Gaylong just rested his leg on his other knee and clasped his hands in back of his head and kept looking up at the sky. He said, “So that’s the story of the adventurous Church Mice. The next time we go in for a hundred dollars, we’re going to get jobs in grocery stores. Hey, kids?”

I could see he thought an awful lot of those fellows.

All the while Harry Donnelle was whistling to himself, as if he didn’t care much. Pretty soon he said, “You had your fun; what more do you want? What’s a hundred dollars?”

“It’s a good deal to us,” Gaylong laughed.

“You said something about treasure hunting,” Harry said; “you don’t suppose anybody ever goes treasure hunting on account of the treasure, do you? They go on account of the adventure. So treasure hunting is always a success; even if you only find a tin spoon. You had your hike; you had your fun; you made a hundred per cent profit. That’s the difference between a scout and a detective. It’s going after something that makes the fun; not getting it.”

Brent Gaylong said, “I get you.”

“I’ve flopped around all over the world and I haven’t got a cent to show for it,” Harry said, “and if anybody told me there was a lead pencil buried up near the North Pole, I’d go after it. What fun is there buying a lead pencil in a store? Poor old John D. Rockerfeller could do that much.”

“I get you,” Gaylong said.

“Besides, didn’t you meet us?” Harry said. “We’re better than a hundred dollars, I hope. Fun hasn’t cost a cent; it’s the only thing that hasn’t gone up in price. Maybe the wandering warrior is having the time of his life, too. And you’d go and spoil it all for him. Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Never thought of that, did you? What you fellows need is not a hundred dollars. You need the scout idea. Adventure!”

“Righto,” Gaylong said.

“But we’d like to have that hundred dollars,” the little fellow named Willie piped up.

“True again,” Gaylong said—awful funny.

Of course, I knew that was the way Harry would think about it, because’s he’s one of that reckless, happy-go-lucky sort. I guess Brent Gaylong was kind of the same way. Anyway, before we lay down to go to sleep, I said to Gaylong:

“Would you mind letting me have that article to read by our lantern while you fellows are spreading the balsam?^[1]”

He said, “Sure,” and began feeling in his pockets. “Guess that other fellow has it,” he said, sort of careless; “it’s no use anyway.”

Pretty soon we were all fixed for the night. We made those Newburgh scouts sleep under our balloon silk shelter. They didn’t want to, but we told them we’d like to sleep in the open for a change.

I guess I must have been asleep for an hour or so, when all of a sudden I was awake again. Anyway, it couldn’t have been more than an hour, because the wood from our fire was still warm. It was awful nice and dark and quiet. There wasn’t any sound at all, except a cricket. Pretty soon I could hear the whistle of a train very far away; I guess it was way over at the Hudson. I just lay there kind of thinking and wondering what made me wake up. Because, oh boy, I’m usually dead to the world when I sleep outdoors.

All of a sudden I saw a little light not very far away, in among the trees. As soon as I saw it it went out, and then it came again. First I thought it was a fire fly. Then I knew it couldn’t be—it was too big. Then I saw it steady for about a minute and then it went out.

I sat up and just stared at the spot where I had seen it and I didn’t make a sound. I wasn’t exactly scared, but I wondered what it could be. Then I crept away and started over that way in the dark. I wasn’t scared, but I was kind of nervous, sort of.