“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!”