It was just like him not to bother about chaining the boat. “_Hurry up!_” he shouted. “_Hurry up, come ahead, there’s a call for help!_” He did not pause to see if any followed. Like a madman he ran headlong up the road to his own camp where he lived discredited. They were getting ready for camp fire (a pleasure he eschewed) and he alighted among them like a meteor out of the sky. “_Come ahead, everybody!_” he fairly screamed. “There were four--black--smokes like--in--over there in the sky. It means help!” “I guess not,” said the camp manager. “Four--col--columns,” Spiffy panted; “it means help.” Spiffy’s prestige in camp was not strong enough to win him much attention. “It would be a lot of little puffs then,” said the young camp manager. “Or four dots, and one dot, and a dot and a dash and two dots, and a dot and two dashes and one dot,” said a scout, who certainly knew the Morse code off-hand. “That’s what means help around here, if you know how to spell.” Spiffy glared at him in mounting rage. And he said something which I think is worth recording. “What difference does it make what it means here?” he fairly roared. “It’s what it means over there that counts. I’m not asking _you_ or anybody else what it means _because I know_! I’m asking you if you’re going to answer a call for help. Come ahead, those that are coming. You can come, too, if you want to,” he added, addressing the camp manager. [Illustration: TOM SHOT ANOTHER DENSE PILLAR OF BLACKNESS INTO THE MOONLIT SKY.] A few straggled after him, smiling, doubting. And others followed after those few. These last would not have admitted that they were following Spiffy. They did not rally about him as he sped into the night; they straggled along, laughing among themselves. One said that Spiffy had been seeing things, and this created a chorus of laughter. I can’t tell you how glad I am that the young camp manager went. He hurried along with the others, the big boy who knew the Morse code so well running at his side. In the intervals of his panting he said, “When’s he going home, anyway?” “To-morrow, I guess--poor kid,” the young manager panted. Yes, I am glad that those two went along; I wouldn’t have had them miss it for anything.... CHAPTER XXXV—The Knock-Out Into the Hawkeye Spoke Trail he sped, hatless, abandoned. And they followed, not because they trusted him, but because he seemed possessed. At least they would see the fun of an anti-climax. Over the edge of Pine Hill he sped and across the Sloatsburg road and past Breakneck Pond and into the valley. He had picked his way at night before, the unruly little rascal, and he knew his ground now. No one asked him where he was going, but the moon beyond the signal hill smiled upon him and guided him.