other name is Corliss, but the fellows call me
Apple."

"Why's that. Is it your round face and red cheeks?"

"No. I couldn't help looking that way and the boys wouldn't throw it up
to me. No, sir; they started to call me Core, then Apple-core, and so
down to Apple."

"It's a good name for you," said Glen. "Did I tell you I'd be bringing
my partner over this evening, too?"

"He's welcome. It's in our articles, you know. 'A scout is friendly.'"

"Well, don't forget to ask him to tell some stories. Then you'll be glad
we came."

"We'll be glad, anyway," said Apple, politely, as he turned away. When
Glen learned to know him better he found this sunny cheer and gentle
courtesy to be characteristic of him at all times and places.

It was no easy job to propel the old "billy-cart" over the fields, but
Glen managed it. The scouts were just getting together for their evening
camp-fire. They were all attracted by the queer vehicle and its jolly
occupant and cheerfully and noisily responded to the introductions given
by Apple Newton. Mr. Newton, the scout master, was just such a gentleman
as one might expect Apple to have for a father and cordially welcomed
both Spencer and Glen to their fellowship.

A hint from Apple Newton that Mr. Spencer was a teller of stories drew
forth a wild clamor from the boys for his services. His first story, a
funny one, brought forth delirious applause--a "side-splitter" they
voted it. Then he told them a story of adventure which held them
spell-bound. They clamored yet for more.

"Only one," stipulated the scout master. "It will soon be time to turn
in."

"Then I will tell you a short story about this country, but I cannot
vouch for its truth. First I must tell you that I grew up a mile or two
from here. There are still some Pottawatomie Indians here occasionally,
I saw one yesterday. When I was a small boy there was quite a colony--a
number who never had gone onto the reservation. I knew some of the old
men pretty well and one of them used to tell me stories. The most
remarkable story he ever told was the story of Buffalo Lake. Years ago
the place now known as Buffalo Hollow was a twenty acre lake. Lakes of
any size are so rare in this country that even one of twenty acres is
sure to be preserved in tradition, so there is plenty of record to
verify this part of his story. The remainder may be true. He insisted
that it was.

"It was late in the evening of a hot day. The freighters had