they were talking about a hole in
the boat, because that was the roof I saw. So then I knew I was coming
out into Dutch Creek right where it passes Little Valley.

Oh, boy! Wasn't I excited? Pretty soon I could see the boat and some of
the fellows on it working away, sawing and hammering and jollying each
other, the way the fellows in our troop are always doing. You can see
by the map just how I got to where they were. I guess I must have been
as near as fifty feet before Connie Bennett threw down his hammer and
shouted. "Look who's here!"

Westy Martin was sitting on the edge of the deck dangling his feet and
eating a sandwich. Well, you ought to have seen them all stare.

"What in the dickens do you call this?" Wig Weigand hollered.

But I didn't say a word till I got right close to them, then I gave
Westy a good swat with my reed paddle.

"I am Weetonka, the famous Indian chief!", I shouted, "and I haven't
had anything to eat since eight o'clock. Give me that sandwich or I'll
scalp you!"

CHAPTER VIII

RESOPEKITWAFTENLY

This chapter and the next one are mostly about Wigley Weigand, but we
usually call him Wig-Wag Weigand, because he's a cracker-jack on
wig-wag signalling. He's good on all the different kinds of
signalling. He's a Raven, but he can't help that, because there wasn't
any Silver Fox Patrol when the Raving Ravens started.

The Ravens were the--what do you call it--you know what I mean--nucleus
of the troop. That's how it started. There are about half a million
scouts in America and all of them can't be Silver Foxes, even if they'd
like to.

Wig has the crossed flags--that's the signalling badge, and the fellows
say he can make the sky talk. Believe me, he can make it shout. He isn't
so bad considering that he's a Raven and there's one good thing about
him anyway--and that's that his mother always gives us cookies and things
when we go on a hike. I got a dandy mother, too, and maybe you'll see how
much I think about her, kind of, in the next chapter. Anyway I have to
thank Wig Weigand, that's one sure thing.

Now maybe you think I did a good stunt in that marsh, but a scout
doesn't get credit unless he uses his brains and does everything all
right. And that's where I fell down, and it came near making a lot of
trouble, believe me.

Many's the time Tom Slade (he's in the war now) told me never to leave
a scout sign after it wasn't any more use. "Scratch 'em out," he said,
"because eve