“Now what?” asked Dick, surveying the scene with satisfaction and wiping the perspiration from his face. Chub looked speculatively at the flagpole which stands at the end of School Point.
“We ought to have a flag,” he said. “Why didn’t we bring along the school flag?”
“Because this isn’t the school camp,” answered Roy. “It’s a private affair. We must have a flag of our own.”
“With the name of the camp on it,” said Dick. “By the way, [what is the name of the camp?]”
“Well, I’ve been thinking of that,” answered Chub, gravely, seating himself on a root which had apparently shaped itself for the purpose, “and I’ve got it all settled. It’s a nice camp, and it ought to have a nice name, a name that stands for—er—respectability and renown. So I suggest that we call it Camp Thomas H. Eaton.”
“What I’ve always admired in you,” said Dick, sarcastically, “is your modesty, Chub.”
“Yes, it is one of my many excellent qualities,” Chub replied sweetly.
“Who’s got a piece of paper?” Roy demanded. No one had, so he pulled a strip of bark from a birch-tree. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “You fellows wait a minute.” He seated himself cross-legged and began to write on the bark, scowling intently. Chub viewed him apprehensively.
“Do you think it’s over-study?” he asked Dick in a hoarse whisper, “or merely the sun?”
“Crazed by the heat,” responded Dick, sadly.