Tom's absence through the day had resulted in an accumulation of work upon his table. His duties were chiefly active but partly clerical. After supper he started to clear away these matters.

The camp had already been in communication with Mr. Temple, its founder, and plans had been made for an inspection of the washed-out cove by engineers from the city. It was purposed to build a substantial dam at that lowest and weakest place on the lake shore. There was a memorandum asking Tom to be prepared to show these men the fatal spot on the following morning.

Matters connected with the meeting of the resident Court of Honor next day had also to be attended to. Several dreamers of high awards would have a sleepless night in anticipation of that meeting. Hervey Willetts would probably sleep peacefully—if he went to bed at all.

It was half an hour or so before Tom got around to looking over the names of new arrivals. These were card indexed by the camp clerk, and Tom always looked the cards over in a kind of casual quest of familiar names, and also with the purpose of getting a line on first season troops. It was his habit to make prompt acquaintance with these and help them over the first hard day or so of strangeness.

In glancing over these names, he was greatly astonished to find on the list of Mr. Carroll's troop, the name of William Corbett. The identity of this name with that of the victim of the automobile accident greatly interested him, and he recalled then for the first time, that this troop had come from Hillsburgh, in the vicinity of which the accident had occurred. Yet, according to the newspaper, the victim of the accident had been killed, or mortally injured.

As Tom pondered on this coincidence of names there ran through his mind one of those snatches of song which Hervey Willetts was fond of singing:

Some boys were killed and some were not,
Of those that went to war;
And a lot of boys are dying now,
That never died before.

Before camp-fire was started Tom hunted up Mr. Carroll.

"I see you have a William Corbett in your troop, Mr. Carroll," said he.

"Oh, yes, that's Goliath."

"He—he wasn't the kid who was knocked down by an auto?"

"Why, yes, he was. You know about that?"

Tom hesitated. The newspapers had not yet had time to publish the sensational accounts of Harlowe's tragic death on the mountain and the facts about this harrowing business had not been made public in camp.

"I thought the kid was killed," Tom said.

"Oh, no, that was just newspaper talk. It's a long way from being mortally injured in a newspaper to being killed, Mr. Slade."

"Y-es, I dare say you're right," said Tom, still astonished.

"Yes, the little codger has a weak heart," said Mr. Carroll. "When the machine struck him it knocked him down and he was picked up unconscious. Probably he looked dead as he lay there. I dare say that's what frightened the man in the machine. No, it was just his heart," he added. "A couple of the boys in my troop knew the family, mother did washing for them or something of that sort, and so we got in touch with the little codger and there was our good turn all cut out for us.

"You know, Slade, we have a kind of an institution—troop good turn. Ever hear of anything like that? So we brought him along. He's a kind of a scout in the chrysalis stage. He doesn't even know what happened to him. A good part of his life has been spent in hospitals; he'll pick up though. I think the newspaper reporters did more harm than the autoist. Do you know, Slade, I think the man may have just got panicky, like some of the soldiers in the war."

"I've seen a fellow shrink like a whipped cur at the sound of a cannon and then I've seen him flying after the enemy like a fiend," said Tom.

"Yes, human nature's a funny thing," said Mr. Carroll.

Tom's mind was divided between admiration of this kind, tolerant, generous scoutmaster and astonishment at what he had learned.

"Well, that's news to me," he said.

"Yes, the main thing is to build the little codger up now," Mr. Carroll mused aloud.

"Mr. Carroll," said Tom, "Gilbert didn't say anything about going up the mountain with me last night?"

"N-no, I don't know that he did."

"The trustees didn't want anything said about the matter here in camp, or the whole outfit would be going up the mountain. But I suppose the papers will have the whole business by to-morrow, and you might as well have it now. The fellow who ran down the kid was found crushed to death on the mountain last night. His name was Aaron Harlowe."

Tom told the whole harrowing episode to Mr. Carroll, who listened with interest, commenting now and again upon the tragic sequel of the auto accident. It was plain, throughout, however, that his chief interest was in his little charge, Goliath.

"That's a very strange thing," he said; "it has a smack of Divine justice about it, if one cares to look at it that way. Have you any theory of just how it happened?"

"I haven't got any time for theories, Mr. Carroll; not with four new troops coming to-morrow. It's a closed book now, I suppose. There are some funny things about the whole business. But one thing sure, the man's dead. I have a hunch he got crazed and rattled and hid here and there and was afraid they'd catch him and finally went up the mountain. He thought he had killed the kid, you see. I'd like to know what went on inside his head, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would."

Several of Mr. Carroll's troop, seeing him talking with Tom, approached and hung about as this chat ended. Wherever Tom Slade was, scouts were attracted to that spot as flies are attracted to sugar. They stood about, listening, and staring at the young camp assistant.

"Well, how do you think you like us up here?" Tom asked, turning abruptly from his talk with their scoutmaster. "Think you're going to have a good time?"

"You said something," one piped up.

"Where's Gilbert?" another asked.

"Oh, he'll be back in a little while," Tom said. "I sent him on an errand and I suppose he got lost."

"He did not!" several vociferated.

"No?" Tom smiled.

"You bet he didn't!"

"Well," said Tom, laughing, "if you fellows want to get into the mix-up, keep your eyes on the bulletin board. Everything is posted there, hikes and things. You'll like most of the things you see there."

"I'm crazy about tomatoes," one of the scouts ventured.

Tom smiled at Mr. Carroll and Mr. Carroll smiled at Tom.

There seemed to be a sort of unspoken agreement among them all that Hervey Willetts should be thought of ruefully, and in a way of disapproval. But, oddly enough, none of them seemed quite able to conceal a sneaking liking for him, shown rather than expressed.

And there you have an illustration of Hervey's status in camp....