Danville Bently gazed amusedly at the poor little fellow wedged into the point of the canoe. There was something pathetic about Skinny's very posture as he sat there, serious, eager, insignificant. He looked out of place and uncomfortable in this beautiful canoe, as if he did not yet comprehend how he had even won it. His own spectacular excursion into the field of heroic enterprise was like a fairy tale to him now. But he was strong on hero worship. Danville lifted the paddle and poked him with it; Skinny was used to that sort of thing. "No, I only like Sunday School boys," said Danville. "They've got to be perfect to suit me." Skinny looked at him as if he did not know whether to believe this or not. "So if you've been committing any murders or robbing any banks, it's all over between us. Shall we flop around toward camp again now, and wash up for eats?" "To-morrow morning you'll go on Test Four!" "To-morrow morning. Then for the archery set and the new recruit." "Can I be partners with you while you're doing all that?" "Sure--or falling down on it." "Sometimes fellers forget when they have dates with me." "Well I've got a good memory." CHAPTER XXIII HENNY'S CAVE Skinny did not quite comprehend this rather whimsical boy. But here was a prize he had every intention of keeping. He no longer worried about Danny. That dreadful affair which had cost him sleepless nights was at last over. Danny had triumphed (if you call it triumph) and gone upon his dubious way. All that remained of that fearful nightmare was Skinny's love and admiration of the checkered hero. Danny was far away and safe. His genius for beating any game would carry him through every difficulty. There was one place where he would always be safe and that was in the stout little heart that beat beneath the the shabby and faded shirt of his little half brother. There Danny dwelt, but nobody knew it. Only Skinny wished that they would take that dreadful notice from the bulletin-board. But now he had a new worry. He feared that he would lose this scout of the white scarf, just as he had lost his prize canoe. Because he knew that prize canoes and tall scouts with white scarfs were not for him. He made no complaint that his canoe had been absorbed into his patrol, even if he himself had not been absorbed into it. He had never quite comprehended the glittering romance of his induction into scouting and that fine patrol.