UNDER A CLOUD
Wilfred was forewarned of the tempest by a little storm which occurred
early in the morning. They were astonished that he had not noticed the
absence of the banner as he entered the cabin. That would have been an
appropriate moment to tell them the whole business. But he did not tell
them, he did not know why. He thought he would like to tell Wig alone,
first.
“It must have been taken before he got in,” said El Sawyer, “because
after I heard him come in I was awake till daylight. Yet he didn’t say
anything about it.”
“Gee whiz, don’t you take any interest in the patrol?” Grove asked him
scornfully.
Wilfred could only tell the whole thing or say nothing. He could not
face that astonished and angry group; he wanted to tell what he had
done, or failed to do, in his own way, at his own time. So he wandered
away, which strengthened their impression of his lagging interest.
“He’s just queer,” said Artie, always fair.
“Queer is right,” said Grove, sarcastically.
“I guess he was thinking about the movie play,” said Pee-wee, always
straining a point to champion a colleague. “Maybe—maybe he was studying
the stars when he came in and didn’t notice, hey? Lots of times I don’t
notice things when I’m studying the stars.”
Wig said nothing. He wondered what was the matter with this likeable boy
who had quite captivated him. “Oh, I suppose he was sleepy,” he finally
said, and was not convinced by his own haphazard explanation.
“I hope he doesn’t get sleepy while he’s swimming,” said Artie.
“Or try to study the stars,” said Grove. “Come ahead, let’s go down and
eat.”
“Gee whiz, I’m not hungry for breakfast,” said Pee-wee. This startling
declaration alone shows what it meant to the Ravens to lose their
flaunting banner.
“I bet the whole ‘eats shack’ knows about it by now,” said Doc Carson.
“Come on, let’s go and get it over with. Where’s he gone, anyway?”
“Strolling, I guess,” said Grove.
The whole “eats shack” did know about it; it knew even more than the
Ravens knew, for it knew the worst. Archie Dennison was basking in the
limelight. And the matter was even worse than poor Wilfred had
suspected, for even before Archie had advertised Wilfred as a slacker
the whole camp knew that the Emblem of the Single Eye had been taken by
Allison Berry.
How it leaked out so quickly that Wilfred and the New Haven scout had
known each other in Connecticut one can only conjecture. But the
disclosure of this fact put Wilfred not only in the light of a slacker
but in the graver light of a traitor as well. It was inconceivable that
he would stand and watch a boy escape with that treasured emblem and do
nothing.
The discovery of the triumphant scouts’ identity explained the whole
thing; Wilfred’s heart was in Connecticut and he had not been able to
bring himself to wrest a triumph from the boy whose life he had once
saved. From the standpoint of the camp, what other explanation was
there? To lose the emblem was bad enough. To lose it to its boastful,
original possessors was worse. But to lose it while one of the Raven
patrol stood looking on was incredible and made the crude banter at the
breakfast board hard to bear.
A manly silence, prompted by scout pride, on the part of Archie Dennison
and the whole sorry business would have been accepted as a salutary
rebuke to the Ravens’ prowess, and a corresponding triumph for the Gray
Wolves. But now it was outside the wholesome field of sport, it was a
shameful thing and the “eats shack” was not an agreeable place for the
Ravens during breakfast.
“Hey, Conway,” an exuberant scout called from one table to another. “In
Connecticut you learn to sleep standing up.”
“Oh, sure, ravens can walk in their sleep; didn’t you know that?”
“Benedict Arnold Cowyard,” another shouted.
Then, as a result of several poetical experiments somebody or other
evolved this, which caused uproarious laughter:
“I love, I love, I love, I love;
I love so much to rest.
But the thing I love the most of all,
I love another patrol best.”
One or other of the Ravens tried to stem this tide of wit but their
angry voices were drowned in the uproar. Even Pee-wee’s scathing tongue
and thunderous tone could not stifle the unholy mirth. He was
handicapped for he tried to eat and shout at the same time while the
others accommodated their eating somewhat to their vociferous
commentary.
“I suppose you know he got a peach of a scarf pin for saving that Berry
fellow’s life?” Wig shouted at the merry scoffers. It was a forlorn
essay at loyalty to poor Wilfred, but it was not cheering even in his
own ears.
“I suppose anybody can get rattled,” Artie Van Arlen sneered. It was not
for Wilfred’s sake that he attempted this dubious defense; rather was it
in pride for his patrol. He felt that if any defense could be made for a
recreant Raven, it should at least be attempted—in public.
But these impotent sallies were useless; the Ravens were buried under an
avalanche of good-humored but cutting banter. Amid it all, Archie
Dennison, proudly ensconced at “officials’ table,” derived a
contemptible delight in witnessing the uproar he had created. His scout
sense was so far askew that he contrived to see himself as the hero of
the occasion.
Among the Bridgeboro scouts was one (I know not who, and it makes no
difference) who evidently recalled the scene in Bridgeboro, of which
perhaps he had been a witness. He was now inspired to revive the unhappy
nickname which had rung in Wilfred’s ears when he fell unconscious on
the sidewalk near his home.
“Wilfraid Coward, Raven!” he shouted.
“You better let up on that,” called Artie Van Arlen, but the entertainer
persisted, judiciously omitting the word _raven_.
“Wilfraid Coward! Wilfraid Coward! Aren’t you afraid you’ll get arrested
for speeding? Slow but sure—Wilfraid Coward! Wil——”
A certain stir among the clamorous diners made him pause and following
the averted gaze of others, he beheld the subject of his wretched
jesting standing in the doorway.
It was only in small matters that Wilfred was diffident. What ordeal he
may have passed through in the few minutes he had spent alone was over
now, and he entered the room without bravado but with a certain ease; he
had the same look as when he had approached the bully, Madden. Shyness
does not necessarily interfere with moral courage. His brown eyes were
lustrous, his wavy hair in picturesque disorder, and he was conspicuous
because he was the only boy who had no scout regalia.
He seemed lithe, even graceful, as he sauntered down between two
mess-boards and around to another where the reviver of his nickname sat.
You would have thought that Wilfred was waiting on the table and was
asking his traducer if he would have another cup of coffee.
“You come from Bridgeboro, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’m not in your troop, thank goodness,” the boy answered,
addressing himself more to the whole assemblage than to Wilfred.
“What’s your name?” Wilfred asked, quietly.
“He wants to invite me to go walking, I guess,” the boy said aloud.
“Give him your card, maybe he wants to fight a duel with you,” some
young wag shouted.
“You’re not going to hurt him, are you, Wandering Willie?” called
another.
“Oh, no,” said Wilfred, blushing a little.
“Edgar Coleman,” laughed the boy.
“How long do you expect to be here?” Wilfred asked.
“Longer than you will, you can bet.”
“Thanks,” said Wilfred, and moved along to his own seat.
Many had finished breakfast and departed when Wilfred took his seat, and
as he did so the two or three Ravens who still lingered contrived to
finish quickly and were soon gone. So he ate his breakfast quite alone
(so far as his comrades were concerned) and before he had finished there
was not another boy in the room, except those who were doing penance for
trifling rule violations by clearing the tables.