He did not know it but this was his second triumph—pretty good for a boy who had been called Wilfraid Coward, and edged out of a scout patrol. But he knew the little triumph he had won among the admiring Elks and his thoughts now were bent on making that triumph good and redeeming himself in the eyes of the whole camp. He dreaded the big event, as a diffident boy would, but he would think of the contest and not the crowd. He would look straight at the thing he was to do.
Of one thing he was resolved; if—if—he won the radio set, it must be installed in Connie Bennett’s house when they returned to Bridgeboro. Connie was patrol leader. And besides that, Wilfred’s home was so small that there really was no place in it for the patrol to assemble.
“There I go counting my chickens before they’re hatched,” he laughed to himself, as he made his way over to the camp.
CHAPTER XXII
SHATTERED DREAMS
Wilfred’s path to the Elks’ cabin took him past the main pavilion where there was always much life. Here scouts sat lined up on the long veranda, tilted back in their chairs, looking out upon the lake. This was the center of camp. It was difficult for any scout to pass this spot without subjecting himself to mirthful comment. It was the spot most dreaded by Wilfred. Here he seemed always to be passing in review.
Here were still to be heard the faint echoes of those slurring gibes which rang in his ears after the Gray Wolves had captured the emblem of the Single Eye. Sometimes a loitering group would hum a derisive tune in time with his footsteps. And now and then he could hear, as he passed, the name Willie Cowyard, which was as close to his more degrading nickname as they cared to venture.
As he approached this spot now, he noticed a clamorous group before the bulletin board. Among the voices he could overhear disconnected phrases.
“Suits us all right.”
“Have it over with.”
“Have it over with is right.”