Wilfred raised himself lazily to a sitting posture observing the coveted and much traveled emblem of scout stealth and prowess. That single eye did seem to be winking at him.
“It knows me. I come from Connecticut,” he said. Then he acknowledged its fraternal salute with a whimsical wink of his own.
“I bet you’re proud of it,” Wig observed.
“I wonder what it means, eyeing me up like that,” Wilfred said.
“It means you’re one of us,” said Wig, with pride and friendship in his voice.
“Thanks,” said Wilfred.
“And I bet you’re proud of that banner, too.”
For a few moments neither spoke and Wig seemed to be waiting for the reassuring answer from his friend. They had seen so little of Wilfred in the patrol and he was so quiet and diffident when among them, that Wig found it necessary to his peace of mind to be always trying to check up this odd boy’s loyalty and patrol spirit.
“I bet I am,” said Wilfred quietly.
Still he sat there, arms about his drawn-up knees, gazing with a kind of amusement at the airy, fluttering emblem and winking at it whenever the breeze gave it the appearance of winking at him. Wig watched him, amused too at the whimsical spectacle.