Tom Reade, who ordinarily was intensely practical, was also the kind of young man who could perish for an ideal, if need be.

Tom went outside, stretching himself on the grass under a tree.

He sighed for a book, but there was none, so he lay staring off over the valley below.
Twenty minutes later Harry, after trying vainly to take a nap on a cot in the tent, followed his chum outside.
"Odd, isn't it, Tom ?" questioned Hazelton.

"We're living what looks like a wholly free life.

Nothing to prevent us from tramping anywhere we please on these hills, and yet we know to a certainty that we wouldn't be able to get twenty miles from here before soldiers would have us nabbed, and marching away to a prison from which, very likely, no one in the outside world would ever hear of us again." "It is queer," agreed Tom, nodding.