is troop
and former comrades, he noted wistfully how Peewee's initials were
always cut unusually large and imposing, standing out boldly among
others, as if to inform the observer that a giant had been at work.
Everything about Peewee was tremendous--except his size.

Tom sat on this bench and waited. It reminded him of old times to be
there. But he was not unhappy. He had followed the long trail, the trail
which to his simple nature had seemed the right one, he had done the job
which he had set out to do, they were going to have their three familiar
cabins on the hill, and he was happy. He had renewed that strange, brief
acquaintanceship in France, and found in his war-time friend, a new
comrade. He felt better, his nerves were steady. The time had been well
spent and he was happy. Perhaps it was only a stubborn whim, this going
away now, but that was his nature and he could not change it.

When the mail wagon came along, its driver greeted him cheerily, for he
remembered him well.

"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.

"I came instead, to-day," Tom said.

"That chap is a sketch, ain't he?" the man commented. "He ain't gone
home, has he?"

"He's going to stay through August," Tom said; "his troop's coming
Saturday."

"Purty lively young feller," the man said.

"He's happy-go-lucky," said Tom.

The man handed him a dozen or so letters and cards and a batch of
papers, and drove on. Tom resumed his seat on the bench and looked them
over. There was no doubt that Roy and the troop were coming; apparently
they were coming in their usual manner, for there was a card from Roy to
Uncle Jeb which said,

Coming Saturday on afternoon train. Hope you can give us a tent away
from the crowd. Tell Chocolate Drop to have wheat cakes Sunday
morning. Peewee's appetite being sent ahead by express. Pay charges.

So long, see you later.

P.S. Have hot biscuits, too. ROY.

There were a couple of letters to Uncle Jeb from the camp office, and
the rest were to scouts in camp whom Tom did not know, for he had made
no acquaintances. There was one letter for Tom, bearing the postmark of
Dansburg, Ohio, which he opened with curiosity and read with increasing
consternation. It ran:

DEAR TOM SLADE:

I didn't get there after all, but now we're coming, the whole
outfit, bag and baggage. I suppose you think I'm among the missing,
not hearing from me all this ti