he old familiar cabins. It chanced to be one in which he
and Roy had cut their initials, and he paused a moment and glanced
wistfully at their boyish handiwork. Then he went down.

As he passed through Temple Lane he saw that Uncle Jeb had been busy
taking down the board shutters from the main pavilion--ominous reminder
of the fast approaching season. Soon scouts would be tumbling all over
each other hereabouts. The springboard had been put in place at the
lake's edge, too, and a couple of freshly painted rowboats were bobbing
at the float, looking spick and glossy in the dying sunlight. Temple
Camp was beginning to look natural and familiar.

"I reckon it'll be a lively season," Uncle Jeb said, glancing about
after his own strenuous day's work. "Last summer most of the scouts was
busy with war gardens and war work and 'twas a kind of off season as you
might say. I cal'late they'll come in herds like buffaloes this summer."

"Every cabin is booked until Columbus Day," Tom said; "and all the tent
space is assigned."

"Yer reckon to finish by August first?" Uncle Jeb asked.

"I'd like to finish before anybody comes," Tom said; "but I guess I
can't do that. I'll get away before August first, that's sure. You have
to be sure to see that 5, 6 and 7 go to my troop, and the new ones to
the troop from Ohio. You can tell them it's a kind of a surprise if you
want to. You don't need to tell 'em who did it. It's nice up there on
that hill. It's a kind of a camp all by itself. Do you remember that
woodchuck skin you gave Roy? It's hanging up there in the Silver Fox's
cabin now."

"What's the matter with your hand?" Uncle Jeb inquired.

"It's just blistered and it tingles," Tom said. "It's from holding the
axe."

CHAPTER XVIII

TOM LETS THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG

While they were having supper in Uncle Jeb's cabin, Tom hauled out of
his trousers pocket a couple of very much folded and gather crumbled
pieces of paper.

"Will you keep them for me?" he asked. "They're Liberty Bonds. They get
all sweaty and crumpled in my pocket. They're worth a hundred dollars."

Mr. Burton had more than once suggested that Tom keep these precious
mementos of his patriotism in the safe, but there was no place in all
the world in which Tom had such abiding faith as his trouser side
pockets, and he had never been able to appreciate the inappropriateness
of the singular receptacle for such important documents. There, at
least, he could