“You wait! I’ll have old Popgun eating out of my hand yet,” Joe answered. “Guess I’ll put him up now, and feed him.”
“Yes, and then you come back and rest. You’ve been doing too much to-day,” said Tom.
When Joe got back, he found Tom busy at the camp. The first party of hikers had arrived—ten of them, men about thirty-five years old from Chicago, who were taking their vacation tramping through the Park. They all wore high, heavy boots with hobnails, flannel shirts, khaki trousers, and carried knapsacks on their backs. Tom was hustling around buying provisions for them at the chalet store, fixing their bunks, getting fresh water, making a fire in the stove, and so on, while two of the men, who acted as cooks, were getting ready to cook the supper.
“Can I help?” Joe asked.
“No, you go back to our tent and rest,” said Tom. “You can get our supper, after you’ve thought a while about how graceful you are.”
Joe went limping off, and was only too glad to lie down in the tent. He lay on his side presently. He began to realize acutely, and locally, that he had been riding horseback, fourteen miles, for the first time.
But he had supper ready when Tom came at six-thirty.
“How do you feel?” Tom demanded. “I bet you’ve been doing too much. Tired? Got a fever?”
He got out the thermometer.
“I’m sore, all right, but I’m not very tired, not half as tired as I used to get at home, just walking back from school.”