"Everybody hunt for Skinny's compass!" called Roy Blakeley. (He was easily the worst of the lot.) "Get out of the way," he said as he rolled Pee-wee Harris over on the ground, and made great pretense of scrutinizing the spot. "Don't sit around gaping when Skinny's compass is lost. Correct imitation of boy scouts hunting for a lost compass that didn't know which way it was rolling." "Would you mind getting up, Uncle Jeb, so we can look under that log for Skinny McCord?" said another boy. Poor Skinny looked almost frightened to see the old western trapper, master of woods lore in camp, smilingly arise while a dozen scouts searched under the log seat, to the accompaniment of a clamorous chorus. "All fall to and hunt for Skinny's compass!" "Hey, Skinny, we'll find it!" "Go and get a couple of scoutmasters and a few councilors." "Tell them Skinny McCord lost his compass." "We'll form a posse," said Roy. "Don't worry, Skinny, we'll find it." "Everybody hunt for the compass of Skinny McCord." "Sit still, Skinny; your thousands of friends will find it for you." He sat still, his face as red as the end of the big iron poker which lay in the fire. He might have served as a model for a statue of embarrassment as he sat on his old grocery box fearfully contemplating the rumpus he had caused. Timidly he glanced at Councilor Barrows as if to assure that smiling official that he had not intended to interrupt the proceedings with all this hubbub. In company Skinny never permitted himself to occupy a whole seat. He sat on the edge of a chair or box or boat seat; this was the invariable sign of his embarrassment. "Sit back and make yourself at home, Skinny," they would say. But that was the one thing poor Skinny could never do--make himself at home. His getting into the scouts was the great thing in his young life and he had been in a sort of trance ever since. He had never got over the shock. They had told him that pretty soon he would be a patrol leader. His elevation to that height would certainly have killed him. A scout from Indiana (one of those robust jolliers who enliven camps) jumped upon a rough seat, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted like a fish pedler, "Ooooooh! Everybody! Scout McCord of Bridgeboro--First Bridgeboro Troop--has lost his compass! Come one, come all, and help find it!" They were all crawling about on their hands and knees, fifty or more of them, upturning boxes and throwing camp stools about in hilarious exaggeration of helpfulness. And there sat poor Skinny smiling bashfully. If a pack of lions had suddenly taken it into their heads to roar their tribute to a kitten as a member of their family, the kitten's attitude would have been comparable to that of poor Skinny.