The speaker was Arthur Cook, a deeply tanned giant of a man with close-cropped graying hair, whose piercing blue eyes told of a lifetime spent in open spaces. He was talking to a boy of sixteen who had wrapped himself around a dining-room chair and was staring thoughtfully down at a map on the table.

“What do you say, Sandy?” Mr. Cook urged. “Want me to ring the operator?”

Sandy Steele looked up with sudden decision. “All right,” he said. “We’ll get it settled right now.”

“That’s the ticket!” chimed in Mr. Cook’s son, Michael, as he shouldered his way through the swinging kitchen door, a glass of milk in one hand and an enormous slice of layer cake in the other. “Then we can start making plans right away.”

“If you think you can spare us the time from your hobby,” his father said dryly.

“Hobby?” Mike’s jaws closed down over the cake. “What hobby?”

“Eating. Or has it become a full-time job with you?” Mr. Cook turned to Sandy. “Ever see anybody eat so much?”

Sandy shook his head in mock amazement. “That son of yours sure can stash it away!”

Mike drained half the glass of milk in one gulp and grinned over at them. “A long time ago,” he told them, “I made up my mind never to eat on an empty stomach. That’s why I always have a snack before dinner.” He finished the rest of the milk hastily. “That reminds me. Mom said to clear all these maps out of the dining room. Soup’s almost on.”

Mr. Cook got up and headed for the door to the hallway. “I’ll just have time to place the call. What’s your number, Sandy?”

“Valley 5-3649.”

“Thanks. Mike, you take care of things in here for your mother.”

“Sure ... and hey, Dad!” Mike looked earnestly at his father.

“What?”

“You can sound awfully convincing if you want, so make it good, huh? It’d really be great if Sandy could come along.”

Mr. Cook laughed and disappeared through the door. A moment later the boys heard him dialing the long-distance operator.

“Well?” Mike demanded as he gathered in the scattered maps. “What do you think?”

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