"Health?"
"Kind of, but not exactly," Tom said. "These three cabins, the old ones—that one, and that one, and that one," he added, pointing, "are the ones my troop always had. But I forgot all about it and gave them to your troop. That got them sore at me. Maybe I could have fixed it for them, but that would have left you fellows without any cabins, because all the cabins down below are taken for August. So I came up here to build three more; that way, nobody'll get left. They don't know I'm doing it. I only got about two weeks now. I guess I can't finish because my arm is lame, on account of that wound—you know. And my shoulder is sore. I wanted to go away before they come—I got reasons."
His companion raised himself to a sitting posture, clasped his hands over his knees, and glanced about at the disordered scene which shone in the firelight. "So that's what you've been up to, hey?" he said.
"When I told you in my letter to address your letters here, that's what I was thinking about," Tom said. "Your troop and my—that other—troop will be good friends, I guess. I'm going home when I get through and I'm going to buy a motor-boat."
"Well—I'll—be—jiggered!" his friend said. "Thomas Slade, you're an old hickory-nut."
"It was just like two trails," Tom said, "and I hit the long one."
"And you're still in the bush, hey? Well, now you listen here. Can I bunk up here with you? All right-o. Then I'm yours for a finished job. Here's my hand. Over the top we go. On July thirty-first, the flag floats over this last cabin. I'm with you, strong as mustard. Building cabins is my favorite sport. You can sit and watch me. I'm here to finish that job with you—what do you say? Comrades to the death?"
"You can help," said Tom, smiling.
"That's me," said Billy Barnard.