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"My brother taught me; my only brother, Stud Studley Studart they nickname him in camp I don't know why," was the fluttering response. "A corruption of Stoutheart, I should say!" supplied the Guardian, now busily frying flapjacks. "Of all the Boy Scouts in my husband's troop, he's the lion-heart," laughingly. "So I understand!"
"I'd rather explore the cave I love creepy caves and we haven't been half through it yet," said Pemrose Lorry. Forthwith Stud, the Henkyl Hunter, decided that cave-exploiting was the pastime for him; there was rarely a younger boy Studart was barely fifteen who did not become the captive knight of this older girl with the sky in her eyes under jet-black lashes!
For Stud's hand was groping mechanically for the bright little lamp above his forehead, as if for inspiration, his left for the lariat at his waist, in defiance of his threat that the desperado in the "pot" might have tears in his eyes before he would help him. But there was something worse than cave-tears in question now of that Studart felt sure.
The answer came with the low, drawling laugh of Stud Bennett, otherwise Studart, brother to Jessie, the "merle's" calling mate, who was himself playing fiddle-faddle in the sunshine, after a four-mile hike. "Humph! Well, I'm off to locate a spring where's the blue bucket? When I get back you'll have to turn to, you dummies, build a fire and unpack the commissariat otherwise rolls by the dozen.
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