How it leaked out so quickly that Wilfred and the New Haven scout had known each other in Connecticut one can only conjecture. But the disclosure of this fact put Wilfred not only in the light of a slacker but in the graver light of a traitor as well. It was inconceivable that he would stand and watch a boy escape with that treasured emblem and do nothing. The discovery of the triumphant scouts’ identity explained the whole thing; Wilfred’s heart was in Connecticut and he had not been able to bring himself to wrest a triumph from the boy whose life he had once saved. From the standpoint of the camp, what other explanation was there? To lose the emblem was bad enough. To lose it to its boastful, original possessors was worse. But to lose it while one of the Raven patrol stood looking on was incredible and made the crude banter at the breakfast board hard to bear. A manly silence, prompted by scout pride, on the part of Archie Dennison and the whole sorry business would have been accepted as a salutary rebuke to the Ravens’ prowess, and a corresponding triumph for the Gray Wolves. But now it was outside the wholesome field of sport, it was a shameful thing and the “eats shack” was not an agreeable place for the Ravens during breakfast. “Hey, Conway,” an exuberant scout called from one table to another. “In Connecticut you learn to sleep standing up.” “Oh, sure, ravens can walk in their sleep; didn’t you know that?” “Benedict Arnold Cowyard,” another shouted. Then, as a result of several poetical experiments somebody or other evolved this, which caused uproarious laughter: “I love, I love, I love, I love; I love so much to rest. But the thing I love the most of all, I love another patrol best.” One or other of the Ravens tried to stem this tide of wit but their angry voices were drowned in the uproar. Even Pee-wee’s scathing tongue and thunderous tone could not stifle the unholy mirth. He was handicapped for he tried to eat and shout at the same time while the others accommodated their eating somewhat to their vociferous commentary. “I suppose you know he got a peach of a scarf pin for saving that Berry fellow’s life?” Wig shouted at the merry scoffers. It was a forlorn essay at loyalty to poor Wilfred, but it was not cheering even in his own ears. “I suppose anybody can get rattled,” Artie Van Arlen sneered. It was not for Wilfred’s sake that he attempted this dubious defense; rather was it in pride for his patrol. He felt that if any defense could be made for a recreant Raven, it should at least be attempted—in public.