He was doing his best to brace up and speak plainly, when his sentence was stopped by a noise of pounding footsteps.  The next moment he saw himself surrounded by three well-grown, daring-looking lads, one about his own age, one older, one younger, who were gazing at him with critical curiosity.  All the pluck in Dol Farrar rose to meet this emergency.  He felt as if his legs were threatening to smash under him like pipe-stems.  There was a whirling and buzzing in his head.  It seemed as if his words had such a long way to travel from his brain to his tongue that they got confused and changed before he uttered them.

But through it all he was conscious of one clear thought:  that he was an Old-World boy on parade before these strapping New-World lads.  He set his teeth, drove his gun hard against the ground, and, as it were, anchored himself to it, while strange, doubting lights came into his eyes as he tried to get a grip of his senses.

[Illustration:  Dol sights A friendly camp.]

He succeeded.  At last he addressed the gentleman with the horn, knowing that he was speaking to the point,—­

“Good-evening, sir,” he said.  “I—­I—­we’re camping out somewhere in the woods.  I—­I got lost to-day.  I’ve walked an awful distance.  Perhaps you could tell me”—­

But the man stepped suddenly forward, with a blaze of welcome in his eyes; for he saw the brave effort which the lad was making, and that his strength was giving out.  He put a kindly arm through Dol’s, as if to warmly greet a fellow-camper, but really to support him.

“I’ll not tell you about anything until you’ve had a good, square meal,” he said.  “That’s our way in woodland quarters,—­to eat first, and talk afterwards.  If you’re lost, you’ve struck a friend’s camp, and at the right time too, son; so cheer up!  After supper you can tell us your yarn, and I guess we can set you right.”

Here at last was a surprise of unmixed blessedness for poor Dol; namely, the brotherly hospitality which is always extended to a stranger in a Maine camp, whether that be the temporary home of a millionnaire or the shanty of a poor logger.

His new friend led him into the largest of the cabins, which contained a fireplace built of huge stones, where red flames frisked around fragrant birch logs, a camp-bed of evergreen boughs about ten feet wide, a rude table, a bench, and a few stools of pine-wood.

Over the camp-fire was stooping a bright-eyed, muscular fellow, whose dress somewhat resembled Uncle Eb’s, but who had no negro blood in his veins.  He was frying meat; and such tempting whiffs mingled with the steam which floated up from his pan, that Dol’s nostrils twitched, and his hungry longing grew almost unbearable as he inhaled them.

“I guess this chunk of ven’zon is about cooked, Doc,” said this personage, as Dol’s kindly host entered the hut, with him in tow, followed closely by the boys of his own camp.