any of his thirty or forty merit badges of fond memory on his sleeves,
for his sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders. He wore a pongee
shirt, this being a sort of compromise between a shirt and nothing at
all. He wore moccasins, but not Indian moccasins. He was still partial
to khaki trousers, and these were worn with a strange contraption for a
belt; it was a kind of braided fiber of his own manufacture, the
material of which was said to have been taken from a string tree.

As he resumed his way through the woods he presently heard a cheery, but
rather exhausted, voice behind him.

"Have a heart, Slady, and wait a minute, will you?" Tom's pursuer
called. "I'm nearly dead climbing up through all this jungle after you.
Old Mother Nature's got herself into a fine mess of a tangle through
here, hey? Don't mind if I come along with you, do you? Look down there,
hey? Pavilion looks nice. I've been wondering if I stand any chance of
being called up on that platform on Saturday night. Looks swell with all
the bunting over it, doesn't it?"

The speaker, who had been half talking and half shouting, now came
stumbling and panting up over the edge of the wooded decline where the
thick brush had played havoc with his scout suit but not with his
temper.

"Some climb, hey?" he breathed, laughing, and affecting the stagger of
utter exhaustion. "I bet you knew an easier way up. The bunch told me
not to beard the lion in his den, but I'm not afraid of lions. Here I am
and you can't get rid of me now. I'm up against it, Slady, and I want a
few tips. They say you're the only real scout since Kit Carson. What I'm
hunting for is a wild animal, but I haven't been able to find anything