The spot was a pleasant loitering place as was evidenced by the many carved initials on the bench and the post. No part of the camp was visible from this spot though sometimes a little glint of silvery water was discoverable through the trees. But at night two distinct glowing areas could be seen from the wayside seat. Many a new scout had been fooled by these. It was one of the popular jokes of camp to take a new arrival up to the road at night, and then send him forth to find the northern-most glow, which was only the reflection of the camp-fire in the distant lake. Even so good a scout as Bert Winton, who was a Vermont Eagle, had gone hiking down into the dark woods in search of this fire and had gone clear around the camp and come out up at the end of the lake where Tenderfoot Cove is, only to see the glow reduced to a little glinting patch on the water. The boy who was not a scout had come along the road looking for the camp. At Leeds, the nearest village, he had been told where to turn down into the woods. But now that he had reached the spot he hesitated, for the two bright areas down there in the woods told him that the camp people were still about. It was his intention to enter the camp unseen. He was very weary and was not averse to sitting on the bench and waiting. Now and then he glanced furtively up and down the dark road as if fearful that he might be discovered, and once when an auto sped by, throwing a momentary glare over the spot, he cringed and breathed quickly. He was about sixteen, this boy, and tall of stature with a litheness about him which suggested the cautious stealth of an animal. His eyes were gray and large, but he kept them half closed and used them with a kind of darting agility. When he arose and stepped across the road for a better look at the glowing areas, there was a certain elasticity in his step, a silent springiness, very suggestive of wild life and extraordinarily graceful. He laid his hands against his hips and narrowed his eyes in studious concentration on those distant spots of light. It was a fine, unconscious posture. The path of least resistance for a boy's hands at this moment would have been his trousers pockets, but the trousers worn by this boy had no pockets. They were gingham trousers and afforded their wearer not one single carrying facility. This boy had grown used to pocketless trousers and accustomed himself to that picturesque way of standing with his hands against his hips.