“Of course, if the doctor says he can’t go, that settles it,” said Tom. “But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about scouting. The main thing about scouting, the way we have it doped out, is to be loyal to your folks and keep your promises and all that. I thought Billy was going up there with me to beat every last scout in the place swimming and rowing and tracking—and all that stuff. I had him picked for a winner. Now it seems he has to beat them all doing something else. He has to keep his promise when you’re not watching him. It seems if he goes up there he’ll just have to flop around and maybe stalk a little and sit around the camp-fire and take it easy and lay off on the strenuous stuff. All right, whatever he undertakes to do, I back him up. I’ve got him picked for a winner. I say he can do anything, no matter how hard it is.
“The scouts have got twelve laws”—Tom counted them off on his fingers identifying them briefly—“trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient (get that), cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, reverent. There’s nothing in any one of them about swimming and jumping or climbing. You can’t run when you stalk because if you run you’re not stalking. Billy’s a new chap in this town and I intended to take him up to Temple Camp and watch all the different troops scramble for him. Well, he’s got to lay off and take it easy; I say he can do that, too.”
“You got a doctor up there?” Doctor Brent asked.
“You bet, he’s a mighty fine chap, too.”
Doctor Brent paused, cogitating. “I don’t see any reason why he couldn’t go up there,” he said finally. “You’d give your word——”
“He’ll give his word, that’s better,” said Tom.
“Probably it will do him good,” said the doctor.
“I don’t want anybody up there to know I have heart trouble,” said Wilfred. “I don’t want them to think I’m a sick feller.”
“You’re not sick,” said his mother.
“Well, anyway, I don’t want them to know,” Wilfred persisted petulantly.