toward the
trail which afforded a short-cut to the state road.

Once, and once only he paused, and that was to glance at a ragged hollow
in the woods where a tree had been uprooted in some winter storm. It
reminded him of the very day that Barnard had arrived, for it was after
a discouraging afternoon with that stubborn old trunk that he had
retraced his steps wearily to his lonesome camp and met the visitor who
had assisted him and beguiled the lonesome days and nights for him ever
since. Barnard, willing and ready, had sawed through that trunk the next
morning. "Say nothing, but saw wood; that's the battle cry, Slady," he
had cheerfully observed, mopping the perspiration from his brow.

And now, as Tom looked into that jagged hollow, his thoughts went even
further back, and he thought how it was in some such earthen dungeon as
this that he and Barnard had first seen each other--or rather, met.
Barnard had thoughtfully refrained from talking of those things which
were still so agitating and disturbing to poor Tom, but Tom thought of
it now, because his stolid nature was pierced at last, and his heart was
overflowing with gratitude to this new friend, who twice had come to his
rescue--here on the isolated hillside on the edge of the beloved camp,
and over there, in war torn France.

"You bet _I_ understand him all right," said Tom. "Even if he talks a
lot of crazy nonsense, he can't fool me. You bet _I_ know what he is,
all right. He can make believe, sort of, that he doesn't care much about
anything. But he can't fool me--he can't."

CHAPTER XXV

TWO LETTERS

The trail wound its way through a pleasant stretch of woodland where the
birds sang cheerily, and occasionally a squirrel paused and cocked its
head in pert amazement at this rude intrusion into its domain. It
crossed a little brook where Tom and Roy had fished many times, and
groped for pollywogs and crawfish when Tom was a tenderfoot at Temple
Camp. Those were happy days.

Where the trail came out into the state road there was a rough board
across two little pedestals of logs, which the scouts of camp had put
there, as a seat on which to wait for the ever welcome mail stage. The
board was thick with carved initials, the handiwork of scouts who had
come and gone, and among these Tom picked out R. B. and W. H. (which
stood for Walter Harris for Peewee did not acknowledge officially his
famous nickname). As Tom glanced at these crude reminders of h