ain't none of my business what you tell 'em. You
don't even have to tell me what you're going to tell 'em."

"I can't tell them I just ran away," said Roscoe dubiously.

"It's none of _my_ business what you tell 'em," repeated Tom, "so long
as you go back _to-day_ and register. When you get it over with, it'll
be all right," he added. "_I_ know how it was--you just got rattled....
The first time I got lost in the woods I felt that way. All you got to
do is to go back and say you want to register."

"I said I would, didn't I?" said Roscoe.

"Nobody'll ever know that I had anything to do with it," said Tom.

"Are you sure?" Roscoe asked doubtfully.

"They'd have to kill me before I'd tell," said Tom.

Roscoe looked at him again--at the frowning face and the big, tight-set
mouth--and knew that this was true.

"How about _you_?" he asked. "What'll they think?"

"That don't make any difference," said Tom. "I ain't thinkin' of that.
If you always do what you know is right, you needn't worry. You won't
get misjudged. I've read that somewhere."

Roscoe, who knew more about the ways of the world than poor Tom did,
shook his head dubiously. He served the coffee and some crackers and dry
breakfast food of which he had brought a number of packages, and they
ate of this makeshift repast as they continued their talk.

"You ought to have brought bacon," said Tom. "You must never go camping
without bacon--and egg powder. There's about twenty different things you
can do with egg powder. If you'd brought flour, we could make some
flapjacks."

"I'm a punk camper," admitted Roscoe.

"You can see for yourself," said Tom, with blunt frankness, "that you'd
have been up against it here pretty soon. You'd have had to go to Leeds
for stuff, and they'd ask you for your registration card, maybe."

"I don't see how I'm going to leave you here," Roscoe said doubtfully.

"I'll be all right," said Tom.

"What will you say to them when you come home?"

"I'll tell 'em I ain't going to answer any questions. I'll say I had to
go away for something very important."

"You'll be in bad," Roscoe said thoughtfully.

"I won't be misjudged," said Tom simply; "I got the reputation of being
kind o' queer, anyway, and they'll just say I had a freak. You can see
for yourself," he added, "that it wouldn't be good for us to go back
together--even if my foot was all right."

"It's better, isn't it?" Roscoe asked anxiously.

"Sure it is. It's on