riendly, smiling glance, which was at once a salutation and a welcome,--and his head went up abruptly. What did looks matter, after all--at least the sort of looks one couldn't help? He was none the worse a scout because he had not yet saved up enough money for that coveted suit of khaki. Nor was it his fault that he had lacked the time to go home and brush up thoroughly for the meeting. He smiled back a little at Mr. Curtis, and then, with shoulders square and head erect, he obeyed the leader's silent summons.
There was a faint stir and a sense of curious, shifting eyes when he appeared around the end of the line of waiting scouts. As he passed Sherman Ward's patrol some one even whispered an airy greeting, "Aye, Tommy." Though Dale did not glance that way, he knew it to be the irrepressible Courtlandt, now returned to his position as assistant patrol-leader. Court was the only one who ever called him that, and the boy's heart warmed at this touch of friendliness. Then he paused before the scoutmaster
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