It wasn't at all an easy thing for some of them to do. In boys like Ranny Phelps, who loathed "grubbing with a hoe" and had never had the slightest experience in farming, it was something almost akin to heroism. But not one of them shirked or backed down. Within a week they were all placed, and, from that time on, blistered hands, weary backs, and aching muscles were the order of the day. As Ranny once expressed it,--airily, but with an underlying touch of seriousness,--the only bright spots in the week were Sunday, when they could sleep late, and the two afternoons they were let off at four o'clock to practise for the rally. They made the most of those brief hours. In good weather the drill took place in a pasture belonging to old Mr. Grimstone, after which they enjoyed a refreshing plunge in the lake, and generally ended up with supper in the cabin. When he had time, which wasn't often, Mr. Curtis joined them. Usually Ranny Phelps was in charge, and whenever they could they carried off Mr. Grimstone for supper. It was on one of these latter occasions, as they sat out on the bank of the lake after supper, that Frank Sanson suddenly voiced a feeling which was present, more or less often, in the breast of every scout in the troop. "Mr. Grimstone," he said abruptly, "I don't suppose you realize what a dandy thing you did when you gave us this place. I don't know what we'd do without it now; do you, fellows?" There was an emphatic chorus of agreement which brought a touch of color into the old man's leathery, tanned face and made him shuffle his feet uneasily. Then suddenly he raised his eyes and there was a twinkle in them. "It ain't me you ought to thank," he said abruptly. "It's that Dale boy there; he's to blame." "Dale Tompkins!" exclaimed several surprised voices at once. "Why, what's he got to do with it?" "Most everything," returned Grimstone, briefly. "It was him that brought out my dinner last Thanksgivin', an cooked it, an' et it with me. That's what give me a new idea of you boys, an' nothin' else." An astonished silence followed, broken presently by a low whistle from Mr. Curtis. "Well, what do you know about that," he murmured. "A good turn come home to roost!" But no one heard him, for the whole crowd, as one boy, had pounced on Tompkins and was pummeling him and rolling him about over the ground to the accompaniment of shouts and laughter and jocular, approving comment. Glancing sidewise at Caleb Grimstone, the scoutmaster's eyes widened with surprise and sudden comprehension. The old man's gaze was fixed on the flushed, laughing face of the kicking, protesting victim. His own brown face glowed; his stern, tight lips were relaxed in a smile which was almost tender. CHAPTER XXX THE SILVER CROSS