This was all very well, and his willing sacrifice of the coveted badge in the interest of friendship and loyalty showed Warde’s character. But he and his two companions found small comfort in an excuse for delay. This was a serious business, a business for man’s handling, and in their hearts they knew it. Yet on the other hand it seemed right, and due to their friend, that they should make assurance doubly sure.

One fact, and only one, did comfort them. Blythe wore no double-breasted vest; he wore no vest at all. But in the downward path of tramp life and poverty, the vest is very apt to disappear. Against this little gleam of forlorn hope was the fact that Blythe did wear a gray suit. And that suit was very old and shabby; as old as the notice with the picture, surely. For the rest, the printed description seemed all too accurate.

It was a preoccupied and downcast trio that made their way through the old reservation to the scene of their recent toil and pleasure. How familiar seemed the spot! How friendly, and abounding in pleasant memories of their odd camping adventure! Their companions were just getting through for the day. Doc Carson and Connie Bennett were shinnying down one of the corner uprights of a bare frame, several scouts were piling some odds and ends, and Blythe, anxious as usual to get the camp-fire started, was gathering chips and small bits of waste lumber for that purpose. He heard them coming and looked up smiling.

“We’re going to have a big one to-night,” he said.

“You said it,” called Roy.

“A welcome home fire, hey?” said Blythe. Roy felt almost sick.

“You’re just in time to cook supper,” said Westy. “We were going to send a tracer after you. What news?”

“We’ll tell you later,” said Warde.

As he spoke, the “boss” walked toward Blythe’s Bunk, as the scouts had named their little headquarters, and tumbled his gatherings near the fireplace. Warde tried to determine whether he did actually walk a little sideways. But he could not be sure. It is so easy to imagine these things, to see something when one is looking for it.

There were no secrets within the First Bridgeboro Troop and what the three scouts had seen was soon known to all the others. It completely overshadowed the finding of Miss Bates and the disappointment of Pee-wee at not ascertaining the name and address of the unknown soldier. They did not talk freely about these things, chiefly because of their appalling discovery, and partly also because there was a certain constraint around the camp-fire that night.

The talk and banter which before had been so free and merry could not be kept up; they could not do it, try as they would. The conversation was not spontaneous, and the few pitiful attempts at joking were forced. Even Roy seemed to have lost his corklike buoyancy. And for Pee-wee, he could only sit gazing across the fire at Blythe with a kind of fearful fascination. Different, but equally intent, was the almost steady gaze of Warde Hollister. Roy noticed this; others noticed it.

Perhaps the only one who was quite at ease was the “boss” himself. “I’ll tell you what Doctor Cawson did to-day,” he said.

Edwin (Doc) Carson was in the Raven Patrol and was called Doc because he was the troop’s official first aid scout. He was the son of a physician, which fact had doubtless helped to raise him to proficiency in that splendid part of scouting. It was one of Blythe’s most noticeable characteristics that he got the names of the scouts confused in his mind. Almost the only name which he consistently pronounced correctly was Will Dawson. And he pronounced Carson the same as he pronounced Dawson.

Whether he really thought that Doc was a young physician it would be hard to say. His simple admiration of the scouts amounted to a kind of reverence, and he gave them credit for professional excellence in the case of all their honors. To him their merit badges meant that they were aviators, astronomers, chemists, and what not. And he always spoke of Doc Carson as “doctor.”

“What?” asked Roy, half-heartedly.

“I found a robin under the flooring of the last shack,” said Blythe in his usual simple way. “His wing was dragging open. I closed it up and carried him in my hand like you said about carrying a bird. I held him till the doctor came, and he said the wing wasn’t broken, only strained. He stood him on a branch and in a little while he flew away.”

“Why didn’t you kill him and be done with it?” Warde asked.

Blythe just laughed. “I guess you don’t mean that,” he said.

“Righto,” said Hunt Ward of the Elks.

Followed then an interval of silence, broken only by the mounting blaze. Everyone seemed to experience a little relaxation of the constraint. For a minute it seemed as if the spirits of the company rose. It was just for a moment.

Warde’s gaze was fixed directly on Blythe, who seemed calm, content, and happy to be among them. He at least showed no constraint.

“I dare say that robin will be in Canada by morning,” Warde said. “They go as far north as Montreal before they turn south. Hey, Roy?”

“Some of them do,” Roy said.

“There’s a place I’d like to go to Montreal,” said Warde. “Ever been there Blythey?”

“Montreal?” said Blythe. “Not as I know of.”

“Toronto?”

Blythe shook his head. “Toronto’s up near there, isn’t it?” he asked.

Warde seemed on the point of asking more but apparently decided not to. “Who’s going to tell a yarn?” he asked. “This is a kind of slow bunch to-night. How about you, Roy?”