This was enough for Wilfred—he had been dismissed from camp. He had not fulfilled the requirements of the “scholarship” of which Tom Slade had spoken. He had not made good as a non-pay scout. He could not pass that spot now, unconscious of the mocking throng. His sensitiveness overcame his common sense. He took a circuitous route and avoiding his own cabin strolled up through the woods to the road. The habit of ambling had become second nature to him and “taking it easy” gave him an appearance of aimlessness which put him in strange contrast with the strenuous life all about him. There was something pathetic in his self-imposed isolation. At the roadside was a crude bench where the camp people waited for the Catskill bus, and Wilfred seated himself on this. Soon the bus came along bringing a “shipment” of new scouts. Doc Loquez, the young camp physician, alighted too, hatless and conspicuous in his white jacket; he had evidently been to Catskill. Wilfred lived in perpetual dread of this brisk young man, fearing that if he encountered him he would be ordered to bed or given a big bottle of medicine which people might see at the “eats” boards or in patrol cabin. But he was in for it now. The doc gave him a quick, inquiring glance and sat on the bench beside him. “What’s the matter with you? Not feeling right?” “Sure, I am,” Wilfred said. “Let’s look at your tongue.” The doc scrutinized him curiously with friendly brown eyes. He was so prompt in waiving professional formality that it seemed to Wilfred as if he had known him all his life. How foolish he had been to avoid this boyish, fraternal, offhand young fellow. “Whenever I see a scout wandering around by himself,” said the doc, “I always waylay him. Let’s see, you’re the chap that’s going to win the Mary Temple contest? One of your—Elks, is it?—he was telling me you’re going to give the camp a large sized shock.” “I guess they’re shocked enough already,” said Wilfred. “You’re the boy they mean, aren’t you?” “I’m going to swim for it; I don’t know if I’ll win it.” The young doctor threw his head back with fine spirit and as he arose gave Wilfred a rap on the shoulder as if to say that the contest was won already. “You’ll win,” he said cheerily. There was something in that spirited look of friendly confidence which went to Wilfred’s heart; all the more because the young doctor had no reason for his generous faith. In the quick sparkle of those brown eyes had spoken defiance, triumph, inspired approbation. It reminded Wilfred of his sister’s look bespeaking a kind of challenge to any one who mistook his diffidence for weakness.