it. I only got about two weeks now. I guess I can't finish because
my arm is lame, on account of that wound--_you_ know. And my shoulder is
sore. I wanted to go away before they come--I got reasons."

His companion raised himself to a sitting posture, clasped his hands
over his knees, and glanced about at the disordered scene which shone in
the firelight. "So that's what you've been up to, hey?" he said.

"When I told you in my letter to address your letters here, that's what
I was thinking about," Tom said. "Your troop and my--that other--troop
will be good friends, I guess. I'm going home when I get through and
I'm going to buy a motor-boat."

"Well--I'll--be--jiggered!" his friend said. "Thomas Slade, you're an
old hickory-nut."

"It was just like two trails," Tom said, "and I hit the long one."

"And you're still in the bush, hey? Well, now you listen here. Can I
bunk up here with you? All right-o. Then I'm yours for a finished job.
Here's my hand. Over the top we go. On July thirty-first, the flag
floats over this last cabin. I'm with you, strong as mustard. Building
cabins is my favorite sport. You can sit and watch me. I'm here to
finish that job with you--what do you say? Comrades to the death?"

"You can help," said Tom, smiling.

"That's me," said Billy Barnard.

CHAPTER XXI

TOM'S GUEST

Tom liked his new acquaintance immensely, but he did not altogether
understand him. His apparently reckless and happy-go-lucky temperament
and his breezy manner, were very attractive to sober Tom, but they
seemed rather odd in a scoutmaster. However, he could think of no good
reason why a scoutmaster should not have a reckless nature and a breezy
manner. Perhaps, he thought, it would be well if more scoutmasters were
like that. He thought that returned soldiers must make good
scoutmasters. He suspected that scoutmasters out west must be different.
Of one thing he felt certain, and that was that the scouts in William
Barnard's troop must worship him. If he was different from some
scoutmasters, perhaps this could be accounted for by the fact that he
was younger. Tom suspected that here was just the kind of scoutmaster
that the National Organization was after--one with pep. On the whole, he
thought that William Barnard was a bully scoutmaster.

At all events he seemed to be pretty skillful at woodcraft. The next
morning he set to work in real earnest and Tom took fresh hope and
courage from his strenuous par