In both of these portraits the boys seemed to be looking straight at the beholder, and it was customary when showing a visitor over this tiny, hallowed reservation, to ask him to guess which of the two pictures was that of the would-be rescuer. There was nothing on either picture or anywhere else about the spot which hinted at this, for the place was as much a memorial to friendship as to heroism. Outside was another rough fireplace, also built of field stone, and intended for cooking. The Carlson-Bates Memorial was everything that a rustic abode for two scouts should be. Money had not been spared to make it so, but care had been taken that the power of money should not overstep itself by making the place pretentious and modern. Over the fireplace, between the portraits, was a rough-hewn board in which were burned the familiar words which had a certain pathos there, TWO’S A COMPANY. On the center table were writing paper and envelopes, appropriately coarse and ragged on the edges, bearing the heading: CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL TEMPLE CAMP Two’s a Company Down at camp there was a rough sign on one of the trees with an arrow pointing; TO CARLSON-BATES MEMORIAL, it read. You followed a beaten path up through the woods, across a little brook, to a spot as dim and solemn and remote as any hermit’s cave. And there you were. Visitors, whose casual expectations had pictured a marble monument, were wont to pause in silent astonishment on reaching the spot. Girls usually said they could live there for the rest of their lives. Tom Slade, camp assistant, who usually took visitors to the quaint little outpost, would snap his fingers at the squirrels and whistle at the birds while the others gazed about captivated and enraptured. Sometimes a squirrel would scurry up his khaki trousers and perch upon his shoulder and he would tease it with some morsel or other while he answered questions. “Is it ever occupied?” visitors would ask. “Oh yes, sometimes, but a scout has got to go some to win the privilege,” Tom would answer. Then to the squirrel he would say in his offhand way, “How ’bout that, Pete?” “And does he live here all alone?” they would ask. “No, he can invite a friend to stay all summer with him here. Can’t he, Pete? Two’s a company, read that? Only the friend must be some one who isn’t at camp. Pete usually steals all their food from them. Don’t you, Pete?” “And which is the one who tried to rescue the other?” would be another query as the visitor gazed about. “You’re not supposed to ask that,” Tom would laugh. “But it _must_ be _known_,” a girl was almost sure to ask. “Oh, it’s known,” Tom would say. “Danny, that one on the left, he was the boy. But they were friends, that’s the point, hey, Pete?” he would inquire of the squirrel.