"Tooraloo! here comes Coombsie now," he ejaculated behind his twitching lips. "And some one with him! Oh, I forgot all about that!" Dismay stole over his face at the thought. "Of course it's the strange boy, Marcoo's cousin, who came from Philadelphia yesterday and is going to stay here for ever so long--six months or so--while his parents travel in Europe. This spoils our fun. Probably _he_ won't want to start off on a long hike through the woods," rigidly scanning the approaching stranger as a stiffened terrier might size up a dog of a different breed. "His folks are rich, so Marcoo said; I suppose he's been brought up in a city flowerpot--and isn't much of a fellow anyhow!" with a disgruntled grin. But as the oncoming pair drew within twenty yards of the youthful critic the latter's tense face-muscles relaxed. Reassurance crept into his expression. "Gee! he looks all right, this city boy. He's not dolled-up much anyway! And he doesn't look 'Willified' either!" was Colin's complacent comment. No, the stranger's dress was certainly not patterned after the fashion of the boy-doll which Colin Estey had seen simpering in store-windows. He wore a khaki shirt stained with service, rough tweed knickerbockers and a soft broad-brimmed hat. He carried his coat; the ends of his blue necktie dangled outside his shirt, one was looped up into a careless knot. His gray eye was rather more than usually alert and bright, his general appearance certainly not suggestive of a flowerpot plant; his step, quick and springy, embodied the saline breeze that skipped over the salt-marshes. So much Colin took in before criticism was blown out of his mind by a shout from Coombsie. "Hullo! Col," exclaimed Marcoo. "Say, this is fine! We were just starting off to hunt you up--Nix and I! This is my cousin, Nixon Warren, who popped up here from Philadelphia late last night. Nix, this is my chum, Colin Estey!" The two boys acknowledged the introduction with gruff shyness. "Nixon and I settled on going down the river to-day in Captain Andy's power-boat, and Mother put us up a corking good luncheon," Marcoo significantly swung a basket pendant from his right hand. "But we've just been talking to Captain Andy," glancing backward over his shoulder at the receding figure of an elderly man who limped as he walked, "and he says he can't take us to-day. He won't even loan us the Pill." Coombsie gesticulated with the basket toward the broad tidal river gleaming in the sunshine, on which rode a trim gasolene launch with a little rowboat, so tubby that it was almost round and aptly named the Pill, lying as tender beside it. "Pshaw! the Pill isn't much of a boat. One might as well put to sea in a shoebox!" Colin chuckled. "I know! Well, we can't go on the river anyhow, so we've determined to take the basket along and spend the whole day in the woods. Nix is--"