The troop approached the turnpike.
"Column left!" came the order.
They knew where they were going up—up toward Gipsy Grove. The place had gotten its name from the fact that whenever a gipsy tribe came to the neighborhood it pitched its tents there. It was an ideal camping ground, with plenty of firewood, a clean, running stream, and just enough open timber to let the sunlight through.
Presently they were away from the village and out in open country. The discipline of the march was dropped. In a straggling, merry line they moved along.
Twice the Scoutmaster called rest halts, and each time there was a short talk on roadside flowers, and trees, and weeds. The morning wore away. By and by the sun was almost directly overhead, and Gipsy Grove was at last in sight.
There was a race to see which patrol could get all its fires going first.
Each scout was to cook for himself.
"I'll chop," cried Tim. "Somebody get my fire going." His strong, muscular arms made short work of the dry dead wood that littered the ground under the trees.
"We win," shouted the Foxes. But their last fire went out as it was lighted, and a flustered scout prepared to try again amid cries of, "Not more than two matches." This time his wood took the flame. But now the Eagles and the Wolves also had their fires going. Mr. Wall declared the race a triple tie.
Haversacks were unpacked. Frying-pans and pots were dragged forth.
Potatoes were laid among hot coals.
Mr. Wall had chopped some wood and had his own fire going. Now he walked among the boys.