So Tom went with him to the rock close by the lake shore where the path to glory began, and starting here, they followed the tracks, now becoming somewhat obscure, up into the woods.

“Before I started I made sure,” Skinny panted, as he trotted proudly along beside his famous companion.  “The scouts they said you’d be too busy to go with me, they did.  But you ain’t, are you?”

“That’s what,” said Tom.

“I bet you don’t shake all over when Mr. Temple speaks to you, do you?”

“Not so you’d notice it.”

“I bet he’s got as much as a hundred dollars, hasn’t he?”

“You said it.”

“Maybe if I wasn’t a-scared I’d ask him to look at the tracks too, hey? 
First off I was a-scared to ask you?”

“Tracks are my middle name, Alf.”

“Now I can prove I’m a second-class scout by my badge, can’t I?”

“That’s what you can.  But you’ve got it pinned on the wrong side, Alf. 
Here, let me fix it for you.”

“Everybody’ll be sure to see it, won’t they?”

“That’s what they will.”

“Hervey Willetts, he’s a hero, isn’t he?”

“You bet.”

“I’d like to be like him, I would.”

“He’s kind of reckless, Alf.  It’s bad to be too reckless.”

“I wouldn’t let you talk against him—­I wouldn’t.”

Tom smiled.  “That’s right, Alf, you stand up for him.”

“Maybe you don’t know what kind of an animal made these tracks, maybe, hey?”

Indeed Tom did not know.  But one thing he knew which amused him greatly.  They were following the path of glory the wrong way.  Not that it made any particular difference, but it seemed so like Skinny.  He had not actually tracked an animal at all, since the animal had come toward the lake.  He had followed tracks, to be sure, but he had not tracked an animal.  Hervey must have known this but he had not mentioned it.  The thought thrilled even stolid Tom with fresh admiration for that young adventurer.  Hervey Willetts was no handbook scout, but Tom would not have him different than he was—­no, not by a hair.  He thought how Skinny’s beginning at the wrong end was like his pinning of the badge on the wrong side of his breast.  Poor little Skinny....

And he thought of that other scout coming down through those woods, tracking that mysterious animal indeed, and stopping short, and sitting down on a log and throwing away his triumph like chaff before the wind.  Then there arose in his mind the picture of that bright-eyed, irresponsible youngster with his hat cocked sideways on his head, off upon some new adventure or bent on some new stunt.  Not a very good scout delegate perhaps, but the bulliest scout that ever tore a gaping hole in his stocking....

Tom was aroused from his meditation by Skinny’s eager voice.  “Here’s the log where he talked to me,” he said; “here’s just the very same place we sat down and he said he’d be my witness.  He said I was old top, that’s what he called me.”