linching argument, Davy had not
bothered bringing a developing tank, or printing outfit along with him,
fearing that they would take up too much room.

And so he would have to be content to wait until they reached some place
where a photographer held forth, who would undertake to do the job, for
a consideration.

Of course the picture of that breakfast would hardly be complete without
Step Hen suddenly breaking forth in his customary strain:

"Where's my--oh, here it is, on my head, of course! How queer that I
should forget I put it there," and he had to actually take his hat off,
and look at it, as if hardly able to believe his eyes, and that for once
his anticipated difficulty had been smoothed over so easily.

Davy joined in the general laugh that greeted this outbreak; then he
walked gravely over, and insisted on feeling of Step Hen's neck.

"Hey! what you up to, now, you Jones boy? Keep your paws off me!"
exclaimed the object of this solicitude, suspiciously dodging.

"I only wanted to make sure that the connection was sound still,"
retorted the other; "because some fine day, all of us expect you to lose
your head."

"Well, I've seen you lose yours more'n a few times, when you got
flustrated and excited; and it didn't seem to hurt much," Step Hen
retorted.

"There's a big difference in heads," remarked Davy.

"I should say there was," replied the other, meaningly; "and the gray
stuff that's in 'em, too. Some are hollow, like a punkin; while others,
mine for instance, are just crammed full of thinks."

"Well, I'd advise you to use a few of the thinks trying to remember
where you put your belongings; and quit accusing the rest of us of
playing tricks on you; or a silly little jinx of stealing things." Davy
went on, shaking his finger at the careless scout.

"If all you fellows are done eating, perhaps we'd better get a move on
us," suggested the scoutmaster; of course Thad was really only the
assistant, for according to the regulations governing all troops of Boy
Scouts connected with the parent organization, there had to be a
grown-up acting in the capacity of scoutmaster; though Thad had passed
an examination that entitled him to receive his commission as assistant,
from the headquarters in New York City.

As this gentleman, a Dr. Philander Hobbs, had been unable to get away
with them on this trip to Maine, he had relegated his authority to the
shoulders of Thad; a proceeding that was greatly relished