There was also a second colored man along, who expected to take the team back on the morrow, since the scouts would have no further need of it, once they embarked in the boats that were to meet them here. In these they expected to ascend the Sweetwater to a small lake called Jupiter; and from thence by way of Paradise Creek find a passage to Lake Solitude beyond, where they meant to camp and learn the numerous "stunts" a good scout should know.
Some of the lads had fair voices, and school songs were sung around the fire, Mark doing the accompanying with soft notes on his bugle. He had mastered this instrument, and his mates never wearied of hearing him play.
Ted Burgoyne was afflicted with a slight lisp that gave him no end of trouble; though he always insisted that he spoke as correctly as any of his companions. Ted had a strong leaning toward the profession of a surgeon, and indeed was forever loudly wishing for a subject upon whom to operate. The boys had considerable fun over this weakness, but all the same they must have felt more or less confidence in his ability to do the right thing; for whenever any slight accident occurred it might be noticed that every one in camp called upon "Dr. Ted" to take hold; and he nearly always proved himself equal to the occasion.
Charlie Maxfield, or Chatz as he was universally called, was somewhat of a queer chap. He believed in ghosts, and was always reading stories of hobgoblins and haunted houses. Of course, with such a propensity, Chatz could be depended on to try and frighten his chums from time to time. He was forever "seeing things" in the dark.
The rest of the boys had plenty of fun with Chatz, which he took in good part; but although, as a rule, his alarms proved to be false ones nothing seemed to disturb his deep-rooted convictions. They even said he carried a rabbit's foot, for good luck, the animal having been killed by Chatz himself in a graveyard, and in the full of the moon.
Needless to say Chatz Maxfield was a Southern-born lad, as his accent alone proved. He was a fine fellow, taken as a whole, outside of this silly belief in ghosts, which he possibly imbibed from the small darkies with whom he played on his father's Georgia plantation, years back.
"I don't see any boats around here, fellows!" remarked Ty Collins, when there came a little lull in the conversation, after Mr. Garrabrant had been explaining some puzzling matter that one of the boys had put up to him.
"Why, that's a fact!" exclaimed "Lil Artha," as the long-legged secretary, Arthur Stansbury was called by his mates—he was a devoted amateur photographer, and even then had been busying himself with some part of his equipment as he sat by the fire.
Arthur was keenly desirous of learning all the various kinks that a first class scout must know. He was somewhat of a joker in his way, and at times a little addicted to the use of current slang; but a warm-hearted, impulsive lad all the same.
"They are to be on hand in the morning, boys," remarked Mr. Garrabrant. "And of course we shall not think of leaving here until they come. Make your minds easy on that score, Nat and Jasper. Your heels will have a chance to get well, never fear."