The season was well nigh over at Temple Camp when this thing happened.  Not over exactly, but the period of arrivals had passed and the period of departures would begin in a day or two—­as soon as the events with which the season culminated were over.

These were the water events, the tenderfoot carnival (not to be missed on any account) and the big affair at the main pavilion when awards were to be made.  This last, in particular, would be a gala demonstration, for Mr. John Temple himself, founder of the big scout camp, had promised to be on hand to dedicate the new tract of camp property and personally to distribute the awards.

These events would break the backbone of the camping season, high schools and grammar schools would presently beckon their reluctant conscripts back to town and city, until, in the pungent chill of autumn, old Uncle Jeb, alone among the boarded-up cabins, would smoke his pipe in solitude and get ready for the long winter.

It was late on Thursday afternoon.  The last stroke of the last hammer, where scouts had been erecting a rustic platform outside the pavilion, had echoed from the neighboring hills.  The usually still water of the lake was rippled by the refreshing breeze which heralded a cooler evening, and the first rays of dying sunlight painted the ripples golden, and bathed the cone-like tops of the fir trees across the lake with a crimson glow.

Out of the chimney of the cooking shack arose the smoke of early promise, from which the scouts deduced various conclusions as to the probable character of the meal which would appear in all its luscious glory a couple of hours later.

A group of scouts, weary of diving, were strung along the springboard which overhung the shore.  A couple of boys played mumbly-peg under the bulletin board tree.  Several were playing ball with an apple, until one of them began eating it, which put an end to the game.  Half a dozen of the older boys, who had been at work erecting the platform, sauntered toward the scrub shack, leaving one or two to festoon the bunting over the stand where the colors shone as if they had been varnished by that master decorator, the sun, as a last finishing touch to his sweltering day’s work.  The emblem patrol sauntered over to the flag pole and sprawled beneath it to rest and await the moment of sunset.  Several canoes moved aimlessly upon the glinting water, their occupants idling with the paddles.  It was the time of waiting, the empty hour or two between the day’s end and supper-time.

Upon a rock near the lake sat a little fellow, quite alone.  He was very small and very thin, and his belt was drawn ridiculously tight, so that it gave his khaki jacket the effect of being shirred like the top of a cloth bag.  If he had been standing, he might have suggested, not a little, the shape of an old-fashioned hour glass.  A brass compass dangled around his neck on a piece of twine as if, being so small, he was in danger of getting lost any minute.  His hair was black and very streaky, and his eyes had a strange brightness in them.