He was sorry that it was not Friday so that he might go to troop meeting
that night. It was only Tuesday and so there were three long, barren
nights ahead of him, and to him they seemed like twenty nights. All the
next day he worked, making a duplicate of the big map for use at the
camp, but his fingers were not steady and the strain was hard upon his
eyes. He went home (if a hall-room in a boarding house may be called
home) with a splitting headache.

On Wednesday he worked on the map and made the last assignment of tent
accommodations. Temple Camp was booked up for the season. It was going
to be a lively summer up there, evidently. One troop was coming all the
way from Idaho--to see Peewee Harris eat pie, perhaps. I can't think for
what other reason they would have made such a journey.

"And _you_ will live in the pavilion in all your glory, won't you?"
Margaret teased him. "I suppose you'll be very proud to be assistant to
Uncle Jeb. I don't suppose you'll notice poor _me_ if I come up there."

"I'll take you for a row on the lake," Tom said. That was saying a good
deal, for _him_.

On Thursday he sent an order for fifteen thousand wooden plates, which
will give you an idea of how they eat at Temple Camp. He attended to
getting the licenses for the two launches and sent a letter up to old
Uncle Jeb telling him to have a new springboard put up and notifying him
that the woods property now belonged to the camp. It was a long slow day
and a longer, slower night.

Once, and only once, since his return, he had tried the movies. The
picture showed soldiers in the trenches and the jerky scenes and figures
made his eyes ache and set his poor sick nerves on edge. Once he had
_almost_ asked Margaret if he might go over to East Bridgeboro and see
her. He was glad when Friday morning came, and the day passed quickly
and gayly, because of the troop meeting that night. He counted the hours
until eight o'clock.

When at last he set out for the troop room he found that he had
forgotten his scout badge and went back after it. He was particular
always to wear this at meetings, because he wished to emphasize there,
that he was still a scout. He was always forgetting something these
days. It was one of the features of shell-shock. It was like a wound,
only you could not _see_ it....

CHAPTER VII

JUST NONSENSE

How should those scouts know that Tom Slade had been counting the days
and hours, waiting for that Friday n