“Last Chance,” read Margery, as they clattered by.  “For goodness’ sake!” she giggled, “is it a hotel?”

“Look at all the women!  One in every window!” cried Olga.  “Why, they must have a lot of maids!  Do people come up here in the summer, Kent?”

Kent gave Miss Towne an appealing glance.

“It’s a miserable, disreputable place, girls,” said the teacher.  “Why look at that when you have these beautiful hills before you?  How far into the reservation do we go, Charlie?”

“About four miles.  It’s where I camp every year.  Margery, did you bring some paper dolls?”

Margery dimpled and tossed her head.  “I wonder how old I’ll have to be before you realize I’m grown up, Charlie!”

Charlie looked at her critically.  “Well, when you’re eighteen, maybe.”

“Lydia’ll be twenty-five before she gets through looking like a baby, but Olga’s a young lady now,” said Kent.  He was eying the girls with the air of a connoisseur.  “Three peaches, aren’t they, Miss Towne?”

“I don’t see why you say three,” objected Gustus.  “Ask me and say four.”

The young people laughed and looked at Miss Towne, half startled by Gustus’ audacity.  Miss Towne herself was blushing and Olga exclaimed, “Why, Miss Towne, you are good looking when you blush!  And I don’t believe you’re so frightfully old!”

It was true.  Miss Towne in her outing blouse, a soft felt hat crushed down on her brown hair, which was now wind-tossed and loosened, her smooth skin flushed, her gray eyes full of laughter, did not look her frightful age of thirty-five.  In fact, she looked charmingly young.  Her youthful charges looked her over with frank amazement.  It was a tradition in the school to fear and dislike Miss Towne.  Charlie had asked a number of teachers to act as chaperone before he had approached Miss Towne.  She too had at first refused, then had said, “Well, it’s Lydia’s first outing.  I’ll do it for her sake.  But don’t tell her I said so.”  Charlie had kept his own counsel and Miss Towne had delayed her summer trip to Europe, for the camping trip on the reservation.

“Thank you, children, you brighten my old age very much.  Look at the neat farms we are passing.”

“Indian farms,” said Charlie.  “This one belongs to Chief Cloud.”

“Are there many Indian farms?” asked Lydia.

“No, there’s not much use for Indians to farm.  The Agent is their middleman, and he eats up all the profits.”

“For the Lord’s sake, Charlie,” protested Kent, “don’t begin any funeral oration!  We’re no investigating committee.  We’re out for some fun.”

“Second the motion,” said Gustus.  “Can I smoke, Miss Towne?”

Miss Towne gave Gustus a clear look.  He was a tall, thin boy of seventeen, with the dark eyes of the Rhine German and with thin hawk-like features that went with his hollow chest.  His father was a rich brewer and Gustus, always elegantly dressed, was very popular with the girls.  Margery had insisted on his being invited.