The Scot, indeed, relaxing from prim silence and chauffeur ceremony here upon the Pinnacle's height, with only two young girls to marshal instead of the mechanism of lever and brake--although the former, as he had found to his cost might prove the worse handful of the two--was alternately whistling, with lips drily pursed, and crooning in the burr-like accents which adhered like a thistle to his tongue, his version of a very old song: "Young lassie! Daft lassie, I tell ye the noo, I'm keepin' some fagots, An' a stick, too, for you! "Singing whack fol de ri do! De ri do! "A lassie, a dog, And an auld rowan tree, The mair that you thwacks 'em, The better they be!" "'Thwacks 'em!' Pshaw! he's flinging that in my direction--having a fling at me--for sitting in the Devil's Chair," laughed Pem, but the laughter was bitter, two-edged. "Oh! Una," she burst forth shakily, "as long--as long's ever I live, I'll wish I hadn't done it, letting--letting that Jack at a Pinch, as he called himself, that big, boorish boy, play friend in need to me-e again. Ugh-h!" Her stung lips quivered and were twisted, partly upon the after-taste of terror. "Humph! forget it--oh-h! forget it," caroled the younger girl. "See that you don't make a trouble out of it, for trouble is a hor-rid kettle-o'-fish for the troublers--see!... But--listen! Listen! Surely that's singing--singing from somewhere--_other_ singing!" She paused on tiptoe, a green dryad, one little hand, fair as a flower-petal, curled about her startled ear. But Pem was for the moment comfort-proof. "Bah! 'Tisn't quite so easy to forget," she murmured, bitterly. Her less fragile fists were mounted one upon another under her chin as if to hold her head up. For the first time in her life she felt as if she were being asked to drink a cup of humiliation--she, Toandoah's little pal--and she made wry faces over even a sip. "Humph! Doesn't it seem queer--queer--outlandish?" she snapped, bolstering the piqued head higher with each passionate adjective. "Here for three months, ever since February--since I recovered consciousness after that freezing wreck--I've been longing, oh! longing to meet again the boy whose chaff, whose very chaff, warmed one amid the horrors.... You didn't hear it; you were too far gone. And, _now_!" The little fists lashed out. "Bah! Who could ev-er dream that he'd turn out such a 'chuff', as the boys say--an un-civ-il chuff?... Una! it's never--it isn't, it can't be Camp Fire Girls?" "It is! It is! I told you I heard singing." The answer was shrill with delight as the wiry note of the little black-poll warbler, nesting near. "Why! Why! Goodness! That's what I hurled at _him_; at his crowing, cock-a-hoop back!" The older girl's face softened, melted into whimsicality now,--into a freakish surprise that encircled, like a golden ring, her wide-open mouth.