On reaching camp, Tom was hailed by that human megaphone, Pee-wee Harris, who advised him in advance that he was wanted in Administration Shack. “There’s a man with a team and there’s a girl and he looks kind of like a cowboy and they want to see you,” Pee-wee shouted breathlessly. In front of Administration Shack stood a team of stout gray horses hitched to an old-fashioned, one-seated buckboard. On the rear part of this were a couple of barrels and several crates apparently full of provisions. On the seat sat a girl of about eighteen holding the reins. She wore a khaki middy blouse, the sleeves of which were rolled up man fashion exposing deeply tanned arms. Her hat was also of khaki and worn with an unconventional tilt backwards. A half dozen or so scouts were standing about this antiquated rig, commenting freely on it and volunteering sage observations to each other as to its history, mission and character. The young lady who sat enthroned upon its seat might have satisfied their frank curiosity on some of these points but she elected to maintain a detached silence. This did not deter the boys from including even her in their speculations. “I bet she came from out west,” one of them said. “I bet they belong in a circus,” another ventured. As Tom approached to enter Administration Shack the girl’s air of studied unconsciousness seemed to become the more intensified. She looked as if she would not have seen Tom even if he had been an elephant. And this notwithstanding that he was far from unpleasing to the eye. As he passed behind the carriage, however, and up the porch, she availed herself of the opportunity for a furtive glimpse of him while his back was turned. As luck would have it he was just swinging around inside the screen door and he caught her, as it were, red handed. So in the acquaintance which was soon to start, poor Tom had at least this first little preliminary triumph. In Administration Shack sat a man who might have been the girl’s father or elder brother; he seemed rather young for the one and old for the other. Tom soon learned that he was her brother. He was a youngish looking man, Tom thought about thirty-three or four, but the fact that he had been for several days unshaved made it difficult to hazard a guess as to his age. He wore a gray flannel shirt and baggy corduroy trousers. He sat in one of the rustic chairs, one leg over the other, and a dilapidated cowboy hat perched upon his knee. He had been talking with Mr. Carleson, the resident trustee and camp executive. Mr. Carleson wore the negligee camping outfit and he was far from being a parlor scout, but by contrast with the visitor he seemed positively nifty in his “roughing-it” attire. The studied protest against civilized formality made by scouting officials was here put to shame by this romantic looking stranger. He must have long since ceased to think of clothes from any point of view to have reached this negligent simplicity.