“Isn’t it a sad case?” continued Chub. “Such a promising youth as he was! He was always promising--and never doing it. And so young, too!” “Say, dry up a minute, you fellows,” Roy begged. “He may get over it, though,” observed Dick, thoughtfully. But Chub shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Just look at his eyes; see that baleful glare, Dick? That’s what tells the story, the baleful glare; when you develop the baleful glare you are quite incurable. And see his lips work. He’s muttering to himself. That’s a frightfully bad sign, Dick. Pretty soon he will gibber, and when--” [Illustration: “‘What is the name of the camp?’”] “Dry up, Chub,” commanded Roy. “Now listen. Let’s get a name the way the soap and biscuit people do.” “A romantic idea,” murmured Chub, politely. “I mean by using the initials or first two letters.” “What first two letters?” asked Dick. “Of our names, of course. You can’t make anything out of the initials, because they’re all consonants, but--” “We could make believe it was a Russian name,” said Chub helpfully. “By using the first two letters,” continued Roy, “you get Torodi. How’s that?” “It’s even worse than we feared!” said Chub to Dick sotto voce. “Oh, cut it out,” exclaimed Roy, testily. “Talk sense.” “Well, it sounds rather--er--interesting, don’t you think, Dick?” “Oh, it’s great,” Dick answered. “What’s it mean?” “It doesn’t mean anything, you silly chump!” Roy answered warmly. “It’s just a name; T-o, for Tom; r-o, for Roy; d-i, for Dick.” “Sort of a shorthand effect,” said Chub, thoughtfully. “But why not put it the other way, and call it Rotodi? I think Rotodi is much more musical to the ear.” “Lend me your pencil,” said Dick. “I’ve got a better one.” “Let him have it, Roy,” Chub said. “In the end you’ll all come back to my suggestion; you can’t beat Camp Thomas H. Eaton if you spoil all the bark on the tree. Hand him a new piece of bark Roy; humor him; let him have his way.” “Say, can’t you stop talking for a minute?” demanded Dick. Chub grinned and accepted the suggestion. In a minute Dick said triumphantly: “I’ve got it! Camp Sopœa!” “So--what?” asked Chub. “How do you get that?” inquired Roy. “First two letters of our last names,” answered Dick, proudly. “Sounds like Camp Sapolio,” Chub objected, “and if you’re going in for that sort of thing I think Camp Pearline would be much prettier.” “Oh, well, you try it, then,” said Dick, tossing the pencil to Chub. “I knew you’d have to come to me in the end,” said Chub. “Now let me see.” “No funny business,” warned Roy. Chub shook his head. At that moment the silence, which had been disturbed only by the puffing of a distant steamer, was suddenly rudely shattered by a discordant sound that was like something between the finished efforts of a fish peddler and the wail of a bereaved cow. “Tell Dick to stop snoring,” said Chub without looking up from his task.