came quite unexpectedly upon a souvenir post-card and "tonic" store, built of birch logs, beside the path. Here they stopped, and after buying a bottle of ginger ale apiece, a young French-Canadian lumberman, who ran the store and acted as guide during the summer season, agreed to pilot them through Lost River. He advised them to put on overalls before starting, but they scorned the suggestion. While they were debating the point with him, there was a sudden sound of voices outside, and in the doorway of the little log store appeared a party of women and girls—and one lone man.
"Poor Art!" said Peanut, giving him a poke in the ribs.
This party wanted to go through Lost River, too.
"We can't keep the guide all to ourselves and make him lose this other job," said Mr. Rogers. "Besides, we're Scouts, and we ought to do a good turn and help those women folks through."
"Aw, no! Let's cut out the guide, then, and go through alone!" said Art.
"No," Mr. Rogers said, "I don't remember the way. I was never through but once, years ago; besides, we'd miss half the sights."
"Say," whispered Peanut, "will those girls put on overalls?"
"I guess they'll have to," said Mr. Rogers.
"Me for that!" cried Peanut, with a whoop.
