“They don’t care what you think or know,” snapped Connie. “But I’ll tell you what _I_ know—I know you don’t know how to swim. You got into this patrol because you couldn’t get into any other. Nobody ever even saw you with a bathing-suit on. We heard that Allison fellow around camp shouting about you, that’s all I know. He must be crazy or something.” “He’s crazy in that way—for shouting about me,” said Wilfred quietly. “He won’t shout about me any more, because he’s going away to-morrow.” “Why don’t you go with him?” Wilfred gulped, his eyes brimming. If Arden could have seen him then she might have strangled Connie Bennett. “You wouldn’t——” he began weakly. “Oh, cut it out,” said Connie disgustedly. “If you’re not a swimmer you’re not a swimmer, that’s all. You bluffed it as long as you could; thanks for telling us in time. Now go on inside and get your stuff and chase yourself away from here. Slade said you struck out once; now you struck out again. You’re some false alarm, _I’ll_ say!” For a moment Wilfred hesitated, but there was nothing he could say. He went into the cabin and got together his few things, undergarments and his old overcoat (he had no scout possessions) and packed the suit-case that Arden had contributed to the big enterprise of a summer in camp. On an end of this were painted the letters A. D. C. standing for Arden Delmere Cowell. As the twice discredited boy emerged with this, looking pitifully unlike a scout, Charlie O’Conner’s rather cumbersome wit was inspired to say, “Good initials—Abandon Duty Cowell.” Wilfred paused and looked at him, angry and irresolute, then went on. What would the spirited, brown-eyed Arden have said if she could but have known that her initials had been used to manufacture another brutal nickname for her pal and brother? CHAPTER XXV NEW QUARTERS His first thought was to go to the Archer farm, but he realized that he had no money to do that. And if he were going to keep his promise to old Pop Winters, he must not go home; indeed he had not the money to do that either, for his precious five dollars was pledged. Other boys had been discredited at Temple Camp, but these had fallen foul of the management, not of the scout body. No guest at camp had ever presented such a pitiful picture as Wilfred, as he stood irresolute in the woods below the Bridgeboro cabins with nothing whatever about him to connect him with scouting. In the woods he looked singularly out of place in his plain suit, his suit-case in one hand and his overcoat over the opposite arm. Most boys departing from Temple Camp went away resplendent in scout regalia and howling out of the windows of the Catskill bus. He went to the commissary shack where Tom Slade had lately been busy assorting and piling camp provisions and paraphernalia. In the semidarkness of this place he encountered Tom alone and told him all there was to tell. “Why the suit-case?” Tom asked.