inking about what we've lost--maybe. I'm not thinking about
what I wanted to get. Everything--it looks like--everything is
changed--all the fun and--what do I care about the old badge?"

Thus spoke Warde Hollister, second class scout.

CHAPTER XIX

THE DULL BLAZE

This was all very well, and his willing sacrifice of the coveted badge
in the interest of friendship and loyalty showed Warde's character. But
he and his two companions found small comfort in an excuse for delay.
This was a serious business, a business for man's handling, and in their
hearts they knew it. Yet on the other hand it seemed right, and due to
their friend, that they should make assurance doubly sure.

One fact, and only one, did comfort them. Blythe wore no double-breasted
vest; he wore no vest at all. But in the downward path of tramp life and
poverty, the vest is very apt to disappear. Against this little gleam of
forlorn hope was the fact that Blythe did wear a gray suit. And that
suit was very old and shabby; as old as the notice with the picture,
surely. For the rest, the printed description seemed all too accurate.

It was a preoccupied and downcast trio that made their way through the
old reservation to the scene of their recent toil and pleasure. How
familiar seemed the spot! How friendly, and abounding in pleasant
memories of their odd camping adventure! Their companions were just
getting through for the day. Doc Carson and Connie Bennett were
shinnying down one of the corner uprights of a bare frame, several
scouts were piling some odds and ends, and Blythe, anxious as usual to
get the camp-fire started, was gathering chips and small bits of waste
lumber for that purpose. He heard them coming and looked up smiling.

"We're going to have a big one to-night," he said.

"You said it," called Roy.

"A welcome home fire, hey?" said Blythe. Roy felt almost sick.

"You're just in time to cook supper," said Westy. "We were going to send
a tracer after you. What news?"

"We'll tell you later," said Warde.

As he spoke, the "boss" walked toward Blythe's Bunk, as the scouts had
named their little headquarters, and tumbled his gatherings near the
fireplace. Warde tried to determine whether he did actually walk a
little sideways. But he could not be sure. It is so easy to imagine
these things, to see something when one is looking for it.

There were no secrets within the First Bridgeboro Troop and what the
three scouts had seen