much bed-making. The
body of the cot was of canvas, and required no mattress. From
out of their baggage each took a small pillow and pair of blankets.
At this altitude the night was already rather chilly, despite
the fact that it was July.

Rapidly undressing in the dark the young engineers crawled in
between their blankets.

"Well, at last," murmured Harry, "we're engineers in earnest.
That is," he added rather wistfully, "if we last."

"We've got to last," replied Tom in a low voice, hardly above
a whisper, "and we're going to. Harry, we've left behind us the
playtime of boyhood, and we're beginning real life! But in that
playtime we learned how to play real football. From now on we'll
apply all of the best and most strenuous rules of football to
the big art of making a living and a reputation. Good night,
old fellow! Dream of the folks back in Gridley. I'm going to."

"And of the chums at West Point and Annapolis," gaped Hazelton.
"God bless them!"

That was not the only short prayer sent up, but within five minutes
both youngsters had fallen sound asleep. The man who can sleep
as they did, when the head touches the pillow, has many successes
still ahead of him!

Nor did they worry about not waking in season in the morning.
Slim Morris had promised to see to it that they were awake on time.

Slam! Bump! Tom Reade was positive he had not been asleep more
than a minute when that rude interruption came. He awoke to find
himself scrambling up from the ground.

Tom had his eyes open in time to see Harry Hazelton hit the ground
with force. Then Slim Morris retreated to the doorway of the tent.

"Are you fellows going to sleep until pay days" Slim demanded jovially.

Tom hustled into his clothes, reached the doorway of the tent
and found the sun already well up in the skies.

"The boys are sitting down to breakfast," called Slim over his
shoulder. "Want any?"

"_Do_ I want any?" mocked Tom. He had laid out his khaki clothing
the night before, and was now in it, save for his khaki jacket,
which he caught up on his arm as he raced along toward the wash bench.

Nor had he gone very far with the soap and water when Harry Hazelton
was beside him.

"Tom, Tom!" breathed Harry in ecstacy. "Do you blame people for
loving the Rocky Mountains? This grand old mountain air is food
and drink---almost."

"It may be for you. I want some of the real old camp chuck---plenty
of it," retorted Reade, drawi