ltogether uncommon for some nature loving pilgrim to drop in
at camp out of season, and such a one was always sure of that easy-going
western welcome. But if all the kings and emperors in the world (or such
few of them as are left) had dropped in at camp, Uncle Jeb Rushmore
would have eyed them keenly, puffed some awful smoke at them, and said,
"Haow doo." He liked people, but he did not depend on them. The lake and
the trees and the wild life talked to him, and as for human beings, he
was always glad of their company.

It was also characteristic of Uncle Jeb that no adventurous enterprise,
no foolhardy, daredevil scheme, ever caused him any astonishment. Mr.
Burton, engrossed in a hundred and one matters of detail and routine had
simply laughed at Tom's plan, and let him go to Temple Camp to discover
its absurdity, and then benefit by the quiet life and fresh air. It
would have been better if Tom had been sent up there long before. He had
humored him by promising not to tell, and he was glad that this crazy
notion about the cabins had given Tom the incentive to go. He had
believed that Tom's unfortunate error could be made right by the
romantic expedient of a postage stamp. Mr. Burton was not a scout. And
Tom Slade was the queerest of all scouts.

So now Uncle Jeb removed his pipe from his mouth, and said, "Reckoned
you'd make a trip up, hey?"

"I'm going to stay here alone with you until the season opens," Tom
said; "I got shell-shocked. I ain't any good down there. I assigned our
three cabins to a troop in Ohio. So I got to build three more and have
'em ready by August first. I'm going to build them on the hill."

"Yer ain't cal'latin' on trimming yer timbers much are yer?" Uncle Jeb
asked, going straight to the practical aspects of Tom's plan.

"I'm going to put them up just like the temporary cabins were when the
camp first opened," Tom said.

"Ye'll find some of them same logs under the pavilion," Uncle Jeb said;
"enough for two cabins, mebbe. Why doan't you put up four and let that
Peewee kid hev one all by hisself?"

"Do you think I can do it in six weeks?" Tom asked.

"I've seed a Injun stockade throwed up in three days," Uncle Jeb
answered. "Me'n General Custer throwed up Fort Bendy in two nights; that
wuz in Montanny. Th' Injuns thought we wuz gods from heaven. But we
wuzn't no gods, as I told the general; leastways _I_ was'n, n'never wuz.
But I had a sharp axe.

"I knew I could do it," Tom said, "b