He seemed tireless.  By and by, with the last tent up and the last rope guyed, he wiped the sweat from his face and grinned.

“Doesn’t look like Lonesome Woods now, does it?”

Mr. Wall’s watch showed four o’clock.  Supper cooking would start at five.  There was an hour in which to string telegraph wires.

“The messages,” Mr. Wall said, “will be received here.  Do not get too close to each other with your instruments.”

Scouts hustled out to the trek wagon for batteries, wire and instruments.  Tim staked a claim for the Wolves’ receiving station.

“How much wire must each patrol have out?” Andy Ford asked.

“Two hundred feet,” was the answer.

Eagles and Foxes gathered and broke into clamorous discussion.  How should the wire be measured?  Don gathered his patrol and took it to one side.

“Andy has a fifty-foot tape.  We’ll measure as we unwind.  Bobbie, you stay here and hold this end.  Come on, fellows.”

Into the dense growth of trees they wormed their way.  It was slow work passing the wire through the branches of trees.  Tim climbed and shinned his way from limb to limb like a monkey.  Wherever the wire was laid, it was fastened in place with rubber tape.

About one hundred and twenty-five feet were out when the Scoutmaster’s whistle sounded the recall.  The scouts came back to camp.  There was a comparison of results.  The Eagles had strung about seventy feet of wire, and the Foxes less than sixty.

“We’ll have ours finished before the others know what’s happening,” chuckled Andy.  “And then we’ll get in some practice.”

“Tim and I are going to get some practice after supper,” said Don.

“Sure thing,” said Tim.

Fires were lighted and pots and pans appeared.  Somebody yelled that cocoa was ready.  The Foxes dished it out, and Mr. Wall distributed bread thickly covered with molasses.

“Some feast,” said Tim.  He took his place in the circle of Wolves.  He was one of them—­at home.

There was still some daylight left after dishes had been washed and put away, and the supper refuse burned.  Tim and Don walked off a way with their flags.  Teams from the other patrols scrambled for their flags, too, and practiced until the last light began to go.

The night-fire grew brighter in the darkness.  A hush fell over the camp.  The boys formed a circle about the blaze.  Where they sat there was light and warmth, but ten feet back were the trees, and darkness, and the melancholy whispering of the breeze through stirring branches.

There was sober discussion of the morrow’s contest.  No voice lifted itself loudly.  Mr. Wall told an Indian story.  The scouts drew closer to the fire, and Bobbie glanced back over his shoulder.  After a time heads began to nod.

“Time to turn in,” said the Scoutmaster.  “Better fill your canteens.  You may want a drink during the night.”