The camp had been moved forward, so as to leave the sick men about a fifth of a mile away from the scenes of camp activity. This insured quiet for them until they were able to endure noise once more.
“You’ll be amazingly busy until the president gets here, I take it,” remarked Bushrod, another college boy, without glancing up from his drawing table.
“Yes,” drawled Tom, with a smile. “When you get time to breathe look out of the door and see what I’m doing.”
Tom walked over to his favorite seat, a reclining camp chair that he had placed under a broad shade tree. Seating himself, the cub chief opened a novel that he had borrowed from one of the college boys.
“It looks lazy,” yawned Tom, “but what can I do? I’ve hustled the corps, but I’m up with them to the last minute of work they’ve done. There is nothing more I can do until they bring me more work. I might ride out and see how the fellows are coming along in the field, but I was out there yesterday, and I know all they’re doing, and everyone of their problems. Besides, if I rode afield, I’d miss Mr. Newnham.”
So he opened the book and read for an hour. Then he glanced up as a stranger on horseback rode into camp.
“Tell me where I can find Mr. Reade,” said the new arrival.
“You’re looking at hire,” Tom replied.
“No, son; I want your father,” explained the horseman.
“If you go on horseback it will take you months to reach him,” Tom explained. “My father lives ’way back east.”