“Anyway, there’s one thing I don’t want any longer,” he said to himself. “One just like it brought my mother bad luck. My brother was kidnapped and my father died and we lost our money. I don’t want this blamed pin any more—as long as I can’t swim or do anything. I believe in bad luck, I don’t care what fellows say. It brought me bad luck ever since I was here, that’s sure. I believe what people say—that they’re unlucky.” Sullenly he pulled the opal scarf pin from his tie and was about to cast it from him into the thick undergrowth. “The only luck I’ve had,” he said with cynical despair in his voice, “is Al Berry going away; anyway he won’t be here to know I flopped again—that’s one good thing anyway.” His hand was even raised to cast away the little testimonial of his heroism when suddenly he noticed a strange thing. At first he thought it was not his own scarf pin that he held, so changed was the opal in color. Instead of showing its varying, elusive glints of beauty, it was opaque and of a dull and cheerless blue, like Wilfred’s own mood. Yet sometimes this same uncanny stone had flamed with glory. And it would flame with glory again, all in good time, for in its mysterious depths the wondrous opal heralds good or evil, sorrow or joy, and when it dazzles with its myriad flickering lights, you may be sure that health and good luck are on the way, and that all is well. Wilfred was so astonished at its loss of color that he replaced it in his scarf. Then he started with a kind of forced resolve for the Elks’ patrol cabin. CHAPTER XXIV STRIKE TWO Connie Bennett and Charlie O’Conner were busy setting a long stick upright from the cabin roof as Wilfred approached. “No time like the present, hey?” said Connie. “If we don’t need an aerial we can fly our pennant from it.” “What do you mean _if we don’t need an aerial_?” Charlie asked. “How do you get that way?” “He’s like Pee-wee Harris,” said Connie; “he’s absolutely, positively, definitely sure.” Wilfred watched them for a few minutes, utterly sick at heart. “This is only temporary for August,” Charlie called down from the roof. “Hand us up that other stick, will you?” “I’ve got something to tell you,” said Wilfred, “and I won’t blame you for getting mad. I can’t go in the contest.” Connie looked at him amused. “You joke with such a straight face——” “I mean it,” said Wilfred earnestly; “I can’t do it. There’s no use asking me why. I can’t do it and you’ve got a right to call me a quitter—or anything you want.” “What do you mean?” Connie asked, caught by his earnest tone. Charlie O’Conner slid down off the roof and stood, half-laughing, half-apprehensive. “I mean just what I said,” said Wilfred soberly. “I found out I can’t swim in the contest. You’ll have to let one of the other fellows do it; Bert McAlpin——” “Cut it out about Bert McAlpin,” said Connie. “What’s the idea, anyway? Are you kidding us?”