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.
“I had to take my things away from there.”
For some reason or other, which no living mortal can explain, Wilfred
had not told Tom nor any one else of his kindly plan in connection with
Pop Winters. He was not ashamed of what he was going to do, but he
seemed ashamed to tell of it.
“Well,” said Tom, lifting himself up onto a packing case and forcing a
patience which he did not feel, “that’s strike two. And I thought when
we came up here that you were going to knock a home run.”
“I guess _home_ is the right word,” said Wilfred.
“Yes, if you want to be a quitter,” said Tom.
“There don’t seem to be any more patrols for me to go into,” Wilfred
observed cynically.
“You didn’t think it worth while to tell them, did you?” Tom asked
wearily. “I mean that you have something the matter with you.”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” Wilfred said proudly. It was odd
how such a fine spirit could bear misjudgment and humiliation. He seemed
to feel that the greatest disgrace of all was having some physical
weakness. “Do you think I’m an Archie Dennison?” he demanded.
“No, not quite as bad as that,” Tom laughed.
“It’s only on account of you I feel bad; I don’t care about anybody
else,” said Wilfred.
“I should think you’d care about the Elks,” Tom said rather coldly;
“they’re pretty nice fellows. You left them up in the air—guessing. What
do you expect? Do you think everybody is to be sacrificed just because
you don’t want folks to know you have to be careful about your health?”
“Don’t you worry about my health,” said Wilfred.
“Well,” said Tom, “talk isn’t going to get us anywhere. I have to take
you as I find you. You’re here on my award——”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re here as my guest. And I’m not going to have my guest
pulling out before the game’s over. I’m not going to have you going home
and let your sister think you’re a quitter.”
“You seem to think more about my sister than you do about me,” said
Wilfred.
This was a pretty good shot and it silenced Tom for a moment. “Well,” he
finally said, “I don’t seem to get you, but I suppose it’s my fault. I
don’t know any patrol I could wish you onto now; you’re queered. The
best thing you can do is to bunk in the pavilion and just hang around
and help me, and along about the first drop in and see the doc. Wasn’t
that what Doctor Brent said? He may tell you you’re all right, but you
see, Billy, that won’t square you with the crowd. You’ve flopped
twice——”
“They say three strikes out,” said Wilfred, with rueful humor.
“Well, they’re not likely to give you another chance at the bat,” said
Tom. “You can’t blame these fellows——”
“I blame two of them,” said Wilfred, grimly.
Tom ignored this dark reference. “Well,” said he, “they won’t do any
worse than ignore you; you just bat around and amuse yourself and keep
up your stalking, that’s good, and get some benefit out of the country.
I don’t want you chasing home, I know that.”
This, then, was Wilfred’s lot during the days that immediately followed.
He slept in the pavilion among the unattached boys, and a queer lot they
were. Some of them were very young, others very delicate; all were under
the particular care of the management. They were immune from the
exactions of troop discipline and obligation. But it would be unfair to
them to say that they were of the brand of Archie Dennison. Nothing was
likely to happen to ostracize Wilfred from this group.
As for the other boys, they looked on him with contempt; the banter
stage was past and the whole camp body joined with the Ravens and the
Elks in ignoring him. They did not think of him so much as a traitor or
a coward, but as a “bluffer.” Allison Berry, the only one who might have
disproved this belief, was gone, and his vociferous defense of Wilfred
forgotten. Wandering Willie was just a bluff, a boy who had pretended
that he was a swimmer when in plain fact he could not swim or do
anything else. Temple Camp was no place for bluffers. To bluff the
honest and simple Elks seemed peculiarly contemptible.
Wilfred was not accorded the tribute of being disliked, he was simply
ignored. He was one of the pavilion crowd—he was nothing. When scouts
did speak of him they called him Wandering Willie, which was a harmless
enough nickname.