Mm, mmm, that was good! I remind myself of Pee-wee Harris, eating three helpings. Now I’m going to start.

When I went up to Temple Camp this summer about the first scout I saw was Hervey Willetts. I guess you know that fellow all right. He comes from Massachusetts—as often as he can. That’s the place he goes away from.

I’ll tell you just where he was sitting. You know how the cooking shack is—it’s right at the edge of the lake. Chocolate Drop, he’s cook. He’s a kind of a whitish black. He’s the color of the middle of the night. There’s a big window facing the lake and it’s got a kind of a big board shutter with hinges on top. The first thing in the morning, Chocolate Drop opens that and props it open with a stick so it sticks out like a kind of a shelf.

Hervey Willetts was sitting on that board shelf. If Chocolate Drop had taken the prop away Hervey Willetts would have gone into the lake. But that was just what he wanted. He was just sitting there waiting for Chocolate Drop to let down that shutter. Then he could say that he didn’t go into the lake after five o’clock because that’s against the rule. He could say he was sitting on shore and Chocolate Drop dumped him into the lake. That way he could get a swim in the evening. He didn’t say so, but I know that fellow. He would get a swim accidentally on purpose.

He was sitting there with nothing on but an old pair of khaki trousers and a khaki shirt and that crazy hat he always wears with the brim all gone and the crown all full of holes and campaign buttons and things. Gee whiz, you can always tell him by that hat. I could see him sitting there as we rowed across the lake from the trail side—that’s the way we always go.

I shouted, “Look who’s here.”

He called back, “I’m looking; it’s just as unpleasant for me as it is for you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” I told him. “I suppose you think you’re going to get a swim after hours without getting called for it.”

“That shows your evil mind,” he said. “I was watching the sun go down.”

“Yes, and waiting to go down yourself,” I told him. “I’m waiting to see the scout go down. I always hated geography but there’s one thing I like about Massachusetts and that is that you’re away from there. I suppose you’ve got some new stunts this summer.”

“Hurry up and land,” he said, “and get through with your suppers. Supper was over an hour ago.”

He said that because he knew that Chocolate Drop wouldn’t let down that shutter till the last supper was over and everything was cleared up in Cooking Shack. Then he would be dumped into the lake accidentally. Christopher, but the trustees never seemed to get wise to Hervey Willetts. He looked awful funny sitting up there on that kind of a shelf all ready to be, you know, preciprocated or precipitated or whatever you call it, I should worry.

All of a sudden there was a voice from the Mammoth Cave in the other rowboat. “Let’s foil him,” said Pee-wee. “Just for fun let’s keep on eating for a couple of hours till he’s called to camp-fire. That’ll keep Chocolate Drop in the shack.”

“Listen to the famine talking,” I said.

“He can even hold a heavy shutter up an hour or so with a half a dozen pieces of pie,” said Warde Hollister.

“You should worry about our suppers,” I told him. “We always take our time eating. We expect to spend a couple of hours at the board and you can spend a couple of hours on that board.”

“Maybe even we’ll eat four desserts,” Pee-wee shouted.

“We’ve got to unpack our baggage first,” I called, “and then wash up and go and say hello to Uncle Jeb and in about half an hour we’ll get around to eating.”

“After that we don’t know how long we’ll take,” Pee-wee yelled.

“Sure, a scout is thorough,” shouted Westy from my boat.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Hervey asked.

“Oh, positively, absolutely nothing,” I said. “Far be it from me to say you have any——”

“Exterior motives,” shouted Pee-wee.

“Ulterior motives,” I said. “Only I’m just telling you that maybe it will be a large collection of hours before the window of the cooking shack is closed up for the night. So don’t worry about falling into the water—yet. We’ll tell you in time.”

“What do you mean, you’ll tell me in time?” said Hervey, very innocent like.

Jiminy, he looked awful funny sitting up there on that window board with his knees drawn up, staring at us just as if he was puzzled to know what we were driving at. Insulted, kind of. That was him all over. Sort of careless like. You’d never think he had any plans at all. He never broke any rules on purpose—oh, far be it from it!

“Got any new songs this summer?” Warde Hollister shouted at him. Because he always had a lot of crazy stuff that he was always singing and that’s why everybody called him the wandering minstrel. None of us ever knew where he got all the stuff he sang.

He’d come wandering into camp late for supper twirling that funny cap of his on the end of a stick and singing, and the trustees or Uncle Jeb or maybe his scoutmaster who would be all ready with a good calling-down would just kind of smile and say nothing. The stormy petrel, they called him that too. Gee whiz, nobody could help liking that fellow. He was an odd number, I’ll say that.

“All right, Hervey,” Westy called kind of good-natured like. Westy never breaks any camp rules, but just the same he likes Hervey. “Go on, give us a song.”

So then Hervey started singing that crazy song that got us into so much trouble that summer. We couldn’t hear the end of it, because pretty soon we were at the landing and everybody was crowding there to meet us. Anyhow this is the way it started: