Fox Patrol had reason to feel proud, because
each one of them was at that time wearing a trifling little badge that
proved their right to call themselves assistant fire wardens, employed
by the great State of Maine to forever keep an eye out for dangerous
conflagrations, and labor to extinguish the same before they could do
much damage.

It had come about in this manner:

On the train they had formed the acquaintance of a gentleman, who turned
out to be the chief fire warden, on his way right then to patrol a
certain district that nearly every year boasted of one or more severe
fires.

He was greatly interested in Thad's account of the numerous things a Boy
Scout aspired to do each day; and as it was his privilege to take on as
many unpaid assistants as he chose, just as a sheriff may do in an
emergency, the gentleman had with his own hands pinned a little badge on
the lapel of each boy's coat.

They were very proud of the honor, and expressed their intention of
serving as fire-wardens to the best of their ability--all but Giraffe.
He used to shake his head every time he glanced down at his badge, and
look solemn. The fact of the matter was, Giraffe had all his life been
so wrapped up in _starting_ fires, that the very idea of spending
his precious time in helping to _put one out_ did not appeal to him
very strongly.

"Jim is telling me that we can expect to see the mouth of the Little
Machias River any old time from now on," remarked Allan; "and while I
haven't come up this way exactly, to the Eagle waters, I guess he's
about right."

"Sure he is," ventured Giraffe, "for we passed the place where the Big
Machias joins forces with the Aroostook some time back; and unless my
eagle eye fails me, away up ahead I can see the junction right now,
where we turn to the left, and leave this dandy old stream. Then the fun
begins with the paddles."

"What was that the fire-warden was saying to you, Thad, about some sort
of bad man up in this region, that gave the game wardens more trouble
than all the rest of the poachers combined?" Step Hen asked.

Jim Hasty was seen to squirm a little; and Thad noticed this as he
answered the question.

"Oh! yes, he was warning me to steer clear of one Caleb Martin, a
strapping big fellow who used to be, first a logger, and then one of
those men who get boats' knees out of the swamps and marshes up here;
but who for some years has made up his mind to loaf, and take toll of
other peo