sters either, who had
followed the trail through the handbook with the dogged patience of Tom
Slade. He had mastered scouting the same as he had mastered this job.

Barnard was pretty restive that night, tossed on his bunk, and
complained much of his head aching. "It feels like an egg being beaten
by an egg beater," he said; "I'm off the shadow bridge stuff for good
and all. It throbs to the tune of _Over There_."

Tom thought this must be pretty bad--to throb to the tune of _Over
There_. He had never had a headache like that.

"If you could only fall asleep," Tom said.

"Well, I guess I will; I'm pretty good at falling," his friend observed.
"I fell for you, hey Slady? O-h-h! My head!"

"It's the same with me," said Tom.

"You got one too? _Good night!_"

"I mean about what you were saying--about falling for me. It's the same
with me."

"Same here, Slady; go to bed and get some sleep yourself."

It was two or three o'clock in the morning before the sufferer did get
to sleep, and he slept correspondingly late. Tom knew that the headache
must have stolen off and he felt sure that his companion would awaken
refreshed. "I'll be glad because then I won't have to get the doctor,"
he said to himself. He wished to respect Bernard's smallest whim.

Tom did not sleep much himself, either, and he was up bright and early
to anticipate his friend's waking. He tiptoed out of the cabin and
quietly made himself a cup of coffee. It was one of those beautiful
mornings, which are nowhere more beautiful than at Temple Camp. The
soft breeze, wafting the pungent fragrance of pines, bore also up to
that lonely hilltop the distant clatter of dishes and the voices of
scouts from the camp below. The last patches of vapor were dissolving
over the wood embowered lake, and one or two early canoes were already
moving aimlessly upon its placid bosom. A shout and a laugh and a sudden
splash, sounding faint in the distance, told him that some uninitiated
new arrivals were diving from the springboard before breakfast. They
would soon be checked in that pastime, Tom knew.

From the cooking shack where Chocolate Drop, the camp's famous cook,
held autocratic sway and drove trespassing scouts away with a deadly
frying pan, arose a graceful column of smoke which was carried away off
over the wooded hills toward Leeds. Pretty soon Chocolate Drop would
need _two_ deadly frying pans, for Peewee Harris was coming.

Tom knew that nothing had been h