yes had happened at that log up in the woods.

Llewellyn, the Humpty-dumpty of the animal world, had slid off the log,
alighting upside down.

For a moment Tom Slade paused in dismay.

So Teddy Howell and Harry Thorne had nothing to do with this. This
lumbering, waddling creature had come flopping along down out of the
silent lower reaches of that frowning mountain, straight to his
destination. He was not the first printer to print something the wrong
way around.

Who, then, was T. H.? Not Master Anthony, Jr., at all events. But some
one afar off, surely. Abstractedly, Tom Slade gazed off toward that
towering mountain whence this clumsy but unerring messenger had come. It
looked very dark up there. Tom recalled how from those lofty crags the
great eagle had swooped down and met his match before the hallowed
little home of Orestes.

In a kind of reverie Tom's thoughts wandered to Orestes. Orestes would
be in bed by now. Orestes had lived away up near where that turtle had
come from. And the thought of Llewellyn and Orestes turned Tom's thought
to Hervey Willetts. He had not seen much of Hervey the last day or
two....

Tom fixed his gaze upon that old monarch where again the first crimson
rays of dying sunlight glinted the pinnacles of the somber pines near
its summit. How solemn, how still, it seemed up there. The nearer sounds
about the camp seemed only to emphasize that brooding silence. It was
like the silence of some vast cathedral--awful in its majestic solitude.

And this impassive, stolid, hard-shell pilgrim, knowing his business
like the bully scout he was, had come stumbling, sliding, rolling and
waddling down out of those fastnesses, because there was something right
here which he wanted. And he had brought a clew. Should the human scout
be found wanting where this humble little hero had triumphed?

"I never paid much attention to those stories," Tom mused; "but if
there's a draft dodger living up there, I'm going to find him. If
there's a hermit I'm going to see him. If there's...."

He paused suddenly in his musing, listening. It was the distant voice of
a scout returning to camp. He was singing one of those crazy songs that
he was famous for. Tom looked up beyond the supply cabin and saw him
coming down, twirling his hat on a stick, hitching up one stocking as
often as it went down--care-free, happy-go-lucky, delightfully heedless.

He looked for all the world like a ragged vagabond. The evening b