“What’s that noise?” demanded Harry, trying to peer around the corner of their tent without rising.
“The field gang coming in, I think,” answered Tom.
“Let’s get up, then, and have a look at our future mates,” suggested Harry Hazelton.
“No; I don’t believe it would be a good plan,” said Tom. “We might be thought fresh if we betrayed too much curiosity before the crowd shows some curiosity about us.”
“Reade!” sounded Blaisdell’s voice, five minutes later. “Bring your friend over and inspect this choice lot of criminals.”
Tom rose eagerly, followed by Harry. As they left the tent and hurried outside they beheld two rows of men, each before a long bench on which stood agate wash basins. The toilet preceding the evening meal was on.
“Gentlemen,” announced Mr. Blaisdell, as the two chums drew near, “I present two new candidates for fame. One is named Reade, the other Hazelton. Take them to your hearts, but don’t, at first, teach them all the wickedness you know. Reade, this is Jack Rutter, the spotted hyena of the camp. If he ever gets in your way just push him over a cliff.”
A pleasant-faced young man in khaki hastily dried his face and hands on a towel, then smilingly held out his right hand.
“Glad to know you, Reade,” he laughed. “Hope you’ll like us and decide to stay.”
“Hazelton,” continued the announcer, “shake hands with Slim Morris, whether he’ll let you or not. And here’s Matt Rice. We usually call him ‘Mister’ Rice, for he’s extremely talented. He knows how to play the banjo.”