On the rock where Gordon was accustomed to leave his printing frame were graven the initials “G. L.,” for he seldom identified himself with any place without carving his initials somewhere about; and so completely had he taken possession of this sun-scorched hill that the troop had dubbed it “Kid’s Perch.”
Harry saw him plodding up the hill, and went after him.
“Hello, old man,” he said, as he came up to the rock.
“Hello,” said Gordon, coldly.
Harry stood for a moment, half-puzzled, half-amused. Then he stepped up, slapping him on the shoulder in his familiar way. Gordon turned resentfully.
“What’s the matter, Kid?” Harry asked, his voice serious and full of feeling.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?” said Gordon.
“No, Kid, but what’s the matter? Can’t you tell me?”
“The matter is I don’t want to be followed—now are you satisfied?”
“No, Kid, I’m not. I want to know what’s the matter, old boy. I can’t go down to camp-fire with things this way—you can’t, either.”