ice everything. It isn't
just knowing how to write. That's just being a good author. The other is
being a good scout. See?"

"Some scouts think they are authors," said Pee-wee.

"The pleasure is mine," said Roy. "I'm going to keep on writing our
adventures as long as I have any paper. Then I'm going to buy some
more."

"I'm sorry for the fellow that buys the books," said Pee-wee.

"So am I," said Roy, "as long as you're in the books."

"That's what I meant," said Warde, trying to keep his companions on the
subject. "The description is a scout test?"

"Anyway, it is in our troop," said Roy. "Some scoutmasters just take the
description and if it's good they say all right. But Mr. Ellsworth and
Mr. Kinney, he's councilman, they're crazy about hiking. They usually
take a sprint over the ground and most always they see something that
the scout forgot to mention. That doesn't mean they'd turn him down
though. You should worry, you'll get away with it all right."

Roy had no doubt of that, and Pee-wee had no doubt of anything which
made for the glory of others. But they both noticed that during the rest
of their hike Warde was watchful and preoccupied, occasionally jotting
something down but oftener storing it in his clear, fine memory. He was
taking no chances and they knew it. Here was his opportunity, he had
grasped it just in the moment when it seemed to be passing from him, and
he was resolved that before he laid his head upon his balsam couch that
night he would be able to call himself a scout of the first class....

CHAPTER XIV

BAFFLED?

After a hike of about eight miles, part way across country and part way
along roads, the three scouts reached the beautiful Woodcliff Lake which
lies in a northwesterly direction from the old camp. Upon its shore they
rested and ate the compact little lunch which they had brought. The
afternoon sun flickered on the waters, the gentle slope across the lake
was clad in the rich green of the midsummertime, not a boat was to be
seen upon that clear forbidden expanse, and no sound was there in all
the quiet country round about, save only the elated voice of an angler
on the causeway as he pulled up his line with a fish wriggling on the
end of it.

It is the duty of Woodcliff Lake to supply water to many thousands of
homes and the quietude of its shores and water breathes a kind of
cleanliness and purity, which imparts to the lake a character quite its
own. An unique fe