ed to the lonesomeness of Pee-wee on that Saturday morning. He
might have attached himself to any of the three patrols and had a day's
pleasure, but his pride had stood in the way.

He had always been something of a free lance in the troop and been
regarded as a troop institution. But there had always been his
official place among the Ravens waiting for him whenever it suited his
wanton fancy to return like a prodigal to the fold. Now, in the
pleasant springtime with the troop divided for the summer rivalries, he
found himself quite isolated.

No one was to blame for this; a scout must be in one patrol or another,
and if all patrols are full then he must make himself the nucleus of a
new one. That is what Mr. Ellsworth had told Pee-wee.

"Gee whiz, nucleuses aren't so easy to be, that's one thing," Pee-wee
muttered to himself as he bent his aimless way in the direction of
Barrel Alley. "Maybe he thinks it's easy to be a nucleus. Nucleuses
are hard to be, I'll tell the world. Anyway I can be a pioneer scout,
that's one thing. You don't have to be a nucleus or anything to be one
of those. They don't have to bother with patrols, they don't, they're
lucky."

He ambled along kicking a stone before him in a disconsolate,
disgruntled way. He followed it wherever it went, ever and again
kicking it back onto the sidewalk; the simple pastime seemed to afford
him infinite relief. And meanwhile, glowing visions arose in his mind,
such visions as no one but a poet or a lonely boy on a Saturday morning
in the springtime could possibly have.

No one had injured him in the least, he was liked by all, he was simply
the unhappy victim of circumstances. But in a mood of heroic
retaliation against the troop he pictured himself as a pioneer scout
residing aloof in a grim tower, surrounded by wireless apparatus and
covered with merit badges. Scouts from all over the world would make
pilgrimages to his obscure retreat for a timid glimpse of the
mysterious hero.

The glowing vision was somewhat marred by his conception of himself
eating a huge sandwich as he looked down from his parapet upon the
worshipping throng below. Roy Blakeley would be down there among the
others, his jollying propensity subdued by a feeling of awe as he gazed
at the great scout hermit, the famous pioneer scout who sent messages
to lesser scouts the world over. They would whisper, "he looks just
like his pictures in _Boys' Life_," and he would smil