“It isn’t true that the place is haunted, is it?” was another question. “That colored cook you have says their ghosts come here in the dead of night.” “Chocolate Drop?” Tom would smile. “Oh, you’re likely to hear all sorts of things from him.” On the way back through the woods, Tom would usually be more communicative. “You know scouts have to do good turns, don’t you? Well, if any scout does six good turns, _big ones_, that are passed on by the trustees, he can live there for the rest of the summer and invite one other boy to spend the summer there with him. See? Provisions for two are sent up from cooking shack—the kids have no expenses. You see it’s a memorial of one great big good turn that didn’t work out, and of the friendship those two fellows had for each other. “Let’s see, this summer it wasn’t occupied at all. Last summer a scout from Boston was up there and he invited a poor little shaver from his home town to share it with him. They lived on beans, those two. Did their own cooking mostly. Summer before that, let’s see—nobody. You see a scout has got to put over six big ones, then after that he’s got to be a _friend to one particular_ fellow. He has to be host. Pretty good idea, huh? Private cabin, stationery, all primeval inconveniences, and everybody coming up with kodaks to take their pictures.” “Oh, I should think it would be _bliss_ living there,” one girl remarked after a visit to the hallowed spot, “and the idea of two’s a company, I think that’s just _wonderful_.” “That’s the idea,” said Tom as they followed the trail down. “Friendship means just two, don’t you think?” the girl asked, edging her way into a line of talk which girls delight in. “Just two, alone, together. Isn’t the idea _sweet_? _Friendship!_” “That’s the dope,” said Tom. “And is any one going to live there next summer?” “Oh goodness, yes,” laughed Tom; “very muchly. I suppose I ought to be very proud, he’s a scout from my own home town in New Jersey.” “Isn’t that _wonderful_! And he did six _heroic deeds_?” “Good turns,” said Tom; “real ones. He specializes on those. He eats them raw.” “Oh, and who is he going to invite up?” “Now you’ve got me,” said Tom. “All I know is he sprang six stunts and went home with the Carlson-Bates certificate. He can invite whoever he pleases. He usually blows in about the Fourth of July; he goes off on the Fourth, they say home in Bridgeboro.” “I should think you _would_ be proud,” the girl said. “Is he tall?” “Tall? Oh yes, he’s about six feet three inches or three feet six inches, I forget which. But he’s a great hero, in fact, he’s eight or ten heroes.” “I never know whether to believe you or not,” the girl said. “Will you tell me his name?” “Positively,” said Tom. “His name is Harris—Walter Harris.”