He had long known John Wheeler by reputation. Wheeler had been halfback on his college football team; he was a yachtsman of more than local renown. As corporal, he was alert, industrious and energetic; his efficiency caused Kennedy to be only the more keenly aware of his own incompetence. The other men in the tent were all older than he, all better educated than he, and without in the least intending to make him feel inferior they did make him feel so. As a matter of fact, they thought he was an unassuming and obliging person, who had, as one of them expressed it, not much small change in conversation. Now, after a week at the camp, Kennedy had begun to make himself a nuisance to his companions—the thing that he had most dreaded being. He had caught cold, and had coughed at frequent intervals throughout the night; he had buried his head under his blankets and tried to suppress the coughs, and he had blown his nose with as little reverberation as possible, but he had, nevertheless, received intimations that he was disturbing the sleep of his tent mates. In the morning one of them, Morrison, a student in a medical school, offered him some quinine pills and advised him to report at sick call. But Kennedy had resolved not to be knocked out by sickness; he thanked Morrison for the pills and said he thought he should get through all right. His feelings were hurt, however, when after breakfast Wheeler said: “Come, fellows, let’s roll up the tent; if we don’t give the sun and air a chance in here, we’ll all of us be sniffling.” The corporal started in to undo the guy ropes and then exclaimed wrathfully. “Who’s the man that tied these ropes in hard knots? He’s a landlubber, all right.” “I should say!” remarked Morrison, who was at work on the other side of the tent. “I’m not guilty.” “I’m afraid I am.” Kennedy’s admission was the more rueful because so croaking. “A man who can only tie a hard knot or a granny has no business ever to touch a rope.” Wheeler snapped out the words while his fingers worked busily. “I should think before coming to a camp a fellow would learn to tie a few knots.” Kennedy accepted the reproof in silence—if a sudden access of coughing can be termed silence. He was finding it hard work to disengage one of the knots of his own making; presently Wheeler, having freed the other ropes, came up and unceremoniously took possession of that at which Kennedy was picking. “Undo your pack, take the rope that’s fastened to your shelter half and I’ll give you a lesson,” commanded Wheeler. To the object lesson in tying hitches, half hitches, slipknots and other useful knots Kennedy gave close attention; but when he tried to do what he had just seen his instructor do he became confused. “Are you as slow as that counting bills in the bank?” Wheeler asked. “I wonder that they keep you. You don’t seem to have learned to use your hands.”