“And now let’s rouse out Andy Bowles and get him busy with that tin horn of his,” cheerfully went on Merritt, walking toward Andy’s tent.

That youth was much surprised to find that it was morning, but tumbled out of his cot in double-quick time, and soon the cheerful notes of reveille were ringing out over the camp, on which the sun’s rays were now streaming down in that luminary’s cheerful morning way.

The soldier who immortalized himself by sing the words:  “We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up in the morning—­, We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get’em up at a-a-l-l-l!” to the stirring notes of the army’s morning call had never been in a camp of Boy Scouts.  If he had he wouldn’t have written them, for before the last notes had died away the camp was alive and astir, with hurrying lads filling tin washbasins and cleaning up.

The cook and “cookee” for the day—­Jim Jeffords and Martin Green—­soon had their cooking fire going, and presently the appetizing aroma of coffee and fried ham and eggs filled the camp.

“Give the breakfast call, Andy,” ordered Merritt, as the proud if flush-faced cooks announced their labors complete, and with a clatter and bang of tin dishes and cups the Boy Scouts sat down to breakfast.

“Where’s Rob and Digby?” demanded Andy Bowles, as be dug his spoon into an island of oatmeal completely surrounded by an ocean of condensed milk thinned down with warm water.

The moment that Merritt had dreaded had arrived.

“Why, he and Rob went off early to see the captain,” he said.  “I guess they’ll be back soon.”

“Pretty early for paying social calls,” commented Andy, too busy with his breakfast, however, to give the matter more attention, for which Merritt was duly thankful.

After breakfast Merritt ordered a general airing of bedding, and the side walls of the tents were raised to let the fresh air blow through them.  Still there was no sign of Rob.  Merritt grew so anxious that he could hardly keep from pacing up and down to conceal his nervous state of mind.  However, he stuck to his duties and oversaw the first routine of the morning without betraying his anxiety to any of the lads under his charge.  At last there came the awaited chug chug of the returning boat, for which he had been so eagerly listening, and Rob appeared rounding the little point below the camp.  In the craft was another figure, that of the captain himself.

Merritt’s first hope when he saw the two persons in the boat—­namely, that one of them might be the missing boy—­was promptly dashed, and he instinctively guessed by Rob’s silence as he dropped the anchor and he and the captain tumbled into the dinghy that there had been no news.

“No,” said Rob, shaking his head dejectedly as they reached the shore, “there isn’t anything to tell.  The captain is as much in the dark as we.”