“I’ll straighten up those papers on the table presently,” he said, and adjusted his spectacles after having dusted the bottom rung of the willow rocker. “We might as well leave things as we found them, in the event that we don’t get back after to-night!”
“You’re certainly consoling, Brent,” I said.
“One can never tell,” he said, laughing.
“Let’s hope,” I said, “that everything will be adjusted for the happiness of all those concerned. The Scouts, the Camp and Tom. It’s the dream of his life.”
“You bet it is,” Brent agreed, vehemently. “I know he won’t be happy until he sees the clouds lifted off this place and the sun shining through for all time.”
Before noon, Tom came bursting in, enthusiastic over something. He was always suggestive of clear, cool piney winds in that mood.
“Here we are fellows!” he called to Brent and me, holding an envelope in mid-air between two weather-brown fingers.
“Who is it from?” Brent asked.
“Coover’s Falls, North Dakota,” he answered.
“No!” I exclaimed.