"No, and I don't care. He was picked up by the people in the bus, and if it hadn't been for that I suppose I'd be answerable to his parents for his death. He was very insolent to me." "He didn't say----" "Oh, no, he didn't say anything. He assumed an air of boyish independence; I don't know that I hold that against him." "But he didn't tell you where he had been--or anything?" "Why, no. I had no desire to hear that. His fault was in _starting_. It made no difference where he went." "Oh." For a few seconds Tom said nothing, only drummed with his fingers on the edge of the cot on which he sat. "This is a big surprise to me," he finally said. "It is a very regrettable circumstance to me," said Mr. Denny. There ensued a few seconds more of silence. The boys outside could be heard starting for supper. Tom was the first to speak. "Of course you won't think I'm trying to butt in, Mr. Denny, but there's a rule that the camp can call on all its people in an emergency. The first year the camp opened we had a bad fire here and every kid in the place was set to work. After that they made a rule. Sometimes things have to be done in a hurry. I took Hervey and a couple of others across the lake, because I knew something serious had happened over there. I think I had a right to do that. But there's something else. Hervey didn't tell you everything. You said you didn't want him to." "He has never told me everything. I had always been in the dark concerning him. This tomato throwing makes me rather ashamed, too." "Yes," said Tom, "that's bad. But will you listen to me if I tell you the whole of that story--the whole business? I've been away from camp all day. I only got here fifteen minutes ago. I know Hervey's a queer kid--hard to understand. I don't know why he didn't speak out----" "Why, it was because I told him it wouldn't make any difference," said Mr. Denny, a bit nettled. "The important point was known to me and that was that he disobeyed me. I don't think we can gain anything by talking this over, Slade." "Then you won't listen to me, Mr. Denny?" "I don't think it would be any use." Tom paused a moment. He was just a bit nettled, too. Then he stood. And then, just in that brief interval, his lips tightened and his mouth looked just as it used to look in the old hoodlum days--rugged, strong. The one saving, hopeful feature which Mr. Ellsworth, his old scoutmaster, had banked upon then in that sooty, unkempt countenance. They were the lips of a bulldog: "All right, Mr. Denny," he said respectfully. CHAPTER XXII ACTION Tom strode down to the messboards which, in pleasant weather, were out under the trees. He seemed not at all angry; there was a kind of breezy assurance in his stride and manner. As he reached the messboards where some of the scouts were already seated on the long benches, several noticed this buoyancy in his demeanor. "H'lo, kiddo," he said to Pee-wee Harris as he passed and ruffled that young gourmand's hair.