Tom Slade at Black Lake | Page 8

and ninety acres more for Temple Camp. We'll be as big as
New York pretty soon, when we get some of that timber down, and
some new cabins up.
"I'm glad we got it," Tom said.
"Well, I should hope," Mr. Burton came back at him. "That's off the
Archer farm, you know. Gift from Mr. Temple. Runs right up to the
peak of the hill--see?"
Tom looked at the map of the new Temple Camp property, which
almost doubled the size of the camp and at the deed which showed the
latest generous act of the camp's benevolent founder.
"Next summer, if we have the price, we'll put up a couple of dozen new
cabins on that hill and make a bid for troops from South Africa and
China; what do you say? This should be put in the safe and, let's see,
here are some new applications--Michigan, Virginia--Temple Camp is
getting some reputation in the land."

"I had an application from Ohio yesterday," Tom said; "a three-patrol
troop. I gave them the cabins on the hill. They're a season troop."
Mr. Burton glanced suddenly at Tom, then began whistling and
drumming his fingers on the desk. He seemed on the point of saying
something in this connection, but all he did say was, "You find pleasure
and relaxation in the work, Tom?"
"It's next to camping to be here," Tom said.
"Well, that's what I thought," Mr. Burton said encouragingly. "You
must go slow and take it easy and pretty soon you'll be fit and trim."
"I got to thank you," Tom said with his characteristic blunt simplicity.
"I don't know what we should do in the spring rush without your
familiar knowledge of the camp, Tom," Mr. Burton said.
"I think he thinks more of the office than he does of the scouts,"
Margaret ventured to observe. She was sitting alongside Mr. Burton's
desk awaiting his leisure, and Tom was standing awkwardly close by.
"I suppose it's because they don't grow fast enough," Mr. Burton
laughed; "they can't keep up with him. To my certain knowledge young
Peewee, as they call him, hasn't grown a half an inch in two years. It
isn't because he doesn't eat, either, because I observed him personally
when I visited camp."
"Oh, he eats terrifically," Margaret said.
"I like the troop better than anything else," Tom said.
"Well, I guess that's right, Tom," Mr. Burton observed; "old friends are
the best."
He gathered up an armful of papers and handed them to Tom who went
about his duties.
The day was long and the routine work tedious. The typewriter

machine rattled drowsily and continuously on, telling troops here and
there that they could have camp accommodations on this or that date.
Tom pored over the big map, jotting down assignments and
stumblingly dictated brief letters which Miss Ellison's readier skill
turned out in improved form.
He was sorry that it was not Friday so that he might go to troop
meeting that night. It was only Tuesday and so there were three long,
barren nights ahead of him, and to him they seemed like twenty nights.
All the next day he worked, making a duplicate of the big map for use
at the camp, but his fingers were not steady and the strain was hard
upon his eyes. He went home (if a hall-room in a boarding house may
be called home) with a splitting headache.
On Wednesday he worked on the map and made the last assignment of
tent accommodations. Temple Camp was booked up for the season. It
was going to be a lively summer up there, evidently. One troop was
coming all the way from Idaho--to see Peewee Harris eat pie, perhaps. I
can't think for what other reason they would have made such a journey.
"And you will live in the pavilion in all your glory, won't you?"
Margaret teased him. "I suppose you'll be very proud to be assistant to
Uncle Jeb. I don't suppose you'll notice poor me if I come up there."
"I'll take you for a row on the lake," Tom said. That was saying a good
deal, for him.
On Thursday he sent an order for fifteen thousand wooden plates,
which will give you an idea of how they eat at Temple Camp. He
attended to getting the licenses for the two launches and sent a letter up
to old Uncle Jeb telling him to have a new springboard put up and
notifying him that the woods property now belonged to the camp. It
was a long slow day and a longer, slower night.
Once, and only once, since his return, he had tried the movies. The
picture showed soldiers in the trenches and the jerky scenes and figures
made his eyes ache and