That night he lay long awake, trying to think of some possible method, but his efforts were not very successful. He still had his paper-route, but the money from that went mostly into the family treasury. He might, and probably would, get some odd jobs during the next two weeks, but there was only grass cutting, now, or weeding gardens, and neither of these chores was particularly well paid in Hillsgrove.
On the whole the outlook was distinctly discouraging, and for the next few days Dale had a struggle to maintain his usual cheerfulness. For months he had looked forward to camp as the supreme culmination of a more than usually happy year.
“It doesn’t seem as if I could give it up!” he muttered rebelliously at the end of a day which had brought him just twenty cents for a laborious weeding job. “Oh, gee! If I’d only started to save for it sooner, I–” He broke off and bit his lips. Presently a crooked smile struggled defiantly through the gloom. “Oh, thunder!” he exclaimed whimsically. “Quit your grouching, Dale Tompkins. If you’re going to let a little matter like earning ten dollars stand between you and a corking good time, you’re no kind of a scout at all.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE ACCIDENT
It was on Thursday morning that Mr. Curtis sent for Dale, and in spite of his suspicions the boy brightened a little as he entered the scoutmaster’s study and noticed the smile on the latter’s face.
“Well, Dale,” began Mr. Curtis, cheerily, “I’ve been puzzling my brains over that problem of yours ever since Monday night, and yesterday the answer was fairly thrust on me.”
The boy pricked up his ears doubtfully. “What is it, sir?” he asked quickly.
“Bird-houses. You’re our prize carpenter, and I know you made a number of them in the spring. Now–”
“Bird-houses!” interrupted the boy, incredulously. “Bird-houses at the end of June! Why, who–I’ll bet you’re making–”
He broke off abruptly, biting his lips. Mr. Curtis did not seem offended. In fact, he merely chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.