In the tent Tom and Harry were putting in some of the last taps of the hammer. They had made a very creditable job of the flooring. It was now five o'clock. Dick & Co. had worked so briskly that they were now somewhat tired.
It had been an exciting day. They had left Gridley in the forenoon, journeying for an hour and a half on the train. Arriving at Porter the boys had eaten luncheons brought along with them. Then they had hunted up a farmer, had bargained with him to haul their stuff and then had tramped out to their camping place.
But the camp looked as though bound to prove a success. It was their camp, anyway, and they were happy.
"I'm glad enough of one thing," murmured Dick as he rested, mopping his brow.
"I'm glad of several things I can think of," rejoined Darry.
"The thing I refer to," chuckled Prescott, "is Fred Ripley."
"It never occurred to me to feel glad about Ripley," muttered
Tom dryly.
"I mean, I'm glad that he has gone to Canada with his father this summer," Dick continued. "We shan't have a lot of things happening all the time, as we did last summer. Rip was a hoodoo to us last summer. This year we know that he's too far away to be troublesome."
"It will seem a bit strange, at first," assented Reade, "to return to our camp and not discover that, while we were away, Rip had been along and slashed the tent to ribbons, or committed some other atrocious act."
"Let's not crow until we're out of the woods," suggested Darrin.
"Rip might come back from Canada, you know."