"I can give you a chance to earn some money if you really want to," the young man said. "Do you think you could stick?"

"Our middle name is fly-paper," Roy informed him.

"Like camping?"

"Camping is named after us," Connie Bennett of the Elk Patrol said.

"We'd rather camp than eat."

"No we wouldn't," vociferated Pee-wee Harris.

"What kind of hours?" Doc Carson of the Ravens inquired.

"The usual kind," Roy volunteered, and put it up to their new friend if this were not so. "The same kind we use in school, hey?" he added.

"Give him a chance to tell us what it is," said Westy Martin of Roy's patrol. "We all started saying we'd like to earn some money; talk is cheap."

"Sure, that's why we use so much of it," said Roy. "If it cost anything we couldn't afford it."

"Well," said the young man, "I've got a job and I need help. It's outdoors and it means camping and living rough. It means cooking our own meals. You could get a little money out of it; not much, but a little."

Perhaps it was what the stranger said, perhaps the way he said it, but something caused them all to turn and stare at him.

He was a young fellow of about twenty-three or four and of very shabby appearance. The threadbare suit which he wore must have seen long service and either it had never been a very trim fit or he had lost flesh. His face, indeed, seemed to imply this, being thin and pale, and there was a kind of haunting look in his eyes.

But his demeanor was creditable, he seemed quite free of any taint of the shiftlessness which his appearance might have suggested, and his amus.e.m.e.nt at the scouts' bantering nonsense was open and pleasant. Mr.

Bennett contemplated him with just a tinge of dubiousness in his look.

But the scouts liked him.

"What's the nature of the work?" Mr. Bennett asked.

The young man seemed a trifle uneasy at being directly questioned but no one would have said it was more than the diffidence which any sensitive young fellow might show towards strangers.

"It's taking down two or three buildings," he said; "just shacks. My name is Blythe."

"Here in town?"

"No, up at the old camp."

"Oh, you mean Camp Merritt? I heard the government sold the whole shebang. What are they doing? Putting gangs to work up there?"

"I'll help you tear down Camp Merritt!" Pee-wee shouted.

"No, they're just giving the jobs out piecemeal," the young man said amid the general laughter. "Anybody that wants to tear a building down can get permission. They give so much a building. I undertook three. If I could get some help and do it in a month or so I'd have a little money. I haven't got anybody so far. I suppose that's because it's out of the way."

"Oh, then you don't work for the wrecking concern?" Mr. Bennett queried.

"Only that way," the stranger said.

"You belong hereabouts?"

"N--no."

"Anybody else working up there?"

"Not now."

"I suppose these youngsters could get a commission to haul down several buildings themselves if they wanted to?" Mr. Bennett inquired. "Cut out the middle man, huh?"

The young fellow seemed a trifle worried. "I--I didn't think of that,"

he said; "I guess they could. But I don't want much out of it myself,"

he added, in a voice that had almost a note of pleading in it; "and I picked out the easiest shacks. They'd--I'd be willing--they'd get most of the money. Beggars can't be choosers. I'm out of work--I--"

"And it's best for youngsters to have a boss, eh?" Mr. Bennett added, genially. "Well, I guess you're right. Somebody to keep them out of mischief."

The scouts and their new friend strolled out onto Main Street and, pausing there in a little group, continued talking.

"If you think we're the kind to get an idea from you and then go and use it and leave you out, you're mistaken," said Connie Bennett.

"The camp isn't mine," their new friend said, hesitatingly.

"No, but that particular job is yours," Westy Martin insisted, "and we're on that job, if we go there at all."

"That's a good argument," Pee-wee e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Are you staying up there?" Connie asked.

The stranger seemed pleased, even relieved. That uncertain, diffident smile hovered for a moment about his mouth. "I'd treat you right, that's sure," he said. "It's pretty hard for a fellow to get work. I just sort of stumbled into this--"

"Well, I'm glad you stumbled into us, too," said Roy, a note of sympathy and sincerity in his voice that there was no mistaking. "We'll have to speak to our mothers and fathers, but don't you worry, we have them trained all right. We have cooking outfits and everything, too. We'll take a hike up there to-morrow. We'd like to make some money, but gee whiz, that isn't the only thing we care about. Camping and all that--that's what we like. Don't we, Westy?"

"Where can we find you up there?" Westy asked.

"You go up the Knickerbocker Road and right in through the old entrance," Blythe said. "The second shack you come to on your left is where I'm bunking. You'll see me around somewhere."

"You do your own cooking?" Artie Van Arlen asked him.

"Yes, but I'm not much of a cook," Blythe said. "I--I don't--I won't get anything till the work's finished--"

"You should worry about that," Roy said.

"I guess I can eat most anything," Blythe.

"Can you eat as many as eleven?" Pee-wee laughed.

"Can you eat as many as eleven?" Pee-wee demanded.

That same elusive, half-bashful, pleasant smile lingered on the stranger's lips again as he said, "--I guess--not--"

"Then I can beat you," Pee-wee announced conclusively.