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?”
“No, I’m not,” Wilfred said earnestly. “I can’t do it and I mean it and
you can call me a quitter.”
“If you mean it, I’ll call you something more than a quitter,” said
Connie testily; “I’ll call you a——”
“A what?” said Wilfred, the lid of his left eye half-closing and
quivering in that way of his.
“Cut it out,” said Charlie, “quitter is bad enough. Calling names isn’t
getting us anything.”
“It might get you something,” said Wilfred.
“Will you cut it out!” said Charlie impatiently. “What’s the idea,
anyway?”
“The idea is that I can’t swim in the contest,” Wilfred said, “and I
came to tell you, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it?” Connie sneered. “I guess you can’t swim at all,
that’s my guess. Nobody ever saw you swimming.”
“Go on, he’s fooling!” said Charlie.
“No, he isn’t fooling either,” Connie shot back. “If it had been left
for the tenth, he wouldn’t have told us yet. But now it’s only a few
days off he _has_ to tell us. Thanks very much for telling us in time,
we’ll manage to put somebody in.”
“I’d like to know who?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, never mind who,” said Connie disgustedly; “somebody that isn’t a
bluffer. We’re satisfied, go on and get out of the patrol——”
“I expected to do that,” said Wilfred mildly.
“You can bet you did,” Connie shot back. “You will if I’m patrol
leader!”
“What’s the reason anyway?” Charlie asked, puzzled.
“Reason! How could there be any reason?” Connie repeated angrily.
“I’m not giving any,” Wilfred said.
“Why not?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, just because—because I’m unlucky,” said Wilfred in a pitiful
despair that they did not notice.
“Unlucky?” sneered Connie. “That’s a good one. _You’re_ unlucky! How
about us, for taking you in?”
“Sure, for taking pity on you,” said Charlie, aroused to anger. “That’s
what we get for doing a favor for Tom Slade——”
“You needn’t say anything against him,” said Wilfred.
“I’d like to know who’ll stop me,” said Connie. “Not you.” Then he
paused, incredulous. “Are you kidding us, Billy Cowell?” he asked.
“I told you,” said Wilfred hopelessly.
“All right,” said Connie with an air of shooting straight. “As long as
you told _me_, I’ll tell _you_. You had every scout in this camp
laughing at the Ravens; you stood and let a fellow walk away with their
emblem—that they were so crazy about. You never did anything in that
patrol—all you did was get Wig Weigand hypnotized. Hanged if I know what
he sees in you——”
“He does?” Wilfred began.
“Then you get edged out and Tom Slade takes pity on you and _we_ have to
be the goats. You got away with it here because we’re simps—we’re easy.
You know as well as I do, Cowell, that these fellows are easy—and
friendly. Do you think I don’t know what kind of a patrol I’ve got? Just
because some of them live in South Bridgeboro—you know what I mean. But
they’re a fair and square crowd all right, I’ll tell you that——”
“I know they are——”
“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?