“Here is the place to put the tent, String.”

“I think this spot is better.”

“Not at all. It’s higher over here and consequently we won’t be flooded by every rain that comes along and besides that, the flies won’t be so apt to bother us.”

“All right, just as you say.”

The boy addressed as “String” had been named John Clemens by his parents. He was six feet three inches tall, however, and extremely thin so that the nickname applied to him seemed quite appropriate. At any rate his friends thought so and that was the name by which he usually was called.

Talking with him and arguing about the location of the tent was Fred Button, a boy as short as John was tall. He was so small that the nicknames of Stub, Pewee and Pygmy had all been applied to him, the last one sometimes shortened to Pyg much to Fred’s disgust. He had found out long ago, however, that there was no use in showing his irritation at this for it only served to increase the frequency with which the name was applied to him.

These two boys, together with two of their friends, were pitching camp preparatory to spending a summer on one of the Adirondack lakes. Grant Jones was one of these boys and the other was George Washington Sanders. Grant was the most serious-minded of the four and everything he did he did with all his heart. As a result he was a leader not only on the athletic field but in his studies as well. The other boys usually came to him for advice and looked up to him in many ways. The fact that he was of a serious nature, however, did not mean that he was not oftentimes just as full of fun as anybody.

George Washington Sanders having been named after the father of his country, had acquired the name of Pop. He was often in mischief and took especial delight in teasing his three friends. It was almost out of the question to be angry at him, however, for he never lost his temper for more than a moment himself and was always bubbling over with spirits and fun. He was the life of any crowd he was in.

While the argument between John and Fred was in progress Grant and George approached.

“What are you two arguing about?” demanded Grant.

“We’re trying to decide where to put the tent,” replied Fred. “What have you two been doing all this time?”

“Putting the canoes away,” said Grant. “Where are you going to locate the tent, anyway?”

“Well,” said Fred, “John wants it over in that hollow, but I say it ought to be up on this little plateau.”

“I think you’re right, Fred,” said George. “We won’t get so many flies up there.”

“Just what I said,” exclaimed Fred triumphantly. “What do you think about it, Grant?”

“I think your place is better,” said Grant. “Besides everything else we’ll have a good view of the lake from there.”

“All right,” said John, pretending to be very sad. “You all seem to be against me so I guess I’ll have to give in.”

“You see, String,” exclaimed George with a sly twinkle in his eye, “we all know so very much more about this business than you do that you might just as well take our advice in everything.”

“You talk too much, Pop,” said John shortly, which remark drew a laugh of glee from George who had tried to irritate his friend and was delighted at having succeeded.

“I say we all stop talking and get to work on the tent,” said Grant. “We can do all the fooling we want later.”

“Great idea, Grant,” exclaimed George, who was in excellent spirits at the prospect of all the good times ahead of them. “You’re a wonder.”

“You were right when you said Pop talked too much, String,” laughed Grant. “We’ll put him to work now, though.”

In an incredibly short time the white tent was erected on the little bluff overlooking the lake. It was spacious with plenty of room for the four young campers and all their equipment, which was speedily stored away inside.

“How about a few fish for dinner?” exclaimed George, when the tent was in place. “Personally I think they’d taste pretty good.”

“Go ahead and catch some, then,” urged John. “I’ll help you eat them.”

“Oh, I didn’t worry about your not helping me out in that way,” laughed George. “That’s the least of my troubles. What bothers me is who is to clean the fish.”

“The man who catches them always cleans them,” said Fred.

“Oh, no, he doesn’t,” laughed George. “Not in this case, anyway.”

“How about the cook doing it?” inquired John.

“As I am to do the cooking all summer I can’t say I approve of that plan,” laughed Grant. “That seems a little bit too much.”

“Well, he hasn’t caught any fish yet, anyway,” said Fred. “Let him do that first and we’ll argue about them afterwards.”

“Where are you going to fish, Pop?” asked Grant.

“I thought I’d try it off those rocks down on the point there,” said George. “That looks like a likely spot.”

“While you’re fishing I’ll cut some balsam boughs and make four beds in the tent,” said John.

“And I’ll get a place ready to make a fire in,” said Grant. “That’ll take a little time.”

“How about you, Fred?” demanded George. “It looks as if you were about the only loafer in the whole crowd.”

“I’ll help String cut balsam.”

“Very good,” said George haughtily. “You may go now.”

“I’ll put you in the lake if you’re not more careful,” said John threateningly, but he laughed in spite of himself.

A few moments later every boy was busied with his appointed task. George, armed with his fishing rod, made off for the end of the little wooded island. John and Fred disappeared in search of balsam boughs, while Grant remained behind to make a fireplace. This was an interesting piece of work, the secret of which he had learned from a guide some few summers before during a sojourn in the woods.

First he selected eight or ten rocks as nearly the size and shape of cobblestones as he could find. These he placed on the ground in two parallel rows some twelve inches apart. Both little stone walls thus formed he endeavored to make as nearly the same height as possible and before long his fireplace was complete. Between the two rows of stones the fire was to be made; pots and pans could thus be set over the fire and rest upon the rocks which formed the walls of the fireplace; in this way they could be kept from actual contact with the coals and at the same time most of the heat from the fire was concentrated upon them.

This is a very efficient method of making a camp-fire as Grant had learned from previous experience. Of course, in the case of a temporary camp or unless there are plenty of rocks close at hand, it is hardly worth while and it is not the kind of a fire that campers like to sit around in the evening. As a cooking fire, however, it is one of the best.

Grant had hardly finished this task when John and Fred returned to the camp. They were loaded down with balsam boughs and staggered under the weight of the loads they were carrying. With a sigh of relief each boy dropped his bundle on the ground and sat down to regain his breath.

“You fellows look as if you’d been working hard,” laughed Grant.

“We have,” panted John. “Just carry a load like that for a while and see what you think of it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Grant. “Have you got all you want?”

“All the balsam, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I should hope so,” exclaimed Fred. “At any rate I refuse to go back after any more. My fingers are all gummy and sticky, too.”

“The boughs smell great, though,” said Grant admiringly.

“Don’t they?” exclaimed John. “They’ll be wonderful to sleep on.”

“You see, Grant,” remarked Fred, “String here is so tall we had to cut an extra supply to make a bed long enough for him. I’m really quite worried, too, for fear his feet may stick out beyond the flap of the tent, anyway.”

“I’m not as bad as that I hope,” laughed John. “It would be awful, wouldn’t it, if I couldn’t keep out of the rain?”

“You might stand on your head,” suggested Fred. “Your feet sticking straight up in the air could take the place of umbrellas. They’re big enough so that they’d shelter you, all right.”

“Look here,” exclaimed John, “that sounds like one of Pop’s remarks. I hope you’re not getting as bad as he is.”

“By the way,” said Fred, “where is he? He ought to be back pretty soon.”

“He’s still fishing,” said Grant. “I guess he hasn’t had very good luck.”

“He ought to have taken one of the canoes, anyway,” said John. “He can’t catch anything just standing on the shore.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Grant. “He might get some small perch or bass.”

“What I want is a good big trout,” exclaimed Fred. “I’ll consider this summer a failure unless I get one.”

“Maybe we’ll each get one,” said Grant. “They say there are lots of them around here.”

“Not so much in the lake as in the streams running into it, I guess,” remarked John. “It seems to me that the big trout are always in small pools.”

“Well, I’ll try them all,” said Fred eagerly. “I don’t want just to catch trout; any one can do that. What I want is a big one.”

“One you can take home stuffed, I suppose,” suggested Grant.

“That’s it exactly. I mean to have one, too.”

“Well, we might fix up the beds first,” said John. “It won’t take long. All we want is four piles and we can spread the blankets out on them when we are ready to turn in. Just think of it; a nice soft sweet-smelling bed to sleep on and we won’t feel any of the rocks and roots and bumps that may be under us.”

“It sounds fine all right,” laughed Grant. “We’d better get to work soon, too, for it’ll be dark before long.”

“I should think Pop would be back by now, too,” said John. “You don’t suppose anything could have happened to him, do you?”

“Why, I don’t see how—” began Fred, when he suddenly ceased speaking and listened intently.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Grant.

“Ssh,” whispered Fred. “I thought I heard some one call.”