Two of the chops went into the haversack.  Then potatoes, and six slices of bread, and some coffee wrapped in a paper, and a small can of evaporated milk.  He strapped the haversack, and suddenly remembered that he had forgotten salt, after all, and unstrapped it again.  Barbara stuck in two apples, and by the time the load was slung from his shoulder, whistles and calls sounded from the gate.

Andy Ford, Ritter and Bobbie Brown were waiting impatiently.  Bobbie was sure that they would be late, and kept saying that everybody knew that Mr. Wall started promptly on the minute.  Don winked at the others and led the way toward troop headquarters.

They were not late.  Mr. Wall’s watch, hanging from a screw hook in the door, told them that they still had ten minutes.  Don opened the patrol locker.

“Who’ll carry the ax?” he asked.

“I will,” said a voice.

He turned.  Tim Lally was waiting with outstretched hand.

“Oh!” said Don uncertainly.  Tim took the tool and strapped its leather sheath to his belt.  He seemed to have forgotten all about his grouch.

Everything was noise and bustle and confusion.  The Eagles and the Foxes were grouped in front of their patrol lockers.  There were cries of, “Hey, Jimmy! what did you bring to cook?  What did you bring, Charlie?”

Suddenly the silver notes of a bugle arose above the clamor.  Assembly!  Lockers were banged shut.  Scouts scurried outdoors and fell into their places.

“Column twos,” came Mr. Wall’s voice.  “Forward!  March!”

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded eager feet.  Down to Main Street and then to the left.  Alex Davidson waved to them from the door of the grocery store.

“I wish Alex were with us,” Don said wistfully.

“I guess Alex wishes he was, too,” Andy answered.  “But nobody’ll ever catch him wearing a long face just because he must work.  He isn’t that kind.”

The troop approached the turnpike.

“Column left!” came the order.

They knew where they were going up—­up toward Gipsy Grove.  The place had gotten its name from the fact that whenever a gipsy tribe came to the neighborhood it pitched its tents there.  It was an ideal camping ground, with plenty of firewood, a clean, running stream, and just enough open timber to let the sunlight through.

Presently they were away from the village and out in open country.  The discipline of the march was dropped.  In a straggling, merry line they moved along.

Twice the Scoutmaster called rest halts, and each time there was a short talk on roadside flowers, and trees, and weeds.  The morning wore away.  By and by the sun was almost directly overhead, and Gipsy Grove was at last in sight.

There was a race to see which patrol could get all its fires going first.  Each scout was to cook for himself.

“I’ll chop,” cried Tim.  “Somebody get my fire going.”  His strong, muscular arms made short work of the dry dead wood that littered the ground under the trees.