"They're coming," Tom said.
"Who's coming?"
"Roy and the troop," Tom answered.
"Oh. Nothing important, huh?"
"I got some mail for camp; I'm going down to Uncle Jeb's cabin; I'll be right back," Tom said.
His friend looked at him curiously, anxiously, as Tom started down the hill.
"I won't make any breaks," Tom said simply, leaving his friend to make what he would of this remark. The other watched him for a moment and seemed satisfied.
Having delivered the mail without the smallest sign of discomposure, he tramped up the hill again in his customary plodding manner. His friend was sitting on the door sill of one of the new cabins, whittling a stick. He looked as if he might have been reflecting, as one is apt to do when whittling a stick.
"You got to tell me who you are?" Tom said, standing directly in front of him.
"You got a letter? I thought so," his friend said, quietly. "Sit down, Slady."