y as
if to intercede in its young creator's behalf.

Mr. Denny gathered his strength as one does on the point of taking an
unpalatable medicine.

"Yesterday, Hervey, I expressly reminded you of your promise not to
leave camp. I did that because I thought the storm might tempt you
forth."

"They call me----"

"Yes, I know; they call you the stormy petrel. You went across the lake
with others. They returned but you did not return with them. Where you
went I don't know. And I'm not going to ask you, Hervey, for it makes no
difference. I understand young Mr. Slade was there, but _that_ makes no
difference. Blakeley and one of his troop, Westy Martin, reached camp
and reported conditions in the cove----"

"He's all right, Blakeley is----"

"Hours passed, no one knew where you were. I was too proud, or too
ashamed, to go and ask Slade if he knew. I am jealous of our troop's
reputation, Hervey--even if you are not----"

Hervey leaned against the cabin, looking abstractedly at his handiwork
on the ground.

"There was great confusion and excitement here," Mr. Denny continued.
"The whole camp turned out to save the lake, to stem the flood. But you
were not here. Your companions in our troop worked till they were dog
tired. But where were you? Helping? _No_, you were off on some vagabond
journey--disobedient, insubordinate."

Mr. Denny spoke with resolute firmness now and his voice rang as he
uttered his scathing accusations.

"You were a traitor not only to your troop, but to the camp--the camp
which held out the hand of good fellowship to you when you came here. A
_slacker_----"

Hervey broke his stick in half and threw it on the ground. His breast
heaved. He looked down. He said nothing. Mr. Denny studied him
curiously for a few seconds.

"That is the truth, Hervey. One wrong always produces another. You were
disobedient and insubordinate, and that led to--what?"

Hervey gulped, but whether in shame or remorse or what, Mr. Denny could
not make out, He was to know presently.

"It led to shirking, whether intentional or not. And to-night, because
there is no train, you are going to sleep in the camp which you
deserted. You will, perhaps, row on the lake which others have saved for
you. You see it now in its true light, don't you? You had better go and
thank Blakeley and his comrade for what they did, if you have any real
feeling for the camp."

"I----"

"Don't speak. Nothing you could say would make a diffe