“I’ll go down and get them,” Westy said; “you sit down and rest. What you been doing all morning? I thought we’d see you sooner.” “Oh, swimming and playing basketball and reading,” said Artie. “Boy, but you’re getting along, hey?” “I’ll say so,” said Westy. “What were you reading?” “Oh, a book.” Westy laughed. “That’s a wise crack. What kind of a book?” “‘Winning of the West,’ by Roosevelt,” said Artie, with a slight suggestion of embarrassment. “It’s in the camp library. I just happened to pick one of the volumes up. That’s so, when you write to me from the Rockies, I’ll know what you’re writing about.” “Maybe I won’t write you,” said Westy rather mysteriously. Uncle Jeb winked at Artie and all three laughed; Artie’s laughter had that faint suggestion of embarrassment in it that had been discernible when he mentioned the subject of the book he had been reading. The fact is that Westy had every intention of asking Artie to share his great adventure with him, but he had said nothing about this. That was because the shadow of his father lay across the whole affair. He was a careful, thoughtful boy and he preferred not to say anything to his friend which he might have to unsay later. But just the same there was a tacit understanding (and Artie was a party to it) that these three would be the ones to visit the Far West. Perhaps Artie was a bit puzzled that Westy had not put his invitation into words. But he was just as sure of going as ever he had been sure of anything in his life. To change the subject he laughed and said, “All right, go ahead down to the boat and get the muffins and look out you don’t drop them coming up; they’ll all roll back down into the lake if you do.... All right to sit down on this rock?” he asked Uncle Jeb as Westy departed. Uncle Jeb sat down on a log and opened the dinner pail which he usually carried with him. “Some trail, hey?” said Artie, glancing about. “Good ’n’ plain so even boy scouts can foller it,” said Uncle Jeb. “Westy wants street lamps onto it, but I says no, you youngsters can shout across ter camp if yer get lost.” “Oh, sure,” said Artie, taking the gibe in good part; “but maybe a sidewalk would be good, hey? You like bean soup, Uncle Jeb?” “I reckon,” said the old scout. Artie had leaned forward to pour some of the soup into the cover of Uncle Jeb’s pail when he felt a stirring of the rock on which he was seated. It was hardly more than a tremor, but it was followed almost immediately by a more pronounced jarring. He thought and acted quickly. Jumping up he hauled a small log around and got it under the rock, thus steadying it in its precarious position on the hillside. Uncle Jeb hauled the log on which he had seated himself over to the rock to reënforce the prop that Artie had jammed under it. The heavy rock stirred, then seemed to settle against this combined support and for a few seconds did not move. “Guess she’s all right,” said Artie. “I prefer another seat though.”