“Why, Sam, we took a chance,” Steve Brown was explaining a few minutes later. “I got your message all right, but that road didn’t look good to me. So Chase shinned a tree on a hill and had a look around and said he could see this building plainly about two miles away. And we decided that if we were to beat you fellows to it we’d better cut across lots. So we did. Had a bit of tough going for half a mile or so and then found the lake and followed a sort of path that led along the edge of it till we struck a good road down there. Came through the village, made sure we were headed right, and—here we are! How long have you been here?”

“Not more than quarter of an hour,” said Sam. “I wish I’d had the sense to think of that tree business, Steve. I’ll bet you we’ve walked ten miles this afternoon!”

Steve chuckled. “Don’t you care, Sam. We beat the “Reds” to it. What sort of roads did you find, Mr. Haskins?”

“Very good, most of the way. Pretty wet and muddy in places, but not half bad. I can’t imagine, though, what became of the others. We lost sight of them about four o’clock, and——”

“You’ll soon know what happened,” interrupted Sam, “for here they come now!”

It was a weary and footsore band that detached itself from the gloom of the trees and approached through the drizzling rain. Mr. Langham was limping badly and many of the boys literally dragged their feet. Mr. Gifford’s smile was a bit grim as he waved a reply to the shout of welcome.

“Better late than never,” said Mr. Haskins. “What happened, Gifford?”

“Lost our way somehow. Don’t ask us where we’ve been. We don’t know. Of all beastly country——!”

“It was quite all my fault,” interposed the Chief. “It came to a question of two roads and I picked out the wrong one. Well, here we are, anyway, and I guess we’re not all dead yet. Sam, as the defeated ones, we ought to do the toiling, but you can see that our crowd is pretty badly tuckered out. Suppose you and Steve take some of the chaps and see what can be done about getting some fires lighted.” He glanced about the building dubiously. “Not a very warm place for the night, is it?” he continued. “Those boys ought to get their feet dry, but I don’t just see——”

“You leave it all to us, sir,” said Sam. “Better sit down and get rested. Sorry you had such hard luck.”

“Yes, it was tough on some of the youngsters. This place seems dry, at least. Well——”

The Chief’s voice trailed into silence and, removing the blanket from his shoulder, he made a cushion of it and sat down with his back to the railing. Then he smiled up at Sam and Steve ruefully. “I’m just about all in,” he said. “I don’t see how some of those boys stood it. By Jove, I don’t!”

“Don’t worry about them, Chief,” said Mr. Gifford. “They’ll be as fit as fiddles in the morning. The question now is——”

“Fires and grub,” interrupted Steve cheerfully.

“You get your breath back, Andy. Sam and Mr. Haskins and I will look after things. ‘Blues,’ this way! Come on, fellows, we’re going to hunt wood and build some fires. Scatter now! Bring in all the dead branches you can find and anything else that will burn. Never mind if it’s wet, bring it along. But don’t do any damage to anything. Remember you’re Scouts, fellows. Carry the wood over there where you see those barrels and boxes. Hustle now!”

Off they went with a will. Sam and Steve and Mr. Haskins crossed to where, at some distance, a litter of broken boxes and old barrels was piled. Here, as they expected, they found a sandy pit in which it was evidently the custom to burn rubbish. “We can have a roaring old blaze here,” said Steve. “Guess, though, we’d better have, say, three small fires that we can get close up to. Wish there was a shelter near, though. I suppose this stuff is sopping wet.”

He pulled some of the underneath boxes out and found that they were in places fairly dry, however, and he and Sam proceeded to knock them to pieces and store them in one of the barrels, which they turned on its side. Mr. Haskins wandered away toward a long open shed used for carriages. A minute or two later the boys began to arrive with armfuls of branches, fragments of boxes and such. It was all pretty wet, but, as Steve said, once get your fire started and they’d burn finely and all the hotter for being damp. Then Mr. Haskins returned dragging a big piece of canvas, evidently at one time either a portion of a tent or a tarpaulin such as is used to cover loaded wagons.

“I thought,” he explained, exhibiting his find proudly, “that if we could manage to spread this over our heads somehow——”

“Bully!” cried Steve. “We’ll fix it. Haskins, you’re a wonder!” And the older councillor smiled more proudly still.

And fix it they did, finally. One side of it was laid on a row of the empty boxes and held in place by stones. At the other corners they fixed poles—or what answered for poles; one was a long branch and the other an eight-foot board,—binding the canvas to them with bits of string and wire, and sinking the other ends in the gravel at the edge of the pit. Fortunately, there was no wind, or their improvised lean-to would soon have toppled down. As it was it was by no means large enough to shelter more than half their number, but it did make a fairly dry place in which to serve supper.

Steve took Sam and they hurried off in search of birch-trees. At first it seemed that birch was the one variety of tree which did not grow in the vicinity of Centennial Park, but at last, far down near the railroad track, they descried a group showing ghostlike in the fast-gathering twilight, and it took them but a minute or so to circle the trees with their knives and pull off strips of the bark. When they turned back each had a good armful. Then they set about starting the fires. Steve whittled a pile of shavings from a piece of fairly dry pine board under the shelter, tore some of the birch-bark into small strips, and then laid the fire on the gravel a few feet from the lean-to and applied a match. The bark sizzled and curled and flamed, the shavings caught, and Steve fed the blaze with the driest of his wood. There was a doubtful minute, but at last the fire took hold with a roar, and the boys, who had begun to gather about, sent up a cheer. Mr. Gifford and several of the older youths appeared with cooking utensils and food and took possession of the shelter. Two more fires were started from the first, and soon what had appeared a half-hour before to be a rather hopeless and depressing scene took on an air of cheerfulness and comfort.

Kitty-Bett had provided plenty of cold meat, bread and butter, and hard-boiled eggs. There were doughnuts, too, dozens and dozens of them, and those the boys devoured first, last, and all the time. There was bacon ready for the frying, but Mr. Gifford wisely decided not to attempt to cook it under the circumstances. But three huge kettles of tea were brewed, cans of condensed milk were punctured, sugar and tin spoons were passed around, and a deep and all-pervading silence held for many minutes, a silence only accentuated by infrequent remarks, short and crisp: “Sugar, Billy!” “Pass this along, Tom.” “Meat, please!”

When the first pangs of hunger had been quieted, conversation began briskly. At least half the boys narrated their personal adventures and experiences, boasted of blistered heels and tired muscles. Very kindly, the rain had decreased to a fine drizzle that was scarcely more than a heavy mist, and the twenty or so boys who were unable to crowd under the tarpaulin ate in some comfort, curled up on the ground in their raincoats. From time to time the fires were replenished, more lazily as the warmth and food and the good hot tea began to have effect. Kitty-Bett had provided with a lavish hand. Had he not done so the prospect of breakfast in the morning would have looked dark, for there were never forty-three healthier appetites gathered together than those which the “Reds” and the “Blues” finally managed to appease that evening!

At last, when no one could hold another crumb, the fellows toppled against each other and the talk grew fainter and fainter and ever more murmurous, until, finally, a full-fledged snore broke forth, and the sleepy youths roused themselves with a laugh.

“McDowell’s suggestion is a good one,” said Mr. Langham. “I vote we accept it, fellows. Who’s for bed?”

Yawns of assent answered, and Ed Thursby, rising unsteadily to his feet, collided with one of the poles which held up the tarpaulin. Down came the shelter with a swish of wet canvas, sparks flew from the fires, and some twenty boys disappeared from sight amidst shouts of laughter from those outside. Out they came, rolling or crawling, and the party set off for bed.

Bare boards, even when softened by a raincoat and a single thickness of blanket, do not make a downy couch, but no complaints were heard. One by one, with shoes for a pillow, the tired boys dropped off to sleep. Over them blew the damp night air, and from the roof and trees came the steady patter of rain-drops. And from forty-three motionless, blanket-wrapped forms came evidences of healthy slumber.