IN CAMP


The light which Pee-wee had seen across the water was not on a boat as
he had supposed. It was on a small island the very name of which would
have delighted his heart, for it was called Frying-pan Island, because
of its rough similarity of form to that delightful accessory of camp
life. If Scout Harris could have eaten a waffle out of such a frying-pan
he would have felt that he had not lived in vain.

This frying-pan, instead of being filled with fat, was filled with
woods, and a little to the west of the center, where an omelet might
have nestled in its smaller prototype, three tents were concealed in the
enshrouding foliage. Down at the end of the handle of this frying-pan
was good fishing, but it was marshy there, and sometimes after a heavy
rain the handle was completely sub-merged. From an airplane the three
white tents in the western side of the pan might have seemed like three
enormous poached eggs; that is, provided the aviator had an imagination.

It was upon the shore of this little island that the two young men who
had driven the automobile from Bridgeboro pulled their boat ashore about
ten minutes after they had all unknowingly locked Scout Harris in their
makeshift lakeside garage. Considering that they were cut-throats and
ruffians and all that sort of thing, their consciences seemed singularly
clear, for they laughed and chatted as they made their way along the few
yards of trail which led to their lair, or den, or haunt, or cave, or
whatever you care to call it.

They were greeted by a chorus of boys who jumped up from around the
camp-fire where they had been seated making demands upon them for news