Martin of the interesting Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Troop. He could sit
huddled up in a bush for an hour studying a bird. He could sit and fish
for hours without catching anything. But the turtle was too much for
him.

"We ought to name that guy Llewellyn," he commented, as he strolled
away; "that means _lightning_, according to some book or other. There
was an old Marathon racer a couple of million years ago named
Llewellyn."

"That's a good name for him," Tom admitted.

"You going to hang around, Slady?"

"I'm going to fight it out on these lines if it takes all summer," Tom
said.

Thus the two most patient, stubborn living things in all the world were
left alone together--the turtle and Tom Slade.

Tom sat on a rock and the turtle sat on the ground. Tom did not budge.
Neither did the turtle. The turtle was facing up toward the camp and
away from the lake. Tom rested his chin in his hands, studying the
initials on the turtle's shell. If they had been A. H. instead of T. H.
they would indeed have been the very initials of Master Anthony
Harrington, Jr. But a miss is as good as a mile, thought Tom, and T. H.
is no more like A. H. than it is like Z. Q.

This train of thought naturally recalled to his mind the letters he had
seen imprinted in the mud up in the woods. But those letters were H. T.