shopping, repairs its tents, denounces and ridicules its associate
patrols, and troop unity gives way somewhat to patrol unity. This is
well and as it should be.

It was very much so with the well organized Bridgeboro troop. With the
first breath of spring the Ravens became Ravens, the Elks foregathered
and were Elks and nothing else, and the Silver Foxes began a series of
exclusive meetings at Camp Solitaire under a big shady elm on Roy's
lawn.

The Silver Foxes, imbibing the mirthful spirit of their leader, were
all pretty much alike, and the Ravens were thankful that they were not
like them, and the Elks congratulated themselves that they had more pep
than the Ravens. "The Elks say the Ravens are no good and the Ravens
say the Elks are no good and they're both right; we should worry," said
Roy. "There's one good thing about the Elks and that is that they're
not Ravens, and there's one good thing about the Ravens and that is
that they're not Elks. They both have everything to be thankful for if
not more so. They're in luck."

"Do you call that logic?" Pee-wee demanded in the tones of an
earthquake. "If one thing is better than another thing how can that
other thing be better than the other thing? You're crazy!"

"Goodness gracious, look who's here?" said Hunt Manners, who was
sorting out some fish-hooks. "The whole Canned Salmon Patrol."

Pee-wee stood outside the tent, breathing hard after his long tramp up
the hill to the Blakeley place.