That was a great day for Wilfred. The consciousness of right, which is said always to sustain those accused falsely, did not comfort him. He knew that he was looked upon askance by every scout in camp, and that he was odious to his own patrol. Tom’s sensible advice only strengthened his stubbornness. He felt that it would be weak and inadequate to contrive an explanation after the event. His pride was now involved and he would maintain it at the expense of misjudgement. It was the same Wilfred Cowell who had let the boys in Bridgeboro believe the he had run away from Madden, and tripped and fallen, rather than condescend to advertise the plain facts of the case. No one could every really help such a boy as Wilfred; he would be his own ruin or his own salvation. Tom, simple and straightforward, was puzzled at the boy’s queer reasoning. But indeed there was no reasoning about it. Wilfred was the victim of his own inward pride, and this produced the sorry effects which in turn cut his pride. “Hanged if I get him,” said Tom. Wilfred spent all morning with the young assistant manager who was making vigorous assaults against a couple of stumps in the adjacent woods. He was captivated, as he always was, by Wilfred’s ludicrous squint at things which on this day had a flavor of pathetic ruefulness. “The only thing I got so far in connection with scouting,” he said, “is a time-table on the West Shore road. I think it will be very useful soon.” “Well, you’re the doctor,” said Tom, as he chopped away. “I wish I were,” said Wilfred, who was standing watching him. “I’d give myself a doctor’s certificate right away quick, and start things.” “You seem to have started things all right,” Tom laughed. One bright ray shone upon the lonely and discredited boy that day. Allison Berry, patrol leader of the New Haven troop, looked him up and his talk must have sounded like music in Wilfred’s ears. The leader’s sleeve was decorated with a dozen merit badge, he seemed very much a scout, and Wilfred experienced a little thrill of pride at finding himself the recipient of hearty tribute from this fine, clean-cut, sportsman-like fellow. “Well, you didn’t pick me for a winner, did you?” he laughed at Tom, who kept busy at his chopping. “Didn’t think I’d lift the flag from the old home folks, did you?” “Oh, I’m through picking winners,” said Tom. “Yes? Well, you picked one in Will all right, didn’t you? May I sit down on this other stump? Do you know this fellow saved my life once in the dim, dim past, Slady? With one exception he’s the best swimmer this side of Mars. And that exception is a fish.” “I hear you say so,” said Wilfred. “If you’d been down at the lake this morning, you’d have heard me say so. I’ve been telling everybody you’re a hero.” “Did you have to chloroform them to get them to listen?” Wilfred asked.