But these impotent sallies were useless; the Ravens were buried under an avalanche of good-humored but cutting banter. Amid it all, Archie Dennison, proudly ensconced at “officials’ table,” derived a contemptible delight in witnessing the uproar he had created. His scout sense was so far askew that he contrived to see himself as the hero of the occasion. Among the Bridgeboro scouts was one (I know not who, and it makes no difference) who evidently recalled the scene in Bridgeboro, of which perhaps he had been a witness. He was now inspired to revive the unhappy nickname which had rung in Wilfred’s ears when he fell unconscious on the sidewalk near his home. “Wilfraid Coward, Raven!” he shouted. “You better let up on that,” called Artie Van Arlen, but the entertainer persisted, judiciously omitting the word _raven_. “Wilfraid Coward! Wilfraid Coward! Aren’t you afraid you’ll get arrested for speeding? Slow but sure—Wilfraid Coward! Wil——” A certain stir among the clamorous diners made him pause and following the averted gaze of others, he beheld the subject of his wretched jesting standing in the doorway. It was only in small matters that Wilfred was diffident. What ordeal he may have passed through in the few minutes he had spent alone was over now, and he entered the room without bravado but with a certain ease; he had the same look as when he had approached the bully, Madden. Shyness does not necessarily interfere with moral courage. His brown eyes were lustrous, his wavy hair in picturesque disorder, and he was conspicuous because he was the only boy who had no scout regalia. He seemed lithe, even graceful, as he sauntered down between two mess-boards and around to another where the reviver of his nickname sat. You would have thought that Wilfred was waiting on the table and was asking his traducer if he would have another cup of coffee. “You come from Bridgeboro, don’t you?” he asked. “Yes, but I’m not in your troop, thank goodness,” the boy answered, addressing himself more to the whole assemblage than to Wilfred. “What’s your name?” Wilfred asked, quietly. “He wants to invite me to go walking, I guess,” the boy said aloud. “Give him your card, maybe he wants to fight a duel with you,” some young wag shouted. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you, Wandering Willie?” called another. “Oh, no,” said Wilfred, blushing a little. “Edgar Coleman,” laughed the boy. “How long do you expect to be here?” Wilfred asked. “Longer than you will, you can bet.” “Thanks,” said Wilfred, and moved along to his own seat. Many had finished breakfast and departed when Wilfred took his seat, and as he did so the two or three Ravens who still lingered contrived to finish quickly and were soon gone. So he ate his breakfast quite alone (so far as his comrades were concerned) and before he had finished there was not another boy in the room, except those who were doing penance for trifling rule violations by clearing the tables.