THE TWINS ARRIVE AT CAMP

"See the big flag over yonder, just above the trees?" asked Mr. George as he pointed his finger in the direction of the camp. "She lies right there on the north side of the lake."

The three boys, who were the only other occupants of the heavy farm wagon, peered searchingly in the indicated direction, but to no avail.

"You're stuffing us," said Leonard, the oldest boy, "for I don't see any flag."

Just then the wind caught the limp banner and spread it to the breeze. Vincent and Harold caught sight of it at the same instant, and a wild shout went up, much to the delight of Mr. George. Then the two younger boys, who were twins, hugged each other in feverish excitement.

"Bout ten miles yet, I suppose?" grumbled Leonard.

"Aw, it isn't more than eight," quickly replied Vincent. Then turning, he put the question direct to the driver:

"It isn't is it, Mr. George?"

The wagon rattled slowly down a long, rough hill, and the flag was lost in the tree-tops for the time being. The horses, a magnificent pair of dark bays, were pulling hard on the lines, and the driver was for the instant busy, but when they began to climb the next long rolling incline he made answer.

"0, it's just about two miles," then laughed. The boys had already learned in their half hour's journey from Corey Station that Mr. George could not be hurried in his statements. However, they noticed the merry twinkle in his gray eyes, heard his friendly chuckle, and waited patiently.

"It's easy enough to see that you boys are from the city," he laughed. "You don't know a mile from a rod, do you? Where do you fellows come from, anyway? Chicago, I suppose."

"Not on your life," cried Harold, with some feeling. "We're from Three Rivers, and we're the Botting boys. Haven't you ever heard of us? Me an' Vincent's twins, and Leonard's one year older, but either of us can lick him."

"Thunderation!" snorted Leonard. "Now you fellows begin to blow. You'd think, to hear you talk, that you were famous already in these parts."

Mr. George laughed, and urged on the horses. "Well, I'll bet everybody for a mile around here will know you before you've been here a week, anyway."

There was a low, swampy place just to the right of the road, and as the wagon drew near it Vincent suddenly jumped out and dived into the long swamp grass.

"What's he after now?" asked Mr. George, as he pulled in the horses. But by that time Vincent had reappeared, mud from head to foot, his face beaming. He held his prize proudly up for inspection.

"First camel-back I've seen this summer," he cried as he held up the struggling turtle. "I'll make a belt-buckle out of him." He climbed back into the wagon, extracted a piece of twine from his pocket, and tied the turtle fast by the hind leg in less than a jiffy. The loose end of the string he fastened to a button on his coat, and slid the turtle into his pocket.

Suddenly Mr. George felt a sharp slap on his shoulder, followed by another, and then another. He turned quickly, and a scowl clouded his kindly face. Vincent noticed it and became intensely embarrassed.

"Excuse me, Mr. George," he said. "I didn't mean to be fresh, but I wanted to kill that big horsefly for my turtle." Then the smile came back again. "Gee I'd hate to be shut up in a dark hole like that without anything to eat, wouldn't you?" and he patted the pocket of his coat. Mr. George only smiled as he gave the horses a little tap with the lines.

Harold had taken a great liking to the old gentleman, and to show it he climbed down from the trunk upon which he was sitting and into the seat beside Mr. George. Vincent held the same ideas, and in a second followed his brother. Here they sat for the remainder of their short ride, listening with breathless interest to Mr. George's descriptions of how the country had looked when he came into it as a boy. He told them of how the original room of his farmhouse had been built years before he came there, by an old Indian trader who had gone crazy in his old age, and how the orchard back of his house was more than seventy-five years old and was still yielding. He told them story after story, as he had heard them, of the Black Hawk War, and of the purchase by the Government of the Indian lands, until they were really sorry when the road turned sharply and they passed through an iron gate and on to the lake road, which was a shady path along the north side of Little Corey. As they passed, the red-winged blackbirds scowled from the trees, while their slate-colored mates bobbed restlessly up and down on the slender cat-tail stalks along the water's edge.

"Believe me," whispered Harold, "I'll bet there are thousand young blackbirds in that cat-tail swamp. I'm coming to see early in the morning. Will you come, too, Vincent?"

"Not on your life. I'm going to fish. I got to have a fish right away. Why, it seems like nearly a hundred years since I've gone fishing," replied his brother.

"O, shucks!" said Leonard, in a scornful tone. "You couldn't even get a good sized mosquito bite in this pond."

"Is that so?" retorted Vincent. "I'll bet I can catch a dozen yellow-bellies before you can. Will you bet?"

Just then they came to a second large gate, and on it was nailed a sign which read:

In a second both boys were off the seat and swinging open the gate. They did not climb on the wagon again, but set off posthaste for camp, the first glimpse of which could just be seen at the end of the road. Soon they stopped, and stood irresolute. There was the camp spread out before them, the long street of khaki tents, the bath-house, the pier, the long line of trim steel row-boats, pulled well upon the white sand beach, and boys coming and going in every direction. The twins had felt perfectly at home on the wagon, but now they were abashed. It was all so new, and besides every human form was strange one to them. As if by common consent they retreated to the approaching wagon and, without a word, climbed on. Their eyes were very large and shining, but their voices had departed.

The wagon rattled over the coarse gravel of the beach, then turned directly in front of the long row of tents. The heavy rumble of the wagon and Mr. George's good-natured "Whoa-a!" had already come to be a signal to the campers that there were more new arrivals. Accordingly the boys began to gather from all sides to "size up the greenies," as they said.

It seemed like an enormous crowd to the Bottings, and they hesitated about getting out of the wagon. Meanwhile their trunks and other baggage were being set on the ground. Mr. George handed a packet of letters to one of the older boys, who immediately began calling off the addresses to the group about him.

"Here, you 'Shrimp! Here's a letter from your dad;" and, "Collins, that's for you;" and. "Bill Ruthford, there is your frog lamp, I'll bet a dollar. Longley! - My, O, my! Smell the perfume on that one. Johnie, here's your book from mamma." And so on through the list. Each boy fortunate enough to receive a letter slipped off to some secluded spot where he could read it and re-read it without being too closely watched.

As the letters were being give out, a large muscular man pushed his way through the crowd to the boys in the wagon. He was clad in khaki trousers and sleeveless jersey; his arms were burned to a beautiful brown, and his muscles - the new arrivals stared in wide-eyed wonderment. They had never seen such a powerful man before, and as they stood looking at him they were just barely conscious that he was speaking to them. Then he laughed - a clear, happy, good-natured laugh - and they came back to earth. He was asking them about their baggage. Then his eye caught sight of the trunk and valises on the ground.

"My name is Cooper," he was saying, "and you fellows must be the Botting boys." They nodded.

"Well, we're glad you're here fellows. Hope you enjoyed your ride. We have heard a lot about you, and have been wondering all day just what you'd look like." Then he laughed again. Vincent looked at him with admiration in his eyes.

"Guess you think we're kind of small, don't you?" he asked, in a queer little voice.

"O, don't mind that," replied Cooper, in a friendly tone. "The best things always come in small packages; at least I'm sure that's the case this time. Now, let's see. O, Mr. Verne! Come here just a second. These are the Botting boys. We are going to give you the Twins for Tent One, and we'll assign Leonard to Four."

Harold stepped over as close to Cooper as he could, and in a loud whisper asked, "Can't we be in your tent, Mr. Cooper? I'd like to have a bunk right next to yours."

"Sorry, boys, but my tent is all full. Mr. Verne will fill the bill just as well. He will assign you bunks and put you next to things now, and I will look after Leonard."

Cooper and Leonard started away, and the Twins were compelled to wait for the whiskers operation to be completed. Now and then, Mr. Verne would direct a word or two at them through the lather, but for the most part these were lost on the Twins for they were far too busy seeing things just then, to listen to commonplace remarks.

"I don't like that duck," whispered Vincent, pointing to a tall, gauche boy who was telling a group of smaller fellows in a very bossy voice just how the camp ought to be run.

"Why don't you like him?" questioned Harold, who loved an argument.

"'Cause I hared him call us 'little runts' and say something about the 'day nursery' to that other kid."

"O fiddle," replied Harold, "we'll take a poke at him if he gets smart. I'll bet he's a poor sport all over. We'll keep our eye on him anyway."

The tents were pitched in a beautiful grove not far back from the water's edge. Each tent in the long row gave shelter to seven boys and a leader. The canvas, double-decked bunks were grouped in the middle of the tent and were grouped in the middle of the tent and were all screened in with white cheese-cloth. Directly in front of each bunk on the cement floor was room for a trunk, camp box, or other baggage. Along both sides of the tent, parallel with the bunks, was a row of hooks, and on these were hung all sorts and descriptions of clothing. Each boy took care of his own bed, keeping it clean and in order, besides being directly responsible for the condition and general tidiness of his share of the tent.

Both boys were assigned lower bunks, and the unpacking was at once begun. The city clothes were quickly changed for the camp costume of khaki and outing shoes. Beds were made, cheese-cloth tacked up, fishing tackle put in a convenient place, and everything was placed in readiness to begin the real days of camping.

"I'm hungrier than a hay-baler," confided Vincent. "I wonder when they eat."

"I don't know," came the answer, " and I suppose we can't eat much, or they will think we are pigs. These new camp duds have the tiniest, dinky pockets in them. They're no good at all. Gee, I don't believe you could even get three apples in them. Say, Vincent, I got an idea," confided Harold. "I'm going to cut the bottom of my side pockets off and sew a stocking on to each one. It won't show, and - thunderation, boy! - I got to carry a knife, a bobber, some sinkers and - a whole lot of paraphernalia in them."

"What's 'paraphernalia,' you rube? Who taught you that?" questioned Vincent, suspiciously.

"Well, it's everything a fellow has to have to go camping. I read it in a book. I want a piece of rope to learn my knots on, and a pocket-ax, and a whetstone, and a scout book, and a roll of film, besides" -

"Well, fellows, how are they treating you? Got those beds made and your duds changed?" The flaps lifted, and in came Cooper. "I thought perhaps you were a little bashful, and I had better come and show you around a bit before supper. You see it's like this - I'm out here for my health" - and he laughed good-naturedly as he doubled up his great brawny arms. "I was going to have a little row before supper, just as an appetizer, you know, and I thought you boys might like to go along. How about it?"

In another moment they were seated in one of the trim little steel boats and were pulling away from shore. The Twins sat side by side in the stern seat, and Cooper pulled. My! They never knew a row-boat could go so fast or so easily before.

The lake was placid. Not even a ripple stirred as far out as the island. The sun was fast setting behind Mr. George's windmill, and the first evening breezes were just beginning to chase the little waves through the channel where Little Corey runs into the big lake.

After they had paddled around the island, up past Bass Point and back, they landed just as assembly was sounded from the hill. The boys knew without being told that it meant supper, although they had not yet learned the bugle-calls.

"My stomach feels like the Gulf of Mexico," confided Vincent, as they stepped on to the pier.

"I haven't been so hungry since dinner time," chimed in Harold, and the three of them set off for the lodge at a good pace.