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, drawing a pocket comb out and running it
through his damp locks while he gazed into the foot-square camp mirror
hanging from a tree.

"May we come in?" inquired Tom, pausing in the doorway of the
engineers' mess tent.

"Not if you're in doubt about it," replied Mr. Blaisdell, who
was already eating with great relish. The boys slid into their
seats, while Bob rapidly started things their way.

How good it all tasted! Bacon and fried eggs, corn bread and
potatoes, coffee and a big dish of that time-honored standby in
engineers' camp---baked beans. Then, just as Tom and Harry, despite
their appetites, sat back filled, Bob appeared with a plate of
flapjacks and a pitcher of molasses.

"Ten minutes of six," observed Mr. Blaisdell, consulting his watch
as he finished. "Not much more time, gentlemen."