Joe began to prepare supper for the three who had searched so long and
distractedly for Dol that they confessed to not having eaten for hours.
While more venison was being cooked, the juveniles, American and
English, who had been secretly taking stock of each other, cast aside
restraint, and became as "chummy" as if they had been acquainted for
years instead of hours.

Such a carnival of fun and noise was started through their combined
efforts in the old log camp, that its owner declared he "couldn't hear
himself think." Seizing his horn, he blew a blast which called for
order.

"Say, my boy, let me have a look at your feet," he said, cornering Dol.
"A deer-road isn't a king's highway, as I dare say you've found out to
your cost. Pull off your moccasins and socks, and let me doctor your
poor trotters."

Young Farrar very gladly did as he was bidden.

"Humph!" said his friend. "I thought so. They're a mass of bruises and
blisters. You've been pretty well branded, son. Moccasins aren't much
use to protect the feet from roots and sharp stones, if you happen to
strike a bad place in forest travelling, unless you have taken the
precaution to put double soles in them; didn't you know that? Now, Cyrus
Garst," turning to the student, "you're all going to camp with us
to-night. This lad can't tramp any more. As a doctor I forbid it."

"Are you a doctor, sir?" questioned Dol, with a thrill of surprise,
which he managed to conceal.