Sam’s knee was so much better the next morning that he announced his intention of joining the campers that afternoon. Mr. York pressed him to stay until next day, but, seeing that Sam really preferred to take his departure, studied the itinerary that Mr. Langham had left with Sam and helped him locate the expedition.

“Take the two-fifty-two from here,” advised Mr. York, “and change at Wickston for Norrence. Let’s see what train you can get. Wickston—Wickston—south-bound—Here we are. Leave Wickston at four-twelve and arrive Norrence at five-thirty-six. That’s rather late, isn’t it? And after you get there you’ll have to find the camp.”

“I guess it won’t take long,” said Sam. “This thing says, ‘Norrence, Lindenville road, east of village.’ That oughtn’t to be hard to find.”

“No, if they camp where they say they will you can get them in half an hour, I dare say. Besides, it doesn’t get really dark until nearly seven. I’d like to have you stay longer, but if you insist on going, why, I’ll take you over for that two-fifty-two. I made a mistake in giving that knee of yours such a good rubbing last night, Craig.”

“It certainly cured it, sir. It doesn’t hurt a mite to-day, unless I punch it.” And Sam pressed the knee experimentally, to Mr. York’s amusement.

“You’re a regular boy, Craig,” he laughed. “I remember when I was a kid and had a toothache I’d put my finger in my mouth and bite down on it as hard as I could to see how badly it would hurt! Well, we’ve got four hours before lunch, and if you want to try out that leg of yours we’ll stroll around and see the place.”

The morning passed quickly. The subject of college was not mentioned again until, at half-past two, they were speeding along the road to the station in the grey roadster. Then Mr. York said:

“Craig, could you pass a college examination next fall if you had to?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Sam. “I don’t just know what the requirements are, Mr. York. I’ve never thought much about it, you see, because it’s never seemed I had any chance to get to college. I guess I’d have trouble with my Latin, though.”

“Well, look here, I wish you’d try this winter and see if you can’t get yourself ready. If nothing comes of it, it won’t do you a bit of harm. But—well, I hope something will come of it, old man. I’d like very much to be sure that you were going through college. Perhaps you think I’m a strange sort of a chap to meddle so much in your affairs, but you’ve made quite a hit with me, Sam, especially since last night; and when I like anyone I want to see him get all that’s coming to him. I don’t care a continental what college you go to or whether you play ball or don’t. That’s out of it. But I would like to see you get to college.”

“I’d like it myself, Mr. York. Only I wouldn’t want to go unless I could do it fairly.”

“You’re right, old man. The end doesn’t always justify the means. Well, I’m going to put my thinking cap on and see if between us we can’t find a way. I’ll write to the secretary at Warner and see if there’s a scholarship you could try for. I’ll write to the other colleges around here, too. Look here, if you could get a real job next summer that would pay you, say, eighteen or twenty dollars a week, would you take it?”

“I’d jump at it!” said Sam. “But I don’t believe I know enough to make that much, Mr. York. There isn’t much I can do, I guess.”

“Seems to me you can do a good many things. You told me you’d canvassed for books, sold newspapers, and worked in a mill. And now you’re being councillor in a boys’ camp.”

“None of those jobs paid eighteen dollars a week, though, sir.”

“No, but what I’m getting at is that if you can do those things you can do other things. The only problem is to find something that will bring you real money. With, say, a couple of hundred dollars I dare say you wouldn’t be afraid to start college.”

“N-no, sir. Two hundred wouldn’t go very far, though, would it? Even at a state university?”

“It would pay your tuition, maybe. Tell you what I want you to do, Sam, when you get home. You go and see John Holden. I’m going to write to him about you. He’s a fine fellow. You can’t help liking him. And he is going to be a good man to know before very long. He’s only just making his start now, but he’s the sort you can’t stop, and in five years he will be Somebody in your town. You go and see him and tell him who you are. Get to know him. John and I are pretty good friends; have been ever since we were freshmen in college; they used to call us the Pair of Jacks. In that way you and I’ll be able to keep in touch. I’m a fairly busy man when I get back to work and I’m not much of a letter-writer, but if you’ll let me hear from you now and then I’ll see that your letters don’t go unanswered. And I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I can’t find some job that will put some money in your pocket when next summer comes.”

“I’d like that,” responded Sam gratefully. “I’d be willing to do ’most anything, I guess. Only—only I wouldn’t want you to—to just make up a job for me, Mr. York.”

“You’re certainly suspicious!” laughed the other. “But I give you my word, Sam, that if I find anything for you it will be real work and well worth the pay. Here we are, with four minutes to spare. By the way, how about funds? All right that way, are you?”

“I have enough, thanks.”

“Quite sure? Glad to lend you a few dollars. You can return it when you reach camp, you know.”

“I have plenty, sir, truly.”

The car swept up to the platform and they jumped out, Sam with his battered valise. By the time he had purchased his ticket to Norrence the train was bustling in. Mr. York went to the car-steps with him and shook hands there.

“Good-bye, Sam. Take care of yourself, and let me hear from you, please. I certainly enjoyed having you with me, old man, and next summer, if we can fix it, you must come up again. Good-bye! Try throwing from your ear and shorten your swing!”

Sam’s own farewells were drowned by Mr. York’s and abruptly cut short by the sudden starting of the train, but he managed a more or less coherent speech of thanks before he got beyond hearing. The last he saw of Mr. York was that gentleman standing beside his car evoking excruciating blasts on the electric horn with one hand and waving farewell with the other.

Before dark Sam had found the encampment outside Norrence and was eating a belated supper. The following three days were pleasant ones. They broke camp every morning after an early breakfast, fixed their packs, and hiked until an hour before noon. Then came a three-hour rest by the road, with dinner, and at about two they were off again. They did about eighteen miles a day, ate ravenously, slept like logs, and reached Indian Lake the evening of the fourth day after leaving Mount Placid, a little footsore but only healthily tired. Kitty-Bett had a hot supper awaiting them and they more than did justice to it.

Sam found a letter awaiting him from Tom Pollock. As it was short and concise we may as well quote it in full. “Dear Sam,” wrote Tom, “when are you coming home? The reason I want to know is that Lynton is to play us here on the sixteenth. She beat us the first game and we beat her last Saturday, 5 to 1, and we’re going to play off the tie. We want you to catch for us. I looked up that letter from Mr. Langham and it said the camp ran to September 13th. If that’s so you’ll be back here by Thursday, I guess. Let me know if you will and if you’ll play Saturday. All well here and I’m very busy. Sid is kicking his heels against the counter as I write this and wants to be remembered. Yours as ever,

“Tom.”

Sam answered the epistle the next morning and saw it off by Jerry the mailman. (The boys took delight in referring to Jerry according to the duty he was at the moment engaged in, as “Jerry the scullion,” “Jerry the iceman,” “Jerry the woodman,” and so on. On one occasion, Dick Barry discovered the versatile Jerry painfully inditing a letter and promptly dubbed him “Jerry the scribe.”) Sam told Tom that he expected to be back in Amesville the sixth and would be glad to catch for the Blues the following Saturday, if nothing prevented.

A few days later came Visitors’ Day, and the camp took on a gala appearance. Strings of flags blossomed along the fronts of the buildings, pine and hemlock branches were festooned about the dining-hall, floors were scrubbed until they shone, and no one, even with a microscope, could have discovered a bit of paper or any sort of litter from the landing back to the pulpit tree. The visitors were not many in number, for parents and friends living at a distance found it impossible to reach Indian Lake before noon, but some twenty-odd appeared, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the programme supplied for their entertainment. There was an aquatic carnival in the morning, with swimming and diving competitions and canoe races, and another thrilling tilting contest, to say nothing of a swimming exhibition by Junior Councillor Craig. And at one o’clock there was a special dinner for the guests, followed by one not quite so “special” for the boys. There was no siesta that day, which alone made it blessed in the eyes of the fellows! In the afternoon there were athletic events and a final ball game between the Indians, “Camp Champions,” as the banner which they displayed proudly announced, and the Mascots. True to precedent the Indians won in six innings, thus finishing their season in a final burst of glory. The score was 16 to 4! But then, George Porter, with his mother and sister to watch him admiringly, pitched a remarkable game.

Some of the visitors stayed overnight, and for these tents were erected. Camp-fire was an especially merry occasion that evening. Very agreeably, the moon came up, big and mellow, at nine and, so to speak, joined the party. The musicians were never better, and the songs were sung with unusual enthusiasm if no more melodiously. Bedtime was set back a full hour on this last night and it was nearly midnight when quiet finally settled over the moonlit camp.

The next morning the exodus began and by noon only a half-dozen or so fellows remained to bolt a hurried dinner and then tumble into the waiting coach and disappear, cheering, toward the village.

The councillors all remained with Mr. Langham until the next day. Shutters were to be closed and everything made ready for the winter before they left. Supper that evening was a pleasant meal. All were fairly tired, and they sat late about one end of the Chief’s table and comfortably talked over the summer and their plans for winter. There was a little impromptu speech by Mr. Langham, in which he thanked the others for their help. And Mr. Haskins, replying for the councillors, was quite funny in his serious way, and they finally pushed back their chairs in laughter and strolled over to the office feeling very kindly toward each other.

Mr. Langham, Mr. Haskins, and Sam travelled southward together the next morning, Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown parting from them at Indian Lake. Sam, with nearly sixty dollars in his pocket, a deep coat of tan over most of his body, and a fine appearance of rugged health, stepped from the train at Amesville at a little after four o’clock into the arms of Tom and Sidney.