smothered. Haversacks were slung across strong young shoulders. The troop
marched away.

Up a winding road the scouts went, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting
boisterously, sometimes silent. Suddenly they came out in a clearing.

To the right was Danger Mountain; to the left was Lonesome Woods.

The scouts spoke in subdued voices. Danger Mountain! They all knew how it
had come by its name. A man had tried to climb one of its high, rocky
walls and had fallen to his death.

And Lonesome Woods. There was another name to make scouts edge closer to
one another. Three miles wide it was, and about seven miles long, and
dark and dense with thick growth. The gipsy caravans kept away from it.
Passing tramps gave it a wide berth. From time to time boys dipped into
its edges, but soon came out. Lonesome Woods, indeed!

"We'll have to explore that some day," said Mr. Wall.

"The mountain?" Tim asked eagerly.

"The woods," the Scoutmaster answered.

A shout broke from the troop. With Mr. Wall along there would be nothing
to fear. When would they go? Next week?

"We'll take it up at Friday night's meeting," the Scoutmaster promised.

"Why can't we do the mountain?" Tim demanded.