He had heard the Elks ridiculed good-naturedly as a sort of ramshackle patrol, without medals or distinction. They had only four merit badges among them. He would try to bring them into the limelight. He rather dreaded appearing in an “event.” However, he could so concentrate his mind on his single aim that he would not see the throngs—just the same as when he had looked at Madden. Well, thought he, for a boy who had made such a bungle at the start, he was doing pretty well. He had a date with Pop Winters for the twenty-fifth, a date with the “doc” on the first, and on the tenth a date with Temple Camp. On that last day the world should hear of the Elk Patrol. And through all, he would have kept his original promise; not compromised with it, or sidestepped it, but just kept it, without trying to beg off or have it modified. That was the way to do things. Remembering the way those eyes of Lincoln had looked at him, he was glad, _proud_, that he had done that way.... That, indeed, had always been Wilfred’s way. He had never tried to bargain with his mother or to weary her into surrender. He respected his word. And he accepted consequences. Instead of cutting up through the camp grounds, he went down the by-road to the Archer farm. There was nothing unusual in his request for a horse and buggy for July twenty-fifth. Mr. Archer kept a horse and buggy especially for hire by the “folks over t’ th’ camp.” The buggy was as old as Pop Winters and the horse was so docile that a horse on a merry-go-round would have seemed wild in comparison. “I thought I’d ask you in plenty of time,” Wilfred said to Mr. Archer. “Well, I d’know but what that’ll be all right,” old Mr. Archer drawled, pausing and leaning on his rake. He availed himself of the brief recess to mop his beady forehead. “You youngsters allus used me right. You drive I s’pose?” “That’s one thing I know how to do,” said Wilfred. “You hain’t cal’latin’ on pilin’ a whole mess o’ youngsters inter the buggy, be you?” “Just myself and an old man in Terryville,” Wilfred said. He told Mr. Archer the facts. “It isn’t the driving that’s worrying me,” he concluded, “but I’ve only got five dollars—and—eh—I’m afraid—I guess that isn’t enough, is it?” “Well, I allus git eight dollars for the day,” Mr. Archer pondered aloud, “but I d’know as I’ll charge you that. You seem ter be a kind of right decent youngster. You come over and git the rig—when is it?” “On the twenty-fifth,” said Wilfred. “And we’ll say five dollars, on’y don’t you go lettin’ on ter them folks ter the camp what I done; that’s just twixt me and you. I got a kind of a likin’ ter you, that’s why.” “That’s just the same with me,” Wilfred laughed. “I’ve got a kind of a liking to him—Pop Winters, I mean. I was good and scared coming home; I was afraid I’d made a promise I couldn’t keep, maybe.” “Well, yer hain’t sceered now, be ye?” “Do—do you want me to give you the five dollars now? I guess I will because maybe I might lose it.”