Just as no scout is eligible for merit badges until he is in the first class, so no scout but an Eagle of twenty-one badges was eligible to try for this Mary Temple Cup which carried with it a two weeks' holiday at the Grand Canyon for the victor and his patrol. Transportation papers were always inside the cup, a tempting beverage indeed, proffered by the pretty hands of the young daughter of the camp's founder. So you can hardly blame the Elks for coveting this prize; they were not the first in this glorious republic to resort to political maneuvers to acquire an eligible contestant. There were just three such contestants now, Howell Cross, Ellis Carway and Holly Hollis. Everything was set for the morrow and they were making merry at the expense of Skinny. His shy smile illumined his pale, temperamental face, and his characteristic embarrassment was amusingly evident in the fitful glow of the mounting blaze. "Hey, Howell, don't you think if Skinny took off his shoes and shirt he'd be light enough?" "How 'bout you, Eagle Carway? Skinny means good luck. I took him on a hike and found an oriole's nest, honest. You can't lose with Skinny." "Sure, if you should fall in a faint he'd take the oars right out of your hands and glide to victory; he wouldn't stop till he got to the Grand Canyon." "How 'bout you, Holly? Skinny used to be an Elk, honest. But he's way above that now, he's up on Black Hill." "Trouble with Skinny is he'd sink the boat. If he started smiling it would go right down. Why his smile alone weighs forty pounds, don't it, Skinny? What are you blushing about, Skinny? What would you do if you had to take the cup from Mary Temple?" "Yes, and suppose she should kiss you--good night!" "I'm going to have Skinny root for me," said Eagle Scout Cross. "Sure, the human megaphone. Stand up, Skinny, and let the three of them draw lots for you; don't be afraid. Who wants Skinny to man the tiller?" And so forth and so on. All three Eagles had chosen their steersmen from their own patrols; they laughed pleasantly at the idea of Skinny as steersman of a racing shell. Holly Hollis, who sat across the fire, made a funny grimace at him. Danville Bently wondered how much Hollis knew of Skinny's ups and downs in the scouting field, and especially his fate in the hands of his honor seeking colleagues. The funny grimace didn't mean much. "Never mind, Alf," said Danville as they walked up the hill. The night seemed unusually black after the glare of the camp-fire. "If you help them to have fun, what more do you want?" "I don't mind," Skinny said. He was perfectly at ease with Danville and always talked freely. "Even I want them to win--my patrol, I mean. He smiled at me, that Eagle Scout, did you see?" "Yep, I saw." "I can call it my patrol even now, can't I! Connie said I could." "Sure, if you want to; 'long as I don't have to call them mine." "Are you mad at them?" "No, no, Alf."