Something like a half hour later Philip and Joe passed out of Central City on the road that led to Squirrel Lake. The sun was still above the purple, hazy hills beyond the river, but it was sinking fast. The warmth of the day was gone and a perceptible chill lay in the shadowed reaches of the turnpike as the chums pursued their unhurried way. As Philip said, there was nothing to be gained by getting to Camp Peejay before early dark, for daylight was no factor in the successful operation of his plan, and so they purposely walked slowly. Each was lightly burdened, Philip with his violin case, Joe with a bundle that was no larger and scarcely as heavy. They had taken time to change into their old clothes before starting. Their conversation consisted largely of anxious calculations to determine the probable supper hour at the camp. Philip held stoutly that the steak and onions would not be ready for consumption before darkness had fallen on the banks of Squirrel Lake, while Joe chose to be a bit pessimistic and prophesied that by the time they got there the repast would be over with. The sun went down presently behind Squaw Ridge, leaving the western sky aflame with orange light. The shadows in the woods, on the travelers’ right, deepened. From a marsh came the harsh croakings of frogs. A frail silver moon sailed well above the tree tops, increasing in radiance as the colors faded from the west. Twilight was well on them when the two boys left the road and, proceeding cautiously along the winding wood path, finally came within sight of the cabin. Philip halted while still a safe distance away and set down his burden, motioning Joe to do likewise. Ahead of them through the still barren branches of the trees they could see the unpainted cabin, plain against the shadows of the forest and the steel-gray, unruffled surface of the lake. From the window at the nearer end shone a light and from the stovepipe that pierced the roof orange-colored sparks floated upward to fade against the gloom of the big pine beyond, indicating that a brisk fire still burned in the stove. Sounds, too, reached them as they stood there in the growing dusk; the sound of laughter and of singing, and, once, the unmistakable clatter of a tin dish against the stove. Philip smiled. “They haven’t eaten yet,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t have as much of a fire if they were through cooking.” Joe nodded doubtful agreement and waited for orders. Philip viewed the scene of battle with the all-seeing eye of a general. Then: “The other side’s best,” he whispered. “We’d better go around at the back. Look where you’re going and, for the love of lemons, don’t let them hear you!”