If Wilfred Cowell felt unscoutlike with his prosaic old opera-glass, he might have derived some comforting reassurance from the various and sundry equipment of Pee-wee Harris, Raven. Though he had seen Pee-wee in Bridgeboro, he saw him now in full bloom and his multifarious decorations could only be rivaled by those of a Christmas tree. He carried everything but his heart hanging around his neck or fastened to his belt. His heart was too big to be carried in this way. Jack-knife, compass, a home-made sun-dial (which never under any conditions told the right time) and various other romantic ornaments suggestive of primeval life dangled from his belt like spangles from a huge bracelet. It was this terrific cave-man whose frown was like a storm at sea, who brought forth Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of the Ravens. With him came the rest of the patrol, Doc Carson, Grove and Ed Bronson, Wig Weigand and Elmer Sawyer. Wilfred had seen most of these boys in Bridgeboro.
Wilfred had beguiled his enforced leisure at home by memorizing the laws and the oath and by learning to tie all the knots known to scouting. So he was ready to enter the patrol as a tenderfoot and the little ceremony took place the next morning with one of the resident trustees officiating.
I have often thought that if Mr. Ellsworth, Scoutmaster of the First Bridgeboro troop, had been at camp that season, the events which I am to narrate might never have occurred. Tom Slade said that with Wilfred Cowell what he was, they had to occur. And Wilfred Cowell always said that whatever Tom said was right. So there you are. Tom Slade said that Wilfred was out and away the best scout he had ever seen in his life. Wilfred could not have believed that Tom was right when he said that, for he claimed that Tom was the greatest scout living. So there you are again. You will have to decide for yourself who is the hero of this story. You know what I think for it is printed on the cover of this narrative. I shall try to tell you the events of that memorable camp season exactly as they occurred.
But first it will be helpful, as throwing some light on Wilfred Cowell’s character, to show you the first letter which he wrote home. He had promised his anxious mother to write home, “the very first day,” and he kept his promise literally as he did all promises.
Dear Mother and Sis:—
I got here all right and had a good drive with Tom Slade. I guess I won’t see so much of him now. I’m writing the first day because I said I would, but there isn’t much to tell because not much happens before a fellow gets started. Anyway I’m not writing this till evening so as I can tell you all there is and still keep my promise. I’m sorry you didn’t say the second day because there’s a contest or something to-morrow and I’m going to see it.
I’m in the Raven Patrol and they’re all Bridgeboro fellows and I like them. I guess I ought to be in a patrol called the Snails, the way I take it easy going around. Anyway I’m thankful I don’t have to keep from laughing because that little fellow named Harris is in my patrol. “My patrol”—you’d think I owned it, wouldn’t you? This troop is sort of away from the rest of the camp and has three cabins in the woods. It’s pretty nice.
I went on a walk alone to-day, the rest of my patrol had a jumping contest, they asked me but I said no. I guess maybe they thought it was funny. I went along a kind of a trail in the woods trying to sneak near enough to see birds. That’s what they call stalking. I saw one bird all gray with a topknot on. Gee, he could sing. I looked at him through my trusty opera-glass and he flew away. Guess he thought I thought he was an opera singer. I made too much noise, that was the trouble. I’m too quiet for the scouts and too noisy for the birds. I wish I had a camera instead of an opera-glass, we’re supposed to get pictures of birds. Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy. A fellow up here says I walk in second gear—that’s when an auto goes slow. He asked me if I’d hurry if there was a fire. He’s not in my patrol but he likes to go for walks so we’re going to walk to Terryville some night when there’s a movie show there. Little Harris says I should write letters on birch bark with a charred stick so if you get one like that from me don’t be surprised.
Lots of love to both of you,
Wilfred.
You will perceive from this letter how Wilfred’s promise to avoid all violent exercise dominated his mind; he never forgot it. He construed his easy-going life rather whimsically in his letters, but there seemed always a touch of pathos in his acceptance of his difficult situation.
One effect his very limited scouting life had, and that was to take him out of his own patrol. He might not do the things they did so he beguiled his time alone, wandering about and stalking birds in a haphazard fashion. Having no camera all his lonely labor went for naught. Still, he directed his deadly opera-glass against birds, squirrels and chipmunks and found much quiet pleasure in approaching as near as he could to them. It was a pastime not likely to injure his health.
Yet he was proud of the vaunted prowess of the Ravens and the boys of the patrol liked him. They thought he was an odd number and they did not hold it against him that he was quiet and liked to amble here and there by himself.
He soon became a familiar figure in the camp, sauntering about, pausing to witness games and contests, and always taking things easy. He made few acquaintances and did not even “go and talk” with old Uncle Jeb as Tom had suggested that he do. He tried but did not quite manage it. Just as he was about to saunter over to Uncle Jeb’s holy of holies (which was the back step of Administration Shack) several roistering scouts descended pell-mell upon the old man and that was the end of Wilfred’s little enterprise.