On the day when the Flamingo Camp Fire arrived at Hollyhill, another train pulled in at the principal station several hours earlier.  It came from the same direction and might, indeed, have borne the thirteen girls and their guardian if they had seen fit to get up early enough to catch a 3 o’clock train.

But the thirteen girls would have been much interested if they could have beheld the eight boy passengers as they got off in a group and looked around to see if there was anyone at the depot who knew any of them.

Relieved at the apparent absence of anybody who might recognize the one of their number whose home was in Hollyhill or another who had been a frequent visitor there, the eight boys hastened to a corner half a square away from the depot and boarded a street car that was waiting for the time to start from this terminal point.  The car started almost immediately after they had seated themselves, moving in a southwesterly direction through the business section of the city and then directly west toward High Peak, passing along the northern border of the mining colony and then making a curve to the north through a more prosperous residence district.

The eight boys all wore Scout uniforms.  They were the full membership of one Spring Lake patrol, the leader of which was Ernest Hunter, whose home was in Hollyhill, and who had invited all the Scouts of his patrol to be his guests during the holidays.  This invitation followed the receipt of information that Marion Stanlock had invited the members of her Camp Fire to spend the Christmas holidays with her.

Ernest Hunter was well prepared to entertain his guests in real scout fashion.  His parents’ home was not large enough to afford sleeping quarters and other ordinary conveniences for seven visitors in addition to the regular personnel of the family, but the boy had taken care of this deficiency long before he had ever dreamed that it might occur.  The Hunter home included a large tract of land running clear up to the foot of the mountain, which, at this point, was rocky and covered with a plentiful growth of white pine, hemlock and black spruce.  Hidden behind an irregular heap of boulders and a small timber foreground was a cave, formed by nature and nature’s anarchistic elements, that could not fail to delight the most fastidious wonder-seeker.  The entrance was about the size of an ordinary doorway, flanked by twin boulders like columns for an arched shelter.  Within was a large room with fairly smooth walls and ceiling of Silurian rock and sandstone.

The cave as it now appeared would hardly have been recognized by its aboriginal frequenters.  It had been converted into a place of civil abode or resort, retaining only enough of its pristine wildness for romantic effect.  Ernie Hunter had done his work well.  He had provided for heat for the cave by running a galvanized stovepipe up through a crevice in the rocks and filling with stones and cement all the surrounding vents to guard against the draining in of water from the mountain side.  He also collected and stored at home a supply of old mattresses, blankets, kitchen utensils, a laundry stove, and other domestic conveniences usable in a place of this kind.  A week before vacation he wrote thus to his 12-year-old brother, Paul: