He says that’s the way pioneers wrote. He thinks the word pioneer comes from the word pie. He says that’s the way he writes. No wonder his stories are such black mysteries, that’s what my sister says. He says scouts are supposed to write on birch bark. But believe me, paper is good enough, I tried birch bark. But anyway I like birch beer. I’m crazy about root beer too, only it reminds me of cube root and that reminds me of arithmetic. Maybe you don’t know what cube root is; you’re lucky. Cube root is the number which taken three times as a factor produces a given number called its cube. I should worry. Because anyway this story isn’t about cubes, it’s about rubes and boobs and a lot of things and some roots but no cubes. You get those in school and school is closed up or I wouldn’t be writing this story. Anyway I began this story twice. Gee whiz, I thought I was going to strike out. The first time I started with a long description of Temple Camp, and my father said it made him sleepy. Then after I went camping over Sunday I started again, and coffee came out of my fountain pen, and my sister said that a story like that would keep everybody awake, and I told her that’s more than some stories do. So then I cleaned my fountain pen out and started again, and this is my third start, and my pen’s working fine. Only I’ve got to go downstairs to supper now so I have to end this chapter. My sister says the place to end chapters is just when something very exciting is happening. But my mother says the place to end them is just when the dinner gong sounds. Anyway to-night we’re going to have chocolate pudding and that’s exciting so you’ll be in suspense while I’m eating chocolate pudding and after that I bet you don’t know who you’re going to meet. CHAPTER II ON THE SHELF Mm, _mmm_, that was good! I remind myself of Pee-wee Harris, eating three helpings. Now I’m going to start. When I went up to Temple Camp this summer about the first scout I saw was Hervey Willetts. I guess you know that fellow all right. He comes from Massachusetts—as often as he can. That’s the place he goes away from. I’ll tell you just where he was sitting. You know how the cooking shack is—it’s right at the edge of the lake. Chocolate Drop, he’s cook. He’s a kind of a whitish black. He’s the color of the middle of the night. There’s a big window facing the lake and it’s got a kind of a big board shutter with hinges on top. The first thing in the morning, Chocolate Drop opens that and props it open with a stick so it sticks out like a kind of a shelf.