round Hillsgrove which
combined the ideal qualifications for a camp--good drainage, wood, and
water. The latter was particularly scarce. There were one or two
brooks--small, miserable affairs with only a foot or two of depth, and a
muddy, half-stagnant mill-pond or so; but the single body of water
which would have been perfect for the purpose was definitely and
permanently barred to them.

It was a small lake, half a mile long and varying from two to four
hundred feet in width, that lay some four miles out of town. There was
a good bottom, depth in plenty even for diving, and the banks on one
side, at least, sloped back sharply and were covered with a fine growth
of pine and hemlock, interspersed with white birch and a good deal of
hard wood. The boys had often looked on it with longing eyes, but the
owner was a sour-faced, crotchety old man who was enraged by the mere
sight of a boy on his property. He had placarded his woods with warning
signs, kept several dogs, and was even reputed to have a gun loaded
with bird-shot ready for instant use on youthful trespassers.

Perhaps the latter was a slight exaggeration; certainly no one had ever
been actually peppered with it. But the fact remained that old Caleb
Grimstone, who lived alone and had a well-established reputation for
crankiness, had stubbornly refused all requests to be allowed to camp
or picnic on his property even when pay was offered, and at length all
such effort had been abandoned. As Court Parker remarked, no doubt with
a vivid recollection of sundry narrow escapes: "You can steal a swim on
the old codger if you keep a weather-eye peeled and don't mind doing
a Marathon through the brush; but when it comes to anything like pitching
a tent and settling down--_good_ night!"

Under such circumstances, it may be imagined that the announcement made
one morning to the group gathered about the school entrance that old
Grimstone had fallen through the hay-shoot and broken an arm did not
elicit any marked expressions of regret.

"Serves him right, the old skinflint, after the mean way he's kept us
away from the lake!" growled Bob Gibson.

"Yes, indeed!" sniffed Harry Vedder. "He's a regular dog in the manger.
It wouldn't hurt him to let us swim there in the summer, or camp once
in a while. He doesn't use it himself."

"Use it!" exclaimed Frank Sanson. "Why, they don't even cut ice off it."

"He's just downright mean, that's all!" put in Rex Slater. "Say, fello