The scouts spoke in subdued voices. Danger Mountain! They all knew how it had come by its name. A man had tried to climb one of its high, rocky walls and had fallen to his death.
And Lonesome Woods. There was another name to make scouts edge closer to one another. Three miles wide it was, and about seven miles long, and dark and dense with thick growth. The gipsy caravans kept away from it. Passing tramps gave it a wide berth. From time to time boys dipped into its edges, but soon came out. Lonesome Woods, indeed!
"We'll have to explore that some day," said Mr. Wall.
"The mountain?" Tim asked eagerly.
"The woods," the Scoutmaster answered.
A shout broke from the troop. With Mr. Wall along there would be nothing to fear. When would they go? Next week?
"We'll take it up at Friday night's meeting," the Scoutmaster promised.
"Why can't we do the mountain?" Tim demanded.
"Because Danger Mountain is a bad spot. Broken bones are a heavy price to pay for foolish daring."
Tim stared off at the mountain. "It doesn't seem so hard," he said, and his eyes lighted with eagerness. Mr. Wall's face became grave.