“Come on, slaves,” he called.

Andy winked at Don.  Don clutched the assistant patrol leader’s arm and squeezed hard.

Tim made lively work of the next half-mile.  The relief found Bobbie Brown gasping and wilted.

“Gee!” said Tim; “you’re packing too heavy a load for a runt.  Here, I’ll take your blanket.”

Bobbie straightened his shoulders.  “I’m all right.  I—­”

“Aw! forget it.”  Tim turned him around, unstrapped the blanket, and stuck it under his arm.  “Feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” said Bobbie.

Mr. Wall, coming down the line to watch for stragglers, saw what happened, smiled quietly, and went back to the head of the column.

After a time the jokes and the laughter stopped.  They were approaching Lonesome Woods.  Of course, this was going to be all kinds of fun, but—­but—­Well, Lonesome Woods was Lonesome Woods, wasn’t it?  A mile from camp Mr. Wall halted the column.

“Volunteers to go forward and cut firewood,” he called.

But though the scouts might draw together a bit, here was too good an adventure to be missed.  There was a rush for the Scoutmaster.  Tim got there first.

“The Wolves have it,” Mr. Wall decided.

“Little more load for the Eagles and the Foxes,” sang Tim, and pitched his blanket and haversack into the trek wagon.  Don and the others unslung theirs.  Two minutes later the Wolf patrol was running in advance of the column with only their axes and canteens.

They plunged into the woods with a whoop.  Presently they all drew together and listened.  The place was still—­ghostly still.  The air was cooler, and heavier, and—­and different.

“Gee!” said Bobbie.  “It is lonesome in here, isn’t it?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders.  “Come on.  Let’s get firewood.”

The sound of the axes chased away the quiet.  The firewood became a small pile, a great pile, and then a fat, clumsy pyramid.

“Hello there, Wolves,” came a faint hail.

The troop had arrived.  Soon the woods rang with high-pitched shouts and cries.

The problem now was to find a camp site.  Scouts swung out in all directions.  One group tried to advance the wagon.  Now the wheels would get tangled in clumps of underbrush, and now there would be seemingly no way to squeeze through the trees.  At last it could be advanced no further.

The Foxes had found a clearing on sloping ground.  A brook ran at one end.  The ground slope insured good drainage in case of rain.

The Wolves went back to bring in their firewood, and the Eagles and the Foxes carted tents and equipment from the trek wagon.

Tim’s blood ran riot in his veins.  As he carried in the last of the kindling, the second tent arose against the background of trees.

“Say,” he called eagerly, “let’s help there.”

The tent squad made a place for him.