presently pulled out a torn and battered old copy of the scout handbook.
He sat down on the edge of his cot and, hurriedly looking through the
index, opened the book at page thirty. He was breathing so hard that he
almost gulped, and his thin little hands trembled visibly....




CHAPTER III

THE "ALL BUT" SCOUT


In that same hour, perhaps a little earlier or later, I cannot say, Tom
Slade, having finished his duties for the day, strolled along the lake
shore away from camp and struck into the woods which extended northward
as far as the Dansville road.

He had no notion of where he was going; he was going nowhere in
particular. For aught I know he was going to ponder on the
responsibility which had been thrust upon him by the scout powers that
be, of judging stalking photographs preliminary to awarding the Audubon
prize offered by the historical society in his home town. Perhaps he was
under the influence of a little pensive regret that the season was
coming to an end and wished to have this lonely parting with his
beloved hills and trees. It is of no consequence. About all he actually
did was to kick a stick along before him and pause now and again to
examine the caked green moss on trees.

When he had reached a little eminence whence the view behind him was