"All of us do," Dick admitted.
"Thought so," chuckled the farmer. "That's why I was interested in you. I saw the Thanksgiving game at Gridley last year. Great game nervy lot of boys, with all their sand about them. There was one fellow in particular, I remember, who broke doctor's orders and jumped into the game at the last minute. He saved the game for Gridley, I heard. I'd like to shake hands with him."
"Then here's your chance, sir," laughed Dave, shoving Dick forward.
"Mr. Dick Prescott, Gridley High School."
"My name's Dobbins," smiled the farmer, extending his hand. "Glad to meet you, Prescott. I thought it was you all the time. Mebbe the young man with you is Darrin."
"Yes," laughed Dick, and there was more handshaking.
"I hope I'll see the rest of your friends when you pass in the morning," said the farmer cordially.
"Hiram—-supper!" called a shrill voice from The doorway.
"Coming, mother! Boys, it does one good to meet the right sort of fellows once in a while. Enjoy the woods in your own way, won't you?"
"That man is right. As he says, it does one good to meet the right sort of fellow once in a while—-and he's the right sort," declared Darry fervently, as the chums trudged back to their outfit.
Camp was pitched, and supper was soon under way. When it was all over, and everything cleaned up, Dick looked about him at his friends.