Mr. Wall’s voice softened.  “You go off the handle too quickly, Tim.  You’ve ruined Andy’s fire.  What do you think you should do—­the square thing?”

“I’ll finish my cooking over Don’s fire,” Andy said quickly.

Mr. Wall never made the mistake of continuing a lecture to the point where it lost its force.  He knew when to stop.  This flurry was over.

“All right, scouts,” he said, and went back to his own cooking.  Tim shuffled off and squatted down beside his own blaze.

Andy rounded up his potatoes.  They were cold and discouraged looking.

“I’ve enough potatoes for us both,” said Don.  “What kind of meat have you?”

“Sausage.”

“Gosh!  That ought to be fine.  Let’s go whack—­half my lamb chops for half your sausage.”

Soon eager nostrils were sniffing the glorious odor of sizzling meat touched with the tang of wood smoke.  Don and Andy finished their cooking in silence.  They began to eat.  All over the camp scouts drew together and pooled their rations.  Tim Lally sat by his fire, alone.

“He’s beginning to look good and sore,” Andy said in a low voice.

Don glanced toward the red-haired scout.  Tim caught his eye and made a derisive face, and then turned his back and began to whistle as though he was having a gloriously good time.

But Don was not fooled.  Tim was lonesome.  He felt that he was frozen out.  But what could Tim expect if he was going to antagonize everybody?

By and by cooking utensils were cleaned and put away.  The fires were smothered.  Haversacks were slung across strong young shoulders.  The troop marched away.

Up a winding road the scouts went, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting boisterously, sometimes silent.  Suddenly they came out in a clearing.

To the right was Danger Mountain; to the left was Lonesome Woods.

The scouts spoke in subdued voices.  Danger Mountain!  They all knew how it had come by its name.  A man had tried to climb one of its high, rocky walls and had fallen to his death.

And Lonesome Woods.  There was another name to make scouts edge closer to one another.  Three miles wide it was, and about seven miles long, and dark and dense with thick growth.  The gipsy caravans kept away from it.  Passing tramps gave it a wide berth.  From time to time boys dipped into its edges, but soon came out.  Lonesome Woods, indeed!

“We’ll have to explore that some day,” said Mr. Wall.

“The mountain?” Tim asked eagerly.

“The woods,” the Scoutmaster answered.

A shout broke from the troop.  With Mr. Wall along there would be nothing to fear.  When would they go?  Next week?

“We’ll take it up at Friday night’s meeting,” the Scoutmaster promised.

“Why can’t we do the mountain?” Tim demanded.

“Because Danger Mountain is a bad spot.  Broken bones are a heavy price to pay for foolish daring.”