“What the dickens is that?” marvelled Roy, as the sound again reached them, apparently from some distance down the river. “Blamed if I know!” said Dick. “It’s a cow,” said Chub. “She’s in great pain.” “A cow!” jeered Dick. “Certainly. Cows eat too much nice green grass at this time of year and have the tummy ache. I know. We used to own one.” “What, a tummy ache?” asked Roy. But Chub was busy again and made no answer. Presently he looked up with a smile of satisfaction. “I’ve beat you at your own game, Roy,” he said. “The name is Camp Torohadik, with the accent, you will kindly observe, on the penultimate syllable.” “How do you spell it?” questioned Roy suspiciously. And, when Chub had responded, “Where do you get your ‘h,a’?” he asked. “I will explain. I put myself first--” “That’s your modesty,” said Dick. “Because I was here first. Then Roy came next and then that sneering youth over there. That made ‘Torodi,’ which is just what Roy had. But by adding another letter of Dick’s name, out of compliment, and because of the fact that the camp was his idea, I get ‘Torodik,’ which is a better sounding word than ‘Torodi.’ But still, it is not yet perfect. At this point genius gets in its work. I introduce the letters h,a, and the thing is complete.” “Yes, but where do you get your old ‘h,a’?” demanded Roy. “From the first name of the fourth member of the party,” replied Chub triumphantly. “The fourth member?” puzzled Roy. “Harry, of course,” said Dick. “And what does it make, Chub?” “Torohadik, an Indian word meaning ‘four friends,’” responded the inventor affably. “That’s not so bad,” laughed Roy. “It really does sound like an Indian word, doesn’t it, Dick?” “Sure. It’s all right. Camp Torohadik it is. We’ll get Harry to make us a flag out of a piece of white cloth, and we’ll paint the name on it. Only I don’t know how--” “There’s Chub’s cow again,” interrupted Roy as the wail once more broke the silence. “I wish you’d give her some Jamaica ginger or something, Chub.” “I’m going to see what that is,” said Dick, scrambling to his feet. “Sounds like a horn to me.” “Horn!” cried Chub. “That’s just what it is, I’ll bet. It’s Harry at the landing. She said she’d blow a tin horn when she was ready to--” “Yes, there she is,” said Dick, “on the landing, with a basket. I’d forgotten all about the horn part of it. I’ll go over for her in the rowboat. You fellows are more tired than I am.” “All right,” Chub agreed with a laugh, “but the current’s pretty strong coming back, and you’ll have to _row hard, Dick_!” Dick groaned as he made toward the beach, leaving Roy to administer well-deserved punishment. CHAPTER V A BATCH OF DOUGHNUTS “Of course this isn’t real camping,” said Dick as he munched his fifth sandwich. “It’s a mighty good lunch, though,” answered Chub. “And I can’t wait to get to those crullers--I mean doughnuts. What’s the difference, anyway, Roy?” “A cruller is a doughnut with the hole left out.”