“Yes, but this one isn’t in the handbook, it’s in my shoe.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, this bunch is going to know about your swimming.”
“A scout isn’t supposed to talk behind another fellow’s back,” laughed Wilfred.
“I’d like to know when else I can talk about you,” Wig demanded. “You’re never here, you’re always out walking with that what’s-his-name.”
“We’re studying the manners and customs of caterpillars and spiders,” said Wilfred. “Do you know that caterpillars can’t swim?”
“Some naturalist,” laughed Wig. “You make me laugh, you do. Even the single eye is laughing at you—look.”
Wilfred sat up on the grass and stared at a small, white banner which flew from a pole that was painted just outside the Ravens’ cabin. In the center of this banner was painted an eye which, as the emblem fluttered in the breeze, presented an amusing effect of winking. The ground around the pole was carpeted with dry twigs for an area of several yards, and this area was forbidden ground even to the Ravens. They might throw dry twigs within it and even extend its boundaries, but never under any circumstances might a Raven draw upon its tempting contents for fire-wood. One could not step upon those telltale twigs without causing a crackling sound. The Emblem of the Single Eye was sacred.
“I never heard the whole history of that,” said Wilfred, gazing at the little emblem in a way of newly awakened but yet idle curiosity.
“That’s because you’re never around long enough for us to talk to you,” Wig shot back.
“Thank you for those kind words,” said Wilfred.