“He went down to Terryville with another fellow to the movies to-night,” said Artie. “He’ll hunt you up, I guess.” “I’ll—I’ll be glad to see him,” said Allison. He had intended to say that he would hunt Wilfred up, but had cautiously refrained because he preferred not to give any suggestion that he might visit the Ravens’ stronghold. “Christopher, I’ll be glad to see him,” he said. “One of our fellows pumped it out of him that he’s some swimmer,” said Artie. He was too loyal and too considerate of Wilfred to say that his new member had volunteered this information. “We pumped it out of him that—you know that scarf pin he wears?” “I ought to, my father gave it to him for saving my life,” said Allison. “You’ve got some scout there, boy.” “Yes?” “I’ll say you have.” “Funny how you both happen to be here,” said Artie. “Oh, this is a pretty big camp,” said Allison. “Well,” laughed Artie, “we’ve got your old acquaintance and we’ve got your banner; you’ve got to hand it to us. Aren’t you afraid I’ll get your watch away from you, sitting here in the dark?” “I’ve been intending to call,” said Allison. “But we’ve had so many things to do since we got here. I may drop around late some night next week.” “You’re always welcome,” said Artie. “You sleeping pretty well these days?” “Oh, muchly.” “We’re terribly busy just now getting our radio up,” said Allison. “We’re not thinking about much else.” “What could be sweeter?” said Artie. Allison Berry had managed this little chat very well, watching his step even in his surprise at hearing about Wilfred Cowell. So that Artie, when he strolled away, remained in sublime innocence of the fact that all the while (and ever since the Bridgeboro troop had arrived in all its glory) it was the intention of Allison Berry to take the Emblem of the Single Eye away from the Ravens late that very same night. CHAPTER XII ARCHIE DENNISON Restricted as he was in his activities, Wilfred had been forced into the “odd number troop” at Temple Camp, which in fact was no troop at all. It was a name given to that unconnected element that seemed not to fit into the organized and group activities of camp. They did not even hang together, these hapless dabblers in scouting. They were the frayed edges of the vigorous scout life that made the lakeside camp a seething center of strenuous life in the outdoor season. Some of these scouts, like Hervey Willetts, were young adventurers, going hither and yon upon their own concerns, rebellious against the camp routine. Most of them were backsliding scouts, quite lacking in Hervey’s sprightly originality and vigor. The worst that could be said of most of them was that they were aimless.