"I had an application from Ohio yesterday," Tom said; "a three-patrol troop. I gave them the cabins on the hill. They're a season troop." Mr. Burton glanced suddenly at Tom, then began whistling and drumming his fingers on the desk. He seemed on the point of saying something in this connection, but all he did say was, "You find pleasure and relaxation in the work, Tom?" "It's next to camping to be here," Tom said. "Well, that's what I thought," Mr. Burton said encouragingly. "You must go slow and take it easy and pretty soon you'll be fit and trim." "I got to thank you," Tom said with his characteristic blunt simplicity. "I don't know what we should do in the spring rush without your familiar knowledge of the camp, Tom," Mr. Burton said. "I think he thinks more of the office than he does of the scouts," Margaret ventured to observe. She was sitting alongside Mr. Burton's desk awaiting his leisure, and Tom was standing awkwardly close by. "I suppose it's because they don't grow fast enough," Mr. Burton laughed; "they can't keep up with him. To my certain knowledge young Peewee, as they call him, hasn't grown a half an inch in two years. It isn't because he doesn't eat, either, because I observed him personally when I visited camp." "Oh, he eats _terrifically_," Margaret said. "I like the troop better than anything else," Tom said. "Well, I guess that's right, Tom," Mr. Burton observed; "old friends are the best." He gathered up an armful of papers and handed them to Tom who went about his duties. The day was long and the routine work tedious. The typewriter machine rattled drowsily and continuously on, telling troops here and there that they could have camp accommodations on this or that date. Tom pored over the big map, jotting down assignments and stumblingly dictated brief letters which Miss Ellison's readier skill turned out in improved form. He was sorry that it was not Friday so that he might go to troop meeting that night. It was only Tuesday and so there were three long, barren nights ahead of him, and to him they seemed like twenty nights. All the next day he worked, making a duplicate of the big map for use at the camp, but his fingers were not steady and the strain was hard upon his eyes. He went home (if a hall-room in a boarding house may be called home) with a splitting headache. On Wednesday he worked on the map and made the last assignment of tent accommodations. Temple Camp was booked up for the season. It was going to be a lively summer up there, evidently. One troop was coming all the way from Idaho--to see Peewee Harris eat pie, perhaps. I can't think for what other reason they would have made such a journey. "And _you_ will live in the pavilion in all your glory, won't you?" Margaret teased him. "I suppose you'll be very proud to be assistant to Uncle Jeb. I don't suppose you'll notice poor _me_ if I come up there." "I'll take you for a row on the lake," Tom said. That was saying a good deal, for _him_.