S midday approached, the weather grew warmer. Harvey Hamilton left his traveling bag at the home of Aunt Hephzibah Akers, since he did not intend to journey far, and it would be easy to go back when necessary. Most of the distance between him and the tent on the edge of the lake was a gradual slope downward, through the usual underbrush and around occasional rocks and boulders, but the traveling, on the whole, was not difficult, and he made fair progress. He doffed his outer coat and slung it over an arm as a sort of balance to the field glass suspended by a cord from the opposite shoulder.  
He remembered that when he peeped down from his aeroplane he saw no signs of any one near the tent, but if the owners had gone on a tramp as he supposed, some of them had returned during the brief interval. While drawing near along the beach he saw a man a little to one side of the primitive dwelling, where he had started a fire and was evidently preparing the noonday meal. His companion lifted the flap, stooped, and was in[124] the act of passing from sight when Harvey caught his first good view of the tent from the ground. A little later the other person came out. This brought him face to face with Harvey when about a hundred paces separated them. The back of his companion was toward the caller of whose coming as yet he was not aware.
 
Harvey had noticed that they were attired in modern camping costume, with leggings, gray flannel shirts, and caps instead of hats. A gaudy handkerchief was knotted loosely about the neck and dangled over the shirt front, across which the big red letters “C A & W E S” could be traced, as far as the young men themselves were distinguishable.
 
The one who confronted Harvey looked at him for an instant, and then touched the forefinger of his hand to his cap in military salute. The visitor returned it and pushed on. The second camper heard his footfall and wheeled around.
 
“How do you do, sir?” he called. “We’re glad to see you.”
 
They both offered their hands as Harvey went forward. He was won by their hospitality and cheeriness of manner. He explained:
 
“I am Harvey Hamilton, from Mootsport, New Jersey, and I have come to the Adirondacks on[125] a strange errand in which perhaps you can help me.”
 
“It will give us pleasure to do so,” replied the one with the briarwood. As he made this answer Harvey distinctly saw him wink at his companion, who returned the trivial and yet often significant signal. The young aviator was mystified, for he suspected instinctively that something was back of it.
 
“We are sophomores at Yale, and are up here on a little outing. My name is Val Hunter, and I am from Vicksburg, Mississippi. This ugly looking tramp with me is Fred Wadsworth, from the wilds of western New York. We have a third member who sneaked off with our boat this morning and there’s no saying when we shall see him again.”
 
“I have a brother who is a sophomore at Yale,” said Harvey; “and he is or was a short time ago somewhere in the Adirondacks. You must know him.”
 
“What is his front name?”
 
“Dick.”
 
The two looked at each other and Hunter said: “I recall him and there isn’t a more popular fellow in college. He can box, row, play baseball and football, and leads his class in his studies.”
 
[126]Harvey’s heart warmed to the Southerner.
 
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that; something of the same nature has come to us at home and father and mother are proud enough, but Dick never tells us anything about himself.”
 
“We tried to get him to go with us on this trip, but a party of seniors dragged him off. He was very sorry to part with us and wouldn’t have done so but for his promise made earlier. We are honored in having his brother with us and beg he will make more than a short call.”
 
Harvey was sure he had never met two finer gentlemen. Val Hunter was a true specimen of the aristocratic Southerner, with his black hair and eyes, olive complexion, now darkened by tan, and his lithe, sinewy limbs. His words were marked by the slight drawl now and then and the suppressed “r” which often mark the speech of those born and reared south of Mason and Dixon’s Line. His companion, Wadsworth, from New York, was of stumpy build, with a round ruddy face, also well tanned, light gray eyes and inveterate good-nature, but by no means as comely in looks as Hunter. It was evident that they were attached to each other, probably on the principle of like and unlike being drawn together.
 
In front of the tent and a little to one side, a[127] short decayed log had been rolled. This was useful as well as convenient. When the young men wished to smoke they could use it, if they preferred to sit rather than loll on the bare ground. Besides, if they needed a table for their plates when eating, here it was, though an up-ended box served them oftener.
 
“I was about to prepare dinner,” said Hunter, “It being my day for such menial duty, but it is early and we can sit for awhile. Have one?”
 
He handed a package of cigarettes to Harvey, who thanked him and shook his head.
 
“Father and Dick do the smoking for our family.”
 
“You’ll be along in time,” replied the other; “cigarettes aren’t good for some folks and I’m one of ’em, which explains why I smoke ’em. You know that’s the basic principle of human nature; the way to make a person do a thing is first to convince him he shouldn’t do it. It shines out in those beautiful lines of Shakespeare or Milton, I forget which:
 
‘I ne’er would have been in this condition
But for mother’s prohibition.’”
“That’s clever in its way, because of the profound truth involved,” remarked the New Yorker,[128] “but for fine, delicate fancy it does not equal that quatrain:
 
‘This road is not passable,
It is hardly jackassable,
And you who do travel it
Should turn to and gravel it.’”
Harvey laughed at the solemn manner in which this nonsense was delivered. Nodding toward Wadsworth he asked:
 
“What do those letters mean?”
 
The other smiled.
 
“That reminds me of a day when I saw a scorer in the grandstand at the ball grounds ruling off and writing captions on his card. With much twisting of his mouth he scrawled the word ‘Ares.’ I asked him what it meant. With a look of pitying scorn he answered: ‘Why them’s errors.’ It is with something of the same emotion that I reply to your question: Those letters signify ‘Champions of the Adirondacks and the Whole Empire State.’”
 
“If your modesty strikes in,” said Harvey, catching the spirit of the moment, “it will be fatal.”
 
“That’s what we’re afraid of, but wait till you meet the Duke.”
 
“And wh............