One of these was Archie Dennison, a lame boy from Vermont. He was a pioneer, that is to say, an unattached scout in the lonely region whence he had come. Doubtless his lack of association with boys, as well as his lameness, had operated to make him the queer figure that he was. At all events, he enjoyed an immunity not only from participation in scout life, but also (what is more to be regretted) from chastisement, which might have been helpful in the development of his character. He was a looker-on, a critic of scouting, and a severe censor. In school he was probably a monitor, finding delight in “keeping tabs” on other boys. And he did this instinctively at camp though no one had appointed him to such office. He had no affiliations and was more in touch with the camp authorities than with the boys. He liked to give information to the management. It was rather pitiful that Wilfred Cowell should have drifted into a sort of chumminess with this boy, whose infirmity was the only thing that made him an appropriate pal for that high spirit which had accepted a hard lot with a patient philosophy and whose gentle diffidence and quaint humor were felt by all. Surely never before was there such grotesque union of the lovable and the unlovable. Archie, fresh from a remote district, had discovered the movies in Terryville and had become a hopeless fan. Wilfred often accompanied him for two reasons; mainly because Archie walked at a leisurely gait and there was no call to spurts of strenuous activity which might prove embarrassing. His conscience was as good as Archie’s but not so troublesome. The other reason was that Wilfred saw the absurd side of the movies, even those pictures that were not intended to be funny. On that memorable night that was to mean so much for him, Wilfred was walking home from Terryville with Archie. Their comments on the lurid picture had ceased with Archie’s saying that he could have one of the screen characters arrested for wearing a khaki scout suit, the offender not being a scout. “Oh, I guess not,” Wilfred laughed, as they ambled along the dark road. “I bet I could,” said Archie, “because I read it. If you wear a scout suit and you’re not a scout, I can have you arrested.” “You mean that you can’t organize a troop and call yourselves boy scouts unless you are really registered as boy scouts,” said Wilfred good-humoredly. “There is a kind of a law about that. I guess you couldn’t stop a fellow from wearing a khaki suit. But I guess you couldn’t buy a scout suit unless you were a scout. I don’t know,” he added in his good-natured, rueful way, “I never bought one.” “Didn’t you ever have money enough?” Archie asked. “You guessed right,” laughed Wilfred. “A scout has to notice things—I notice things,” said Archie. “I read a lot about it, too. If you wear a scout suit and you’re not a scout, I can get you arrested.”