"I got a right to say he's my visitor, haven't I?" Tom asked, without any attempt at hinting. "'Cause I knew him, as you might say, over in France. We catch fish in the brook and we don't use the camp stores much."
"Wall, naow, I wouldn' call this bein' in the camp at all; not yet, leastways," Uncle Jeb said, including the stranger in his shrewd, friendly glance. "Tommy, here, is a privileged character, as the feller says. En your troop's coming later, hain't they? I reckon we won't put you down on the books. You jes stay here with Tommy till he gets his chore done. You're visitin' him ez I see it. Nobody's a goin' ter bother yer up here."
So there was one troublesome matter settled to Tom's satisfaction. He had wanted to consider Barnard as his particular guest on their hillside retreat and not as a pay guest at the camp. He was glad for what Uncle Jeb had said. But he was rather surprised that Barnard had not protested against this hospitality. What he was particularly surprised at, however, was a certain uneasiness which this scoutmaster from the west had shown in Uncle Jeb's presence. But it was nothing worth thinking about, certainly, and Tom ceased to think about it.
CHAPTER XXII
AN ACCIDENT
The time had now come when each day brought new arrivals to the camp, and August the first loomed large in the near future. It was less than a week off. The three new cabins stood all but completed, and thanks to the strenuous and unfailing help of his friend from the West, Tom knew that his scout dream of atonement was fulfilled.
"When they get here," he said to Uncle Jeb, "just tell them that they are to bunk in the cabins up on the hill. Barnard will be here to meet his own troop, and he'll take them up to the new cabins. Roy and the fellows will like Barnard, that's sure. It'll be like a kind of a little separate camp up on the hill; two troops—six patrols."
"En yer ain't a goin' ter change yer mind en stay, Tommy?"