“And the other--the sound up above the well?” “I think you imagined that,” said Tom; “the wind was blowing the bushes, though maybe at that---- _Listen!_” They both paused, speechless. There was the sound of footsteps approaching the door. CHAPTER XXIV—Alias Spiff Tom and Brent stared at each other. The footfalls approached nearer and nearer, sounding clear upon the brittle underbrush which obscured the beaten track to the door; clear as footsteps on a pavement, as the driving wind which rattled the door and window, bore the sound to the cabin. Just as the sound ceased, Brent drawled in his usual half-interested manner, “Come in, the place is yours.” Tom, however, jumped to his feet, fully prepared, watching the door keenly, intently. His attitude said that he was ready and not to be taken unawares. The door opened and a small boy in a heavy collared gray sweater entered. He was a redheaded boy with the usual accompaniment of freckles and he had a black smear at one end of his mouth. He might have been fourteen, certainly not older than that. He wore khaki trousers and indeed the whole part of him that projected below the all-embracing sweater showed him to be a Scout of the Scouts. He had, what seems often to be found in company with red hair and freckles, a little round nose which somehow bespoke an impudent self-possession. “_Well--I’ll--be--hanged!_” Tom exploded. “How do you do, sweater?” said Brent, eyeing him whimsically. “I got lost,” said the boy. “Been roasting potatoes?” Tom asked, sniffing. “Yop. I got a smutch?” said the boy, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve. “The smutch is now on your sweater,” Brent said. “If you’ll take the sweater off, we’ll be able to see who we’re talking to.” “How’d you know I was roasting potatoes?” the boy demanded. “I tell by the smutch and by the smell,” said Tom, helping him off with the sweater. “That’s right, it’s warm in here.” “I ain’t scared of cold,” said the boy. “You smell like a bonfire,” said Tom. “Have you been roasting potatoes around here anywhere?” “Back there in the woods--I seen a light here.” “And did you stamp the fire out?” “I jumped all over it.” “Good, let’s see your feet--your shoes. That’s fine. You sure you stamped it all out? Regular--like a Scout.” “I got no use for those guys,” said the boy aggressively. “So? But you’re sure you put the fire out? You’re for the woods even if you’re not for the scouts, hey?” Tom said pleasantly. “Give him something to eat,” said Brent. “The potatoes all fell off the stick, didn’t they?” “I only had two.” “And about all you got was a smutch,” said Tom. “A kid, a bonfire, a stick, and a potato--and no nourishment, hey? They go good in stories though, don’t they?” “I got no use for stories,” said the boy unabashed. “They ain’t true. I got no use for Scouts either.” “Sit down and eat some beans and some bacon and explain all that,” said Tom.