They had started the camp in April during Joe’s week of vacation, dragging the timbers and boards from Loomis’s mill behind Mr. Levering’s Ford. By the end of the week it was complete even to the two windows, and they had stood off and viewed their work with pleasurable emotion. Everything about it was delectable: the tar-papered roof that smelled so gloriously in the spring sunshine, the little four-foot, uncovered porch that ran the ten-foot length of the front, the door that wouldn’t quite close unless you put your full weight against it, the little square windows――everything! “Gee,” Philip had exclaimed, “it will look perfectly corking when we get it painted!” And Joe had agreed heartily. What color it was to be painted hadn’t been discussed then. The painting of it was to await Joe’s home coming in June. It nearly broke their hearts that they couldn’t enjoy their handiwork, but Joe was returning to school the next day, and so they finally clicked the padlock on the door and, not without many backward looks, left the cabin behind. Philip had guarded it as well as he could during the ensuing two months, but Joe had received one heartbroken letter from him in May in which he told of going out to Squirrel Lake and finding the cabin broken into and both window panes smashed. “It was ‘Bull’ Jones and Harper Merrill and that crowd that did it,” Philip had stated, “but you can’t prove anything on them.” Philip had repaired damages and when Joe got back the last of June the cabin had not been again molested. Since then the two boys had found time to furnish the camp. They had put in an old stove from the Kenton attic, a table and two chairs and a camp cot――some day they meant to have another cot――and cooking things and tin plates and so on until the furnishings threatened to exclude the occupants. The housewarming idea had been Joe’s. It would, he explained, be dandy to issue invitations and have, say, about ten of the fellows out there for supper. They could go out in the Fullerton bus and walk back by moonlight. Joe wasn’t certain about the moonlight, but he hoped for the best. Philip accepted the idea with enthusiasm, making but one reservation: none of Bull Jones’s crowd should be asked! To this Joe agreed unhesitatingly, even passionately, and that evening they had arranged a menu for the supper, counted their cash on hand and composed the invitations. The next day Joe had brushed the dust from the printing press in the stable loft and, with Philip aiding, set type, worked the lever of the neglected press and pulled a proof.