Yet he was proud of the vaunted prowess of the Ravens and the boys of the patrol liked him. They thought he was an odd number and they did not hold it against him that he was quiet and liked to amble here and there by himself. He soon became a familiar figure in the camp, sauntering about, pausing to witness games and contests, and always taking things easy. He made few acquaintances and did not even “go and talk” with old Uncle Jeb as Tom had suggested that he do. He tried but did not quite manage it. Just as he was about to saunter over to Uncle Jeb’s holy of holies (which was the back step of Administration Shack) several roistering scouts descended pell-mell upon the old man and that was the end of Wilfred’s little enterprise. CHAPTER VIII THE LIGHT UNDER THE BUSHEL Wilfred was proud of his patrol; proud to be a Raven. His diffidence, as well as his restricted activities, kept him from plunging into the strenuous patrol life. But he asked many questions about awards and showed a keen interest and pride in the honors which his patrol had won. Yet, withal, he seemed an outsider; not a laggard exactly, but a looker-on. The Ravens let him follow his own bent. Two friends he had; one in his patrol and one outside it. Wig Weigand took the trouble to seek him out and talk with him, and was well rewarded by Wilfred’s quiet sense of humor and a certain charm arising from his wistfulness. His other friend was Archie Dennison who belonged in a troop from Vermont. This boy had somewhat of the solitary habit and he and Wilfred often took leisurely strolls together. One day (it was soon after Wilfred’s arrival in camp) he and Wig were sprawling under a tree near their cabin. The others were diving from the springboard and the uproarious laughter which seemed always to accompany this sport would be heard in the quiet sultry afternoon. “I guess you and I are alike in one thing,” Wig said, “we don’t hit the angry waves. I’m too blamed lazy to get undressed and dressed again. About once every three or four days is enough for me. You swim, don’t you— Yes, sure you do; I saw it on your entry card.” “I like the water only it’s so wet,” said Wilfred in that funny way that made Wig like him so. “They’re always turning water on so you get more or less of it; I’d like the kind of a faucet that would turn it on wetter or not so wet. With the faucet on about half-way the water would run just a little damp.” “You’re crazy,” laughed Wig. “I’d like to know how you think up such crazy things. Where did you learn to swim anyway?” “Oh, in Connecticut, in the ocean.” “That’s quite a wet ocean, isn’t it?” Wig laughed. “Around the edges it is,” Wilfred said; “I was never out in the middle of it. About a mile out is as far as I ever swum—swam.” “Gee, that’s good,” enthused Wig. “That’s two miles altogether. Why don’t you tell the fellows about it?” “Tell them?” “Sure, blow your own horn.”