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 fl.u.s.tered 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.

"You're getting your fire too big," he warned Bobbie. "You don't need much of a blaze to cook."

"How's mine?" said Tim.

"Fine!" said the Scoutmaster. "Keep it that way."

"Sure," said Tim. "I'll show some of these other fellows how to do theirs."

Andy Ford gave a low groan. "Good night; now we're in for it."

Tim wasted no time. He approached Ritter. That scout eyed him suspiciously.

"You let my fire alone," he warned.

"Go chase yourself. Mr. Wall told me to show you fellows--"

"Tim!" Don chided.

Tim flashed the patrol leader an angry glance. "I said I was going to show the fellows, didn't I? He didn't tell me not to. Anyway, Ritter's fire sprawls out too much. Wait until I get a stick. Now, all you have to do is to pull out these pieces, and--"

"You're raking out my potatoes," cried Ritter.

"It won't kill you to put them back," said Tim. He tossed the stick away and turned toward Bobbie.

"Your fire's all right now, Bobbie," Don said distinctly.

Tim turned up his nose and faced in Wally Woods's direction. But Wally's fire, small and compact, gave him no excuse to tinker. He advanced to where Andy Ford was preparing to fry his meat.

"Gee!" he said. "That sure is one sick-looking fire."

"Suits me," said Andy. He laid the meat in the pan.

Tim began to prod the fire with his foot. The flame, which had been low and even, began to flare and smoke. Andy dropped his frying-pan and sprang forward.

"Get away from there," he cried. His rush caught Tim and pushed him back.

Then the red-haired boy braced, and there was a scuffle. Andy's fire was scattered.

"What's the meaning of this?" came Mr. Wall's voice.

Instantly the boys separated. Andy hung his head as though ashamed. Tim carried an injured air.

"Andy pitched into me," he complained.

"He was interfering with my fire," Andy answered.

"I wasn't. I was only showing him."

"Andy is a first-cla.s.s scout," said Mr. Wall quietly. "If he doesn't know how to build a fire and cook a meal I have blundered as Scoutmaster in awarding him his first-cla.s.s badge."

Tim looked away. This was putting the whole thing in a new light. He dug the toe of one shoe into the ground, and kept twisting and turning it nervously.

Mr. Wall's voice softened. "You go off the handle too quickly, Tim.

You've ruined Andy's fire. What do you think you should do--the square thing?"

"I'll finish my cooking over Don's fire," Andy said quickly.

Mr. Wall never made the mistake of continuing a lecture to the point where it lost its force. He knew when to stop. This flurry was over.

"All right, scouts," he said, and went back to his own cooking. Tim shuffled off and squatted down beside his own blaze.

Andy rounded up his potatoes. They were cold and discouraged looking.

"I've enough potatoes for us both," said Don. "What kind of meat have you?"

"Sausage."

"Gosh! That ought to be fine. Let's go whack--half my lamb chops for half your sausage."

Soon eager nostrils were sniffing the glorious odor of sizzling meat touched with the tang of wood smoke. Don and Andy finished their cooking in silence. They began to eat. All over the camp scouts drew together and pooled their rations. Tim Lally sat by his fire, alone.

"He's beginning to look good and sore," Andy said in a low voice.

Don glanced toward the red-haired scout. Tim caught his eye and made a derisive face, and then turned his back and began to whistle as though he was having a gloriously good time.

But Don was not fooled. Tim was lonesome. He felt that he was frozen out.

But what could Tim expect if he was going to antagonize everybody?

By and by cooking utensils were cleaned and put away. The fires were smothered. Haversacks were slung across strong young shoulders. The troop marched away.

Up a winding road the scouts went, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting boisterously, sometimes silent. Suddenly they came out in a clearing.

To the right was Danger Mountain; to the left was Lonesome Woods.