Allowing for lunches, sodas, ice creams, parental objections with attendant pleas, etc., Pee-wee had determined that some time between seven o’clock and midnight on that very night the final messenger should arrive. He was waiting for him with a welcome—the best kind of a welcome, a hunters’ stew. And having thus regaled him he intended to instruct him in the stern requirements of pioneer life. He intended to inform him of his romantic vow to shun the tame conveniences and facilities of camp and to depend on their own resources. He would show him how these things were done. He would surprise him with that interesting item of scoutcraft that they could live without current and continuous aid from the civilized world. During the last day or two Temple Camp had degenerated into something hardly better than a crowded city, and Pee-wee scorned it. The most authentic account of this singular climax to Pee-wee’s adventures that summer is that he was dozing on the doorstep of the cabin at about eleven P. M. having heroically refrained from eating up to that hour. At least that was the testimony of Alton Beech his Westwood acquaintance. Upon being awakened by the sound of merry voices our hero, rubbing his eyes, was aware of two distinct groups of scouts standing in the moonlight. It is said that the moon was laughing, but perhaps that is an exaggeration. In the foreground stood Alton Beech, and there is no doubt at all that _he_ was laughing. To Pee-wee’s drowsy eyes this joyous apparition seemed to be surrounded by a throng of strange scouts, containing not one familiar face. In the background the whole of Temple Camp seemed to be crowding in mirthful expectation. “Wh—what—are—who—you—what are _you_ doing here?” Pee-wee stammered, addressing the first messenger of the now momentous enterprise. “W—a—a—you doing here—Beech—are you Beech?” “Here we are,” said Alton Beech cheerily, as Pee-wee, approaching a state of full wakefulness sat and stared. “You see the trouble was that your letter—well it was too good. The relay race instead of going in relays, it just piled up, no one would turn back, so here we all are—except two. Fort Montgomery and Haverstraw are missing. It was the cabin and the two helpings of dessert that did it. Don’t blame us, you wrote the letter. I flunked in Spring Valley and ’phoned home that I was going the limit. Spring Valley went as far as Newburgh with me and refused to go home. New Paltz said he was going straight through. Don’t blame me, it was your letter. You started a pile-up race, not a relay race, Scout Harris. So here we are and _gee-williger_ but we’re hungry. Have you got supper ready?” “Oh absolutely, positively,” said Roy Blakeley stepping forward, “just let’s see that letter a minute will you?” Roy took the famous document from Alton Beech and in the light of his flashlight read aloud the words which had brought this catastrophe down upon our hero’s head: