accompany this sport would be heard in the quiet sultry afternoon.

“I guess you and I are alike in one thing,” Wig said, “we don’t hit the angry waves. I’m too blamed lazy to get undressed and dressed again. About once every three or four days is enough for me. You swim, don’t you— Yes, sure you do; I saw it on your entry card.”

“I like the water only it’s so wet,” said Wilfred in that funny way that made Wig like him so. “They’re always turning water on so you get more or less of it; I’d like the kind of a faucet that would turn it on wetter or not so wet. With the faucet on about half-way the water would run just a little damp.”

“You’re crazy,” laughed Wig. “I’d like to know how you think up such crazy things. Where did you learn to swim anyway?”

“Oh, in Connecticut, in the ocean.”

“That’s quite a wet ocean, isn’t it?” Wig laughed.

“Around the edges it is,” Wilfred said; “I was never out in the middle of it. About a mile out is as far as I ever swum—swam.”

“Gee, that’s good,” enthused Wig. “That’s two miles altogether. Why don’t you tell the fellows about it?”

“Tell them?”

“Sure, blow your own horn.”

“It was no credit to me to swim back,” said Wilfred; “I had to or else drown. Call it one mile—you can’t call it two.”

“You make me tired!” laughed Wig. “Why, that was farther than across Black Lake and back. Were you tired?”

“No, just wet,” said Wilfred.

“You’re a wonder!” said Wig; “I don’t see why you don’t keep in practise. Just because you don’t live near the ocean any more—gee whiz! Is a mile the most you ever swam? I bet you’ve done a whole lot of things you’ve never told us about. You’re one of those quiet, deliver-the-goods fellows.”

“C. O. D.” said Wilfred; “I mean F. O. B.; I mean N. O. T.”

“Yeees, you can’t fool me,” said Wig. “How far have you sw——”

“Swum, swimmed, swam?” laughed Wilfred, amused. “Well, about two and a half miles—maybe three.”

“More like four, I bet,” said Wig. “Why don’t you go in now, anyway? I mean up here at camp.”

“It’s because my shoe-lace is broken and it’s too much trouble unfastening a knot more than once a day.”

“There’s where you give yourself away,” laughed Wig. “Because you can tie and untie every knot in the handbook.”

“Yes, but this one isn’t in the handbook, it’s in my shoe.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, this bunch is going to know about your swimming.”

“A scout isn’t supposed to talk behind another fellow’s back,” laughed Wilfred.

“I’d like to know when else I can talk about you,” Wig demanded. “You’re never here, you’re always out walking with that what’s-his-name.”

“We’re studying the manners and customs of caterpillars and spiders,” said Wilfred. “Do you know that caterpillars can’t swim?”

“Some naturalist,” laughed Wig. “You make me laugh, you do. Even the single eye is laughing at you—look.”

Wilfred sat up on the grass and stared at a small, white banner which flew from a pole that was painted just outside the Ravens’ cabin. In the center of this banner was painted an eye which, as the emblem fluttered in the breeze, presented an amusing effect of winking. The ground around the pole was carpeted with dry twigs for an area of several yards, and this area was forbidden ground even to the Ravens. They might throw dry twigs within it and even extend its boundaries, but never under any circumstances might a Raven draw upon its tempting contents for fire-wood. One could not step upon those telltale twigs without causing a crackling sound. The Emblem of the Single Eye was sacred.

“I never heard the whole history of that,” said Wilfred, gazing at the little emblem in a way of newly awakened but yet idle curiosity.

“That’s because you’re never around long enough for us to talk to you,” Wig shot back.

“Thank you for those kind words,” said Wilfred.

“I mean it,” Wig persisted. “We’re prouder of that little rag than of anything in our patrol and I bet you don’t know the story of its past.”

“It’s not ashamed to look me in the eye anyway,” said Wilfred. “I bet it has an honorable past; explain all that.”

“Not unless you’re really interested,” said Wig with just a suggestion of annoyance in his tone.

“If the Ravens are prouder of that than of anything they’ve got,” said Wilfred soberly, “then I am too. I’m a Raven and I’m proud of it.”

“Why don’t you tell the fellows, then?”

“I didn’t know how—I mean—I—how do I know they want me to tell them that? Don’t they know it?”

“No, they don’t know it,” said Wig, “because they’re not mind-readers. And I’ll tell you something you don’t know too. They’re proud of you. They know you’re going to do wonders when you once get started, and they think they’ve got the laugh on every troop here because you’re in our patrol. You bet they’re proud of you, only, gee whiz, you don’t give them a chance to get acquainted with you. Pee-wee says that back in Bridgeboro he saw you throw a ball and hit a slender tree seven times in succession. Why don’t you tell the fellows you can do things like that?”

“Why don’t you tell me the story about that white flag?” Wilfred laughed.

“I will if you want to hear it,” said Wig.