"Ready!" came the chorus.

"Tom Reade will make the best foreman, won't he?" appealed Prescott.
"Tom has a knack for just such jobs as this, and it's going to
be a tough one."

The boys stood in the middle of a half acre clearing in the deep
woods, five miles past the town of Porter. Here the woods extended
for miles in every direction. As these young campers glanced
about them it seemed as though they possessed a wealth of camping
material---far more than they had ever dreamed of owning.

The tent, twelve feet by twenty, and eleven feet high at the ridgepole,
with six-foot walls, was their greatest single treasure. It had
cost thirty-five dollars, and had been bought from the nearest
large city.

"We'll get the tent up first," called Reade.

"Of course," smiled Dave. "That's all you're boss of anyway,
Tom."

"Come on, then, and spread the canvas out," Tom ordered. "Bring
it over this way. We want it under the trees at the edge of the
clearing. Dan, you bring the longest poles."

Under Tom's further direction the canvas was spread just where
he wanted it. Then the ridge-pole was secured in place across
the tops of the highest two standing poles.