“Well, at last,” murmured Harry, “we’re engineers in earnest. That is,” he added rather wistfully, “if we last.” “We’ve got to last,” replied Tom in a low voice, hardly above a whisper, “and we’re going to. Harry, we’ve left behind us the playtime of boyhood, and we’re beginning real life! But in that playtime we learned how to play real football. From now on we’ll apply all of the best and most strenuous rules of football to the big art of making a living and a reputation. Good night, old fellow! Dream of the folks back in Gridley. I’m going to.” “And of the chums at West Point and Annapolis,” gaped Hazelton. “God bless them!” That was not the only short prayer sent up, but within five minutes both youngsters had fallen sound asleep. The man who can sleep as they did, when the head touches the pillow, has many successes still ahead of him! Nor did they worry about not waking in season in the morning. Slim Morris had promised to see to it that they were awake on time. Slam! Bump! Tom Reade was positive he had not been asleep more than a minute when that rude interruption came. He awoke to find himself scrambling up from the ground. Tom had his eyes open in time to see Harry Hazelton hit the ground with force. Then Slim Morris retreated to the doorway of the tent. “Are you fellows going to sleep until pay days” Slim demanded jovially. Tom hustled into his clothes, reached the doorway of the tent and found the sun already well up in the skies. “The boys are sitting down to breakfast,” called Slim over his shoulder. “Want any?” “_Do_ I want any?” mocked Tom. He had laid out his khaki clothing the night before, and was now in it, save for his khaki jacket, which he caught up on his arm as he raced along toward the wash bench. Nor had he gone very far with the soap and water when Harry Hazelton was beside him. “Tom, Tom!” breathed Harry in ecstacy. “Do you blame people for loving the Rocky Mountains? This grand old mountain air is food and drink---almost.” “It may be for you. I want some of the real old camp chuck---plenty of it,” retorted Reade, drawing a pocket comb out and running it through his damp locks while he gazed into the foot-square camp mirror hanging from a tree. “May we come in?” inquired Tom, pausing in the doorway of the engineers’ mess tent. “Not if you’re in doubt about it,” replied Mr. Blaisdell, who was already eating with great relish. The boys slid into their seats, while Bob rapidly started things their way. How good it all tasted! Bacon and fried eggs, corn bread and potatoes, coffee and a big dish of that time-honored standby in engineers’ camp---baked beans. Then, just as Tom and Harry, despite their appetites, sat back filled, Bob appeared with a plate of flapjacks and a pitcher of molasses. “Ten minutes of six,” observed Mr. Blaisdell, consulting his watch as he finished. “Not much more time, gentlemen.” Tom and Harry followed the assistant engineer out into the open.