It was not yet breakfast time when he was to be seen trudging through the rain past the cooking shack and through Tent Lane, as they called it. He wore his overcoat with collar turned up. Several scouts who were contemplating the weather from the shelter of Administration Shack noticed him and one observed that Wandering Willie was out for a stroll. The quarters in Tent Lane consisted of a row of tents pitched on a long platform under the shelter of a long shed. At the seventh tent, Wilfred paused. Within were the sounds of belated rising and hurried dressing. He stooped and knocked on the platform and there followed a quick silence within. “Is Edgar Coleman in there?” he asked. And without waiting for the obvious answer he added, “He’s wanted out here.” Edgar Coleman, never prepossessing, looked anything but natty as he emerged from the tent, his hair as yet unbrushed, the evidences of recent slumber still upon him. Those of his comrades who were sufficiently interested crowded in the opening to the tent, staring. “I want to get this over with early in the morning,” said Wilfred; “stand outside, the rain won’t hurt you. I’m not afraid of it and you called me a coward. You remember that morning at breakfast—when you called me Wilfraid Coward? You thought I wouldn’t hit back just because I took my time about it.” In an easy, businesslike way he unbuttoned his old overcoat, brought forth a piece of paper, a lead pencil, and four thumb tacks; these he handed to the astonished Coleman. “Go in your tent and write an apology for what you called me,” said Wilfred; “then go and put it up on the bulletin board. I don’t care when you do it as long as you do it before you go in Eats Shack. You might as well finish getting dressed.” If Edgar Coleman had been as observant as scouts are reputed to be, he might have been assisted to a decision (however humiliating) by Wilfred’s right eye, which was half-closed, the lid quivering. But he did not avail himself of this grim sign. Instead he thought of the audience (always a bad thing to do) and for their edification, he said in a voice that had a fine swagger in it: “Say, how do you get that way, Willie?” And by way of completing his scornful amusement he cast tacks, paper and pencil to the ground. He did not have to stoop to pick them up, for like a flash of lightning he went sprawling on the ground himself. Speechless, aghast with amazement, he raised himself, holding one hand against a mud-bespattered ear. And in that brief moment he saw more stars than ever boy scout studied in the bespangled firmament. “Hey, what’s the idea?” he demanded in a tone of injured innocence. “Pick up the pencil and the tacks,” said Wilfred coldly. “I’ll give you another piece of paper; pick them up, _quick_. You fellows keep away from here.”