The hemlocks were indeed giants. They were three or four feet thick, and rose sixty or eighty feet without a limb, their tops going on up fifty feet more. In among these superb trees, the boys made camp, selecting a spot some way from the path, and hidden by underbrush. They all took a bath in the cold brook, put on their one change of clean clothes, washing out their socks and underclothes and hanging them on twigs around the camp to dry. Then they carefully combed their hair, dusted their boots, and tied each others’ neckties neatly. (Peanut’s tie was badly crumpled, for it had been in his pocket all day.) It was dark in the woods before they were ready, and it suddenly occurred to them that they’d have trouble finding the camp again, later in the evening. “We might leave the lantern burning--if it would last,” said Lou. “No, some one would see it, going by on the path,” Art replied. “We don’t want to risk having our stuff pinched.” “I know--tie a white handkerchief to a bush by the path where we turn off to camp, and then count the number of steps back to the road,” said Frank. “Almost human intelligence,” Rob laughed, “And take the lantern with us, to find the handkerchief with.” “Right-o!” said Peanut. It was time now to start for the dinner party. They tied the handkerchief to the bushes by the path, and everybody counted his own steps out to the road, in case the mark should be lost, or taken down by some passer-by. Then they moved up the road, past the gaily lighted Profile House, where they could see the guests eating in the big dining-room with its large plate glass windows, and again rang the bell of Mr. Goodwin’s house--but more quietly this time. A servant ushered them in, and Mr. Goodwin and his wife and son and daughter at once came forward to greet them. The house was elaborately furnished for a summer “cottage,” and the boys were rather conscious of their scout clothes and especially of their hobnail boots. “Gee,” whispered Art, “keep on the rugs all you can, or we’ll dig holes in these hardwood floors.” “So these are Peanut and Art,” said Mr. Goodwin, after introductions all around, turning to the pair who had given the alarm the night before. “I’m sorry to say, we can’t have dinner till the sheriff has disposed of you two chaps. He’s waiting in the library now with a stenographer.” Mr. Goodwin led the way into his library, where, sure enough, the sheriff was sitting. “Here are your men,” said the host. “Don’t keep ’em too long. We’re all hungry.” The rest of the party sat near by and listened, while the sheriff swore in Art and Peanut. First they had to hold up their right hands and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Then they gave their names, ages and residence, while the stenographer’s pencil was busy making shorthand marks which Peanut, regarding out of the corner of his eye, thought looked more like hen tracks than anything else.