"So you're all alone in camp, hey? And making your headquarters up here? Nice and cosy, hey? Remote and secluded, eh? That's the stuff for me. I tell my scouts, 'Keep away from civilization.' The further back you get the better. Guess they won't bother you up here much, hey? Regular hermit's den. No, I'm just on a flying visit, that's all. Came to New York on biz, and thought I'd run up and give the place the once over. I might loaf around a week or two if you'll let me. Suppose I _could_ stay until the kids get here, if it comes to that; _my_ kids, I mean. After all it would be just a case of beating it back to Ohio and then beating it back here with them." "You might as well stay here now you're here; I hope you will," Tom said. "As long as you're here I might as well tell you why _I'm_ here, all alone." "Health?" "Kind of, but not exactly," Tom said. "These three cabins, the old ones--that one, and that one, and that one," he added, pointing, "are the ones my troop always had. But I forgot all about it and gave them to your troop. That got them sore at me. Maybe I could have fixed it for them, but that would have left you fellows without any cabins, because all the cabins down below are taken for August. So I came up here to build three more; that way, nobody'll get left. They don't know I'm doing it. I only got about two weeks now. I guess I can't finish because my arm is lame, on account of that wound--_you_ know. And my shoulder is sore. I wanted to go away before they come--I got reasons." His companion raised himself to a sitting posture, clasped his hands over his knees, and glanced about at the disordered scene which shone in the firelight. "So that's what you've been up to, hey?" he said. "When I told you in my letter to address your letters here, that's what I was thinking about," Tom said. "Your troop and my--that other--troop will be good friends, I guess. I'm going home when I get through and I'm going to buy a motor-boat." "Well--I'll--be--jiggered!" his friend said. "Thomas Slade, you're an old hickory-nut." "It was just like two trails," Tom said, "and I hit the long one." "And you're still in the bush, hey? Well, now you listen here. Can I bunk up here with you? All right-o. Then I'm yours for a finished job. Here's my hand. Over the top we go. On July thirty-first, the flag floats over this last cabin. I'm with you, strong as mustard. Building cabins is my favorite sport. You can sit and watch me. I'm here to finish that job with you--what do you say? Comrades to the death?" "You can help," said Tom, smiling. "That's me," said Billy Barnard. CHAPTER XXI TOM'S GUEST