CHAPTER VIII
On the Forehead of the Old Man of the Mountain
The camp next morning was still asleep at day-*break,
and for the first time, almost, in the
history of the Southmead Scouts Art was not the
first to wake. He and Peanut were both asleep
when the rest sat up and rubbed their eyes, and it
was not till Rob rattled a pan and Lou began to
chop wood that the two boys aroused.
"Because you're heroes is no reason you should be lazy," Rob laughed.
Peanut propped himself up on his elbow, and regarded the scene. The sun had not yet risen high enough to look in over the northern shoulders of Lafayette, and it was still dim among the great hemlocks. Some forest birds were singing sweetly, a hermit thrush far off sounding like a fairy clarion. The brook could be heard running close by. The woods smelled fresh and fragrant.
"I don't believe I'll get up at all," Peanut announced. "Rather like it here. Gee, but I slept hard last night! Bet I made a dent in the ground."
