Blackie paused and thought for the first time.
“Well, Gil, it was my leader Wally who sent me. He told me not to tell lies, too, so I thought it was all right.”
“Say, did you ever hear of Santa Claus? Why, for a week now the little, new, green, smart, bright city boys will be looking all over the place for striped paint and the key to the lake. And you fell for it the first thing!”
Gil’s laughter was so deep that Blackie was glad to get back to the shelter of his tent.
Wally greeted him. “So you didn’t find it, eh? Well, that’s all right—don’t be discouraged. You can help me out in another way. Just run down to the dock, will you, and ask if anyone down there has seen the key to the lake?”
“Not on your life, Wally,” grinned Blackie. “Send one of the new fellows down, can’t you?”
The camp bugler, Ted Fellowes, sounded Assembly Call at that moment, and there was no time for further talk before supper. After the Retreat ceremony and the lowering of the flag, the boys attacked the supper that had been prepared in the depths of the kitchen. Blackie had never found a meal that tasted quite so good.
He met the remainder of the boys of Tent Four at the table. Ken Haviland, the tent aide, was busily serving as waiter at one end; he had to run again and again to the serving window for additional platters of ham, potatoes, and turnips, mountains of bread and oceans of milk. Blackie didn’t envy him his job.
Wally had evidently met all the boys in his group. He paused and, between mouthfuls, addressed them.
“There’s one thing that’s worrying me, gentlemen of the famous Tent Four group. There are only seven of us, and there should be eight, counting myself. One of our number has not turned up. I shall call our imposing roll. Haviland!”