ll hit the key pretty nearly every
time. Guess that little lecture will conclude our conversation for a
while. We will be at the station where our friends disembark in a few
minutes now, and I want to beat them to the door, so they will have no
idea I am interested in their movements."

He got up and shook hands with the trio, and then in a loud tone, for
the benefit of anyone that might be listening:

"Goodbye Boys, have a good camping trip and don't get lost in the Big
Timber."

The boys echoed their goodbyes, and their new friend made his way to
his seat where he unearthed a shabby old black traveling bag that
appeared to have seen long and constant usage, as well as his blanket
roll and rifle.

In the meantime, the card players had returned to their seat near that
of the boys to get their luggage. They were chattering volubly in
French, and Phil strained his ears, hoping to catch some additional
clue, but their conversation was mainly about the pleasures of the trip
they were just concluding.

"What are we going to do for supper?" inquired Dick.

"There! He's off again, Phil!" declared Garry. "It's only been four
hours since he ate, and now he's thinking about supper."

"Well, four hours is four hours, and two more will make six, and persons
should eat once every six hours. That's just human nature," protested
Dick. He knew his chums were just ragging him, as they always did about
his appetite, but he could never resist the temptation to argue with
them, and protest that there was nothing abnormal about his capacity for
food.

"I'm going back and find the conductor and see what arrangements have
been made for feeding the hungry. And I'll bet a cooky you two are just
as interested in the matter as I am," and Dick flounced out of his seat
and went in search of the conductor. He came back shortly and announced
they would stop an hour at the next town, about an hour's ride distant,
for supper.

"Also they put on a sleeper there, and me for that. It beats sleeping in
a day coach all hollow."

Came at last the station, and they hustled out to the little frame hotel
that stood on the other side of the tracks. This town was more or less
of a freight junction. They had a surprisingly good dinner, topped off
with a famous New England pudding composed of Indian meal, baked, with
grated maple sugar and pure cream poured on top of it.

Finishing the meal, they crossed the tracks back to the train. A sudden
breeze