The housing problem did not trouble Orestes much.  One tree was as good as another so long as her architectural handiwork was not desecrated, and having once satisfied herself that her little home still depended from the very branch which she had chosen, she did not inquire too particularly into the facts of that magic transfer.  The branch rested across two other branches and Orestes was satisfied.

That was a happy thought of Tom’s to call the oriole Orestes, which means dweller in the woods, but thanks to Hervey the name became corrupted in camp talk, and the nickname of Asbestos caught the community and became instantly popular.

The shady area under Asbestos’ tree was already a favorite lounging place for scouts, and lying on their backs with knees drawn up (a favorite attitude of lounging) they could see that mysterious little red streak in their little friend’s nest.  In the late afternoon, which was ever the time of sprawling, the sun had a way of poking one of his rays right down through the dense foliage plunk on Asbestos’ nest, and then the little red streak shone like Brick Warner’s red hair after he had been diving.  But no one ventured up to that little home to investigate that freakish streak of color.

“I’d like to know what that is?” Pee-wee Harris observed as he lay on his back, peering up among the branches.

Half a dozen scouts, including Roy Blakeley and Hervey Willetts, were sprawling under the tree waiting for supper, on the second afternoon after Hervey’s triumph.  Waiting for supper was the favorite outdoor sport at Temple Camp.  Orestes was already tucked away in bed, having dined early on three grasshoppers and an angleworm for dessert.

“That’s easy,” said Roy Blakeley; “Asbestos is a red—­she’s an anarchist.  We ought to notify the government.”

“Asbestos is an I.W.W.  He ought to be deported,” Hervey said.

“He’s a she,” Pee-wee said.

“Just the same I’d like to know what that red streak really does mean,” Roy confessed.

“It’s better than a yellow streak anyway,” Hervey laughed; “maybe it’s her patrol color.”

“That’s a funny thing about an oriole,” another scout observed; “an oriole picks up everything it sees, string and ribbon and everything like that, and weaves it into its nest.”

“They should worry about building material,” Roy said.

“I read about one that got hold of a piece of tape and weaved it in,” said the scout who had volunteered the information.  “Maybe that’s tape.”

“Sure, she ought to work for the government, there’s so much red tape about her,” Roy observed.

“It’s the color of cinnamon taffy,” Pee-wee said.

“There you go on eats again,” Roy retorted; “it’s the color of pie.”

“What kind of pie?” Pee-wee asked.

“Any kind,” Roy said; “take your pick.”

“You’re crazy,” Pee-wee retorted.