“Well, you’re pretty much like him,” Tom laughed. “I suppose he likes to get away from the crowd now and then—you can’t blame him.” “He’s young, isn’t he?” “Mmm, ’bout my age. Well, here we are; what do you think of the Ravens’ perch? Artie! Where’s Artie? Is Artie there? Tell him to come out and grab this prize before somebody else gets it. Aren’t you through eating yet, Pee-wee? Put down that jelly roll and go and find Artie!” CHAPTER VII AN ODD NUMBER If Wilfred Cowell felt unscoutlike with his prosaic old opera-glass, he might have derived some comforting reassurance from the various and sundry equipment of Pee-wee Harris, Raven. Though he had seen Pee-wee in Bridgeboro, he saw him now in full bloom and his multifarious decorations could only be rivaled by those of a Christmas tree. He carried everything but his heart hanging around his neck or fastened to his belt. His heart was too big to be carried in this way. Jack-knife, compass, a home-made sun-dial (which never under any conditions told the right time) and various other romantic ornaments suggestive of primeval life dangled from his belt like spangles from a huge bracelet. It was this terrific cave-man whose frown was like a storm at sea, who brought forth Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of the Ravens. With him came the rest of the patrol, Doc Carson, Grove and Ed Bronson, Wig Weigand and Elmer Sawyer. Wilfred had seen most of these boys in Bridgeboro. Wilfred had beguiled his enforced leisure at home by memorizing the laws and the oath and by learning to tie all the knots known to scouting. So he was ready to enter the patrol as a tenderfoot and the little ceremony took place the next morning with one of the resident trustees officiating. I have often thought that if Mr. Ellsworth, Scoutmaster of the First Bridgeboro troop, had been at camp that season, the events which I am to narrate might never have occurred. Tom Slade said that with Wilfred Cowell what he was, they had to occur. And Wilfred Cowell always said that whatever Tom said was right. So there you are. Tom Slade said that Wilfred was out and away the best scout he had ever seen in his life. Wilfred could not have believed that Tom was right when he said that, for he claimed that Tom was the greatest scout living. So there you are again. You will have to decide for yourself who is the hero of this story. You know what _I_ think for it is printed on the cover of this narrative. I shall try to tell you the events of that memorable camp season exactly as they occurred. But first it will be helpful, as throwing some light on Wilfred Cowell’s character, to show you the first letter which he wrote home. He had promised his anxious mother to write home, “the very first day,” and he kept his promise literally as he did all promises. Dear Mother and Sis:—