Of course no one suspected him of trying to steal. He had just had a glimpse of a little nocturnal game that was popular in camp. Whoever could remove this pennant was welcome to it and might plant it in front of his patrol cabin. These midnight raids were very common and not infrequently successful. Our stealthy visitor had chanced to pause before the pennant cabin. He now came to the main body of the camp and saw the whole expanse of the dark lake with the great bulk of wooded hills beyond. He glanced about at the cluster of rustic buildings, the main pavilion, the storehouse and cooking shack, the "eats" pavilion, Administration Shack. Cautiously (for now he was fearful of the slightest sound) he approached the lake and stood on the float looking off across the black water. Close by him the rocking boats knocked one against another; there was the metallic sound of clanking oar-locks now and then. How strange seemed all these evidences of life when deserted and wrapped in darkness! The diving board pointed out into the lake like a big, ghostly finger. Slanting upward as it did, it seemed to be pointing at the precipitous hills across the lake which cast their inverted shadow in the water, making the dark surface still darker. At night there seemed always to be two shades of blackness on that enclosed lake, caused by the vast shadow of the rugged heights beyond. Scouts had tried to row out to where this deeper gloom in the water began, but they could never find it. The prowling stranger examined one of the boats to see if it was locked. He lifted the chain as gingerly as one would handle a snake. No, the boats were not locked. He might take one, if he could find the oars, and row across and baffle pursuit among those wilderness-clad hills. He could push the boat back into the lake again and they would just think it had drifted away from its mooring. He was altogether too clever, this strange boy. But just now he had business in the camp; then he would consider how best to proceed on his fugitive way. This was a ticklish matter that he had now to transact. Then all would be well. So far he believed he had done well--if you call it doing well to do what he had done. At least good luck had smiled upon him. He must now find the camp-fire spot. From this point (according to the only hint he had) he would see a hill and up that hill _to the left_, would be the Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. But how to find and awaken a particular sleeper in that group was a puzzle. If these boy scouts (he called them boy scouts notwithstanding that he was himself a boy) were all like the one who had appeared in the cabin doorway, he would have to practice super-human stealth. He could do that. He had, in perverted form, every physical quality dear to scouting.