He had
felt for some time that he should be a patrol leader. Although he excelled
in games, and was unquestionably a splendid scout, Graves was not popular,
for some reason, among his fellows. He was not exactly unpopular, either;
but there was a little resentment at his habit of pushing himself forward.
"I don't see why you should go more than anyone else, Graves," said young
Mercer. "I think they'll take the ones who are quickest. We're probably
wanted for messenger work."
"Well, I'm the oldest. I ought to have first chance," said Graves.
But the discussion was ended abruptly.
"Fleming! Mercer!" called Mr. Wharton.
They stepped forward, their hands raised in the scout salute, awaiting the
scoutmaster's orders.
"You will proceed at once, by rail, to Ealing," he said. "There you will
report at the barracks, handing this note to the officer of the guard. He
will then conduct you to the adjutant or the officer in command, from whom
you will take your orders."
"Yes, sir," said both scouts. Their eyes were afire with enthusiasm. But as
they passed toward the door, Dick Mercer's quick ears caught a sullen
murmur from Graves.
"He's making a fine start," he heard him say to Fatty Wells, who was a
great admirer of his. "Picking out an _American_! Why, we're not even sure
that he'll be loyal! Did you ever hear of such a thing?"
"You shut up!" cried Dick, fiercely, turning on Graves.
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