The Rambler Club's Winter Camp
Date: 2022-04-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Snow camping -- Juvenile fiction; Adventure stories; Mystery fiction; Boys -- Societies and clubs -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Rambler Club's Winter Camp

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release date: April 6, 2022 [eBook #67787]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Penn Publishing Company, 1910

Credits: David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP ***

The Rambler Club's
Winter Camp

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS" ETC.

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMX

COPYRIGHT 1910 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

"WE CAN'T GET THERE TOO SOON!"

Introduction

"The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," though a story complete in itself, deals with the further adventures of the jolly club whose acquaintance we made in "The Rambler Club Afloat."

Although Nat Wingate has not always acted a good part toward Bob Somers and his friends, they are generous enough to forget past differences.

An enforced vacation, due to the burning of the Kingswood high school, gives the five boys an opportunity to accompany Nat and his friend, John Hackett, on a winter camping trip.

Life in the wilds, amidst snow and ice, has its discomforts and dangers, as well as charms, and many trying and exciting experiences fall to their lot; and these they meet with a cheerful, courageous spirit.

But this is not all; a series of happenings puzzle the boys, their wonder and curiosity increasing, as one strange incident follows another, until the mystery is eventually solved.

Their life in camp has done them a world of good; and they return home full of pleasant and lasting remembrances. Some of the further outdoor experiences of the same boys may be found in "The Rambler Club in the Mountains" and "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch."

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

I. | The Fire-Bell
II. | The Bucket Brigade
III. | Off to the Woods
IV. | "Undeniable Fact"
V. | The Road of Ice
VI. | Making Camp
VII. | The First Hunt
VIII. | The Guardians
IX. | A New Sport
X. | A Skating Match
XI. | A Night Alarm
XII. | The Wildcat
XIII. | On the Trail
XIV. | Hunter and Trapper
XV. | A Practical Joke
XVI. | Yardsley's Traps
XVII. | Smoke Signals
XVIII. | Who Took the Furs?
XIX. | Lost in the Snow
XX. | Wolves!
XXI. | Suspicions
XXII. | The Fawn
XXIII. | Back to Camp
XXIV. | A Quarrel
XXV. | Self-Defense
XXVI. | Snowballs
XXVII. | A Cave and a Bear
XXVIII. | The Note on the Door
XXIX. | The Near-Bandits
XXX. | Burying the Hatchet
XXXI. | Yardsley's Last Joke

Illustrations

"We Can't Get There too Soon"
"Hello!" Exclaimed One of the Strangers
With Guns Tightly Clasped, They Started
Don't Waste a Shot
How About the Storehouse Door?

The Rambler Club's Winter Camp

CHAPTER I

THE FIRE-BELL

Bob Somers, in his room on the upper floor of Pembroke Hall, was busily engaged in working out an algebraic equation. The cozy little study adjoined his bedroom, and was situated almost underneath a tower which rose above the surrounding trees. On the walls several engravings and photographs were tastefully hung, while close to the desk before which Bob was seated stood a table covered with the various odds and ends which boys are apt to possess.

It was one of those cold, keen winter nights when the comforts of a warm and cozy room seem especially attractive. The weather was clear, but the streets were white with snow, and a slight breeze made the tree-tops sigh and murmur.

Suddenly Bob Somers raised his eyes from the paper before him and listened intently.

The booming of a bell came over the frosty air, now very faint, then rising clearly, as the sound of the breeze sank to a low, droning whisper.

"My gracious!" cried Bob. "The fire-bell!"

For a second time, the ominous notes pealed forth, two coming close together, then, after a brief pause, seven in succession.

"Box twenty-seven! I wonder where it is."

The fire-alarm was seldom heard in the quiet little town of Kingswood, and the sound made his pulse quicken.

He hastily opened a door and made his way to an iron staircase which led to the tower. Up two steps at a time he bounded, until a small square room was reached. It had windows on all sides and commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country.

Bob Somers peered eagerly out at the icy winter scene. The limits of the snow-covered grounds of Pembroke Hall were defined by a row of electric lights on the highway. Beyond, several residences appeared faintly against the sky, but nearly all else was lost in gloom. Myriads of stars shone brilliantly.

A faint, hazy patch, as of smoke illuminated by an electric light, appeared above a dark line of trees.

"That must be the fire," murmured Bob, in some excitement. "Great Cæsar! It's near the schoolhouse."

Dashing down-stairs, he quickly donned his overcoat and hat.

"Fo' goodness' sakes, what am de matter?" inquired Peter Lexington, the colored boy, in astonishment.

"There's a fire, Peter! Can't stop to talk now."

"Fo' de lub of goodness! a fire?"

The surprising intelligence seemed to deprive Peter of all movement, and before he could utter another word, Bob was off.

In a moment, he had passed between the tall gate-posts at the entrance.

The air was sharp and keen. Great banks of snow, heaped up along the sides of the street, shone brightly in the glare of electric lights.

As Bob Somers neared the scene, he learned to his astonishment that the high school was on fire.

Kingswood, a wealthy community, had an excellent fire department. It was equipped with a ladder truck and an automobile fire-engine, the motor of which also operated the pumps.

The high school stood back from the street, surrounded by spacious grounds. In the centre of the three-story stone building rose a cupola of attractive design. About a hundred feet distant, the road was bridged over a large pond.

Bob Somers, breathing hard after his run, mingled with the excited groups in front of the school.

A cloud of whitish smoke partially obscured the building, its heaviest portion being toward the western end.

"It's getting away from them, sure," said a man close by. "If they don't hustle along that steamer from Rockville pretty soon the place is a goner."

Breaks in the curling wreaths of smoke revealed a ladder leaning against the wall and a line of hose entering the window above it. The shouts of the volunteers rose above the continuous roar of the Kingswood engine and the excited murmur of the crowd.

"That man is right," thought Bob, with a tremor of excitement; "I only wish something more could be done."

From the midst of the crowd, at a point some distance away, rose a peculiar shout, somewhat like the hooting of an owl.

Instantly Bob Somers threw back his head, and made a similar sound. This was a special signal often used by the Ramblers to call each other.

"Hello, Dave Brandon!" cried Bob, lustily.

"Hello yourself!"

In a moment the stout boy hurried forward.

"Isn't it awful, Bob, to see the old school going up like this?" he said.

"How did it start, Chubby?"

"Guess no one knows. Let's find the other fellows. Give a whoop, Bob!"

"Hello, Sam Randall!"

"Hello, Dick!"

"Hi, hi, Tom Clifton!"

In a few minutes, the Ramblers had managed to locate each other.

"Maybe we can save something yet," cried Bob. "Let's go into the grounds."

There was no railing, consequently they had free access, and the frozen crust presently began to crack sharply beneath their feet.

"Professor Hopkins is over there!" exclaimed Bob Somers. "He just came out of the door."

Bob darted between the groups of people, with the others close at his heels.

"Professor Hopkins!" he cried.

The principal, enveloped in a long coat, seemed almost overcome with emotion. He was staggering along under a load of books.

"Somers!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, sir! We're going to try and save something!"

"I am ruined!" gasped Professor Hopkins, apparently not hearing his words. "The fire is steadily gaining—my office is doomed."

"Come on, fellows!" shouted Bob.

The moment he reached the doorway, Professors Hughes and Ivins came out, each carrying an armful of books.

"Don't go in there!" shouted the former, warningly; "you'll be stifled."

"If the Rockville engine was only here, Professor Hopkins' office might be saved," exclaimed Professor Ivins.

"Boys!" cried Dave Brandon; "I've got an idea. We'll form a chain and get water from the pond."

"Splendid, Chubby! You've struck it!" broke in Bob, enthusiastically.

"There are plenty of people around who ought to help us," added Dick Travers; "it must be a double line—one to pass back the empty buckets."

The students turned toward the crowd.

"Who wants to join a bucket brigade?" yelled Dave Brandon.

"I do!" shouted one.

"Count me in," added another.

The crowd, as if ashamed of its former inactivity, became animated with life. Strangely enough, it had not occurred to any one before that some use might be made of the pond.

Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by several others, started off in search of buckets. An axe was procured—then the frozen surface of Deal's pond began to resound to the sturdy blows of the volunteers.

In the meantime Bob Somers and Dave Brandon had entered the building. Choking and sputtering, they reached the main corridor and saw bright tongues of flame mingling with the smoke.

From the floor above came excited shouts and the sound of axes chopping through rafters and beams.

Bob Somers and Dave Brandon did not care to tarry long. Their eyes ached and choking sensations gripped their throats.

"Unless the fellows hurry up, it will be too late," gasped Dave, as the two made their way out and stood upon the steps.

"Let's make a dash for the president's room, and get out some of his things," cried Bob Somers. "Come on, Dave Brandon!"

Both boys again disappeared in the smoke-laden atmosphere.

CHAPTER II

THE BUCKET BRIGADE

It was a rather perilous undertaking. Professors Hughes and Ivins, both elderly men, did not dare to again brave the danger.

"Come back, boys—come back!" called Professor Hughes, distractedly.

But Bob Somers and Dave Brandon were already groping their way toward the president's office, which was situated to the left of the entrance. They knew that it contained some of the most prized possessions of Professor Hopkins. Besides books and scientific instruments there were rare collections of butterflies and other insects.

The Ramblers knew where the cases were kept, and their efforts to reach them proved successful. A few moments more and they were staggering toward the entrance heavily laden.

"Bravo, boys!" cried the professor of mathematics, seizing the precious trays.

"Hurrah for the bucket brigade!" shouted Bob Somers. "Here comes the water."

Two lines of men and boys, reaching from the schoolhouse steps to the pond, were ready and eager for work. In a moment the first bucket had arrived. Bob Somers seized it and rushed inside.

The buckets began to follow each other in rapid succession, and the volunteers, in relays, fought the flames with determined efforts.

Dave Brandon continued to work in the president's office, and as fast as articles were brought out other students carried them to the home of Professor Hughes, almost opposite the school. At length they had the satisfaction of taking over the last tray.

Suddenly the clang of a distant bell came over the air.

"The Rockville engine!" cried Bob.

In a few moments it rumbled over the bridge, leaving a trail of embers, which the breeze caught up and danced merrily along the snow-covered street.

Then the tender, with loudly clanging bell, passed between the crowds which had hastily parted to the right and left.

Bob and his companions felt that their services were no longer needed, so they threw aside their buckets and walked across the street to the engine.

It had taken a position beneath an electric lamp, its polished surfaces glistening brightly. Several firemen were already attaching the suction hose. Another was piling on fuel and the peculiar smell of soft coal smoke mingled with the pungent odor of burning wood from the schoolhouse. A hissing sound showed that the steam had reached a high pressure. It was an interesting moment to the boys.

"Come on with the water!" shouted a voice. Instantly the engineer turned the valve, and a loud puffing began, while a shower of sparks shot upward through the smoky air.

By this time, the fire had worked its way through the central portion of the school and found a vent in the cupola. The windows had been broken by the heat and long streamers of flame pierced the whirling smoke.

An extension ladder was placed against the eaves and a number of firemen ascended to the roof, where, almost hidden by the smoke, they dropped a rope and began hauling up another line of hose.

But the fire in the cupola was rapidly increasing. The flames having united into a solid body leaped furiously upward, presenting the appearance of a gigantic torch surmounted by a column of smoke and burning brands.

Within a few minutes, the scene had wonderfully changed. The entire mass of smoke seemed to be drawn upward by the rush of air, and mingling with that from the cupola, stood out with a deep, sullen red from a background of starlit sky.

The electric lights began to look pale and ghostlike, and a ruddy glare suffused the landscape, while myriads of embers drifted slowly earthward.

"My eye, that certainly is a pretty sight, eh, Somers?"

A very tall, thin youth standing close by uttered this exclamation.

"Hello, John Hackett!"

"Hello! Say, you fellows look like a minstrel show! What's happened?"

"Didn't you see us hauling out stuff from the president's room, and helping to carry water?"

"My eye! Were you in that—and Chubby, too?"

"Of course," replied the stout boy. "Look, fellows, there goes the water."

A swish and a hiss sounded, as a heavy stream suddenly poured upon the cupola. The flames slowly began to die down, and a great cheer arose from the crowd.

"Must be an awful mess inside," observed Hackett, meditatively. "Isn't it too bad?"

"Yes! and it knocks us out of study for about two months," replied Dave Brandon.

"Maybe they will get a hall somewhere," suggested Tom Clifton.

"Oh, look!" cried Bob, suddenly.

As he spoke, the half-burned timbers of the cupola collapsed and fell with a muffled roar. Then a huge puff of smoke rolled upward, accompanied by a fitful glare of red, while the voices of the crowd swelled into an excited murmur.

The firemen on the roof struggled forward, turned the stream down into the opening, and the last glimmer of light began to slowly fade.

There was much excitement in the crowd, as this seemed to be the critical moment. The Rockville engine fairly roared and shook.

"I'll bet it's under control," said Bob, at length.

"Yes, they've got it now, that's sure," exclaimed Dick Travers.

"Thanks to the Rockville fire company," added Sam.

"Hope you're not going home yet," said Hackett. "I wouldn't mind staying out all night."

"You wouldn't catch me doing it," declared Tommy Clifton decidedly.

"If the moon was up, I'd like to go skating," added Hackett, boastfully, "and I wouldn't sleep all day to-morrow, either."

"I know what you mean," said Dave, with a good-natured grin, "and I suppose I ought to feel pretty badly about it."

"I advise you to stop writing poetry," continued Hackett; "then you won't need so much sleep."

"But then I don't write the kind that puts others to sleep," laughed Brandon, "and that ought to make the matter square."

"In that case, you are forgiven," exclaimed Sam Randall.

"How is Nat Wingate, 'Hatchet'?" asked Bob Somers, at this juncture.

"The doctor says he will have to keep out in the open air as much as possible," replied Hackett. "His lungs seem to be a little weak. Nat thinks of going to some lumber camp—and, by jingo—"

"What's the matter?"

"An idea just struck me," answered Hackett, "and a fine one, too."

"Let's hear it."

"Well, if the school is put out of commission for a month or two, I might manage to go with him."

"Wouldn't it be a great idea for the whole of us to go?" spoke up Bob Somers, turning to the others.

"That's the way to talk," exclaimed John Hackett, enthusiastically. "We could camp in the wilds—hunt, fish and have no end of sport."

"It would be mighty cold out there in the woods," ventured Tom Clifton, the smallest member of the party, "and the snow is ever so deep. Whew! There's twelve o'clock striking."

"Let it strike! Say, fellows, what do you think of this scheme?"

"Simply great! But it all depends upon whether they can find a place for the school," said Bob.

"There isn't a hall large enough in this little town—you know that. Might use a barn, though," grinned Hackett. "Fine to see Professor Hopkins standing on a bale of hay and conducting the opening exercises."

"Well, I'd like to go—but, and it's a great big but," sighed Dick Travers, "my dad might not look upon it the way I do."

"My fix, too," added Tom.

"Guess we could arrange that all right," said Bob, hopefully. "I think my father will agree to it."

"Anyway, we'll have to talk over this again," exclaimed Hackett. "Nat would certainly be glad if you fellows could go. How about meeting in your barn, Somers?"

"Come over day after to-morrow, and bring Nat with you," replied Bob.

"You can just bet I will," said Hackett. "My eye! How I hope we can arrange it!"

The Rockville steamer was still sending up a stream of sparks, but the excitement was now entirely over. The boys accordingly took leave of each other, and set out for home.

CHAPTER III

OFF TO THE WOODS

Early next morning the grounds about the high school were crowded with students. The building presented a sorry appearance, with its broken windows and smoke-begrimed walls. An odor of half-burned, water-soaked wood came from within.

Bob Somers produced a copy of the Kingswood "Times," and passed it around. The paper stated that the fire had been caused by an overheated furnace, and that the damage would amount to over five thousand dollars.

Professor Hopkins approached a group, among whom were Dave Brandon and several other members of the Rambler Club.

"Isn't this an unfortunate occurrence, boys?" he said; "I can scarcely believe that we all assembled here for study only yesterday morning. I want to thank you for your work last night."

"I'm very glad that we were able to do some good," said Dave. "How long do you think it will take to repair the damage, professor?"

"Months," replied the president, with something like a groan. "And I doubt whether we shall be able to find any place to hold the exercises."

Then, with a bow, he turned, and walked slowly away.

Soon after this, the group broke up, and, at an appointed hour next day, met in the hay-loft of Mr. Somers' barn.

Peter Lexington's ebony-hued countenance wore a broad grin, as the boys began to come in. Hackett and Nat Wingate arrived last.

Nat seemed to have lost some of the dashing air which formerly characterized him. His face was pale and drawn, while his movements lacked their accustomed energy.

"Fellows, this is a great scheme you've gotten up," he exclaimed, enthusiastically.

"Yes! My father says it's all right," declared Bob Somers.

"And they haven't been able to find a hall large enough," added Hackett, with a grin. "Professor Ivins told me so this afternoon."

"Anything else?" queried Sam Randall.

"Yes, he said that classes could not be resumed for about two months. How about you, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton? Think you'll be able to go?"

Both boys cast grateful looks toward Bob Somers.

"It's all right, Hacky," said Travers, gleefully. "When Bob told my father about the trip, and how much Mr. Somers would be pleased for the whole crowd to go, he consented."

"The same here," put in Tom Clifton, with a glowing face.

"And you, Chubby?"

Dave Brandon laughed. "I managed it easily," he said. "My folks have an idea that I don't exercise enough, and they think a trip of this kind will be just the thing."

"So it will be," said Nat. "You're beginning to look like a fat boy in a five cent show."

"Do you think there will be much work to do?" asked Dave, with pretended alarm.

"Well, rather—chopping wood, building camps, tramping twenty miles on hunting trips—oh, I guess you'll find enough to keep you busy."

"I 'clar' to goodness, boys, yo'll be froze," said Peter Lexington.

"A little snow and ice doesn't scare us, Peter," rejoined Bob, smilingly.

"Talk about hunting," put in Hackett, bringing a stick up to the level of his shoulder and squinting one eye along it. "I can hardly wait. Just let me get a crack at something—the bigger the better."

"That's the ticket," chimed in Nat. "It will beat a summer trip all hollow. Say, fellows, what will we need?"

"Help, befoah de voyage am over," interrupted Peter, with a loud chuckle.

"Now don't begin any croaking, Peter, or you'll scare our little friend from going."

"Indeed he won't do anything of the kind," retorted Tom Clifton, indignantly.

"We'll need lots of stuff," said Sam Randall; "tea, coffee, sugar, spices, flour, canned goods, potatoes, beans, molasses, bacon, blankets, skates, and snow-shoes."

"We can pack the whole business on a couple of sleds," observed Dick Travers; "and send them by freight to some station near the backwoods. Got your map, Bob?"

"Sure."

In a short time, seven boys were bending over a map which Bob had spread out on a bale of hay.

"Stony Creek—that looks like a good place to start from," said Bob, indicating a point with his forefinger.

"From there, we might hire a sleigh to take us to Mapleton," put in Dave Brandon, with a yawn.

"A good idea," said Bob. "The whole thing is settled, fellows. Now when shall we start?"

"The sooner, the better," declared John Hackett. "Who's going to buy the grub and other stuff?"

"Draw lots," suggested Dave Brandon, lazily.

"Skip around, Peter, and find a piece of paper," said Bob. "We want to fix this thing up right away."

"I can see my finish," groaned Dick Travers, comically.

The stable boy soon procured a piece of brown paper, which he tore in seven pieces. These were numbered consecutively and dropped in his cap.

"Shake 'em up, Peter," said Bob. "Fellows, the two who draw numbers three and five can consider that they have a job ahead of them."

The grinning Peter vigorously stirred up the bits of paper, then held his cap high over his head.

There was an interval of silence, after which seven boys eagerly glanced at the papers they had drawn.

"Stung!" groaned Sam Randall, with a comical grimace.

"Same here! I told you how it would be," added Travers.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Peter Lexington. "You fellahs certainly done got left—ha, ha!"

"Somebody make out a list," said Dick, with a sigh of resignation, "and we'll attend to it."

Bob Somers got to work. In addition to the articles mentioned by Sam Randall, he added a few simple remedies, such as they had taken on their previous trip.

"Now, you unfortunate chaps—hustle," said John Hackett, with a broad grin. "Don't hang around here. Wow! I'm thinking that by the time we get through, there'll be a few less deer and wildcats to roam around, eh, Nat?"

And the prospect of thinning out the animal kingdom made Hackett execute a few fancy steps around the hay-loft, much to the amusement of Peter Lexington.

Sam Randall and Dick Travers set about their allotted tasks with vigor. Before night, everything needful, including three sleds, had been purchased, and was ready for shipment to Stony Creek, the nearest railroad station to the village of Mapleton.

Some portions of the state of Wisconsin are wild and desolate, and the boys had selected a region where there was every likelihood of finding game in abundance.

Thus, two days after their meeting in the barn, on a cold, clear day in the early part of January, seven boys, attired in suitable fashion to withstand the rigorous climate, met at the Kingswood railroad station. They presented a very formidable appearance, Bob Somers and John Hackett carrying repeating rifles and the others shotguns.

"Did you get our stuff off to Stony Creek all right, Steve?" inquired Nat Wingate of the ticket agent.

"Sure thing! Where are you fellows bound for now?"

"To the woods," replied John Hackett; "and we are going to do some tall shooting."

"You will, at any rate," said the agent, with a grin, as he surveyed Hackett's long figure. "When a wildcat comes over to say how-de-do, them legs of yourn ought to be mighty useful. Here comes number ten, right on the minute."

A whistle sounded, the train rounded a curve, and, in a few minutes more, the boys had clambered aboard.

"If anybody had told me about this last week, I wouldn't have believed it," said Sam, in great glee, settling himself comfortably in a seat. "Eh, Dave?"

The stout boy nodded, and closed his eyes.

"I'm going to make up now for all that hard work I did at the fire," he said with a laugh.

The train sped on, past snow-covered fields and rolling hills, over trestles, allowing momentary glimpses of ice-bound creeks, or ravines, purple and gray in the morning shadows.

At various towns, the train came to a halt. Several were manufacturing centres, where smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and jets of steam rivaled in their whiteness the dazzling snow. But the distances between these stopping places grew longer and longer, and when, at length, the conductor called out, "Stony Creek," the last town had been left miles behind.

"Wake up, Chubby!" cried Bob, giving the stout boy a vigorous shove. "Here's where we get off."

Dave stretched, yawned and rose to his feet just as the cars came to a stop.

"It doesn't look as if we were anywhere," he said.

"We'll have to get up a searching party and try to find the town," said Nat.

When the boys stood on the platform and gazed after the fast receding train, they felt that they were already on the edge of the wilderness.

Beyond the small ticket office was a freight house, while a lone residence, with a veranda at the side, stood opposite the station. A road skirted the railway tracks, and from this two others branched off, winding their way between broad fields, patched here and there with dark, gaunt trees.

"Looks like the arctic regions," said Nat.

"And feels like it, too," observed Tommy Clifton, pulling his coat collar closer around his neck. "Guess only birds live here."

"We'll have to rout somebody out and see about our stuff," said Hackett. "Hello, here he comes now."

A rather tall, spare man with a red, scraggly beard emerged from the ticket office and lazily ambled toward them.

"How d'y do, boys!" he said, with a broad grin. "Be you looking for anybody who lives hereabouts?"

"Is that the town, Jack?" asked Nat Wingate, pointing to the house opposite.

"Well! The idea! How did you guess my name?" exclaimed the station-master, with a look of pleased surprise. "Reckon I never seen you before, neither."

"We're the bounding brotherhood of brilliant guessers," grinned Nat. "Now, Jack, a few words with you; we want to know if you have a lot of boxes and sleds for us."

This rapid flow of words quite bewildered the old man. He scratched his head. Then an idea seemed to dawn upon him.

"Be them yourn?" he said. "A hull lot of stuff, an' sleds, too?"

"Now you're talking, Jack, old boy," said Hackett. "Trot out your papers, Somers, and show him."

"They're all in the freight house. You boys a-going ter stay in town fer a spell, I reckon, ain't yer?"

"Where is it?" asked Nat.

"Where?"

The station-master paused. A look of aggrieved surprise came over his rugged, honest face.

"Where?" he repeated, reproachfully. "'Tain't fur." He waved his arm in a wide circle. "Over there. Bless me—the idea! Sich a question."

"Can we get something to eat around here?" asked Dave Brandon. "I'm almost starved."

"Over to Hiram Sladder's, I reckon. 'Tain't more'n one o'clock, now. Going to stay in town long?"

"We'll keep right on to Mapleton," volunteered Nat. "How do we get there?"

"To Mapleton, eh? Well, there's two ways I know of, jest two of 'em."

"How?" asked Nat.

"One of 'em's walking, and the other's riding," replied "Jack," laconically.

"Ha, ha! Bully for you," roared Hackett. "Wow—that's a good one. 'Jack,' you're all right."

The station-master grinned, and looked at the boys with a mildly indulgent air.

"You certainly ain't a-going camping out, air you?" he asked.

"Of course we are," answered Bob. "But for that, we wouldn't be carrying around these guns."

"Jack" shook his head.

"A risky business—a purty risky business fur boys, I call it. Why, there's wolves—"

"And there's a gun all ready for 'em," interrupted John Hackett, holding up his rifle.

"An' wildcats."

"Well, we have some more guns."

"An'—an'—well, I call it a purty risky business. However, 'tain't none of my affair. Yonder right hand road takes yer to Sladder's."

"Come on, fellows," said Dave; "I'm hungry as a bear."

The stout boy jumped off the platform and began striding across the road. They toiled up a gentle incline, trudging in the middle of the highway. Once at the top, they saw a long descent. A flagpole was visible, rising above the crest of another hill.

"Where there's a flagpole, there's a house," observed Hackett.

His long steps soon put him in the lead.

"Oh, I say, hold on, 'Hatchet,'" puffed little Tommy Clifton; "this isn't a race."

"You want to hurry and grow a bit, Tommy," laughed John.

At length they began the ascent of the hill. The ruts in the road made walking difficult, and all breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the top. As they did so, the peaked roof of a building came into view, rising higher and higher until the entire structure was visible. It proved to be a long, two-story building, painted a dingy gray.

But what interested the boys most of all was an inscription across the front that read:

Roadside House
Hiram Sladder, Proprietor
Accommodation for man and beast

"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Now for something to eat!"

CHAPTER IV

"UNDENIABLE FACT"

Before the boys could reach the entrance, the door was opened. A very big man, with a very red complexion and prominent features, stood surveying the group, his face wreathed in smiles.

"Good-afternoon, young gentlemen!" he exclaimed, in a hearty voice. "Step right in—a warm room and nice, comfortable chairs ready for you."

"Can we get something to eat now?" asked Dave, with a touch of apprehension in his voice.

"All you want, sir—an undeniable fact," replied the hotel keeper; "of the best, too—nice, hot coffee, roast beef, potatoes,—an' what would you say to a few buckwheat cakes, with maple syrup?"

"Um—um—ah—but don't say a few," remarked Dave.

"An undeniable fact that they are just the thing for a cold day like this. Put your guns in the corner, boys. Mom!"

Mr. Hiram Sladder's stentorian voice soon brought a response. A pleasant-looking woman bustled into the room.

"What's this, Hiram, a meeting?" she asked, looking at the boys with a smile.

"Undeniable fact that it looks like it," said Mr. Sladder. "But these young gentlemen want something to eat, and want it quick. Is Tim around?"

"No, Hiram. He just went off with Billy Musgrove."

"Too bad! But never mind. Get out the best you have in the house."

The boys drew up chairs around the bright stove, and settled down to solid comfort, while Hiram Sladder perched himself on a stool of rather ancient appearance.

"Strangers around these parts?" he remarked, affably, his eyes roving from one to another.

"You've struck it," said Hackett; "we've been trying to find out ever since we got here where the town is."

"And why they call it Stony Creek," added Tom Clifton.

"Well, just beyond the hill is as purty a little town as you want to see," confided the hotel keeper; "and it's an undeniable fact that the stoniest creek you ever laid your eyes upon flows close't to Bill Manley's blacksmith shop. Going to stay here long, young gentlemen?"

"No, we're off on a hunting trip," said Hackett, carelessly; "after big game."

"Sho! Know much about gunning?" asked Mr. Sladder, incautiously.

"Do we know much about gunning?" echoed John, with withering sarcasm. "Well, say—I've had a few tilts with wildcats, myself, and I'm here yet."

"Um—you can't always tell by looks," said Mr. Sladder, anxious to appease the tall youth's ire. "My son Tim—too bad he ain't here—is a born hunter. The way that boy can shoot and trap! Why, it's an undeniable fact that there ain't nobody in town can beat him. If the young gentlemen want a few good points where to go fur game—"

"Yes—that's the idea!" cried Bob, enthusiastically, drawing forth his map.

Hiram Sladder spread it out on a near-by table.

Surrounded by all save Dave Brandon, he placed a very broad finger on a spot indicating the position of Mapleton, then slowly passed it along the course of a river, and finally stopped at a lake.

Then he said: "Thereabouts! No better place in the state of Wisconsin."

"Plenty of wildcats, and wolves, I hope," said Hackett, with a sly glance toward Tom Clifton.

"Why bless you, you may get more'n you bargain for," replied the hotel keeper. "Now in my younger days—"

"Hiram, it's ready! An' I guess the boys is too," interrupted Mrs. Sladder, at this interesting point.

The dining-room of the Roadside House was large and comfortable, and a bountiful meal had been prepared. From the kitchen came a delicious odor of buckwheat cakes, which caused a look of great satisfaction to come over Dave Brandon's face.

Mrs. Sladder regarded the remarkable manner in which the viands disappeared as a tribute to her culinary skill, and surveyed the boys with a benevolent smile.

"It's an undeniable fact that the walking ain't just what it might be," said Mr. Sladder, who had entered the room. "Now, I've a sleigh—"

"Just the idea," broke in Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "Eh, fellows?"

"Then I'll have it ready for you in a jiffy. I take it that you want to leave pretty soon. Mapleton's a good fifteen miles."

The boys finished their meal, and sat around the table engaged in conversation until word was brought that the sleigh was ready. A moment later, the jingling of bells was heard, and it drew up to the front door.

"I'll be mighty glad to see you again, boys, any time," said Hiram Sladder, as the fellows clambered in.

"Get up, you Prince! Hi, hi, you Bobby!" yelled the driver, cracking his whip, and the sleigh began to glide over the snow-covered ground.

Upon reaching the freight house at the Stony Creek railroad station, "Jack" assisted the boys in loading the various boxes and packages upon the sleigh. Some of their supplies had to be tied upon the sleds, which, in turn, were secured in such a fashion as to trail at the rear.

"Hope yer found the town," remarked the station-master, dryly; "never had sich a question asked me before."

The boys laughed, and waved their hands, as the sleigh began to draw away from the platform.

"Hurrah! Now for the wilderness!" cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "We can't get there too soon."

The driver again cracked his long, snake-like whip, and the sleigh-bells jingled merrily.

Up and down hill, between dark, sombre woods, over bridges which spanned frozen streams, then past bleak, barren stretches of fields, dazzlingly white, they went, until the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, and a yellow glow suffused the west.

"'Tain't fur now," volunteered the driver—he pointed with his whip—"jest over that there hill. Drat that bay—the pesky brute's a-stumbling—whoa, Prince—yes, jest over that next hill."

"And it's an 'undeniable fact' that I'll be glad to get there," laughed Dick Travers.

In the course of about fifteen minutes a house was passed, then another, and finally they saw a frame building somewhat larger than those around it.

"The hotel," said the driver.

This information was scarcely necessary, as a large sign in front announced to all that the Backwoods Hotel provided the best of accommodations for travelers.

"Hunting parties sometimes stop at Silas Riggs'—he's the boss," explained the driver. "A fust-rate fellow he is too."

He drew up to the entrance, and the boys jumped out, a trifle stiff after their long ride.

Silas Riggs was "right glad" to see them. His son, a sturdy young specimen of humanity, ambled forward and surveyed them with a frank, good-natured stare.

Arrangements were quickly made for rooms and supper.

Silas Riggs was a jolly old fellow, and told jolly stories—which was better, and the evening passed very quickly indeed. The boys were reluctant to leave the nice, cheerful stove and pleasant room. The wind had sprung up, and, as it moaned and sighed around the corner of the "Backwoods Hotel," sending the old sign creaking forth and back, to mingle its dismal sound with the soughing of the tree-tops, it made the comfortable interior seem all the more agreeable.

But the boys were anxious to get up early next morning, so they bade Silas Riggs and several of the guests a cheery good-night and repaired to their rooms.

Immediately after breakfast, boxes and packages were opened.

"We ought to be well fixed, with all that stuff," observed Dick Travers.

"Rubber blankets enough to start a store," put in Sam.

"An' you'll need 'em," drawled Silas, Junior. "Cold—h'm; an' jest wait till a blizzard gets a-going. An'—an'—but I don't want to scare you fellers none."

"Don't stop on our account, Silas, old boy," laughed Nat; "we're ready for anything that comes along."

Axes, hatchets, hunting-knives, guns and snow-shoes, besides provisions, were securely strapped to the sleds, and, at length, they were ready to leave.

"Old" Silas gave them minute directions as to the best route to take, and other bits of helpful advice.

"On the eastern side of the lake, near the south end, you'll find a cabin," he said. "'Tain't much to look at, but if nobody ain't thar, it may save yer the trouble of building a camp.

"Good-bye, boys," he added, grasping the hand of each in turn; "an' don't forgit to drop in an' see 'Old' Silas when ye come back."

The air was clear and crisp, and the wind had greatly moderated. Before them was a short stretch of open country, and beyond, glistening in the early morning light, rose the rounded tops of several hills.

Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton took the first turn with the sleds.

"How long is it going to take us to reach Lake Wolverine, Bob?" asked Tom Clifton.

"If we don't get tangled up in the woods, we ought to get there some time this afternoon."

"This snow makes hard walking," grumbled Dave. "Say, boys, I've got an idea. I think we're a lot of duffers. What are snow-shoes made for, eh?"

"Yes, what are they made for, indeed?"

"I'm going to put mine on, anyway," said Dave.

"And so am I," added Hackett.

Seven pairs of the long shoes were extracted from the piles on the sleds, and the boys began to strap them on.

"Oh, but it feels funny," said Tom Clifton, as he stood upright. "Wow! Don't think I can manage to walk with them."

"Strike out, like a little man," said Hackett. "Here goes!"

He started off with great confidence, but the end of his shoe caught on the almost concealed edge of a stump, sending the long-legged youth floundering in the snow.

"Hi, hi! You struck something sure, 'Hatchet,'" exclaimed Tom, mischievously.

Hackett's face was very red, indeed, when he picked himself up.

"Talk about mean luck," he growled. "Quit your laughing, Tommy Clifton. Just watch me, I'll do better this time."

Hackett took the lead. Right after him came Dave Brandon, while Bob Somers and Nat Wingate trailed in the rear, all moving in an awkward fashion. But at length they mastered the new form of locomotion sufficiently well to make good progress.

"My eye! look at that whopping big long-ears over there," cried Hackett; "if I'd only had my gun in hand," he added, regretfully, as the bunny disappeared.

"We are hunters brave and bold,
And fear not wind or cold—
When seeking game.
Big birds look out, and small ones fly away;
Wise bears and wolves won't join the fray—
For Hacky's after game."

Nat improvised these lines, his old-time spirit reasserting itself.

"Rah, rah—yi, yi—bing, bang, boom!" joined in Hackett, lustily. "And I'm going to get some game, too. Don't you forget it."

Soon a stretch of pine woods was reached. It grew thicker and thicker, until the blue sky was almost shut from view. Underbrush and trailing vines were in profusion.

The wind had piled up great drifts of snow, and occasionally the heavy sleds had to be dragged around a fallen tree.

From a dense thicket came the harsh, rasping cry of the blue jay, while a noisy flock of crows flitted among the trees.

In places, the snow was covered with the tracks of animals and birds.

"There have been dozens of rabbits around here," asserted Bob. "And look—sure as I live—the trail of a fox."

"A fox?" echoed the others. "How do you know?"

"Because the footprints are almost in a straight line, and you can see the marks of the claws in front."

"My eye! I only wish I could get a shot at him," burst out Hackett, looking eagerly around, as if he expected to see a dozen foxes running to cover.

"Thought nothing would satisfy you but a wildcat or deer, Hacky," laughed Nat.

"A fox will do for a starter. After that, Tommy Clifton must help me rout out a big, black bear from his cave," grinned John.

"Oh, I say, fellows," broke in Dick Travers, "somebody take this sled; I'm fagged out."

"So am I," puffed Tom Clifton.

"And it's the same here," added Sam.

The three boys were relieved.

Maple and hickory trees were now interspersed with the dark hemlocks and cedars, and the patches of sky between the trees grew larger. The woods were rapidly becoming more open.

"We ought to come to the river pretty soon, Somers," observed Hackett, as they paused on a ridge which overlooked a steep descent.

"Unless we do, it may mean that—"

The rest of the sentence was interrupted in a most startling fashion.

The snow upon which they were standing suddenly gave way beneath their weight. With cries of dismay, Bob Somers, John Hackett and Dick Travers wildly grasped at the empty air. Then, before their astonished companions could make a move to aid them, they shot downward, accompanied by an avalanche of snow.

CHAPTER V

THE ROAD OF ICE

The surface was smooth and icy, and the efforts of the boys to stay their progress were in vain. Huge masses of snow swept with them down the hill. Bob Somers felt the cold air rush past his face. He had a confused vision of bushes flying swiftly by, then he shot over the edge of a hillock, and dropped with a thud upon the other side.

Breathless and excited, he made another effort to stop his downward plunge. For a moment, it was partially checked, but the tumbling snow almost instantly tore him away from his hold.

Long John Hackett and Dick Travers were considerably in advance. Their startled cries had been silenced, and like Bob Somers, they were helpless upon the smooth, slippery surface of the hill.

A long line of bushes stretched across just below.

John Hackett escaped them by a few feet, but Dick Travers crashed into their midst and came to an abrupt halt.

A moment later, Bob brought up against him with an impact that made both wince.

"I say, Dick, are you hurt?" he gasped, excitedly, as soon as he could find his voice.

"Whew, I'm too dizzy to know. You nearly knocked the last bit of breath out of me. My face is scratched to pieces."

"And—wow—how my ear stings. I'm sore all over."

"But we are mighty lucky to get off so easily," said Dick. "I wonder how old Hacky has fared."

"I hope he's all right. Say, my head spins like a top. Here come the rest of the fellows. I'll bet they are scared."

Both boys rose slowly and painfully to their feet. They were much jarred and bruised, but, fortunately, no serious damage had resulted.

"Hello, Hacky!" yelled Bob.

An answering hail came from below.

"He must be all right," said Dick, joyfully. "There he is—away down at the bottom of the hill."

"Are you hurt, fellows?" came a cry.

The other boys were making their way down the smooth, treacherous surface as fast as they dared.

"Not a bit of it!" yelled Bob. "Let's see about Hackett."

Without waiting for the others, he started down the incline, this time in an orderly fashion. Dick Travers followed him.

They found the tall boy busily engaged in brushing the snow off his clothes.

"Are you hurt, Hacky?" inquired Dick, anxiously.

"If my arm doesn't turn black and blue, I'm mistaken," growled John. "I got about eighty-seven jolts on the back of my neck, forty on the shoulders, and nearly broke my leg, besides. You fellows all right? That's good. What dunces we were to stand on such a bank. Anyway, I found out something."

"What's that?"

"Don't you see there's a little creek close here? And it goes in our direction, too—eh, Somers?"

"You're right," returned Bob, with a glance in the direction indicated. "Skating will be good for a change."

The rest of the boys now came up and were delighted to see that their friends were safe and sound.

"I move that we have something to eat," said Dave.

His proposition met with general favor, and three of the boys went after the sleds. In due course, they returned, and did full justice to the lunch which Silas Riggs had put up. It was rather cold fare, but all decided that it was better to push on as fast as possible.

"Somebody may be using that house 'Old' Silas spoke about," said Nat; "and, in that case, we'll have to build a camp."

In a short time the march was resumed.

The creek was found to be narrow and winding, but the wind had blown its surface comparatively free from snow.

"Now we'll make some speed," said Sam, as he unstrapped his snow-shoes. "Look out for air holes and thin places, fellows."

The crisp whirr of seven pairs of skates was soon ringing out, and the three victims of the snowslide almost forgot their aches and pains in the enjoyment of the sport.

"Great, isn't it?" grinned Hackett, cutting a letter S. "Anybody want to race?"

"Not to-day, my boy," said Bob. "Guess you've got us there."

Grim, dark trees hung over the watercourse, their interlacing branches covered with snow. Occasionally, boughs, still full of dull yellow leaves—like a touch of autumn in the bleak winter landscape, added brightness to the scene.

"Must be lots of minks, otter and beavers along these banks," declared Bob. "They live in just this kind of place."

"We'll make old Sladder open his eyes when we get back with a load of skins," exclaimed John Hackett. "The cheek of him to ask if we knew anything about hunting. Bang! I can hardly wait."

"The wildcats are going to catch it, fellows," drawled Tommy Clifton.

"Right you are, little boy," grinned Hackett. "And don't forget that bear you're going to help me find."

Nat began to show signs of fatigue, and soon a halt was made.

"Maybe we had better not try to reach the lake to-night," said Bob.

"Oh, pshaw! I can stand it, Somers," returned Nat. "A few minutes' rest will fix me up all right."

Suddenly a shout from Hackett, who had gone on ahead, attracted their attention. He had disappeared around a bend, but now came skating back.

"The river's just ahead, fellows," he cried. "Anything the matter, Nat?"

"No, I feel first-rate," returned Nat, rising to his feet. "Fellows, I believe this trip will fix me up all right."

"Of course it will," said Hackett, enthusiastically. "Say—we ought to reach Lake Wolverine pretty soon, now."

"I hope so—I'm half frozen," put in Tom Clifton; "a big fire and some hot coffee—"

"Um—um!" interrupted Dave Brandon; "and a pan of nice bacon, and baked potatoes, eh?"

"I can't listen to such talk and sit still," laughed Nat. "I believe it's getting colder," he added. "We'll feel it more on the river, too."

The mouth of the creek was soon reached, and with long, steady strides, the boys pushed on. Occasionally they insisted upon stopping to give Nat a rest, and it was not until after two o'clock that the sight of a broad expanse, gleaming in the sunlight straight ahead, brought forth a rousing cheer.

"Hurrah!" cried Bob Somers, "Lake Wolverine."

"Now for the cabin that old Riggs told us about," cried Nat.

They redoubled their exertions, skating close to the eastern shore. All were delighted with the surroundings of the lake. There was a picturesque combination of rugged hills and valleys, and they felt that in such a wild country plenty of game must be found.

"There's the cabin—straight ahead," cried Bob. "Look, Chubby, right in front of those firs!"

"You are right, Bob! And it's a sight I'm glad to see. Hurry up."

The stout boy and John Hackett started ahead in a lively fashion.

"Go it, Chubby!" yelled Bob. "Show him what you are made of!"

Dave needed no bidding. Bending forward, he skimmed swiftly over the ice, and when they came opposite the cabin Hackett led by only a few feet.

"Whew!" puffed Dave. "It warms a fellow up a bit. That's a pretty solid-looking house, 'Hatchet.'"

The cabin was built of logs and stood some distance from the edge of the lake, and near the base of a steep hill. It was partly surrounded by a group of tall cedars.

Dave and Hackett crossed the intervening patch of snow, their skates crunching through the hard crust. The latter tried the door, while Dave peered in through a window.

He uttered an exclamation of disappointment.

"Somebody is living here," he said. "There's a lot of dishes and stuff on a table. It means that we'll have to build a camp, after all."

"And it would have been such a bully place to stay," said Hackett, giving the door a spiteful kick.

"Well, there's no help for it," put in Bob, who had come up. "You can see the snow is freshly trampled."

"Wonder who they can be."

"Most likely hunters."

"Well, what are we going to do?" asked Sam Randall.

"Why, cross the lake, of course—if Nat doesn't mind."

"Oh, I'm not tired out yet, Somers," protested Nat. "Certainly we'll get over on the other side, and have a camp to ourselves, eh, Hacky?"

"Right you are! Face about—forward march!"

"It's time you exercised your muscle again on one of these sleds, Hackett," complained Dick Travers.

"Oh, I forgot! Really, my little tired-out friend, I forgot," grinned Hackett, seizing the rope.

"I don't call this any picnic," observed Sam, as they headed for the opposite shore.

"Nor I, either," said Tom. "We get the full force of the wind—cracky, my feet are getting like lumps of ice."

In spite of their hard traveling, the boys kept up a good pace, and soon the opposite shore began to assume definite form. It was hilly and well wooded.

"We had better divide up in two parties," suggested Bob; "we ought to strike a place quicker that way."

"All right," said Dick. "Come on, Bob and Chubby; let's see what we can find."

Skates were quickly removed, the sleds drawn up on shore and the two parties set out.

Bob, Dick Travers and Dave Brandon kept in a southerly direction, while the others pushed north.

"Any number of good places around here," exclaimed the stout boy, after a short search. "There's one, right by that clump of pines."

"Hello—hello!" came a faint hail from the distance.

"It's Hackett," said Dave, as they turned and saw a dark figure on the edge of the lake waving his arms.

"They must have found a good place."

"Hello!" yelled the distant figure again. "Dandy place."

This was all they could make out, but it was enough.

The three boys hurried forward.

In the course of a few minutes, hauling the sleds after them, they rejoined the others.

"We'll show you a dandy place," cried Nat; "the finest you ever saw."

He led them around a wooded ridge, where they found, between this and another ridge, a bowl-shaped valley. On one side, the hill sloped gently down to the shore of the lake.

"Isn't this a place for you, though?" asked Nat.

"You were lucky to come across it," declared Bob; "and it's sheltered from the northwest wind."

"Plenty of trees—maples and spruce—just the thing for our camp."

"And no fear of a snowslide," put in Dave; "the hill isn't steep enough for that. There's only one thing—"

"What is that, Chubby?"

"A thaw might make it unpleasant."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Hackett. "Why, it's getting colder—twice as cold every other minute. Let's fall to, fellows, and build a fire."

Several of the boys unpacked a box of provisions, while Sam Randall, Tom Clifton and Dick Travers began to collect fire-wood. Armed with hatchets, they quickly got enough to start a blaze.

As the flames began to roar and crackle, more wood was piled on, and the hungry and tired boys gathered around to warm their benumbed hands and feet.

"I'm going to have a cup of coffee," said Dave.

"That's the idea, Chubby."

"And why not roast some potatoes?"

"And what's the matter with a bit of bacon?"

"Right you are, boys! Let's get to work," said Bob.

Hunger spurred them on. In a few minutes, potatoes were roasting, and bacon hissing and sizzling before the fire.

Hackett went off with an axe, chopped a hole through the ice and dipped up enough water for the coffee.

When the meal was ready, the boys eagerly helped themselves, then took places around the cheerful fire and were content.

CHAPTER VI

MAKING CAMP

"We have a big job ahead of us," declared Bob Somers, when every scrap of food had vanished.

"I believe it," said Dave, with half closed eyes.

"The huts ought to be built before dark; it means a hustle."

"Build 'em, then, an'—" the stout boy was nodding.

"Hi, hi! Hey, bing, bang, boom—rah—rah! No sleeping yet, Chubby. Wake up!"

"Let a fellow alone, can't you? Build em—stop!"

"Oh, yes, we will leave you alone! Oh, yes—and two huts to build."

"Only five minutes," pleaded Dave. "I feel uncommonly sleepy. I do, indeed! Let up, won't you?"

"Very sorry, old boy," said Bob; "but we are going to clear away the fire and build it in another place. Better wake up and help in this job, or we may have a pretty rough night of it."

With a very great effort, Dave Brandon arose.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, with a prodigious yawn.

"Get the fire shoved over to this place I have marked," said Bob, indicating a spot about ten feet distant. "Just as soon as the ground is thawed, we'll have to dig four holes for the corner posts."

"Just think, we've got two of these old dens to build," grumbled John Hackett.

"Oh, never mind," said Nat. "I'm going to help, and we'll consider that it's a fine evening of sport."

Encouraged by these words, the tired boys set to work.

"In the first place, we'll need a lot of slender maples for the sides and roof," said Bob; "and any quantity of fir brush."

"I'm going to select trees for the posts," declared Sam Randall. "These huts are going to be built in a hurry, I can tell you that."

In a few moments, the sound of the young woodsmen's sturdy blows were being carried over the frosty air. As fast as the trees were felled, Tom Clifton trimmed off the branches. Then Dick Travers and Sam Randall began to gather the fir brush until an enormous pile was ready for use.

All hands worked steadily, in spite of their fatigue.

"On a camping trip, a fellow can't expect to stop just because he's tired," declared Bob; "he must be willing to work hard and run up against all kind of snags."

"You bet!" agreed Sam; "and getting half frozen, on a winter trip, and half starved besides."

"Guess we've got enough work to last till midnight," observed Dave Brandon, cheerfully.

"Is that ground getting thawed out?" inquired Bob.

"It's ready for anybody except the poet laureate to begin digging," laughed the other. "Start right in, Sam Randall, or it will get frozen up again."

"It's not going to be an easy job," said Bob. "We'll all take turns."

"And we don't want the huts to get bowled over by the first puff of wind," added Tommy Clifton.

"That's so, little one," said John Hackett, patronizingly; "I'll bet we strike some of the worst gales that were ever heard of. It's getting pretty brisk now, and we may be out in it until about three o'clock to-morrow morning. Give me a spade, and I'll show you something fast in the way of digging."

Hackett found that he was going to have a hard task to live up to his boast, but he stuck bravely at it, assisted by Bob Somers and Sam Randall.

"What comes next, Bob?" asked Tommy Clifton.

"I'll show you. First, I want four stout poles for the corners."

Bob Somers selected the heaviest maples, which had been cut to a suitable length. They were solid and heavy, and required the combined strength of several boys to lift into place.

"Ram them down as hard as possible," said Bob. "Then fill up the hole and bank them all around. Wet the earth as you pack it in. When it gets hard, it ought to hold like a vise."

"Well, it's going to hold that one, I can tell you," declared Sam Randall, as they lifted the first pole, and brought it down with a bang.

Hackett began to throw in the earth. "But it's fierce work, though," he grumbled; "and a lot more to do."

Bob laughed. "Stick it out, Hacky," he said; "you'll forget all about the backache by this time next week."

"It would be better to leave the other hut until to-morrow," suggested Nat. "We can all crowd into one—it's only for a night, you know."

"I guess that's the best plan."

"Won't it be awful cold in there, Bob?" asked Tom Clifton.

"Not when it's banked up with snow. The hardest part of the work is yet to come."

"You mean putting on the fir brush," spoke up Tom Clifton. "Oh, that's easy enough."

"Time to talk about that when the framework is up," said John Hackett, with a laugh. "Don't make a mistake and put the brush on first."

When the four posts had been planted, the rear ones being higher, so as to give the roof a slope, others were placed across the tops and securely fastened. This was done by means of nails and ropes.

"So much for that," said Bob, in a tone of satisfaction. "Now, a lot of poles must be placed about a foot apart all around the sides and on the roof. Pitch in, fellows—stick 'em up, and be sure to leave space enough for a door."

When the framework was completed, Bob and his assistants surveyed their handiwork with pride.

"Fir brush lies pretty flat," said Bob, at length. "Begin at the bottom, boys, and weave it between the poles. Then push it down as tight as possible."

"Correct," said Hackett. "Go up front."

The boys worked rapidly, packing the brush so closely that not a crevice was visible. It required patience, but the knowledge that it would be their only shelter for the night spurred them on. When the four walls were completed, they presented quite a substantial appearance.

"Looks great," commented Bob. "We'll have a fine camp. Better get some more brush; it takes a lot of it."

Dick Travers and Tom Clifton volunteered for the task, and work was resumed. Sam Randall and Hackett began to brace the sides with stout poles, and when this was done, they proceeded to bank the snow all around, beating it down with the backs of their shovels until it formed a compact mass.

Bob Somers and Nat, who insisted on helping, got on the roof, while Dave Brandon kept them well supplied with fir brush. The two worked with great care, beginning at the front, and being sure that each lot they put on overlapped that which was underneath.

"It will be a good, tight roof, Nat," remarked Bob, with satisfaction.

"And the snow around the sides ought to make it warm as toast."

"Rather have this than a ready made cabin any day—or night, either," grinned Nat. "There, Somers—when we make the roof a bit snug where it joins the wall, our work is done."

"And a good job, too," commented Dave Brandon from below.

All now began to assist in piling up the snow, notwithstanding the gathering gloom. But the twilight, ere long, had almost given way to darkness. The opposite shore of the lake was lost to view, while toward the west a sombre hillside rose against a greenish gray sky.

"Too dark to see," sang out Dick Travers, finally.

"We'll have supper, and put on a few finishing touches by firelight," said Bob.

"That's where you're right—no more work for me, until I get something to eat," added Dave. "It's another 'undeniable fact.'"

Fuel was heaped upon the fire, and cooking begun. Higher and higher rose the flames, lighting up in a fantastic fashion the group of boys, the snowy landscape and queer-looking hut in the foreground. Shadows danced and chased each other over the ground, light gleamed for an instant on distant objects, then vanished to sparkle again elsewhere.

Refreshed by supper, the boys piled several logs on the fire and resumed work, adding whatever they thought necessary to make their dwelling secure and tight. The door was closed by strips of heavy canvas.

"This is a neat job, Hacky," said Nat. "Don't know just what kind of architecture you'd call it—never saw anything quite so queer-looking in my life—but I'll bet it is going to be comfortable, and that's all we want."

It was not until after nine o'clock that the weary workers ceased their labors. But, despite aching arms and tired backs, each regarded the odd-shaped structure with much satisfaction.

"It would take one of Silas Riggs' blizzards to blow it over," remarked Sam Randall.

"And two of them to wake me up, to-night," yawned Dave.

"Let's throw a bit of brush inside, spread out blankets and turn in," said John Hackett.

"Tired out, Hacky?" laughed Nat.

"Of course not—nowhere near it. I'll bet I could give any fellow in the crowd fifty feet start and beat him across the lake," and Hackett's eyes sparkled with indignation at the thought of his endurance having been questioned.

The boys hung a lantern from the ceiling, and as the light revealed the cozy interior, broke into a hearty cheer.

"Not many could beat this job," declared Bob Somers; "eh, Chubby?"

"Say—but I am tired," was Dave's response. "Good thing we have sleeping-bags and plenty of blankets. Going to be a tight squeeze, though," he added.

"You take one-half of the hut, and the rest of us the other," said Bob, humorously. "Here's my place, right where I'm standing."

Rubber blankets were spread over the fragrant fir brush, the sleeping-bags were put on those, and one by one, the boys lay down. Soon there was silence, save for the fire, the glowing embers of which occasionally cracked with a sharp report.

But it was not for long. Bob sat up.

"Wow—say, fellows, I'm nearly frozen. Got a trunk load of blankets on, too."

"And I can't sleep for the cold, either," groaned Dave.

"It feels like the arctic regions," said Tom Clifton, in muffled tones. "My feet are like lumps of ice."

"And I'm nearly frozen," growled Hackett. "How about you, Nat?"

"Feel like a snow man—and that's no joke."

"Perhaps we'll get warm in a few minutes. Let's try it again," put in Sam.

The boys lay very still, and silence again reigned.

"Fellows, it's no use." Dave leaned on his elbow. "I—I can't sleep." His teeth were chattering.

"Nor I."

"What are we going to do? We haven't any more blankets."

"Yes—what are we going to do?"

Little Tom Clifton's voice was so despairing that the other boys broke into a hearty laugh.

"I think I know what's the matter," said Bob, suddenly. "We're a lot of dunces."

"Why—how?"

"The cold strikes up from the ground. No matter how much stuff we pile on top of us, we couldn't get warm. The brush beds ought to be about three times as thick."

"I believe you are right. I do hate to think of getting up—still—guess there's no help for it," and Dave, with many groans and sighs, eased himself to his feet, the others following.

The air outside was sharp and piercing, the stars shone with great brilliancy, and the landscape wore a dreary, desolate appearance.

With chattering teeth, the boys approached the big pile of fir brush which had been left over, and began to gather it up. Trip after trip they made, working swiftly, and occasionally stopping to swing their arms.

"That ought to do," said Bob, when the floor had been covered to a depth of a foot and a half.

"It will have to do."

"Will I ever be warm again?" sighed Tom Clifton.

They resumed their places, and again there was silence.

This time, their repose was not broken until the cheerful rays of the morning sun flooded the landscape.

CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST HUNT

"Hi—hi—hey! It's half-past nine; wake up! Hi—hi!"

Bob Somers uttered these words in a manner which made his companions hastily sit up.

"What's the use of making such an awful racket, Bob? I feel uncommonly sleepy," and the stout boy immediately sank back and closed his eyes.

Little Tom Clifton, however, hastily jumped to his feet.

"Had a dandy night, after all," he said, cheerfully. "Whew, but it's cold," he added, drawing back the canvas flap and peering out. "Those chaps are still asleep."

"Let's stir around and get the fire going, anyway," said Bob. "I'm more than ready for breakfast."

The fire-wood was almost expended, so the two boys got vigorously to work. The sound of their hatchets soon aroused the other occupants of the hut, who had gone to sleep again.

"Hello," said Nat. "I thought it was still last night."

"You mean to-morrow morning," put in Hackett. "My eye, it's nearly ten o'clock. Make that fire howl—will you, Somers? I hate to think of getting up."

"So do I," grinned Nat.

"You fellows talk so much I can't sleep," grumbled Dave.

"It's ten o'clock! Did you catch that?—t-e-n o'clock!"

"Wouldn't care if it was twelve," and Dave snuggled under the covers again.

In a short time, all but the stout boy had gathered around the fire, and it was not until another half hour had passed that he appeared, blinking and yawning.

"Thought you fellows might eat all the breakfast," he said.

"I'm sorry we didn't—so as to teach you a lesson," returned Bob.

When the meal was over, all hands set to work on the second hut, and when lunch time arrived, it was well under way.

In the early afternoon, Bob Somers, accompanied by Sam and Dick, set off. They ascended the hill, which was thickly wooded, making their way around the underbrush and huge snow-drifts.

At the top, they paused to look around. A succession of rolling hills stretched off to the limits of view. In the grip of the snow king, the country looked barren and wild. Here and there a tree higher than its neighbors outlined its black, gaunt limbs against the sky.

"Looks kind of desolate, eh?" remarked Bob, as they began descending a gentle incline.

"Don't make much noise, fellows," he cautioned, "or we'll scare the rabbits away."

"We ought to strike bigger game than that," said Sam; "and there's a hawk on the hunt for something, too."

He waved his hand toward a bird soaring far above.

Soon the base of the hill was reached, and they kept on through a thickly timbered valley.

"Rabbit tracks everywhere, yet we haven't had a glimpse of one," said Bob.

"It only needs a little patience. A good hunter always has that."

"Hello, there goes a rabbit!" sang out Dick, suddenly.

From behind a mass of bushes the animal leaped, then over a fallen tree to an open stretch, across which it dashed.

Dick quickly raised his gun. A sharp report rang out, and the rabbit fell in its tracks.

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick. "Not bad for the first crack."

Bang—bang!

Bob Somers and Sam Randall had fired almost simultaneously.

Another long-eared bunny fell a victim to their aim, while a third dashed off and disappeared in the bushes.

"And whopping big fellows, too," said Dick, enthusiastically, as he picked one up and held it aloft. "'Hatchet' brags so much about his shooting. He'll find that he isn't the only one."

A quarter of an hour more found the boys again ascending. Here and there, the ground was strewn with boulders of enormous size. Above them the rugged line of the hill was silhouetted against the clear blue sky.

As they toiled slowly up, a most unexpected and astonishing sight suddenly met the boys' gaze. It set their nerves tingling with excitement.

Not a hundred feet distant, at the top of the hill, there appeared a magnificent buck. For an instant, his dark, graceful form and spreading antlers were clearly defined. His head swung quickly around, then he wheeled about, and vanished on the other side before the surprised hunters could make a move.

"Did you ever see such a beauty?" exclaimed Dick, in great excitement.

"Let's make a sprint for it."

"If we could only get a shot at him," said Sam, longingly.

In headlong pursuit, at a speed which would have seemed impossible a few moments before, they dashed up the slope. Strategy, for the moment, was forgotten.

Breathing hard, the boys reached the place where the buck had been.

"Look at his tracks, fellows!" cried Bob. "He went off right toward those woods."

"We may get a shot at him yet."

"Don't believe there's any chance of it."

"Come on, anyway!" exclaimed Sam Randall.

The boys had no difficulty in following the tracks, but the sad realization that their efforts would lead to nothing soon forced itself upon them.

"I can't keep up this gait," gasped Sam, his tones evincing the greatest disappointment.

"Neither can I," said Bob.

"It's a little worse than missing a train," added Dick, dolefully.

"I should say so. Shall we keep up the chase?"

"If he has taken to the open, we might get a sight of him," replied Bob; "that is in the distance."

So the boys pushed on, the trail leading in and out among the trees. The woods grew more dense, and as there were no signs of its coming to an end, a halt was soon made.

"Have to leave it for another time, fellows," said Bob. "Wait until we get to hunting in earnest."

"A good rabbit stew just now would be better than a wild buck chase," grinned Sam, who had recovered from his disappointment. "Let's hurry back and start some cooking."

They had wandered further from camp than any had imagined, and all three were thoroughly tired and cold when the gray expanse of lake appeared in view. It was reached at a point much above their camping ground, and a long, weary walk ensued. The wind, too, had sprung up and blew in their faces with unpleasant force.

At length the boys rounded a hill and came in view of the camp.

"Hello!" said Bob. "It's deserted—fellows must be off on a hunt."

"Guess they're not very far away," put in Sam, as he slung his game-bag down in front of the hut.

"Say—somebody has been amusing himself," remarked Sam Randall, rather abruptly, pointing toward the base of the hill.

On the perfectly smooth blanket of snow, the boys saw a number of markings of such odd forms as to suggest Egyptian hieroglyphics.

"Perhaps Nat made them," observed Bob, breaking into a laugh.

The group walked toward the queer characters.

"Whoever did these must have puzzled his head trying to think up funny shapes," put in Sam, with a grin. "We'll find out who's responsible when the fellows get back."

The Ramblers had supper under way, when voices and the sound of feet crunching over the snow announced the return of the others.

"Any luck?" queried Bob. "We got a couple of rabbits."

"And I dropped a partridge," said Hackett, proudly exhibiting the bird. "A mighty hard shot it was, too."

"What did you get, Chubby?"

"Cold hands, cold feet, and an awful appetite."

"Hello, who's been scratching up the snow?" exclaimed Nat. "Did you do that, Somers?"

"No! We thought it was your work, Nat."

Nat grinned. "Don't try to tell me anything like that," he said. "They weren't there when we left camp."

"That's a sure thing," broke in Tom Clifton, earnestly.

"Honest, Bob—none of us were near that snow."

"Well, we didn't do it either;" and Bob spoke in such a tone as to leave no doubt of his sincerity.

"Who did it, then?"

There was an interval of silence, which John Hackett broke by remarking, "Those people across the lake may have come over and finding no one here thought they would amuse themselves a bit."

This seemed a perfectly reasonable solution of the matter, so the boys dismissed it from further consideration.

Twilight came, then night enveloped the scene. A moderate breeze fanned the fire, until huge, leaping tongues of flame sent out a glow of heat.

But even under these conditions it was not easy to keep warm. The boys stood with their backs to the fire, then faced it, then turned sideways, but always with that uncomfortable feeling of being roasted on one side, and, oh, so cold on the other.

"Never thought I had a chance to get that bird," Hackett was saying. "It was making a bee-line for the woods—you know how fast they fly—well, I just raised my gun, and—"

He was interrupted in a most startling fashion.

A snowball—nothing more or less than a nice, round snowball—made in the most approved schoolboy fashion, suddenly flew from out of the darkness and fell in their midst. It struck the ground and broke into a dozen fragments.

Then came another—and another. The coffee-pot, struck squarely in the centre, toppled over into the fire and poured forth its lamentations in a great cloud of hissing steam, while the boys looked at each other in the greatest wonder.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GUARDIANS

"Why, what, which—" cried Hackett, looking wildly in the direction from which the missiles came. "Must be those fellows again."

"We'll show them they can't frighten us!" burst out Bob.

Just as he spoke, a ball of the feathery particles sizzled through the air, struck him forcibly on the shoulder, and splattered in his face.

"Just a bit of a lark, I guess!" cried Bob, "but it shouldn't be so one-sided. Come on, fellows!"

With one accord, they dashed through the snow, which, though the night was dark, could be plainly seen. In a moment, they reached the base of the hill, and rounded the other side.

Nothing there—but a wild expanse of nature, melting into gloom, gaunt trees and underbrush—nothing but night and an icy wind sighing through the tree-tops and making the bushes shiver and rattle.

"My eye! This is funny," cried Hackett, scratching his head.

"Christopher! It's the strangest yet," panted Nat. "Where did he get to—or where did they get to?"

"That's what we would like to know," said little Tom Clifton.

"An axiom," observed Dave, "is a self-evident fact."

"Did an axiom make the snowballs, fire 'em over, and plunk Somers in the face?" grinned Hackett.

"No, but somebody did, which is the axiom I mean."

"Hi—hi!" yelled Hackett. "Come out and show yourself—come up and toast yourself. You must be nearly frozen out there!"

Nothing but silence followed the echo of Hackett's voice.

"This certainly is funny," said Bob.

"That's what we all said before, my boy," observed Dick. "It must be those campers on the other side, as Hackett says."

"Well, they have cleared out, and we might as well get back to the fire," said Nat.

"Must be a lot of jokers around these parts," ventured Tom Clifton.

"Now they have had their fun, why don't they come out, and show themselves?" added Sam Randall.

There was no answer to this—and for obvious reasons.

So they tramped toward the fire, which flashed between the trees like a beacon, discussing the singular affair, with the rather unpleasant feeling that any minute a snowball might land upon the back of somebody's neck.

Logs were piled on the blaze, and the unfortunate coffee-pot refilled.

Very wisely, after some discussion, the boys decided to let time solve the mystery, so they told stories and kept on trying to warm the side which was always cold.

Occasionally from the woods came the hoot of an owl, or over the lake the weird cry of a loon.

Hackett was kindly allowed to finish the story of his prowess, after which, whether the result of his tale or not, there was an amazing amount of yawning and stretching.

"Oh, ho, even if it is only half-past eight, I'm going to turn in," announced Dave. "Good-night, fellows."

"Think I will, too," declared Sam.

"We can get up early and put in a good day to-morrow," added Nat.

"And get a shot at something worth while," commented Hackett. "Just let some of you fellows feel what buck fever is like."

"What is it like, 'Hatchet'?" asked Tom.

"Who said I ever had it? I'll take my chances with the next one—and don't you forget it."

"Did you ever see a deer outside of a wire fence?"

"My eye! But you do ask a lot of silly questions. Just let me draw a bead on one, eh, Nat?"

"That's right, Hacky," grinned Nat, as he started for the hut.

It did not take the rest of the fellows long to follow his example. Within a few minutes, the fire was deserted, and each had retired to his bed of fir brush.

It seemed to little Tom Clifton that he had been asleep but an instant, when he was awakened by the sound of voices and the tread of feet. The boy felt a strange sort of thrill run through him. With beating heart, he listened intently.

"Maybe somebody is going to play another joke on us," he thought. Then another idea suggested itself, which gave him an unpleasant start. "Perhaps the newcomers had a more serious object in view."

But while he was speculating on the possibilities, a sound close to the hut made him sit upright. An animal was plainly sniffing around.

The next instant, Tom was terrified to see the canvas flap pushed back, and a huge head thrust inside. To his excited imagination, it looked more like a bear than anything else, and, with a startled cry, he threw off the blankets and rose tremblingly to his feet.

Bob and Dave Brandon started up just as a deep bay from the huge animal seemed to make the very interior shake.

"Great Cæsar!"

"By Jingo, what's this?"

The two boys were on their feet in an instant, while the animal, with another tremendous bay, hastily withdrew its head.

"It's only a dog!" cried Bob, beginning to laugh.

Before the camp-fire, which, piled high with fuel, was springing into life again, stood two dark figures, who viewed with unconcern the precipitous exit of seven boys from two huts.

The big animal had rushed to one side, where its eyes shone like two orbs of green light from the darkness.

"Hello!" exclaimed one of the strangers.

"HELLO!" EXCLAIMED ONE OF THE STRANGERS

"Hello!" cried Bob.

There was a hearty, boyish ring about the voice of the newcomer that dispelled all fears from Tom Clifton's mind.

The fire blazed up, revealing plainly the faces and figures of the visitors. The one who had spoken was a bit taller than his companion, with wide, strong shoulders, brown, curly hair, a pleasant face and very red complexion. The other was short and stocky, with a mouth that approached astonishingly close to his ears, a decidedly stubby nose, and cheeks big and round.

It was an odd face—an amazingly impudent face, that surveyed the boys with a comical grin, and one that seemed to invite antagonism. His voice, too, which the boys presently heard, was loud and boisterous.

"Why, these must be the lads your dad told us about, Tim," he exclaimed.

Hackett's face darkened.

"Look here!" he exclaimed, abruptly, "didn't you chaps fire a lot of snowballs at us a while ago?"

"Fire a lot of snowballs at you?" repeated the newcomers, looking from one to the other in apparent surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said."

"No! Of course not—just got here," spoke up the taller boy, unceremoniously piling wood on the blaze. "Hi—get away, Bowser—lie down." Then he added, "My name's Sladder—Tim Sladder, and this is my friend, Billy Musgrove."

"Sladder—Sladder," repeated Hackett. "Sounds kind of familiar. Ah, yes, I remember. Why—say—you must be the son of Hiram Sladder, of the Roadside House."

"You've guessed it," grinned Billy Musgrove.

"Well, how on earth, or how on snow, did you manage to find us?" asked Nat Wingate, with interest.

Musgrove laughed. It was a particularly loud and irritating laugh. He threw back his head and laughed again, although none of the boys could quite understand what there was to excite his merriment.

"It was this way," he began.

"Hold on, Billy; I'll tell it," broke in Tim Sladder. "Get out, Bowser. You see, pop told me all about your coming to the hotel, an' he says—"

Another laugh came from Billy Musgrove.

"An' he says, 'I told 'em whereabouts to go—Lake Wolverine. But them fellers, says I, ain't no hunters. If they don't get chewed up by wolves or wildcats, or get froze, or lost in the woods, or if something don't happen to 'em, I miss my guess, an'—'"

"I call that pretty cool," interrupted Hackett, in fierce tones.

Tim Sladder went on, "You must be the long-legged feller pop spoke about. He—"

"Is it cold up there?" blurted out Musgrove, with another laugh.

"See here—" began Hackett, angrily.

"Now, Billy Musgrove an' me's been a-wantin' to take a trip for a long time," resumed Tim Sladder, "so I says to mom, 'Why can't we go out huntin' an' trappin', an' sort of keep an eye on 'em?' an' she says, 'Just the thing an'—'"

"My eye!" put in Hackett, angrily, "I like that—I do, indeed. What do you think we are, anyway—a lot of two-year-olds?"

Musgrove laughed, while Tim Sladder surveyed the speaker for some moments in mild astonishment.

"I'm only tellin' you how we happened to come along," he continued. "Billy Musgrove an' me's got a bully camp up the lake a bit. We seen the light of your fire—get away, Bowser—an' didn't know but what it might be you fellows. So we walked over."

"And you've got the job of looking out for us, eh, Tim?" laughed Nat. "And that big four-legged brute is going to help?"

"Bowser's a corking good dog—he is."

The owner patted the head of the great hound. "Mild, when he knows you—have to be a little careful, at first. Lie down, Bowser. Say, are you coming over to see our camp to-morrow?"

"If you do," chimed in Musgrove, "we'll show you some real sport."

"What kind?" asked Hackett, with a show of interest.

"Come over an' see! Say, can you fellers skate?"

Hackett grinned.

"If there is anybody around here who can beat me, I'd like to see him."

Musgrove's loud laugh again rang out.

"As good at that as bowling over wildcats, eh? Ha, ha! Tim's dad says as how you could fix 'em. Well—I'll race you. Say, what's your name?"

The light playing on Musgrove's face displayed a grin of enormous dimensions.

The boys tittered, that is, all except the tall youth, who scowled ominously. He was quite unable to fathom Billy Musgrove's manner, or to determine whether his dignity was being assailed or not.

"John Hackett," answered the owner of that name, after a short pause.

Then the other Kingswood boys introduced themselves.

"Well, I'm glad we found you," said Tim Sladder, cheerfully. "I told mom we would. Guess we'll hike back to camp now. Don't forget to look us up to-morrow—so long, fellows! Come on, Bowser."

Both shouldered their guns and started off, at intervals Musgrove's laugh ringing out.

"Mighty funny fellows, I call 'em," said Nat. "Isn't it odd that we should meet that great hunter, Tim Sladder? And it's an 'undeniable fact' that Billy Musgrove is a cool one. Hasn't he the biggest mouth you ever saw?"

"He needs to be taken down a peg or two," growled Hackett. "Little, sawed-off turnip thinks he can skate, eh? I'll show him. The nerve of the chap—'Say what's your name?' I had a mind to flop him in the snow."

"Oh, ho!" laughed Dave; "to flop one of our guardians in the snow, that's too much. I'm going to turn in."

CHAPTER IX

A NEW SPORT

Next morning a dull, leaden canopy of cloud stretched across the entire heavens. The leafless branches cracked and snapped in an icy blast that made the boys shiver and shake until a roaring fire had been kindled.

Shortly after breakfast they put on their skates and started off. The crisp whirr of the steel floated off on the breeze, as, with Hackett in the lead, they glided swiftly over the ice.

"Smoke coming from the cabin over the way, fellows," cried Bob.

"Those jokers must be home, then," remarked Nat. "When we come back, let's drop over and ask 'em about those snowballs—just for fun."

"Sure we will," agreed Hackett; "and about those marks on the snow, too."

In order to escape the icy blasts out in the middle of the lake the boys followed the numerous bays and indentations along the shore. In a few minutes they rounded a point and came in sight of a camp. It was built against the base of a steep hill which was practically bare of trees.

Before a great fire Tim Sladder, Billy Musgrove and Bowser were sitting, the two former with their faces turned toward the lake.

"Hi, hi!" yelled Billy Musgrove, wildly waving his arms.

The skaters swung in to the shore, and walked over the crust of snow to the fire.

"Glad to see you," greeted Tim Sladder, heartily. "Lie down, Bowser! He's all right, fellers, don't be afraid. Have to be a little careful with him at first, that's all. What do you think of our camp—slick, eh?"

"Bully!" responded Sam Randall. His eyes had taken in a hut of substantial dimensions, built on the same principle as their own.

All crowded around the cheerful fire, Tom Clifton keeping on the opposite side from the redoubtable Bowser.

But the big dog seemed to be in a very friendly humor. He ambled lazily from one to the other, looking up into their faces with a peculiarly mild and benign expression.

"Say, Tackett," observed Billy Musgrove, with his ever-present grin, "I—"

"My name is Hackett—John Hackett."

"Oh, it's all the same. Didn't you say that you wanted to see some sport, eh? Well, me and Tim can show you some."

"That's what we want to see."

Musgrove laughed. He pointed to the steep hill back of the hut, then at several strips of wood lying close to the fire. They were about seven feet in length, four inches wide and at one end curved up to a sharp point. In the centre of each was a loop.

"Do you know what them things is, Wackett?" he asked.

"They are called skees, I think," answered Hackett, stiffly.

"That's right," said Musgrove, with a gratified look. "My uncle's a Swede," he went on, "an' over in his country them things is used a lot. Talk about scooting—just watch Tim an' me."

"Going to coast down that hill on those things?" inquired Tom Clifton, in surprise. "It's risky! You might break your neck."

Musgrove's only answer was a loud laugh. He picked up his pair of skees, Tim Sladder following suit.

"Stay here, Bowser!" commanded the latter, shaking his finger in the big dog's face. "Lie down!"

"Don't need to budge from the fire, Wackett," remarked Musgrove. "You can see the whole shooting match from here. Come on, Tim. Is that skating going to be done this morning, Wackett?"

"Whenever you like, Billy Mushroom," returned Hackett, with a steely glare in his eye.

The two boys began slowly climbing up the hill. It was admirably suited to their purpose, being steep and covered with a smooth coating of snow and ice. At the base, it rounded gently upward to a hillock, while the level stretch before it was only here and there covered with underbrush.

"I've often read about that sport," commented Dave Brandon. "Over in Sweden, they take some daring jumps with those things."

"You wouldn't catch me trying it," put in Tom Clifton, nervously.

Hackett sniffed. "It's easy," he asserted. "Must be, if a fellow with a face like Musgrove's can do it. What's the matter with that brute?"

Bowser, who had been intently gazing after his master's form, uttered a series of dismal cries, rising in a sort of crescendo, until the last note was of such a mournful and peculiar loudness that Tom Clifton was positively alarmed.

"Maybe he's going mad," he suggested, brilliantly, edging away.

Dave Brandon laughed. "Tim Sladder has been trying to fool us," he declared. "The dog's as tame as a kitten, and, besides, is nearly as old as the hills—here, you Bowser—come here!"

The big animal obeyed. He fell at the feet of the stout boy and looked plaintively at him. Dave seized his jaws, and opened them wide; not a tooth was visible.

"What did I tell you?" he laughed.

"That settles it, to my mind," said Hackett. "I'll bet those chaps are the ones who threw the snowballs."

"Hi, hi!" yelled Musgrove, from the top of the hill. "Hi, hi! Here I go!"

The boys saw that he had fastened a skee to each foot, and, with a long balance pole in his hand, stood ready to make the descent.

For a moment, he almost disappeared over the crest of the hill. Then the boys saw him moving forward, and the next instant, with arms outstretched, he shot down over the icy surface of the declivity at terrific speed.

"My eye!" cried Hackett.

"Christopher!" chimed in Nat, while various exclamations came from the others.

Musgrove seemed to fairly fly, gathering speed as he passed down the long slope. Breathlessly, the boys watched him skimming nearer and nearer. Like a flash, he mounted the small hillock at the base of the hill—the onlookers saw him shoot off in the air for a distance of fully fifteen feet, then strike the level stretch and skim over its surface at lightning speed.

"Here I come!" yelled Tim Sladder. "Whoop—look out!"

With the swiftness of flight, he flashed down the hill, struck the mound, and went speeding after his companion.

"My eye! That's what I call sport!" exclaimed John Hackett, enthusiastically. "I'd like to take a fling at that myself."

"Better not, 'Hatchet.' Maybe it isn't as easy as it looks," spoke up Dick.

"Wouldn't catch me doing it," added Tom Clifton.

"Why not try it on a hill that isn't so steep?" asked Bob Somers.

John Hackett glanced from one to the other with a look of supreme scorn.

"Listen to 'em talking like a lot of scared cats," he sniffed. "Where's your sand, Somers? Do you suppose I'd let little 'Mushroom' think he has me bluffed? Well, I guess not!"

Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes, now approached.

"Hey, what do you fellers think of that?" demanded the latter. "Ain't it bully sport, eh?"

A chorus of enthusiastic responses showed the boys from Stony Creek what their visitors thought of skeeing.

"Say, 'Mushroom,' just lend me those skees, will you?" asked Hackett, eagerly.

"What?"—Billy Musgrove's pudgy face began to expand into a broader smile—"what?" he repeated. Then he drew back his head, and laughed heartily in his own peculiar fashion.

"Well," snapped the thin boy, "what is there so funny about it?"

"Why—say—if you lose your balance, Sackett, you'll find out—eh, Tim?"

"It's kinder risky fer a feller what ain't never tried it," admitted Sladder.

"It's easy enough," insisted Hackett, half angrily, the opposition having aroused all his combative spirit. "Anybody can do it. Slip off those boards, 'Mushroom,' and hand 'em over."

"Huh!" exclaimed Musgrove. "If you take a header, don't blame me. 'Tain't nothing, eh?" and with a much injured expression, he passed over the skees.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Hackett. "After I start the ball rolling, the rest of you fellows will want to take a crack at it, too. Just watch me slide. Your turn next, Tommy Clifton."

And with these words, the tall youth started confidently up the hill.

"He's a sassy feller, but he's game, all right," grunted Musgrove, admiringly.

With a wild yell that would have done credit to an Indian, Hackett called attention to the fact that he was ready to make the descent.

"Hacky's all right!" laughed Nat. "Here he comes!"

With the speed of the wind, slim John Hackett came skimming down the incline. Half bent over, and balancing himself with the pole, he approached the hillock.

Eagerly the boys watched him.

"Going like an express train!" said Tom Clifton, breathlessly. "Ah—"

A half suppressed cheer came from the boys. Hackett rose from the hillock, and shot forward. It was a tremendous dash through space and the group almost held their breath.

Then a cry of dismay was heard.

Hackett, as he alighted on the level stretch, lost his balance, his feet flew from under him—wildly he swung his arms.

A cry of alarm, swelling into a confused medley of sound, came from the watchers. They saw Hackett lurch on his side, and, lying prostrate, go spinning along on the ice and snow.

CHAPTER X

A SKATING MATCH

"I'm afraid he's badly hurt," wailed Tom Clifton, in the greatest alarm. "I told him not to do it."

"Come on, fellows!" cried Bob Somers, and with the others close at his heels, he dashed forward.

Hackett lay motionless on the snow.

It was with the greatest misgivings that the boys rushed up to him.

"Hacky, I say, Hacky—are you hurt?" panted Nat, anxiously.

Hackett raised himself on his elbow and looked around with a bewildered stare.

"Are you hurt, Hacky?" repeated Nat, as all surrounded the prostrate boy.

"Hurt!" echoed Hackett, with a glare in his eye. "Of course I'm hurt. Do you suppose I could scoop up about eighty-five feet of snow with my back and not get bumped to pieces? And something gave me a fearful clip on the back of the head, too. I tell you, I saw a lot of stars!"

"But you're not hurt much?" cried Bob Somers, with a feeling of great relief.

"How do you know I ain't hurt much, Somers?" snapped Hackett. "You can't feel the pain in my back, can you?—or the slam I got on the neck?—or the bump over my left ear? My eye! I'd like to meet the man that invented this game. Take those sticks, 'Mushroom,' and start a fire with 'em."

Hackett shook his fist toward the skees, then painfully leaned over and began to unfasten them.

"It was a fierce slide you got—that's sure," commented Musgrove, in a greatly relieved tone. "Your own fault, though, Tackett. I told you—"

"If it hadn't been that my foot struck a rock, I'd have gone through all right. Don't stand around looking at me as if I was a prize pig in a show. Give me your hand, Nat!"

It soon became apparent that Hackett's temper had sustained the most serious damage. But this was more easily repaired than broken bones or strained tendons, and the boys were correspondingly thankful.

But Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove had a pleasant surprise in store, which went far toward restoring his temper, and make him forget his aches and pains.

Musgrove went to the back of the hut and reappeared with an enormous wild goose.

"Got 'im yesterday!" he exclaimed. "Ain't he a whopper?"

"Where?" asked Hackett, eagerly. "My eye! I want to get a crack at one myself."

"You'll have plenty of chances, right along the lake. If you fellers want to stop, we'll brile it, eh?"

"You couldn't drive me away, after getting a sight of that," grinned Nat. "Hurry it up, Billy. I can hardly wait."

Sladder and Musgrove worked with commendable speed, and within a few minutes the goose was broiling over the fire.

It took a long time to cook, but the boys were well repaid for their wait, especially as roast potatoes were included in the meal.

"Say, Sladder," remarked Nat Wingate, at length, balancing a tin dipper of coffee in one hand and a goose leg in the other, "what did you mean by making us think that your dog is fierce?"

Sladder grinned. "So you found out?" he said. "Well, Musgrove an' me thought it was a good joke, 'cause Bowser's the tamest dog I ever saw."

"And it was you who threw a lot of snowballs at our camp—honest—wasn't it?"

"No such thing!" protested Tim Sladder, warmly. "Eh, Billy?"

"Own up to it now."

"Certainly we won't! I tell you it wasn't us!" Musgrove managed to say, between huge mouthfuls.

"What has that got to do with a skating match?" demanded Hackett. "Eh, 'Mushroom'?"

"Huh! d'ye mean to say that you feel like skating after sich a tumble as you had?" demanded Musgrove, in astonishment.

"A little thing like that doesn't bother me," said Hackett, reflectively, rubbing his left shoulder. "Who wants to go in the match?"

"I will," said Bob Somers.

"Count me in, too," added Dick Travers.

"And me, too," said Randall.

"How about you, Chubby?" asked Bob.

"Count me out of it," replied Dave, promptly.

"For the championship of Lake Wolverine let it be," grinned John Hackett. "Where'll we begin?"

"From here—to the end of the lake, in your direction," answered Musgrove, promptly.

"Good! In about an hour we'll start."

Sitting around the fire was so pleasant that the hour lengthened into two.

Finally Hackett jumped to his feet. "My eye!" he exclaimed; "it's getting late. Come ahead, 'Mushroom'—clap on your skates."

Billy Musgrove winked. It was an expressive wink, and seemed to be a fitting counterpart to his expansive grin.

"All right, Wackett," he said. "I'm ready—for the championship of Lake Wolverine," and his speech ended with a loud laugh.

"He won't smile so much after the race," whispered Hackett to Nat Wingate. "This is where he gets taken down the first peg."

"You can do it, Hacky, if any one can," returned Nat, in equally cautious tones. "Make him think he's standing still."

Bob Somers presently scratched a long line on the ice, and five contestants eagerly toed the mark.

"Bully sport—skatin'," grinned Musgrove.

"Only your legs ain't very long," chuckled Hackett.

"They don't have to grow none, to beat some fellers."

"One—two—three!" cried Nat,—"go!"

Like a flash, the boys were off.

"Hi, hi, Billy!" yelled Tim Sladder; "go it! hi, hi!"

"Keep it up, Hacky—you've got 'em left at the post!" shouted Nat.

Three of the party kept neck and neck—Bob Somers, Hackett and Musgrove, while Dick Travers and Sam Randall fell to the rear.

All had expected to see slim John Hackett quickly take the lead, but, to their surprise, both Somers and Musgrove at once set such a pace that the tall youth was compelled to exert himself to a far greater degree than he cared to at that stage of the proceedings.

From an unexpectedly one-sided affair, the race developed into an exciting contest.

The non-contestants trailed along in the rear, at a pretty fast clip.

"You're winning, hands down, Hacky!" yelled Nat.

"Keep it up, Bob Somers!" shouted Tom Clifton, excitedly.

"Hi, hi!" cried Tim Sladder. "Go it, Billy—go it!"

Musgrove was going it. His short legs moved with wonderful rapidity. Leaning well forward, he kept up a steady rhythmic movement, occasionally spurting in a manner which showed that he had himself well under control.

Hackett, guarding his strength and wind, saw, first with astonishment, then dismay, that Billy Musgrove refused to be shaken off. He was, before very long, breathing hard; his eyes gleamed with determination; off in the distance he saw the end of the lake rounding in a semicircle—the goal.

The moment for the final spurt had arrived; he was ready to bend all his energies in a last desperate effort to draw away from the grinning face beside him, when a strange sound reached his ears.

It was a curious, crackling noise, which increased in intensity. Then a clear, sharp report like a pistol-shot suddenly reverberated across the lake. Instantly a dark line flashed over the surface of the ice directly in the path of the skaters.

As occasionally happens, the ice had been under a tension, which finally became so great as to cause it to crack, leaving a bare space perhaps five or six inches wide.

The unexpected incident caused the boys to check their momentum, but there was not sufficient time to stop, and Musgrove's skate, striking the edge of the crack, almost sent him headlong. It was only by a powerful effort that he managed to save himself.

Hackett and Somers, who had jumped the crack safely, turned their heads to see how Musgrove had fared—then, puffing and blowing, came to a stop.

"Fierce luck!" panted Musgrove. "Was just going to spurt, too. I had your measure, Tackett."

"Spurt?" sniffed Hackett. "Much good that would have done. You would have been beaten so badly on the last stretch that—"

"Huh! I would, hey? You never saw the day when you could beat me, Crackett!"

"You'll have to grow about a foot, 'Mud-bank,' before you're in my class," retorted Hackett, angrily.

"No use scrapping about it, boys," said Bob Somers. "Plenty of time to settle the championship of Lake Wolverine."

"There ain't no one in Stony Creek can beat me," asserted Musgrove, positively; "ask Tim Sladder."

"Well, there's one here who can."

"'Tain't so! An' Scummers was right up with us, too."

"Oh, ho, fellows," drawled Dave Brandon; "what's the matter with you? The lake is still here, and to-morrow's coming. You can try it again, and maybe I'll go in for the championship myself."

This idea made the expansive grin reappear on Musgrove's face, and, with a survey of the poet laureate's generous proportions, he broke into his usual laugh.

"Let's get over to camp, fellows, and see if any one has been up to more funny tricks," suggested Tom Clifton.

"That's the idea," approved Dave. "It's too late, now, to go over and see those fellows across the lake. Besides, I'm half frozen."

When the party reached the huts, they found everything as it had been left.

"You fellows had better grub with us to-night," said Nat Wingate, addressing Sladder and Musgrove. "How will that do?"

"Bully!" replied the two in unison.

The canopy of cloud still hung over the landscape, and strong gusts of wind made the biting cold seem all the more intense.

"Wow! This is the worst yet," growled Dave. "Wouldn't care to have stayed out on the lake any longer."

"It will get a great deal wuss than this," put in Tim Sladder, cheerfully, "but I don't keer as long as there ain't no blizzard."

"Suppose one will be due pretty soon, eh?" remarked Sam Randall, with a critical glance at the lowering sky. "Bother the wind! Listen to it howling among those trees."

Between dancing, swinging their arms and crowding around the blazing fire, the boys managed to keep fairly comfortable.

Twilight began to blot out the distance and, at length, night enveloped the scene—a sullen, gloomy night—one of the blackest they had ever seen. The towering flames threw a wider circle of light than usual, and the near-by trees stood out weirdly against the background.

"Think I know where there's a b'ar hole," remarked Tim Sladder, in a casual way, as he began to eat with much eagerness a plate of rabbit stew. "Me an' Billy seen it yesterday mornin'."

"My eye! That's what I like to hear," said Hackett, enthusiastically. "Anybody can crack a six ounce rabbit. I'm for heavy-weight game."

"And I'm for eating all kinds," put in Dave Brandon, with a laugh.

"If we don't bring down a deer or two, I'll be disappointed," added Bob.

"I've bagged 'em," began Billy Musgrove, as he leaned over and helped himself to another plate of stew, "an' 'tain't so easy as you think, Plummers. No, sir; I remember once, me an' my dad, an' say—talk about shootin', there ain't none can beat him—well, we spotted a herd of deer in the distance, an', as luck would have it, the wind was just right."

Musgrove paused, and seeing that his hearers were displaying a proper amount of interest, was about to continue, when, with startling abruptness, a series of the most discordant, rasping cries came from the depths of the woods.

CHAPTER XI

A NIGHT ALARM

"What in the world is that?" cried Tommy Clifton, aghast.

"Christopher!" exclaimed Nat. "Is it a wildcat?"

"A wolf, perhaps!" chimed in Sam Randall, excitedly, straining his eyes to pierce the gloom.

The boys were thoroughly startled, but in a moment each had seized his gun, and stood ready for any emergency.

The cries continued—a steady succession of blood-curdling sounds which made the group of boys look at each other in wonder and alarm.

Bowser began to whine, and utter short, doleful barks; then threw himself on the ground, apparently in great fear.

"Never heard no four-legged critter make sich sounds as them," said Tim Sladder, in awed tones.

"An' it certainly isn't no humans," broke in Musgrove, in a voice that he vainly tried to control.

The cries ceased as suddenly as they had begun.

"My eye! It couldn't have been a wildcat," declared John Hackett.

"And it certainly wasn't a wolf," cried Bob.

"Then what was it?" demanded Nat.

"Never in my born days did I hear anything like it. It was awful!" gasped Sladder. "Listen! Is there anything skulking 'round over there?"

With trembling hands, Musgrove lighted a pine-knot, and, advancing toward the thicket, held it high above his head. The other boys followed closely.

A flaring circle of light slowly danced along over the snow. Bright beams glanced from tree to tree, queer-shaped shadows flitted about, but the hissing, sputtering flames revealed nothing but gaunt trees and underbrush.

"This is the strangest thing yet," declared Bob Somers.

"What kind of a place have we struck, I wonder?" put in Dick Travers. "First we are snowballed by somebody who isn't anybody, and now we get the life scared out of us by an animal that isn't an animal. What do you think about it, Chubby?"

Dave considered. "To tell the truth, Dick, I don't know what to think," he answered, slowly.

"I don't like this—don't, for a fact," declared Musgrove. "I ain't afraid of no animals, or humans either. But take my word on it, there's something funny going on around this place."

All breathed easier as time went on, and there came no repetition of the cries.

The boys had all returned to the camp-fire, but Bob at length exclaimed, "Who has the sand to go out with me and take another look around?—H'm," he added, as he glanced in the direction of the lake and waved his hand toward a starlike point which glimmered faintly in the distance, "there's a light in the cabin."

"So there is!" cried Sam, with interest. "But say—come on—let's scurry around a bit."

WITH THEIR GUNS TIGHTLY CLASPED THEY STARTED

Bob, Hackett and Sam procured lanterns. Then, with their guns tightly clasped, they started out. Near the lake, the gusts of wind tore against them with unpleasant violence. Bending over, to escape its full force, they strained their eyes and ears to catch a glimpse or sound of the strange visitor, but their efforts were not rewarded.

"It's back to the fire for me," puffed Sam, at length. "Whew! This cold is awful."

"Hey, did you see anything?" asked Musgrove, eagerly, as they emerged from the darkness.

"Not a thing, 'Mushroom,'" responded Hackett.

"Oh, ho!" said Dave, yawning; "then there's no use making our heads ache about it—I won't, for one."

When the time came for Sladder and Musgrove to leave, they seemed to be in anything but a comfortable frame of mind. Many a nervous glance the two cast toward the outer darkness. But there was no help for it.

"Take one of our lanterns, Sladder," said Bob Somers. "We will get it to-morrow."

"And don't be chewed up by that wandering screecher," called out Nat, with a grin, as they started off.

The boys sat around for a short time, then turned in. On soft bough beds, buried under piles of warm blankets, they were speedily lulled to sleep by the wind which swept around the huts.

After breakfast next morning a great supply of fuel was gathered.

"Hello!" exclaimed Bob. "Here come some fellows across the lake. Three of 'em," he added. "Bet they are from that cabin."

"Let 'em come," said Hackett. "Guess we can stand it."

The skaters were making good speed, and in a short time their forms grew clear and distinct against the gray background of ice. The boys saw that they were young men, probably about the age of twenty-one.

"Aren't they dressed in rough clothes, though?" said Sam.

"And with beards growing to beat the band," added Hackett.

"A fierce-looking lot—that's sure," exclaimed Nat.

Nevertheless, as the three drew up to the camp, our friends saw that their faces were not unprepossessing.

"Hello!—Hello!" they exclaimed, almost in one breath, nodding to the boys in a friendly way.

"Hello!" responded the young hunters, cheerfully.

"We are occupying that cabin across the lake," began one of the youths who appeared to be the elder, "and have several times noticed your camp-fire. So we thought that being so close together it might be well to form a society for mutual protection."

"For mutual protection?" echoed Hackett, in a questioning tone.

"Exactly!" returned the other, with a smile. "Now, I don't know what experience in hunting you may have had, but this time of year, wolves are apt to be on the rampage, and when a howling pack of 'em gets after you—well, a fellow generally wishes he was somewhere else."

"Do you think they are likely to come around here?" put in Tom Clifton.

"They may. Then, in camp life, certain emergencies are liable to arise, when assistance is needed. But I forgot"—the speaker paused, then added, with a short laugh—"before I go any further, we had better introduce ourselves. My name is Charlie Piper."

"Mine is Rex Heydon," put in one of the others.

"And mine is Fulmer Robson," added the third.

The boys, in turn, quickly introduced themselves.

Presently the speaker continued, "We came out on a hunting trip, and stumbled across the cabin. Do you intend to stay here long?"

"Two or three weeks, at least," replied Bob.

"Good! Well, as I was saying, it might not be a bad plan to arrange a code of signals."

"A fine idea," commented Bob Somers. "It might come in very handy, indeed."

"We could use smoke signals," went on Piper. "You know how to make them?"

"How?" asked little Tom Clifton.

"A couple of fellows hold a blanket over the fire—then withdraw it quickly, and repeat. The smoke, of course, rises in detached clouds."

"Sure—we know all about that," interrupted John Hackett, loftily; "and firing off guns, too—two shots close together, then a single one."

"That's it," said Piper. "Of course we may never need anything of the sort—yet it's well to be prepared."

"Suppose we come to an understanding about the signals," suggested Heydon.

"We shall be glad to," assented Bob.

"Well, in case you need assistance of any kind, send up three clouds of smoke, and fire off a gun. You'll find us hiking over here in a hurry."

"And, of course, if the signal comes from our side, we shall expect you to cross the lake in jig time," added Fulmer Robson.

"You can depend upon us," said Bob.

"Well, that point is settled. This locality seems to be a favorite place for hunters, and we're glad of it. A couple of young fellows have a camp near by."

"Yes—their names are Sladder and Musgrove," explained Bob.

"H'm, as I said, it's good to have company, providing we don't take each other for deer or other animals," laughed Piper. "A good, solid pair of shelters you have there, boys."

"Oh, this isn't our first camping trip," said Hackett. "We know a thing or two about it."

"I see that you do."

"Say!" remarked Nat Wingate, rather abruptly. "Didn't you fellows play a little joke on us the other night?"

"How?" asked Piper, in puzzled tones.

"Why—fire a lot of snowballs. One of them knocked over the coffee-pot and another washed Bob Somers' face."

"Why, no! I assure you we didn't do it," said Rex Heydon, quickly. "No, sir—it may have been those two boys."

"Was an animal of some kind prowling around on your side of the lake last night?" broke in Hackett. "We heard the most awful lot of wild screeching you can imagine. It scared some of these little chaps pretty badly."

"Speak for yourself, 'Hatchet,'" said Tom Clifton, indignantly.

"Thought I heard wolves in the distance," answered Piper, "but wasn't sure. Nothing close to camp, though, was there, Robson?"

"Not a thing," was the answer.

The visitors stayed for some time, then, after cordially inviting the boys to come over and see them, shouldered their guns and began the return trip.

"Nice fellows," commented Tom Clifton, "and a good idea of theirs about signals."

"Everybody seems to think we need help," observed Bob, good-humoredly. "Between guardians and smoke signals we ought to be all right. Who wants to go after fish, fellows?" he asked.

"I do," said Sam Randall.

Provided with a couple of spears and an axe, besides their guns, the boys made their way toward the lake, and followed the shore to the south. At length, reaching a point where a number of scraggly willows leaned over the frozen surface, Bob stopped.

It was a dreary, barren spot. A fallen bough of yellow leaves rustled musically in the wind and the trees sighed and shivered. A few tufts of forlorn, withered grass still lingered, as a reminder of the season past.

"Looks like a good place, Sam," he said.

"You try here, and I'll go along a bit further," was the answer.

Bob soon chopped a square hole in the ice, then handed the axe to Sam, who proceeded on his way.

With spear poised for action, Bob waited. It was cold work, and he began to wish that he had gone shooting, instead. Then, quick as a flash, his spear descended through the hole.

"Missed!" he muttered, regretfully, drawing it back by means of the attached rope.

Some time elapsed before another chance presented itself. When, at length, a shadowy form flitted by, Bob again took aim, and sent the spear through the opening.

"But I got one that time," he thought, pulling in the rope. "Great luck—a good-sized pickerel!" he exclaimed, as the prize came in view. "A few more like this will do."

He detached the fish, laid it to one side and was about to continue his occupation when a hail came from Sam Randall.

Turning quickly, he saw the boy wildly gesticulating.

"Wild geese!" came a faint cry.

"By George, he's right!" exclaimed Bob, in excitement, "and what's better, they are coming this way."

In their peculiar V-shaped formation and flying low, a flock of geese were speeding in an easterly direction.

Bob Somers' interest in spearing fish suddenly vanished. Quickly seizing his gun, he made a dash across the ice, and raised it just as the leader veered sharply toward the right. Two reports rang out in quick succession. Each charge found a victim. Two birds came tumbling down, while the others, with cries of alarm, flew swiftly away and were out of range of Sam Randall's gun.

"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Two of 'em—not bad—and big, plump fellows, too."

"That's great, Bob!" exclaimed Sam, as he came up. "Only wish I'd had a chance, too; but never mind—better luck next day."

"Won't 'Hatchet' wish he had been here?" laughed Bob, as he slung the geese over his shoulder. "Got any fish, Sam?"

"No!"

"Well, I beat you by one."

"Guess I'll try again."

"All right, Sam. We'll keep it up for a while."

The boys then separated.

After reloading his gun, Bob picked up the spear and resumed his place by the side of the hole.

Notwithstanding the comparative shelter of his position, he soon began to suffer from the intense cold.

"Hi, hi, hi, Sam!" he yelled. "Do you want to go back?"

"I'll be right with you," came the reply.

Sam Randall soon came up, much disgusted at his poor luck.

"Not a thing the whole morning," he grumbled. "Say, Bob, when are we going off on that great hunt for deer—to-morrow, eh?"

"Of course!"

"Good! And I'll get something, if it's only a squirrel."

When the boys reached camp, they found all hands, including Sladder and Musgrove, around the fire.

"My eye, Somers! That's what I call a good sight!" exclaimed Hackett. "How did it happen? Did they fly down and say, 'Here I am—bang away,' or did you go after 'em with a pinch of salt?"

Bob laughed. "You're not the only crack shot here, 'Hatchet,'" he said. "What's the matter, Musgrove? You look sleepy."

"An' who wouldn't be sleepy?" responded Billy, with a terrific yawn. "Sich a night as me an' Tim put in."

"What was the matter?"

"Matter—say—" Musgrove lowered his voice, and his tone became strained. "Why, we hadn't no more'n turned in, when Bowser began to act queer—cry an' whine—an' of a sudden he flops down. Skeered?—I never seen nothing like it—no, sir. Then them there cries started again—wuss than ever, eh, Tim?"

At the recollection, Musgrove's ruddy face seemed to turn a shade paler, while a frightened expression came into his eyes.

"Wuss than ever? I should say so!" echoed Tim. "I've knocked around in the woods for a long time, but I never heard nothing like it before."

"'Tain't natural, I tell you," said Musgrove. "Neither me or Tim slep' a wink all night."

"It's some kind of a prowling beast, Musgrove," put in Nat. "If we once get a crack at him, there won't be much more howling done."

"That's right, Nat," said John Hackett, "and I only hope we get a chance to-night."

After lunch, the boys in several parties started out on a tour of exploration.

Bob, Sam Randall and Dick Travers discovered a creek, and in the course of their wanderings came across the trail of a fox. The boys had decided to put in the whole of the next day on a trip in quest of big game.

"Every time I think of that buck, I want to start right off," declared Bob Somers.

"So do I," exclaimed Sam. "If we brought one down, it would cause a sensation all right."

Late in the afternoon the camp was reached.

It was soon discovered that Hackett had again made several remarkable shots. Three rabbits lay on the snow, while an owl fastened to a stick stood in front of the hut.

"There's an ex-screecher that's going to be stuffed," announced Hackett, proudly. "Banged him just as he was getting to cover. If that queer animal comes sneaking around again, it'll be another job for a taxidermist."

All hands retired early.

The gray light of morn had just begun to show in the eastern sky when John Hackett awakened with a dreadful start, and looked wildly around.

The blood-curdling cries of the mysterious animal were again sounding, and now apparently close at hand. Hackett felt a cold perspiration standing out upon his face. For an instant, too terrified to move, he listened intently, while the harsh, rasping cries poured out in a steady volume.

Then the spell was broken.

"Nat—wake up!" he cried. "Nat!" and leaning over, he vigorously shook the sleeping boy.

"Why—what's—the—" gasped Nat. Then his blinking eyes opened wide. With a startled exclamation, he sat up, and, at the same moment, Sam Randall and Dick Travers were aroused.

In confusion and terror, the boys reached for their guns, every instant expecting to hear the tread of their foe outside.

"Christopher! It's most on top of us, Hacky," yelled Nat, excitedly. "Quick!"

With a hand that trembled in spite of himself, Hackett drew back the canvas flap. No sooner had he peered through the opening than a wild cry escaped his lips.

CHAPTER XII

THE WILDCAT

Within a few feet of the hut, motionless upon a fallen tree, stood an enormous wildcat. Its large yellow eyes were glaring steadily toward them, and, as if transfixed by sight of the group of pale faces which suddenly appeared, it made not the slightest move.

"Look at those blazing eyes!" cried Sam.

"It's going to spring—watch out, fellows!" shouted Hackett.

"I knew a wildcat was making those awful cries," chattered Dick.

Hackett, with a look of determination, raised his gun, Nat following suit.

The cries had ceased. As if in sullen defiance, the animal glared toward the hut.

"By Jingo, I never saw anything stand so still," exclaimed Sam Randall.

Hackett's arms trembled in his eagerness and excitement, as he pulled the trigger. Two deafening reports blended into one.

Without a cry, the wildcat toppled off the tree trunk, and fell with a thud in the snow, where it lay motionless and stretched out in a strangely stiff position.

With loud shouts of exultation, Hackett and Nat Wingate leaped forward. Clutching his still smoking gun by the barrel, the former swung it with telling force on the animal's head.

"Hurrah, hurrah!" he cried. "I've settled him. Don't be scared, Somers and the rest—wow—"

Hackett suddenly paused, the light of excitement faded from his eyes and he began to stare. A dreadful suspicion that everything wasn't as it should be had entered his head.

Nat, too, was staring, and so were all the others.

The wildcat had a most unusual appearance. Its head was flattened to a most extraordinary degree by Hackett's blow, and its four legs stuck up in the air, stiff and straight, like pokers.

A discovery was made—an amazing discovery—the wildcat was stuffed. One yellow glass eye had dropped out and lay upon the snow.

There was a moment of silence. Then Hackett, with an angry exclamation, delivered an energetic kick, which lifted the stuffed animal in the air and sent it tumbling to the ground several feet away. As it fell, a long rent appeared, from which flew an abundant supply of pine-needles.

A storm of merriment burst forth. The boys danced around, holding their sides, while Hackett, his color rising, glared from one to the other with an expression of the greatest disgust.

"Oh, this is the richest joke I ever heard of," shouted Nat Wingate. "Hacky settled him with that crack on the head. 'Look out, he's going to spring.' Oh, those 'blazing eyes.'" Almost convulsed with laughter, the ex-leader of the Nimrods sent the stuffed specimen once again flying through the air.

Then followed a scene suggestive of the football field. Between rushes could be seen glimpses of a sadly kicked and battered object rising and falling and hurtling back and forth.

"Twenty-five doctors wouldn't have done me as much good as this," declared Nat. "Cheer up, Hacky—you look so sad."

"Never mind what I look like," returned Hackett, fiercely. "Stop your giggling, Tommy Clifton. I owe you one, and—"

"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Such is life in the wilderness. There's somebody around here with a sense of humor."

"It would have turned to sadness, if I'd met him," said John Hackett. "I believe it's those fellows across the lake. Smoke signals—all in my eye—they just came over to see the lay of the camp."

"How about Sladder and Musgrove?" asked Dick Travers.

"They haven't brains enough."

"And those awful cries?"

"Well, what do you suppose I know about 'em, Travers?" snapped John Hackett. "I wouldn't mind if they were to start up right now."

"Are we going to try and find out where this beast came from?" inquired Bob.

Hackett glanced toward the strange-looking wildcat with a savage scowl.

"Well, I should say so!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, ho, why not look for tracks, fellows?" proposed Dave Brandon. "The only thing I'm mad about is getting awakened so early in the morning," he went on. "Some one is having great fun at our expense, and if we work quietly there's a chance of finding out who it is."

"Not much use of looking for tracks," growled Hackett. "The snow's been trampled too much for that. Wish I'd caught that fellow in the act."

"This looks like a print made by a snow-shoe!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly.

"That's just what it is," agreed Dave Brandon, leaning over and examining an impression which Somers pointed out.

"And here's another," put in Sam Randall.

In the course of a quarter of an hour distinct tracks were discovered leading around the base of the hill. The boys followed these gleefully for a short distance, then the trail was lost. It was some time, however, before they became discouraged and abandoned the search.

"Wish we could find out who has been playing all these tricks," said Nat, reflectively.

"We're going to—and that pretty soon."

"How shall we do it, Hacky?"

"Leave it to me. Nobody is going to make an easy mark of John Hackett."

During breakfast, the boys continued to discuss the mysterious affair, the majority agreeing that Hackett was right.

"Stuffed wildcats and funny screeches won't prevent me from going on that hunting trip to-day," declared Bob, "and right after breakfast, too."

"When you get back, we may have a little game to show you ourselves," remarked Hackett, dryly.

It had been agreed by the boys that it was better to divide into two parties, as so many tramping together would be apt to scare off game.

In a short time Bob Somers, Sam Randall and Dick Travers had strapped on their snow-shoes and were ready. Each was plentifully supplied with ammunition and had a substantial lunch reposing in the bottom of his game-bag.

They followed the course of the creek, discovered the day before. Its banks were lined with underbrush and overhanging trees, while huge drifts of snow glistened in the early morning light. Finally the creek became so winding that it was abandoned, and the boys began to climb the steep sides of a pine-clad hill.

"Here's where we begin to blaze a trail," said Bob, as he took a small hatchet from his belt.

The top of the ridge was soon reached. Beyond extended a picturesque valley, on the far side of which rose a steep, rugged hill, partly bare of timber. The weather still continued threatening.

"Look there!" cried Dick, abruptly, in his excitement almost shouting the words.

The boys quickly turned. A couple of grayish animals had darted from behind a mass of underbrush.

"Foxes!" exclaimed Bob, excitedly.

In an instant, three reports reverberated from the opposite hills. The foremost fox leaped high in the air and fell motionless in the snow, while the other, with a flying leap, cleared a bush and disappeared from view.

"We got one, anyway!" cried Bob, exultantly. "Make sure he's finished, fellows," he added, as they ran toward their prize; "a fox can give a pretty nasty bite."

"This fellow never will!" exclaimed Dick. "What a beauty—a silver gray fox, too; that kind is rare."

"Guess we all shot at the same one," commented Bob. "Like 'Hatchet's' owl, this fellow ought to be stuffed," he added, meditatively.

"That's the idea," agreed Dick, enthusiastically. "We'll only need a couple more to go around."

"It's pretty heavy. How shall we carry it?" asked Sam.

"Easy enough. Cut a sapling, tie the fox to it, let one end drag in the snow and the other rest on your shoulder. Taking turns, it ought not to be hard work."

Bob quickly felled a sapling and trimmed off the branches. Then he tied the fox's legs in pairs, pushed the pole between and fastened the body with a short piece of rope in such a manner as to prevent it from slipping down.

"Capital, Bob!" observed Dick. "But say—suppose we don't get any others—whose fox is this?"

"The only fair way is to divide it into thirds," laughed Sam. "I'll take the head."

"My scheme is better than that."

"What is it?"

"Present the fox to Professor Hopkins. He will be delighted."

"Oh, that's the idea!" said Dick. "Well, I agree to it. How about you, Sam?"

"It's the best way to settle the matter."

The ground now sloped down to a dark, gloomy ravine, with steep, slippery sides.

"A pretty deep gully, eh, fellows?" remarked Bob.

"How are we going to get across, I wonder?" spoke up Sam.

"There may be a place a bit further along."

"Hello, here's just the thing!" exclaimed Dick, a few moments later. "A piece of luck, I call it."

He pointed toward a tree straight ahead, which a storm had evidently sent crashing earthward. It formed a natural bridge across the chasm.

"Couldn't be better," observed Bob. "We'll get over in a jiffy."

Dick Travers unstrapped his snow-shoes and tossed them over to the opposite side.

"Here goes number one," he said, with a grin.

Carefully, Dick began making his way across.

But a few feet separated him from the brink, when an ominous cracking sound rose sharply on the air. The tree began to sag in an alarming manner.

With an exclamation of dismay, Dick let his gun drop, then, as he felt the support slipping from under him, gave a flying leap.

As he did so, the trunk, split in twain, crashed to the bottom of the gully. Dick's startled companions saw him frantically grasp hold of a low-hanging branch which projected over the brink of the chasm. Bending beneath his weight, it held him suspended in mid-air.

"Great Cæsar!" cried Sam. "If that breaks, he'll get an ugly tumble."

"Hang on tight!" yelled Bob, encouragingly.

But Dick's strong hands were holding with a firm grasp, and after the first moment of fear had passed, he glanced at the bottom of the gully, and, with a long breath, started to swing himself hand over hand to safety.

The strain proved to be too much for the elastic branch. It began to bend, carrying the dangling boy in a graceful curve downward. Presently it snapped, with a resounding crack, and Dick found himself crashing through the twigs and branches of the prostrate tree.

The fall was but short, and being thus broken resulted in no harm. Dick immediately extricated himself.

"All right, Dick?" called Bob, anxiously.

"Sound as a dollar. That tree must have lain there for ages—it's nothing but punk."

The bank was too steep to admit of climbing it, so Dick, after a moment's consideration, picked up his gun and began walking slowly along the bottom of the gully.

It was a most unpleasant necessity. Huge snow-drifts barred his way, and occasionally he floundered along almost waist-deep. However, the gully soon widened out and its sides became less steep.

A short distance further found the boys at a place where all were able to reach the far side of the ravine. They were then obliged to go back for Dick Travers' snow-shoes. After a brief halt for lunch, the three young hunters continued their march.

"Guess we won't get a shot at any deer to-day," remarked Bob.

"We haven't seen any of those wolves that Piper spoke about either," said Dick.

"No—and I'm too hungry to care anything about them now," observed Sam. "How many miles do you suppose we have come, anyway?"

"More than I care to think about. We'll have to turn back pretty soon, or it may mean a nice, cold night out in the woods."

In a short time they emerged from amidst the timber and stood on the brink of a steep hill, which rounded somewhat like the sides of a huge amphitheatre.

"Hello, here's a lake!" exclaimed Bob, as he saw an expanse of ice far below.

"Don't I wish it was Lake Wolverine?" sighed Sam.

"Perhaps we have made a big circle," said Dick, hopefully.

"It might be," admitted Bob. "But there are a good many lakes in this part of the country. Anyway, let's take a look at it."

They began to descend the slope of the hill, when an object to the left and some distance off attracted Bob's attention.

He drew forth his field-glass and took a long look.

"By jingo, if that doesn't look like a sign-board, I'm mistaken," he exclaimed.

"A sign-board out in this wilderness?" said Sam, incredulously.

"That's what I said, Sam; see for yourself."

"If it isn't one, it's the nearest thing to it I ever saw," admitted Sam, after a moment's survey. "It won't take long to find out."

"As sure as I live, it's a sign," exclaimed Dick, as they approached the object.

Upon the top of a stout upright, a crosspiece had been nailed. On the latter, in rude, black letters, was painted this surprising notice:

LAKE WOLVERINE

Coasting, skating or falling down this hill more than forty miles an hour prohibited.

Picnic parties must keep off the grass.

No dogs allowed to run at large—wolves take notice.

"By all that's wonderful, we're right at our lake," cried Bob, joyously. "Isn't that great?"

"Hurrah!" added Sam. "We did circle around, after all."

"Think of that tramp we're saved," put in Dick, with shining eyes.

The strange wording of the sign-post was, for a moment, forgotten in the joy of their discovery. Then Bob began to laugh.

"This must be jokers' paradise," he exclaimed. "Nice country for a picnic, eh?"

"The man who wrote that is certainly a backwoods wit," grinned Sam. "Say," he continued, abruptly, "I wonder if he's the fellow who has been playing all those jokes on us."

The boys skirted along the edge of the hill until a favorable place for descending was found. Light-hearted at their unexpected good fortune, rapid progress was made and within a few minutes the lake was reached.

"We never saw this spot before, fellows," observed Bob, with a glance around.

"That's another 'undeniable fact,'" replied Sam, as he started off, with long, swinging strides.

In half an hour, the scenery again became familiar, and the sight of the cabin across the lake cheered them on.

"Splendid luck, I call it," panted Dick. "Thought we had miles and miles to go, and here's the camp—just back of that ridge."

"Hope the fellows have got something started," said Bob. "Hurrah," he cried, as the point was rounded, "the whole gang seems to be on deck, and there's a jolly big fire to warm a fellow up."

"Hello—hello!" hailed the others, when they caught a glimpse of the returning hunters.

"Christopher—a fox!" exclaimed Nat Wingate, as they came up.

"Bully for you, fellows," said Hackett, approvingly. "We got a few things, too," and he pointed to several rabbits and a brace of squirrels which lay on the snow.

"Another funny thing has happened, Bob," put in Tom Clifton.

"What is that?"

For an answer, Tom walked over and picked up a sheet of common brown paper which rested near the huts. On it was a rude drawing.

"When we got back, this was standing alongside of Hackett's owl."

CHAPTER XIII

ON THE TRAIL

The three boys examined the paper with interest. It was about a foot square, and the lines had evidently been made with charcoal. This is the way it looked:

"A cryptogram!" exclaimed Bob.

"I wonder who left it?" added Dick.

"And what it means?" said Randall.

"Perhaps, if we work it out, it may tell us where to find our mysterious visitor," went on Bob Somers. "These things are getting more and more interesting."

"That was my idea!" exclaimed Nat Wingate.

"Maybe it's just a bit of foolishness," put in Tom.

"No, I think it has a meaning. This figure at the bottom may be one of our huts."

"And those funny-looking spots above?"

"They look like trees to me; eh, Chubby?"

The poet laureate lazily inclined his head.

"What's that queer-shaped thing to the left?"

"Don't know—got any ideas, 'Hatchet'?"

"Guess somebody has taken the crowd for a lot of chumps, and thinks they will be dunces enough to go off on a wild goose chase. It's only those duffers across the lake—but they can't fool me."

Bob laughed. "We'll study it out a bit, anyway. If we only knew in what direction to start, it wouldn't take long to find out something."

Dave Brandon leaned over and scanned the mysterious paper carefully.

"Looks easy to me," he drawled. "That's the door, eh?—well, from the back of the hut we must go off at an angle for a half mile. Then, if three trees in a row are found, I guess we'll be all right."

"A large head on large shoulders," grinned Nat.

"But say, fellows," observed Bob Somers, with a sudden thought, "of course you looked for tracks? I suppose the visitor wore snow-shoes, though, and sometimes they don't make much of a mark."

"We started right in to hunt for them," replied Dave Brandon. "Had a little better luck than this morning, but the tracks led to the lake and ended. We walked around a bit, didn't see anything, then gave it up."

"How do you know they weren't made by some of us?"

"Because none of the fellows have been off that way." Dave pointed out the direction.

"Guess you are right!"

"Well, there's no way of telling which way he went after reaching the lake. So we must try to follow the thing up from this mysterious drawing."

"All right, Chubby, we will."

"Makes a fellow feel kind of creepy when he thinks that some one was prowling around the camp early this morning," observed Tom Clifton. "If we only had a dog—"

"But not of the Bowser kind," laughed Bob. "I wish we could find out what it was that made those funny screeches," he added, reflectively.

"The mystery may be solved before our trip is over," said Dave Brandon, with a yawn. "I won't let it bother me."

"But we don't want to get chewed all to bits," broke in Tom Clifton, nervously. "Whew—hope we don't hear those awful yells again to-night."

When the boys finally turned in, more than one lay awake for some time, listening in nervous apprehension for any indications of the strange beast.

After breakfast next morning, Sladder and Musgrove put in an appearance.

The stuffed wildcat had been propped up in front of Bob Somers' hut, and, with its flattened head and glass eyes, wore a most ludicrous expression.

The Stony Creek boys looked at it in dumb amazement, and listened with open mouths as Nat Wingate, with many exaggerations, told about their early morning scare.

"Huh! Ain't that fierce?" exclaimed Musgrove. "Never heard nothing to beat it. Nobody wouldn't play no such game on me twicet. Was you skeered, Plackett?"

"Scared nothing!" returned John, with a flash in his eyes. "Say—my name is Hackett—H-a-c-k-e-t-t! How many more times must I tell you?"

"I ain't no good on rememberin' names. But this beats me—it does—you heard that critter again?" and Musgrove gave a perceptible shiver.

Bob Somers presently produced the rude scrawl and placed it before the visitors.

"Can you make anything out of that?" he asked, after explaining how it had come into their possession.

"Don't look like nothing to me," replied Tim Sladder, shaking his head.

"Search me," added Musgrove, with an equally puzzled expression.

In a few words, Bob gave their views on the subject.

When he had finished, both Sladder and Musgrove seemed to be greatly impressed.

All the members of the Rambler Club strapped on their snow-shoes, and at the last moment Hackett and Nat Wingate decided to accompany them.

Starting in a northwesterly direction, they began ascending the thickly timbered hill back of the huts. Down on the other side and over another ridge they went, until at length a third elevation rose above them.

"Must have gone a half mile already," said Hackett.

"We may see something from the top of this hill," replied Bob, "unless our reading of the thing was all wrong."

When, after another hard climb, the summit was reached, all looked eagerly around.

Below stretched a valley, hills enclosing it on three sides.

"Well, what did I tell you?" exclaimed Hackett, triumphantly, after an interval of silence. "If anybody can spot something, now's the time to speak up and earn a vote of thanks."

The silence continued.

"Joke number nineteen," went on Hackett, presently. "When it gets to be about two hundred and six, I hope you fellows will take a grand tumble. It's awful to see a crowd so easy."

"Suppose we try to estimate the right distance, before we do anything else," said Dave Brandon.

"Say—did anybody bring a tape measure?" remarked Hackett.

The boys took no notice of this speech, but began to compare notes regarding the distance covered. After some little discussion and strolling about from place to place, it was agreed that they were about half a mile from camp.

"The best plan, now, is to walk around in a circle," said Bob. "No use to be easy, as Hackett says, and give the thing up."

"All right—here we go," said Musgrove. "Come back, there, Bowser, an' don't get too frisky."

The group now started off at right angles to their former course.

"Keep your eyes open, fellows," said Hackett, grandly, "or you may miss gittin' fooled."

Musgrove gave the speaker a queer look, and his eyes snapped furtively. "Wackett," he said, "I'd be glad if it was you what got fooled on this. 'My eye' so I would."

A rather discouraging tramp followed. It was at length seen that the course they were taking would soon lead them out upon the lake.

"What are you stopping for?" cried Hackett, as the others came to a halt. "Keep right on—maybe it's in the next state."

The boys laughed, and, a few moments later, were retracing their steps. They reached and passed the place at the summit of the hill, always endeavoring to maintain as closely as possible the half mile distance from their camp.

"Look at that whopping big boulder down there!" exclaimed Dick Travers, at length.

"I'll bet that's the very thing marked on the paper," interposed Sam.

"Hurrah!" broke in Bob. "Don't you see three trees nearly in a row over there?"

"My eye, Scummers is right," declared Musgrove, peering earnestly in the direction indicated.

The boys were still on the edge of the valley, the boulder and three trees being several hundred yards down the slope.

Hackett did not make any funny remarks at this juncture.

"What number joke is this?" asked Musgrove, with a laugh, as the party began to make their way cautiously downward over the snow-covered ground. "'My eye!' Them is the trees."

Before long the boys approached three huge pines, which were standing almost in a row.

"We ought to find out something now," observed Dick Travers.

They struck off along the valley, moving rapidly over the snow in the direction indicated by the cryptogram.

"Hello!" exclaimed Sam, suddenly. "Smoke—rising above that copse of trees—see it?"

"Right you are," returned Bob. "What do you think, now, 'Hatchet'?"

"Tell you later," grinned John, not in the least abashed.

Between the trees, a glimpse of a cabin was caught, and when the boys reached a clearing, they saw before them a substantial log structure, with a single window. From a stovepipe issued a whirling column of smoke.

"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "We didn't get left after all."

As he spoke, the door of the cabin was thrown open, and a tall, wiry-looking man, with a tawny moustache and stubby beard, appeared on the threshold.

"Powerful glad to see you, boys!" he exclaimed, heartily. "Honest Injun, though—never thought you know'd enough or would take the trouble ter git here. I'm John Yardsley, hunter an' trapper, at your service."

CHAPTER XIV

HUNTER AND TRAPPER

The boys surveyed the speaker for a moment with great interest. His appearance was rugged and honest, and a kindly light beamed from a pair of keen, gray eyes. Open air life had bronzed his skin until it was almost as brown as an Indian's. He stooped slightly, but all his movements showed that a life amid danger had made him exceedingly active and alert.

"I'm John Yardsley, at your service," he repeated, "an' powerful glad ter see yer. Step inter my office," and he waved his hand toward the door.

"Well, Yardsley, we're glad to meet you, too," said Nat, with his old-time, easy familiarity. "We're the Bounding Brotherhood of Hunters—members, warble out your names."

"Ha, ha!" laughed John Yardsley. "Bounding Brotherhood, ha, ha! Did you do some bounding yisterday mornin'?"

He broke into a short laugh, and pushed the door open to its fullest extent, while the boys crowded in.

At one end of the interior, they saw a big stove, and near the window a long table. A bunk occupied one corner, while several rude stools were scattered around.

But what interested the visitors most of all were a number of stuffed animals and birds which rested on various shelves. Each was in a natural position and looked quite life-like with its yellow glass eyes.

"This your work, Yardsley?" asked Nat, forgetting, for the moment, that he had intended to hurl forth a lot of questions.

"Everything mine," answered the trapper, with a smile.

"And look at that moose's head over the door," said Bob, pointing to one with enormous antlers.

"Brung him down myself," said the trapper, "and after as pretty a tussle as you'd want ter see. That was long ago. And here's something else, young fellers."

He pointed to a corner of the room. The boys crowded over and saw a number of clay modelings of animals, which made them open their eyes in astonishment.

"My eye! A wildcat," cried John Hackett, "and natural as can be."

"A wolf, too," said Bob. "That certainly is great."

"Christopher, I wish I could do work like this," put in Nat Wingate.

The trapper smiled at their enthusiasm. "Why shouldn't I be able to make 'em?" he asked. "Ain't I seen them critters for years an' years? Ain't I shot 'em—an' trapped 'em? I ain't got none too much book learnin', mebbe, an' who has?" he went on, "but I can tell you a few things 'bout the woods, an' the wild critters in 'em. Know the things about yer, that's what I calls eddication."

The trapper spoke earnestly and continued to enlarge upon a theme which was evidently a favorite one with him. At length, however, he paused, and asked the boys to tell him how they had managed to read his message.

Bob complied with the request, explaining the matter briefly but clearly.

At his conclusion, the trapper nodded approvingly, and was about to make some remark, when Billy Musgrove suddenly blurted out, in his loud, impudent voice, "See here, old sport, you was the feller what put a stuffed cat in front of them chaps' huts, eh?"

John Yardsley began to smile.

"I've got one failin'," he admitted, "an' I can't help it."

"An' you fired snowballs at 'em?"

Yardsley chuckled.

"Well, see here!" Musgrove's face assumed an angry expression. "I don't like them jokes—no, sir—it's good that you didn't try 'em on me an' Tim Sladder—'cause we don't stand for nothing like that. No, sir!"

This very frank statement seemed to amuse the trapper hugely. He broke into a laugh. Then turning toward the others, he said, "I seen you fellers several times, I guess, when you didn't think no one was near. I can't help jokin'. I hope you don't take no offense, but I says to myself, 'A few little tricks an' them fellers will pack up an' git back to their own little firesides.'"

"Humph! You didn't think we had much sand, did you?" sniffed John Hackett.

"A feller without it ain't got no business out in the woods. I was only a-testin' of you."

"I'm glad you didn't do none of it on us," remarked Musgrove. "No, sir!—Lay down, Bowser."

"There's another thing we'd like to know," broke in Tom Clifton, rather timidly. "Have you heard any strange cries lately? Some animal was prowling around our camp, and—"

"Strange cries?" echoed the trapper. "What were they like?"

"Oh, awful—I can't describe 'em."

"Wust you ever listened to," observed Tim Sladder. "We heard 'em at our camp, too."

"An' it didn't sound like no animal, or humans, either," added Musgrove.

"Ah, ha! This is interesting."

Yardsley seemed to reflect.

"We heard the beast twice," said Hackett.

"Well, now," continued Yardsley, "kinder think I did hear something like that. Strange critter it must have been—jest wait a second."

He opened a door and walked into an adjoining room. Then the boys heard a peculiar click.

Just as the trapper emerged, with a broad smile on his face, a terrible series of wild, weird screeches, exactly like those they had heard before, filled the cabin.

His visitors jumped to their feet in astonishment, while the effect upon Bowser was magical. Whining and whimpering, the big dog flopped heavily upon the floor at his master's feet and looked intently into his face.

"Was it something like that?" asked Yardsley, innocently.

Sladder and Musgrove, with wildly staring eyes, looked toward the room as if fascinated, but upon all the others the truth instantly dawned, and they received it with varied feelings.

"A phonograph!" cried Bob.

"My eye! A—a—phonograph!" echoed Hackett.

Then Nat Wingate began to laugh, and all at once the absurdity of the whole thing appealed irresistibly to most of the boys, and a wild burst of merriment rang out.

Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove remained ominously silent. There was a steely glitter in the latter's little blinking eyes, which seemed to say,—"Look out!"

"I'm powerful glad you fellers ain't took no offense," grinned John Yardsley. "I notice I come nigh to killin' that dorg. I met one of them scientific fellers oncet. You know the kind what can tell how many hairs a squirrel's got in its tail? He was an animalist; mebbe that ain't the word, but he know'd everything. He stayed out in the woods a spell with me, one winter; bunked right in here; an' he kinder took a fancy to yours truly.

"Well, I happened to run acrost him in town the next summer. 'Yardsley,' says he, 'you did play some awful jokes on me, out in the woods—it's a wonder my hair ain't gray.' An' he says, 'Yardsley, I've been having a lot of records took of different animals' voices. I want to give you one of a laughing hyena—it reminds me so much of you!'"

A titter went around the room.

The trapper continued, "'It would make me feel better, Yardsley,' he says, 'if you would take it an' kinder test it on some one out in the woods. I don't like ter feel I was the only one.'"

"An' that's jest what you done, eh, Pardsley?" broke in Musgrove, shaking his head vigorously. "An' me an' Tim didn't sleep a wink all night—an' all fer that, eh? An' Bowser most took a spell. Well, I like it; yes, sir, I do—for a fact." And Musgrove's expression indicated a state of feeling exactly the reverse of his words.

"I'm powerful glad ter hear you say that," remarked the trapper, with a sly wink at the others. "That's the way ter take them things, an'—"

"But don't never try no more, Bardsley," interrupted Musgrove, fiercely. "We won't stand fer it. No, sir, not me,—nor Tim, neither. No more jokin'—mind yer."

"All right!" responded Yardsley, with pretended meekness. "I like ter hear a feller speak right out in meetin'. And by the way," he continued, "do you know them fellers 'crost the lake?"

"They came over to see us once," replied Bob Somers.

"Wal, I don't know nothing about 'em. They was nosing around yesterday morning, kinder curious like, an' askin' if I had many furs—but I ain' tellin' my affairs ter strangers nohow."

"Been hunting and trapping long?" asked Nat.

"Wal, I guess! I come from down East, an' been at it off an' on for quite a spell."

"How do you like it out here?" asked Hackett.

"Powerful well, my slim young friend. Say, with them legs you oughter be a good runner."

"Maybe he's a good runner, but he can't skate with me," interposed Musgrove. "No, sir, I—"

"What!" exclaimed Yardsley, with an amused glance at the other's short stature. "He can't! Why—say, I don't believe—no offense, mind yer—that you could run with any feller in this crowd."

Billy Musgrove's face flushed—his little eyes blinked angrily.

"You talk like an idjit, Pardsley," he exclaimed. "I didn't say I could run, but I ain't skeered to try—no, sir—I ain't."

"Why not get up a little race? Them two," indicating Sladder and Musgrove, "can try it first between 'em."

"I don't mind," said Tim Sladder; "eh, Billy?"

"Suits me," grinned Musgrove.

"Might work up a little appetite fer lunch by having that race now," suggested the trapper, with a rather quizzical look. "What say? Or if Musgrove's kinder skeered, mebbe—"

"Skeered? I'll show you I ain't skeered, Bardsley. No, sir! Come on!" and Billy Musgrove strode toward the door.

"Good! That's the way ter feel about it. We'll hev a little fun."

Just beyond the cabin was a clear patch of level ground.

"A good place for our games," remarked Yardsley, rubbing his hands together. "See that there tree over there? Round it and back. Here's a line ter start from."

Grinning broadly, Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove took their places, an expressive wink from the latter indicating his confidence.

"All ready! One—two—three—go!"

At the word, the Stony Creek boys were off. Musgrove, with all the vim and determination at his command, struggled through the snow, and despite Sladder's most desperate efforts, his longer legs seemed to give him but little advantage.

"Go it, Sladder!" yelled Hackett. "Hi, hi! He'll never make it."

"That he won't!" grinned the trapper.

And now the two dark figures were approaching the turning-point.

"Keep it up, Tim!" encouraged Hackett, at the top of his voice.

Suddenly the spectators were treated to a most unusual sight.

Both boys were seen to lurch forward, two wild yells floated over the air—then the contestants, frantically waving their arms, plunged head first into a great pit filled to the brim with snow.

CHAPTER XV

A PRACTICAL JOKE

This catastrophe was witnessed with much astonishment.

"Great Cæsar—look at that!" cried Bob Somers.

"My eye! Did you ever see such a tumble?" exclaimed Hackett.

Then, as Sladder and Musgrove, almost up to their necks in the white mass, floundered and kicked to regain an upright position, Hackett, Nat Wingate and several of the others burst forth into the most uproarious peals of laughter.

"Bring a derrick," roared Nat. "Stand up straight, Musgrove. Don't you know enough not to dive on land?"

"He thought he was in a swimming race!" cried Hackett.

"'Tain't right ter plague a feller that way," reproved Yardsley, mildly. "Powerful singular I didn't happen ter mention that pit, ain't it? I guess the race is over."

"Lay on your back, and you won't sink any further, Mushroom," shouted Hackett.

To all these remarks Sladder and Musgrove paid no attention. They were too busy extricating themselves from their unpleasant predicament. Bowser had ambled to the edge of the pit, and, evidently realizing that something was amiss, barked dolefully.

At length, after having slipped and fallen several times, the two boys managed to reach solid ground. They brushed their clothes and came slowly back.

The others had expected to see Musgrove explode with wrath, but besides a queer expression in his small, blinking eyes, his pudgy face gave no evidence of anger.

"Got ahead of us that time, Pardsley," he observed. "I ain't saying what I think of nobody—no, sir—don't want to start a free fight, but say"—Billy Musgrove paused, the queer look in his eyes deepened, "there's goin' ter be some fun 'round these diggin's 'fore I leave—an' don't you forgit it."

"Powerful glad ter hear that," declared the trapper. "You kinder tempted me, the way you talked, a spell back. It's a failin' I've got. Now I want all hands ter grub with me."

The boys were soon compelled to acknowledge that John Yardsley was certainly a good cook. Baked beans, roasted potatoes, and venison steak done to a crisp turn were set before them, besides steaming coffee and hard-tack. At the last, to their great satisfaction, came buckwheat cakes and maple syrup.

Under the cheering influence of the fire and a company of lively boys, John Yardsley began to grow confidential. He freely admitted his superiority in skill over the majority of hunters and trappers.

"I study it, an' make a business of it,—that is I do for the present," he said, rubbing his hands together and tilting back in his chair, "an' I ain't done bad this season."

"Got lots of furs and skins, Spardsley?" inquired Musgrove, taking time enough to look up from his plate.

"Mebbe—mebbe not."

"Ain't that jest what you said?"

"You're a keen youngster, ain't yer?"

"I'm smarter than some people."

"Powerful glad ter hear it. One of these days I'll take ye boys around when I visit my traps,—only one at a time, mind ye. A hull lot might scare the critters away fur a month. Who wants ter go?"

"I do," said Bob, quickly.

"Being as it's you who spoke fust, you're number one," returned the trapper, nodding toward him.

"Good! You'll find me ready any time."

After the meal, Yardsley exhibited a number of beaver, otter and mink skins stretched out tightly on boards to dry. He also called attention to a curious piece of furniture standing in one corner. A section of a tree had been hollowed out, and the interior fitted with a number of shelves, which contained various objects collected in the woods. There were butterflies, moths and dragon flies, besides a number of minerals and stones.

"As I said afore," remarked the trapper, seating himself, "I ain't got as much book learnin' as I'd like," he smiled curiously, "but ask me somethin' about trees, or birds, or animals, an' well—mebbe I could make some of your dandified professors look cheap, if they was here. Eddication, I call it, is l'arnin' about the things 'round you—varmints and sich like—an' my friend, the animalist, said so, too."

"There's one thing you can do, all right, Bardsley," interrupted Musgrove.

"What's that?"

"Talk a fierce streak—I never heard nothing like it."

Yardsley laughed good-naturedly. "It's another failin', mebbe," he admitted. "Now I'm goin' ter spin some yarns."

These proved so interesting, that it was not until the late afternoon that the boys took their leave.

"An' look here, Jardsley," remarked Musgrove, at parting, "don't try no funny tricks now. We won't stand for none—no, sir—not me—nor Tim, neither."

"You certainly bit easily on one joke, Mushroom," remarked Hackett, when Yardsley's hut was lost to view behind the trees.

"Huh! You needn't talk! I never slammed no glass-eyed cat!" retorted Billy, and for the rest of the way there was no further conversation between the two.

CHAPTER XVI

YARDSLEY'S TRAPS

A week passed without special incident.

Piper, Robson and Heydon also made the acquaintance of the trapper, and all the hunters spent an evening in the cabin across the lake.

It became known that Yardsley had a fine collection of furs, which he intended to take to town very shortly. This fact had been ascertained by Charlie Piper, who, for purposes of speculation, wished to purchase a number of skins. But the price offered was too low to suit the trapper.

At the appointed time, Bob Somers tapped on the cabin door.

"Glad ter see you, cap'n!" exclaimed the woodsman, heartily, holding out his strong, sinewy hand. "In two shakes of a lamb's tail, I'll be ready."

"Think we'll have snow before long?" asked Bob.

Yardsley glanced out of the window at a sullen, lowering sky. "Snow—an' plenty of it," he announced. "An' lucky if it ain't a blizzard. Never seen one out here—eh, cap'n?—No?—Wal, a fair-sized northwester oughter satisfy yer fur a while—talk about wind and snow—it's fierce, an' no mistake."

"We might get snowed up."

"'Tain't at all unlikely."

Yardsley now rapidly led the way toward the creek which Bob and his companions had previously followed. Once there, he moved with more caution.

"Ter be a good trapper, a man has ter be powerful particular," he said. "Wild critters is certainly knowin'. Yer got ter understand 'em, an' l'arn their ways. I've got traps out fur minks, beavers, otter, muskrats an' foxes."

"Which are the hardest to catch?" asked Bob.

"Otter, p'r'aps! Minks is easier, bein' as they're sich hungry beasts, an' will take a chance when others might git scared off. Be careful, cap'n, we're comin' ter a trap, now."

At a convenient place, Yardsley led the way up the bank, avoiding with great skill the various obstacles with which the ground was strewn. Still keeping near the watercourse, they soon reached a confused heap of branches and logs.

"Right on that big log, cap'n."

"I don't see anything but a lot of twigs and bushes," said Bob.

"It's there, all right," chuckled Yardsley. "But it has ter be kep' out of sight. Wait here, cap'n."

The trapper went cautiously forward, stepping around the log, from the top of which the snow had been partly blown away.

"Nary a thing," he announced, after a moment's inspection.

"Better luck at the next one, perhaps," said Bob.

"I ain't a-worryin'—we'll git back on the ice."

They followed the winding stream for some distance, when Yardsley again slackened his pace.

"Easy, cap'n!" he exclaimed. "'Round here is regular otterville. See that there hole in the ice? Well, the critters has used it ter come out on shore. So I sinks my trap, an'—"

"And what?"

"Wal—I'll show yer in a minute—if I've struck luck."

From back of a mass of underbrush close by, Yardsley pulled a stout stick curved at the end. This he pushed through the hole in the ice, and a grunt of satisfaction escaped his lips.

With a couple of vigorous pulls, he brought to the surface a fine large otter.

"How's that fur one?" he remarked, as he disengaged the animal from the trap and laid it in the ice.

"It's a whopper," said Bob, enthusiastically, "and what a beautiful bluish gray coat. Don't they kill lots of fish, John?"

"A powerful number, cap'n. An' brings 'em ashore ter eat. The little rascal is awful wasteful, too, sometimes leavin' 'em 'most untouched."

The trapper rebaited the trap, which was attached by means of a chain to a stone, and lowered both in the water again.

"Where are we going now?" asked Bob.

"Follow the stream fur a piece. I've got more traps along here."

John Yardsley returned the stick to its hiding-place, then, as they started off, began to talk about the habits of the various animals.

"Powerful knowin' critters," he observed. "Take beavers, which lives along rivers an' ponds, for instance. A hull lot of these critters will git together an' build houses of mud, stones an' sticks. Their teeth are very hard and sharp, an' they don't have much trouble cuttin' all the wood they want. Then, if the water ain't right, they dam it up with the same stuff as the huts is made of."

"Isn't the entrance under water?" asked Bob.

"Allus! So that other critters can't git at 'em. In the spring, they come out, an' ramble off; an' mebbe it's autumn before they says ter each other, 'It's time ter git back ter them huts of ourn an' fix 'em up fur the winter.'"

"Muskrats build places pretty much the same, only smaller," said Bob.

"Yes, but martens lives in the deepest parts of the woods, while fishers an' minks hang out along streams an' marshes. I've seen a fisher a-sittin' on a stone, lookin' in the water, an' waitin' fur his dinner ter pass by. All of a sudden, he went ker flump—there was a splash—an' yer can bet he got his fish."

After a short pause, Yardsley continued, "But here we are, cap'n, at another trap."

This proved to be along the bank, and cleverly concealed in the midst of a tangled growth. But although it had been sprung the animal had managed to get away.

The next one, however, held captive a good-sized mink.

"Not so bad, an' we may get some more yet," commented Yardsley. "I'm powerful afear'd we're goin' ter have some pretty tough weather," he added, with a look at the sullen sky.

"I say, John," asked Bob, with a sudden thought, "didn't you put up a sign over by Lake Wolverine?"

Yardsley grinned. "Jokin' is a little failin' I have, as I told you afore," he said. "You'll run acrost several of 'em 'round these parts. I'm powerful glad, cap'n, that you fellers didn't git mad."

"I thought Sladder and Musgrove would be wild when they got dumped into that pit," remarked Bob.

The trapper laughed as he recalled the scene. "If them kids hadn't been so sassy, I wouldn't have done it," he said. "I thought one of 'em needed a lesson, anyway."

"Here's the snow!" cried Bob, at length.

"Slow—very slow—an' sure," added the trapper.

They had reached the gloomy depths of a dense wood. Here and there were great boulders of odd shapes, and their rugged appearance added to the desolation of the scene.

As they passed one of these, a long, low growl suddenly caused them to turn. But a few paces distant stood a huge wildcat. Its paws rested on a partly devoured rabbit, and, angry at being disturbed, the animal crouched low, while its long tail moved slowly forth and back.

With flattened ears and glaring eyes, it presented a terrifying sight, and, thoroughly startled, Bob Somers involuntarily stepped backward.

"Leave it to me!" yelled Yardsley.

But as he spoke, the dull, tawny-colored animal, with a snarl, sprang directly toward Bob Somers.

CHAPTER XVII

SMOKE SIGNALS

"Oh, ho, what are we going to do, fellows?" asked Dave Brandon, lazily, to Dick Travers and Tom Clifton, as they sat warming themselves before a cheerful fire.

"I don't think we ought to stray very far from camp," said Tom Clifton. "Looks as if there was going to be a big snow-storm."

"An 'undeniable fact,'" put in Dick, with a grin.

"And if it's anything like the kind that Riggs, Junior, spoke about, Tom is right," said Dave. "For my part, I'd sooner sit by a nice, big fire, anyway, than trot around over a lot of barren hills."

"You don't have to tell us that, Chubby," laughed Dick.

"No, I suppose not." The stout boy yawned and shifted his position slightly. "I haven't been able to write a single bit since I came out here," he grumbled, more to himself than to the others.

"Why not?" asked Tom.

"Too cold—and, whenever I begin, Billy Musgrove's face seems to bob right up in front of me."

"What has that to do with it?"

"See here, Dick Travers," observed Dave, with mock severity, "could any one have an inspiration and think of Billy Musgrove's face at the same time?"

Dick grinned. "It kind of takes the poetry out of the scene," he suggested.

"Exactly. Hello—"

"Looks like smoke signals across the way. Wonder if anything's up?"

The three boys stared intently toward the cabin, a mere brownish spot against the background of trees.

Sure enough. A cloud of grayish smoke, in a rather solid mass, rose lazily in the air, light against the firs and dark as it emerged into the expanse of sky above.

"There goes another!" exclaimed Tom, in some excitement.

"Sure as you live, it's a signal," put in Dick, as a third slowly appeared. "Guess we'll have to skip over. Something may have happened."

"Certainly we will," grumbled Dave. "And just as I thought of getting a nice rest by the fire. Hello—gun signals, too," he added, as a faint report came from the distance.

"Hurry up, fellows! Strap on your skates!" cried Dick, excitedly. "We must see about this. Somebody hurt, do you think?"

"It isn't far across, and we'll soon know," replied Dave.

Down to the lake the trio quickly made their way, and then, with long, swinging strides, began to skim swiftly over the frozen surface. As they approached the cabin, many eager looks were cast toward it.

"There's somebody at the door now," panted Dave Brandon.

A dark figure had appeared, and an instant later a hail reached their ears, which was answered by a lusty chorus from the skaters.

"I hope I haven't put you fellows to any inconvenience, or given you a scare," said Fulmer Robson, as the trio breathlessly approached.

"Nothing has happened, I hope?" panted Tom.

"No—nothing serious. But come inside, boys, and I'll tell you all about it."

The interior of the cabin had been made comfortable and cozy. In one corner was a stove, while several rude seats were distributed around. Against one wall stood a long table.

"Make yourselves comfortable," said Robson, drawing a stool alongside the stove, which was sending forth a pleasant heat. "I would have come over to your camp," he added, "but I have a bad headache. What I wanted you for is this. There's a pack of wolves around the neighborhood, and I thought you ought to know it."

"Wolves?" echoed Tom Clifton, paling a trifle.

"Yes! We had a sight of them yesterday afternoon—not far from here, too. A pack of the brutes were after a deer. Heydon and I had reached the top of a hill when we discovered them, and, as we had a field-glass, we saw the whole thing."

"What happened?" asked Tom, eagerly.

"It looked as if the wolves had chased the deer for a long distance, for he seemed 'most played out. Three of the brutes flung themselves upon him at once, and—well, you can guess the rest."

"How far away was this?" asked Dave.

"Not more than two miles."

"We are certainly much obliged to you," put in Dick Travers. "It wouldn't do to be unprepared, if they happen to come along."

"I should say not. Wolves are bad customers at this time of the year. I suppose," added Robson, with a smile, "you thought something terrible had happened?"

"Yes, we did," admitted Dick. "Where are the other fellows—how did you manage to make that signal alone?"

"They just left, a short time ago," answered Robson. "The weather looks pretty threatening, doesn't it? Well, we concluded that it would be best to get in as much game as possible."

"Do you think it's going to be as bad as all that?" asked Tom Clifton, anxiously.

"It's hard to say; after all, it may be nothing worse than an ordinary snow-storm. But we got caught once, and don't propose to let such a thing happen again. I expected the whole crowd of you," he added, with a questioning glance.

Dave explained the situation.

"Oh, that's it," remarked Robson, reflectively. "On your way back, you might tell Sladder and Musgrove about the wolves. And by the way," he added, "I haven't much use for those fellows. Frankly, I don't like either."

"They always treated us well," replied Dave, evasively.

"Oh, I don't want you to say anything against 'em," laughed Robson, "but Billy Musgrove by all odds is the most impudent chap I ever ran across. We had a scrap the other day—he kept calling me 'Bobson,' and Piper, 'Swiper.' We got kind of sore, and Billy then fired off, sassing all three of us right and left."

"Musgrove never gets names straight," observed Dick, with a grin.

"It's beginning to snow," broke in Tom, "and the wind is coming up, too."

The sky was unusually dark and threatening; it seemed almost like approaching twilight.

An anxious expression came into Dick Travers' face, and Tom, too, surveyed the scene apprehensively, but the poet laureate's round features seemed only to reflect content, as he resumed his place before the fire.

"I'll bet it will be a howler," said Tom Clifton.

"And that we get snowed up for a week," grumbled Dick.

"Why not add a visit or two from wolves, while you are about it?" put in Robson, with a laugh.

"Nothing like looking at things all around," yawned Dave. "I feel uncommonly sleepy."

"You'd better have lunch with me," proposed Robson. "It will make my head feel better. Only wish the rest of your crowd was here," he added. "Fall to, boys, and give me a hand."

At length, however, the thought that the other boys might have returned induced the three members of the Rambler Club to bring their visit to a close.

"Oh, ho, I'm afraid we'll have to go, fellows," said Dave Brandon, with a grimace. "Just think of having to face that wind."

"Sorry you have to leave," observed Robson.

"Not half so sorry as we are," drawled Dave, with a dubious look outside.

Once out upon the lake, a succession of furious gusts swept toward them, accompanied by whirling clouds of fine, needle-like particles. Presently, they were in the thick of it, and found themselves, for the moment, compelled to turn their backs to the storm.

"Whew! This is certainly fierce," panted Dick. "We ought to get there pretty soon, however."

The storm did not increase, as the boys' fears led them to expect. Instead, the fall of snow soon began to lessen, and only where there happened to be irregularities in the ice did the flakes find a resting-place.

"Hurrah, I see the shore," burst forth Dick, at length. "Let's make a spurt."

This the trio proceeded to do, and they were soon tramping over the snow toward the camp.

Startling news awaited them.

CHAPTER XVIII

WHO TOOK THE FURS?

Taken altogether by surprise, Bob Somers was, for an instant, almost incapable of motion. He saw the long, lithe body spring forward and heard the harsh, rasping snarl. Then, with a strong effort, he recovered his wits—like a flash his rifle was raised and fired.

Blending with the report came a terrific cry of fury and pain.

But the wildcat was only wounded. In his haste and alarm, Bob had not been able to reach a vital spot. The animal fell, but almost instantly rose.

"Give me a chance!" yelled Yardsley. "Skip around that there rock, an' I'll finish 'im."

But before the boy could comply, the wildcat, with an infuriated screech, sprang forward again.

Taking his gun by the barrel, Bob Somers swung it with all his strength. The animal, dealt a glancing blow, was checked—just long enough for Bob to dart around the rock. Almost at his heels came the snarling wildcat.

In and out among the trees the two went, while Yardsley followed, unable to shoot for fear of hitting his companion.

With a glance over his shoulder, Bob once more jumped aside, and again his gun rose and fell.

John Yardsley, leaping over the snow, reached the spot where the wildcat, scarcely stunned by Bob Somers' last blow, was preparing to make another spring.

"I've got 'im!" he cried.

A sharp report rang out. Rising to his haunches, in a last desperate effort, the wildcat lurched over, and fell at full length motionless in the snow.

"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Thanks, John," and he clasped the hunter's big hand. "Ugh I Thought he had me." He shivered, as his eyes rested upon the savage head and dangerous-looking claws.

"Powerful bad critters when they get their dander up," commented Yardsley, giving the beast a shove with his toe. "What's ter be did with the varmint?"

"Don't you want it?" Bob's voice still trembled with excitement.

"I reckon not."

"Then I'll have him stuffed," said Bob. "Won't that be great? Only wish I'd got him myself," he added, half regretfully.

"You orter be glad he didn't get you," observed the trapper, dryly. "Now, I'll make a drag. Twenty-five or thirty pounds of cat meat would be a little too much ter carry."

Yardsley strode forward, and selecting an ash of suitable thickness—of course it was a mere sapling—quickly felled and trimmed it. Then he cut it into two pieces of equal length.

"Pitch in an' get me some short bits fur the cross-bars, cap'n," he said, handing Bob the hatchet. "We'll have it fixed in a minute."

As soon as Bob Somers had complied with his request, the trapper laid the two pieces of ash parallel on the ground, then three cross-bars were quickly fastened in place.

"Want anything better than that?" he demanded, with a grin. "I'll jest cut them 'ere ends, so's ter make 'em lift off the snow like runners."

"Have you a rope to pull it with?" asked Bob.

"Catch John Yardsley a-comin' out unprepared? I reckon not. Guess we'd better hit the trail fur camp," he added.

The wildcat, otter and other game were securely attached to the drag, which was not difficult to pull over the snow-crusted ground.

After making a long circuit, the winding stream was again reached, and, at length, the cabin in the valley came into view.

"Reckon you air powerful glad ter git back, cap'n?" observed the trapper. "I'll fix the skin of that there critter, an'—"

Yardsley suddenly paused, and gazed intently toward the cabin, while a puzzled, alarmed expression passed over his rugged features.

"I'm sartin sure—" he began.

"Sure of what?" asked Bob, surprised at his companion's manner.

"That I shut the door of that storehouse. Sure as guns is guns, I did, an'—"

Yardsley did not finish the sentence, but fairly tore over the snow, while Bob, leaving the sled, followed close at his heels.

At one end of the log house a small addition had been built for the purpose of storing furs and skins. There was an entrance on the outside, and it was this which now stood slightly open.

"As sure as guns is guns," repeated the woodsman, excitedly, "I shut that 'ere door, an' shut it tight."

He hastily entered the storehouse, and at a glance his worst fears were realized.

"Gone—every blessed one!" he groaned. "Not a thing left!"

"Robbed?" gasped Bob Somers. "How many did you have?"

"A powerful number, cap'n."

Yardsley stood perfectly still and gazed around with a dazed air.

"Every blessed one," he repeated. "An' I was 'most ready ter take 'em ter town." His arms dropped to his side, and he looked toward Bob Somers in the utmost dejection.

"Well, we can't do any good standing here," cried Bob. "Let's investigate and get after 'em."

"That's the idea!" exclaimed Yardsley, his look of dismay giving place to one of intense anger.

"Jest let me come up with them rascals, that's all." He made an expressive motion, then darted outside, his eyes roving over the ground.

"Carted 'em away on a big sled," he exclaimed. "See, cap'n—tracks as plain as the nose on yer face. An' the rascals was on snow-shoes."

"I'll skip over to camp and get some of the fellows!" cried Bob. "Then the whole crowd can follow."

"Good, cap'n, an' John Yardsley won't forgit it. By the time yer gits back I'll hev a bite ter eat. With a storm a-comin', an' no tellin' what may be afore us, 'twouldn't do by no means ter go off on an empty stummick."

But Bob Somers had not waited to hear his last words. Although the morning's tramp had been a rather long one, he moved over the ground at a rapid rate, and, panting from his exertions, at length reached the camp just as the others came in.

"What's the matter, Somers, you look scared—any fierce rabbits get after you?" asked Nat Wingate, winking at Hackett.

"Yardsley's been robbed of his furs," said Bob. "Not one of 'em left!"

"Robbed?" echoed Nat, in astonishment. "How—when?"

"Whew! That's mighty funny!" exclaimed Sam Randall. "Robbed? I can hardly believe it."

"It's true!—Who wants to come along and help us trail the thieves?"

"Well now!" Hackett paused and a fierce expression came into his eyes. "After amusing himself at our expense, he's got a fine nerve to ask us to help him—still," he went on, "speak your little piece, Somers, and we'll decide."

This Bob did, briefly, and at its conclusion Hackett again spoke up. "I feel sorry for the old man," he announced. "I'll go. There's a chance for some excitement, too."

"So will I," added Sam Randall, eagerly. "Here come Chubby and the rest. Won't they be surprised?"

Dave Brandon and his companions were seen making their way toward the camp.

As they came up, Hackett shouted out the news.

Dick Travers gave a whistle of astonishment, while Tom, believing that some joke was intended, began to laugh.

But Bob Somers quickly told his story again, and the astonished boys were given a chance to decide what they wanted to do. The question was almost immediately settled.

In brief, Nat Wingate, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton concluded that their services were not required. The others hastily prepared to take their departure. Bob, who had already been helping himself to everything eatable in sight, drank a cup of coffee which had fortunately been left over, filled his pockets with crackers, and followed the already retreating forms of Hackett, Randall and Travers.

"Come on!" cried the slim boy. "The snow isn't falling half as fast as it was."

The three who stood by the fire gazed after them in a disconsolate fashion.

"I wonder what is going to happen now?" said Nat Wingate, as the four figures were lost to view.

CHAPTER XIX

LOST IN THE SNOW

Bob and his companions found the hunter pacing up and down the cabin in a state of great agitation.

"I was jest about gittin' off," he exclaimed. "Thought you'd never come. Them rascals will give us the slip yit."

"Who could have robbed you, Yardsley?" demanded Hackett. "It's pretty tough luck, eh?"

"Bless you—yes! When I seed that door open, I know'd something had happened. An' I could hev sold them skins ter Piper, too. Never heard the beat of it."

"Have you seen any suspicious characters around?"

"Nary one!"

"It's mighty queer that somebody should happen along just while you were out. They must have been watching the place pretty closely, eh?"

"Most likely!"

"My eye! There's the wildcat. Why, it's a whopper, Somers—"

"Come on, cap'n an' mates," interrupted Yardsley, impatiently. "Let's be off!"

In a few minutes, the party, with the trapper in the lead, were swiftly following the trail which led across the valley.

"Them tracks is purty fresh," said Yardsley, "an' we oughter gain on 'em fast. Every blessed pack of furs gone."

"You haven't lost 'em altogether yet," put in Hackett. "If this snow-storm doesn't turn into a blizzard, there's a chance of getting the whole bunch back."

"A blizzard's jest what I am afear'd of," commented the other. "It's blowin' purty fresh now."

Up-hill and down, scarcely slackening their pace, they kept along, the tracks of the sled being plainly visible. They were sunk to an unusual depth, showing how heavily it had been laden.

The snow was again coming down thicker, and in that steady fashion which indicated a deep fall. In through a dense pine woods the trail led, then turned abruptly toward the lake.

"The rascals will give us a purty chase," grumbled Yardsley. "Gittin' tired, boys?"

"I don't know about the others, but I'm not," replied Hackett. "I can give you ten feet start, and catch up, any time."

"Good for you," and Yardsley, bending forward, increased his pace.

Everybody had expected that the tracks would lead directly to Lake Wolverine, but this did not prove to be the case. About a quarter of a mile from the shore, they veered off sharply in a northwesterly direction, and, unfortunately, this made traveling all the more difficult.

Whirling clouds of snow dashed in their faces and gusts of wind bore down upon them, but none uttered a word of complaint, as they plunged doggedly along, straining eyes and ears to catch any signs of the thieves.

"It's turnin' inter a reg'lar blizzard," groaned Yardsley. "Them tracks is gittin' lost a'ready."

"Keep it up," urged Bob.

"Don't fear, cap'n. You'll never ketch me a-givin' up while thar's the slightest chance."

"If it would only hold up for a few minutes, even," panted Dick Travers, as they paused for a moment in a deep ravine.

"It's going to be worse before it's better, Dick," said Hackett. "Whew! Listen to the wind in those trees."

"And we can't see very far ahead, now," broke in Sam. "It's getting thicker every minute."

"That it is, mate. Never calc'lated it would be ragin' like this so soon," and there was a tone in the trapper's voice which seemed to indicate that he had begun to have little hope of success.

On the crest of another hill, they could scarcely stand against the terrific blasts which swept along, carrying with them clouds of feathery particles. It was bitterly cold and the darkness unusual, even for a heavy winter storm. The valley was entirely lost to view.

Enveloped in the whirling masses, the boys followed the trapper, whose form loomed up dimly in front. Now and then, he stooped to examine the trail, and occasionally encouraged them to renewed exertions, but the disheartening fact that the deep impressions must be speedily lost was apparent to all.

Faint as his hope was, however, Yardsley kept swinging along. Sure-footed, and accustomed to the woods, he got around the underbrush and fallen limbs in a manner that the others could not imitate.

Half blinded by the flakes, battered by the violent wind, they struggled along. Several times the wind veered sharply around and the boys no longer had an accurate idea of their direction. Every minute found them facing more discouraging conditions. Branches and twigs frequently came rattling about them and their progress was greatly impeded. Thus the pursuit continued for a long time.

Yardsley at length redoubled his efforts, pushing steadily forward, with great strides, so as to take advantage of the few minutes which remained before the trail would be entirely obliterated.

Suddenly Dick Travers pointed ahead, and uttered an exclamation.

Scarcely visible through the driving snow was an object which had neither the shape of a rock, stump, nor anything usually seen in the woods.

"The sled!—I'll bet it's the sled!" roared Dick.

"That's what I think," shouted Sam. "They've had to abandon it."

Close at his heels, the two boys pressed.

Sure enough, there was a sled—but empty.

"They had time ter git away with the stuff, after all," groaned Yardsley. "Nary a thing—all gone."

"Do you think they could have hidden it somewhere?" yelled Dick. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned quickly around.

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Where are Bob Somers and John Hackett? I thought they were right back of us."

"So did I," put in Sam.

"Great Scott! Whar' did they git ter?" roared Yardsley, with a look of apprehension on his bronzed face.

"Hi, hi—hello, cap'n!" he yelled at the top of his voice.

"Hi, hi, hey, hey!" chorused the others.

But no sounds came back to them.

Again they shouted, their united voices rising above the roar of the winds. Still there was no response.

Yardsley did not attempt to conceal his anxiety. "Lost!" he exclaimed; "an' in this blizzard!"

"Lost!" echoed Sam Randall and Dick Travers, as they looked at each other in alarm.

CHAPTER XX

WOLVES!

John Hackett's snow-shoe had caught upon a projecting log, and sent him sprawling. In his descent, his head brought up sharply against a low-hanging branch, and for a moment he lay stunned.

"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. He stooped over and placed his hand upon Hackett's shoulder. "Hurt, Hacky?" he asked, anxiously.

"I hit my head an awful whack," replied Hackett, faintly.

Aided by his companion, he slowly rose to a sitting posture, but the blow had dazed him to such an extent that he remained almost motionless, while Bob Somers rubbed his forehead with snow.

"Feeling better now?"

"Yes—a little. My eye! I saw about fifty-six stars. It took all the strength out of me. Is there any mark, Somers?"

"A red spot—that's all."

"Wonder it didn't make a dent an inch deep."

Hackett accepted Bob's hand, struggled to his feet, and leaned heavily against a tree.

"I'm awfully sorry, Hacky," said Bob, compassionately.

"I'll have to take a few minutes' rest. Where are the other fellows, Somers?"

"They can't be far ahead."

"Better be going now, or we may get separated," said Hackett, presently. "Can you see the tracks still?"

"Yes, but they are very faint."

Hackett rubbed his forehead. "I'm getting all right, now; sail ahead."

"Bother the snow," said Bob. "It's so thick a fellow can't see more than a few feet."

"My eye! I don't like this," declared Hackett, nervously; "Yardsley is the only one who can find his way back to camp in this storm."

"And I can scarcely make out the trail any more."

A few rods further, and Bob stopped short. Then he walked back slowly, with his eyes fixed upon the surface of the snow.

"Have you lost it?" queried Hackett, bending over.

"No—thought I had. It's pretty faint, though. Come on."

Slowly they pushed ahead, now losing the trail, then finding it again. Drifts had settled over it in places, while generally it was becoming so faint as to be almost obliterated.

"I say, Somers," shouted Hackett, at length, as he turned his back to an unusually fierce blast, "unless some one has taken the trouble to look back, it means that we are left away behind."

"That's so! Yardsley was going at a pretty fast clip, while we've just poked along."

Hackett's face began to wear an angry expression. "Did you ever hear of such fierce luck?" he shouted, scarcely able to make himself heard above the roar of the storm.

"What chumps we were not to yell for them in the first place."

Hackett started ahead, shouting with all the strength of his lungs. "Hello, Sam—hello!" he called.

"No answer, eh?" said Bob. "Whew! This is a nice fix to be in. We'd better fire our guns."

Two reports rang out in quick succession.

"They ought to hear that," exclaimed Bob.

Straining their ears, the boys listened intently, but there was no sound of an answering shot.

"Try it again," suggested Hackett, with an anxious look.

Quickly reloading, Bob Somers and Hackett repeated their signal, but with no better success.

This was due to a combination of unfortunate circumstances. Not only was the storm raging with a violence which greatly lessened the range of the sound, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Then, too, the trapper and the boys accompanying him had found it necessary to keep their ears well protected. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that the shots passed unheard.

"Now we're in a pretty mess!" exclaimed Hackett, blankly. "Lost, as sure as guns. And the storm is getting worse all the time."

The possible seriousness of their situation came upon the boys with full force, and they looked at each other in dismay.

"We can tell what direction to go by the wind," said Bob, presently.

But this proved to be impossible. Due partially to the formation of the land, which was hilly and rugged, they were surrounded by so many eddying swirls that the wind afforded almost no guide.

In silence, with all senses alert, they kept on, amidst a thick group of evergreens, whose rich green boughs drooped beneath the weight of snow.

"No use," panted Hackett, at length. "Not a ghost of a show, Somers. Let's try and make a break for camp."

"Which way do you think it is?"

"Don't know, I'm sure. Bad as finding a pin in a ton of snow. But we have to keep on moving, and might as well go in the direction it seems to be."

But the boys' ideas on this important point did not agree, and both finally concluded that at the very first sheltered place it would be wiser to call a halt.

"My eye!" cried Hackett, suddenly. "What's that?" He stopped short and grasped his companion by the arm.

Above the roar of the wind came a crashing sound, which grew louder and louder.

"Look!" shouted Bob, pointing toward the right.

Dimly, through the driving snow, they saw a pine crashing downward. Gathering speed, it snapped off limbs and branches from the surrounding trees, and struck the ground about twenty feet away with a sullen thud. Several rabbits suddenly appeared, leaping wildly over the snow.

Almost mechanically, Bob Somers raised his gun, and taking quick aim, fired both barrels. At the second report, one of the animals fell back in the snow.

"Glad I borrowed Tom Clifton's gun," said Bob. "With a rifle might have missed him." Then he added, as he walked over and picked up the rabbit, "It's blowing hard to carry down a tree like that."

"Another danger we have to look out for," yelled Hackett. "My eye! Suppose we had been in the way!"

Bob glanced apprehensively at the swaying trees, from which now and then a branch would snap off, to come hurtling through the air.

"I'm nearly frozen," growled Hackett, "and can hardly see." He struggled slowly ahead, occasionally forced to turn his back to the icy blasts. "We are in a bad fix, Somers," he went on. "What are we going to do?"

"Keep a stiff upper lip. It might be a great deal worse."

"I don't see it. Just as likely, we are going directly away from camp, and we can't stay out all night."

The boys slowed up and looked anxiously around, in an effort to make out their surroundings.

"We'll have to trust to luck, Somers, and keep moving," said Hackett.

"Right you are!" replied Bob, with an effort at cheerfulness. "Don't get scared, and—"

"Who said I was scared?" cried Hackett, bristling up.

The thought of his courage being questioned seemed to put new life into him, and he moved ahead again with more spirit.

Before them was a level stretch, which they soon discovered was bordered by rugged hills. Here the full force of the storm was escaped, and, at length, to their great joy, beneath a sullen, beetling cliff, a spot was found partially free from snow and sheltered from the wind. Strewn about, not far from the nearest snow-drifts, were numerous limbs and branches carried there by the heavy gusts.

"My eye! But this is a find!" cried Hackett. "It's great to get away from that wind. If we can only start a fire—got any matches, Somers?"

"Of course!" replied Bob, in a tone of great relief. "Whew! I don't believe I could have stood it out there much longer."

He shook the snow from his clothing and swung his arms. Then after a moment's rest, took out his hatchet and began chopping away on a branch. Hackett, too, set to work, and within a quarter of an hour, a fire was started.

Beyond the shelter of the crag, the blizzard continued with unabated force. The wind howled and whistled, while scarcely anything could be seen through the mass of falling flakes.

"We certainly were lucky to get such a place as this, Hacky," commented Bob.

"And to crack that rabbit, too," said Hackett. "If we only had a little salt and pepper—"

"What do you say to this?" And Bob triumphantly brought forth a small can of each.

"My eye! Are you a walking grocery store?"

Bob laughed. "Wasn't a bad idea, eh?"

"You're right! Let's get to work."

Bob soon had the rabbit skinned and dressed. Then he scraped aside a pile of glowing coals.

A sharpened stick was used as a spit, and this being laid across two short logs, the rabbit began to broil.

"I could eat almost anything," said Bob.

"Just let me get a chance at it," observed Hackett.

"Hope the other fellows are all right," said Bob, anxiously.

"They have Yardsley with 'em. If anybody had to get lost, it was a good thing we did," continued Hackett. "Dick and Sam—well, they're not up in the woods game like we are. It kind of comes natural to me, and you ain't bad at it, either."

Bob laughed. "Thanks, Hacky, old man," he said.

The snow sifted down from above, but not enough to cause any great discomfort. Seated on a log, the boys began to grow cheerful again. Their aching limbs had eased considerably, and but for the dismal prospect of spending the night without shelter, neither would have minded the experience.

At length, the rabbit was cooked, or at least sufficiently cooked, for they could wait no longer.

"It's half burnt, scorched and raw in spots, but it tastes good just the same," commented Bob.

"You're right it does," replied Hackett. Then, after a pause, he added, "Somers, I believe it's letting up a little."

"It can't stop too soon for me. Hello—what's that sound?"

A series of doleful barks rose faintly above the roar of the wind.

"Wolves! I'll bet a hat on it!" cried Hackett, in a tone of alarm; "and sounds like a regular pack of 'em."

"I believe you're right."

Straining their ears, the boys again heard the cries, now growing louder, then lost in the moaning of the wind.

"Wolves, sure enough, Somers," repeated Hackett excitedly. He seized his gun, and peered anxiously around, while Bob began to feed the fire until great tongues of flame shot upward.

For some moments, there was no repetition of the cries, and both began to hope that they might be unmolested.

But suddenly a dismal medley of yelps and snarls, close at hand, filled the air. Several shadowy forms darted into view, circled around, approached, retreated, then, emboldened, came forward again, while the boys, with their hearts thumping painfully, held their guns ready for instant use.

"We are in for a fight, that's sure," said Bob, in a low voice. "Don't waste a shot."

"DON'T WASTE A SHOT!"

The animals, probably half famished, circled nearer and nearer, snapping and snarling, and occasionally uniting their voices in a volume of howls which made the two boys shiver. Now their gleaming teeth could be seen. Their jaws seemed to snap, as if in anticipation of a feast.

"More than a dozen of 'em, Somers!" exclaimed Hackett, in a strained, tense voice. "Did you ever see such ugly beasts?"

"Keep cool, and we'll be all right."

Hackett started to add more fuel to the fire, then stopped short and uttered an exclamation of dismay. He realized that their supply would soon be exhausted.

"Somers," he said, "Somers—what do you think of this? The fire won't last much longer!"

"And a fellow can't chop wood with those beasts around. They are getting bolder every moment."

All the fuel within reach was piled on the fire, and, keeping it between themselves and the savage, hungry animals, the boys awaited the outcome of the siege with nerves set at the keenest tension.

The gray, gaunt creatures scurried around, sometimes approaching so near that the two were on the point of firing, then, with dismal snarls, retreating until their courage reasserted itself.

"No use to shoot until we are certain," observed Bob. "If we happened to wound one without disabling it, I'll bet the beast would pounce right down on us."

"With the rest following at its heels," added Hackett.

Once or twice the slim boy raised his rifle, only to lower it. The indistinct forms, darting hither and thither amidst the driving snow, were difficult to aim at.

Meanwhile, the fire began to die down.

"We're in for it now," said Bob. "Look lively, and don't waste a shot."

A few minutes passed. Then, like a flash, one of the wolves darted toward them.

Bob Somers, with arms that trembled for an instant, raised his gun. He saw the wide-open, savage mouth, the glaring eyes—then he pulled the trigger.

A howl of agony followed the report. The animal rose on its hind legs and pitched forward in the snow.

"Hurrah! and with only one charge!" cried Bob, his eyes bright with excitement.

The loud report and flash of fire from the gun sent the other wolves back a few paces, but it was only for a moment.

"There's but one thing to be done, and that mighty quickly!" exclaimed Bob. "Wonder we didn't think of it before."

"What's that?"

"Climb the cliff. Once out of their reach, it will be easy to pick them off."

"Guess you are right. But they won't give us much chance to get up. If a fellow should slip—" Hackett shuddered.

"I'll stand 'em off. When I fire, you start to climb."

"Oh, no!" returned Hackett, quickly; "my repeating rifle is worth half a dozen of your guns. Be ready to move fast. In a second you'll hear a fierce racket. Here goes—one—two—three."

Hackett fired, then quickly followed with two more shots.

Bob Somers had slung his gun over his shoulder, and taking advantage of the opportunity, grasped a projecting rock, and began to scale the steep side of the cliff. Footholds were numerous, and, as little snow had found lodgment, he managed to reach a ledge well out of reach of their foes.

Hackett's shots and the cries of their wounded companions had sent the wolves quickly retreating, to spread out in a half-circle.

"Now's your time, Hackett," yelled Bob. "Quick!"

Hackett hastily turned, and began to scramble upward.

As he did so, a gray form shot out from amidst its fellows and made a dash straight for him.

CHAPTER XXI

SUSPICIONS

"Whar' can the cap'n an' his mate hev got to?" cried Yardsley.

For a moment he forgot all about the thieves, in his great anxiety regarding the young hunters.

"Powerful—powerful bad," he went on. "Wouldn't hev had this happen fur no money."

He raised his gun and fired in the air, Dick Travers following his example.

Shielding themselves as best they could against the violent wind and blinding snow, they awaited a response. But none came.

"Big surprise ter me," said Yardsley. "I don't see how no sich thing could happen."

"What in the world can have become of them?" cried Sam Randall, in the utmost apprehension. "Great Scott! They will never be able to find their way back."

"This is awful," put in Dick, with a strong effort to make himself heard.

Yardsley stared fixedly in the direction from which they had come.

"It's all my fault!" he exclaimed, regretfully. "Powerful wrong ter ask you fellers ter come on sich a trip. An' I kep' straight ahead, never lookin' back. Yardsley, you're a reg'lar dub."

"The trail must be lost completely by this time," said Sam Randall, a moment later. "You can't even see it right back of the sled."

"I know this here place purty well," was Yardsley's response. "I kin foller the route back all right. Thar's one thing," he added, brightening up a bit.

"What's that?" asked Sam.

"The cap'n's got a good head, on good, square shoulders. He ain't no fool. An' that long-legged chap is full of grit."

"But this is an awful storm," said Sam Randall, and his moody tone indicated how apprehensive he felt.

Disconsolately, the trio pushed along, shouting and firing by turns.

"There's a chance that they may have gone back to camp," said Dick Travers, at length.

"But we don't want to give up until everything is done to find them," added Randall.

"Right you are, mate. John Yardsley would give all his winter's work ter see them chaps afore him."

But, as time went on, the utter hopelessness of the search became apparent. Buffeted and battered by the chilly blasts, scarcely able to see for the flying snow and almost exhausted, the two boys bravely kept up, until Yardsley, fearing that they might suffer ill effects from the exposure, sorrowfully decided that it would be necessary to return.

"It's no use—an' powerful sorry I am ter say it," he announced. "We'd best git back ter camp, an' trust that the cap'n an' mate pull through all right."

"Do you think they found their way back to camp?" asked Sam, hopefully.

"There's always a chance; an' if they didn't, the two will take keer of themselves—depend upon it."

Yardsley was far from feeling as sanguine as his words indicated, but he strove to encourage the others, and possibly, in so doing, lightened his own fears.

Disconsolately, therefore, the search was abandoned.

Sam and Dick followed the trapper closely. To them, the task of finding the camp would have been hopeless, but Yardsley went straight ahead, stopping only occasionally to look about him.

"How do you know which way to go?" asked Sam, curiously.

"Bless you, mates, a man can't live as I do, in the woods, an' lose his bearin's. I've traveled hereabouts 'til I can find my way in the dark."

"Wonder how Nat Wingate and the other fellows are faring?" said Dick.

"The camp is kinder sheltered, but them fellers across the lake—" Yardsley paused, and a strange expression came over his bronzed face. "H'm—powerful singular, I call it."

"What is?" asked Sam.

The trapper nodded, as if in answer to some thought of his own. They were standing by the side of a huge boulder, and partially sheltered from the wind.

"Well, mates, I don't like ter accuse no one, but ain't it powerful suspicious that them chaps should hev called you over this mornin'?"

As if half sorry that he had uttered his thoughts, the trapper stopped short, and glanced questioningly at the others.

"By George! It is rather funny!" cried Dick, impulsively. "And don't you remember, Sam, Robson said the whole crowd was expected to come over?"

"And it might have been all a bluff, too, about the others going out hunting."

"An' him as they call Piper was a-wantin', so he said, ter buy furs t'other day. Ridiculous figger, too. I don't like ter say nothin', but it's powerful singular," and Yardsley nodded vigorously. "Can't say I ever took to 'em, neither," he went on. "Oily kind of feller that Piper, an' very techy."

"And they knew just where your skins were kept?"

"Sartin! As sure as you're a-standin' here, they did."

"Wouldn't be surprised if they should turn out to be guilty," admitted Dick.

"Mind, I don't say it's them, but it looks powerful bad, an' I'm goin' ter find out. John Yardsley ain't the man ter be done this way."

"We must do some detective work," put in Sam.

"If the cap'n was only with us. A bright feller, the cap'n—he'll come out all right. The snow's growin' a bit less, mates."

"So it is," said Dick.

"Now if you fellers keep yer eyes open, ye may find out something."

"You can count on us," returned Dick, to whom the prospect of detective work was especially alluring.

But little was said during the rest of the journey.

"'Tain't fur now," remarked the trapper at length. He turned to the right, and was soon standing before a sign-post similar to the one the boys had seen near Lake Wolverine.

Partridge Holler.
But it can't be heard.
Lake Wolverine one mile.

"As I tole you afore, it's a little failin' I have," he chuckled. "You may strike more of 'em around these parts."

Yardsley soon relapsed into a moody silence. The fear that Bob Somers and his companion might be in danger, and his loss drove all other thoughts from his mind.

At length, they toiled up another hill, with the snow falling thickly about them, and the boys suddenly discovered by a familiar tree that their camp was close at hand.

"Hurrah!" cried Sam, and with renewed spirit he pushed along.

Soon the two huts came into view. Then several shadowy figures uttered loud cheers and came pressing forward.

"Hello, there!" cried Nat Wingate; "what luck?"

Then, as he was informed of the unaccountable disappearance of the two boys, he stared blankly at Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton. "What! Hacky and Bob Somers lost?" he exclaimed. "That's a nice fix to be in!"

"We thought they might have found their way back," said Sam, disconsolately. "This is a fierce storm for any one to be out in, eh, Chub?"

"Those chaps are pretty good at taking care of themselves," replied Dave, reflectively.

"But what will they do for a shelter to-night?" put in Tom Clifton, in a frightened voice. "Cracky! What awful luck!"

"The cap'n's got a good head, an' Hackett's full of grit. The wust of it is, we can't do nothin'."

"No use looking on the worst side," commented the poet laureate, in positively cheerful tones. "Don't get scared until you have to. See what we've done, fellows." He pointed toward the huts.

"Cleared away a lot of snow, eh? That's great," commented Dick. "Lucky that it's sheltered here, or we might have been snowed up pretty badly. Some big drifts, as it is. Looks different, doesn't it?"

"Whew, fellows, this wind is too much," said Dave; "it's the hut for me."

The boys all crowded inside, followed by the trapper. A lantern hung from the roof, brightly illuminating the small interior, and making a cheerful contrast to the growing darkness outside.

"A purty snug little place, mates," observed Yardsley, seating himself on an empty box.

The light played fantastically over his rugged features, ruthlessly bringing out the wrinkles and hollows formed by conflict with the elements. His strong, bony hands clasped his knee, and, leaning back, he gazed moodily at the floor, now and then half starting when a particularly violent gust of wind shook the hut.

"It will soon be as dark as pitch," declared Tom Clifton, pulling aside the canvas flap and looking out. "Snow still coming down pretty lively, too. We'll have another job clearing it away in the morning."

"Where in the world can Hacky and Somers be, I wonder?" spoke up Nat.

"Don't worry, mates. They will turn up to-morrow, sure," said Yardsley. Then, to relieve his own feelings, he began to talk on other subjects.

"I say, fellows," broke in Dick Travers, suddenly, "there was something mighty suspicious about those fellows across the lake calling us over this morning."

"What do you mean?" asked the poet laureate, quickly.

"It looks as though they wanted to have an eye on us. Queer, too, that Robson should have been alone."

Dave Brandon seemed somewhat startled, and reflected for a moment. "I can't believe those chaps would do anything of that sort," he said, with a decided shake of his head. "Story Robson told seemed straight to me. Nice fellows, I think."

"Best ter say nothin' more about it," observed the trapper. "Guess I done wrong ter 'rouse yer s'picions."

Nat Wingate leaned back and stuffed his hands in his pocket. "Did Robson act as if he had a headache, Chub?" he inquired.

"He didn't look very spry, that's certain."

"An' I guess it was true 'nough 'bout them wolves," put in Yardsley, and he contracted his brow until two deep lines appeared.

"My idea, too," added Dave.

"Oh, you are easy, Chub," said Nat, rather scornfully. "For my part, I think those chaps took the furs, and we're going to find out before very long."

CHAPTER XXII

THE FAWN

Scrambling desperately, John Hackett strove to pull himself beyond the reach of the wolf.

Bob Somers, standing upon an insecure ledge above, and at imminent risk of taking a tumble, fired point-blank. The animal, with a howl of mingled fury and pain, stopped—then went limping away, while Hackett, with another strenuous effort, managed to gain a position of safety.

"Thanks, Somers, old man," he managed to exclaim. "He came pretty near giving me a good snip. My eye! We'll attend to those ugly brutes now. Just look at 'em."

"We were lucky to get up here, eh?"

"Yes, and that concert is going to stop—mighty quick, too."

Hackett slipped a round of cartridges into his rifle, and taking a firm stand, raised it to his shoulder.

His aim was true. Without a cry, one of the beasts toppled over in a heap.

"Hurrah! Maybe 'Mushroom' could do better than that!" cried the slim boy, exultingly. "Watch me again, Somers—wow!" Hackett, in his eagerness, almost slipped from his position.

"Gracious, Hacky—thought you were going down, sure."

"It was a close call. Fine, to be plumped right in among 'em," and Hackett gave a perceptible shiver.

Awaiting favorable opportunities, both kept on firing, and with each report, came yelps of rage and pain. The baffled animals scurried away, then slowly returned to the base of the cliff, where they trotted around, looking upward, their glistening teeth and red tongues giving them a most ferocious aspect.

"Only a few more left, now, Somers. Here goes another," and Hackett proved his assertion by a skilful shot. The blood-curdling screech that followed seemed to carry consternation into the hearts of the others. Hastily falling back, they circled around for a moment, then, dismally howling, leaped over the snow and disappeared from view behind the veil of falling flakes.

"My eye! That's great! We have done ourselves proud!" exclaimed Hackett. "Five of 'em! What will old Yardsley say to this, eh, Somers?"

"That we know how to look out for ourselves. Talk about being stiff and cold—my position is so cramped—"

"Let's get down, then."

"That's what I'm going to do just as soon as we're sure those beasts are not coming back."

After a considerable wait, when there was nothing to indicate that their savage foes were near, Bob Somers eased himself down, and, with a sigh of relief, stretched his aching limbs. By swinging his arms vigorously and dancing a jig, the circulation was quickly restored. Hackett followed his example.

"Gracious, what ugly looking beasts," exclaimed Bob as his eyes rested on their late besiegers.

"We'll take the tails along, to show the fellows," said Hackett. "There's a bounty for 'em, too. I knew I could do the trick. Made some pretty good shots, eh, Somers?" and Hackett smiled complacently.

"Yes, you did," returned Bob, with a faint grin. "But better let's pitch in, now, and get a pile of wood ready for the night. The wolves may take it into their heads to come back."

"To think of having to spend hours and hours in this gloomy place," grumbled Hackett. "It's fierce luck—nothing to eat, either. Say, we, too, have an account to settle with the fellows who stole old Yardsley's furs. I'd like to run across 'em. Wonder if he had any luck?"

"Not likely. The trail was 'most lost when we got separated."

No sign of the remaining wolves being seen, they boldly set to work, and in spite of their tired condition, kept at it until a great pile of fuel was gathered. Then the bodies of the dead wolves were tossed unceremoniously to one side.

The smouldering fire soon quickened into life, and by this time, darkness had settled over the scene, a pitchy darkness, which the fire lighted up for a short distance with a fantastic glare.

Conversation lagged. They gazed moodily at the crumbling logs sending up showers of sparks, at the ever-changing forms, so suggestive to imaginative minds of hobgoblins and elves, dancing and twisting into every conceivable shape, but nothing could make them forget their hunger.

Time wearily dragged on—hours and hours passed—then tired nature asserted itself.

"No use of two keeping watch, Hacky. Let's take turns on guard, or if you want to take a nap—"

"I'm not any more tired than you are. I can stand about as much as any fellow I know of."

"Certainly you can," laughed Bob. "We can settle it by drawing lots. If I win, you can bet I'll take a nap."

When the daylight began to show itself through a dull sky, patched with blue, the snow had stopped falling.

A flock of crows passed noisily overhead. Soon the frostwork in the forest was sparkling like diamonds, as the sun burst through a rift in the grayish clouds.

Bob jumped to his feet. "Morning, and a fine one, too," he exclaimed.

"You're right, Somers. Are you ready to skip?"

"You bet! Say, but I'm sore and stiff; and I'll starve, too, if I don't get something to eat pretty soon."

Snow-shoes were strapped on, and after cutting off the wolves' tails, a start was made.

"Which direction do you think the camp is, Somers?"

"About southeast. We ought not to have much trouble in striking Lake Wolverine, with the sun to help us."

"Guess you are right. It might be a good idea to climb a tree. I'll do that on top of the next hill."

Everywhere were evidences of the storm's ravages. Branches and limbs lay on all sides and occasionally small trees were found lying prostrate on the snow.

Through a heavily timbered section the boys forced their way, often confronted by huge snow-drifts.

On reaching the summit of a high hill, Hackett looked about him.

"There's a tree that will do, Somers," he said, pointing to one close at hand. "When I get my snow-shoes off, give me a boost."

In spite of little food and a very hard night, Hackett had not lost his agility. From branch to branch he climbed aloft, until a dizzy height was reached.

"I can see the upper end of the lake, Somers," he called, "but it's a good way off. We are headed all right, though," he added, beginning to descend.

"A couple of hours ought to see us at the camp," declared Hackett, when he stood on the ground once more.

"How far is the lake?"

"About three miles. Let's hustle."

Down the steep slope they went, and at the bottom found themselves in a forest of evergreens. The air was crisp and invigorating and the fragrant odor of the pines delightful.

The ground was again rising gently. A few paces further, Bob Somers suddenly seized Hackett by the arm. "Gracious alive—a deer," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."

"Where?" asked his companion, eagerly.

"Straight ahead," said Bob.

They had reached the top of a slight elevation. Below, with its back turned toward them, was a deer browsing upon cedar boughs.

"Sure enough! If this isn't the greatest piece of luck I ever heard of; and the wind is blowing in the right direction, too." Hackett's voice trembled with excitement. "Mind your eye, Somers," he continued, "and we'll get it. Let's circle around, and—" he paused, for the deer swung its head to one side, and both boys expected to see it dash off on the instant.

But, to their intense relief, the animal continued browsing, and, with the utmost caution, they moved along, eagerly peering between the masses of underbrush.

"It's still there," said Hackett, in scarcely audible tones. "A minute more, and I'm going to take a chance."

"Don't utter even a whisper," interrupted Bob, warningly.

In silence, the eager hunters, bending low, circled around.

A moment later, coming in full view of the deer between wide openings in the trees, Hackett raised his rifle, conquered the strange tremor which had seized him, and fired.

It was a thrilling moment. A wreath of bluish smoke slowly drifted upward, then the excited boys saw the animal plunge forward, and sink to its knees.

A hearty shout came from Hackett. "Knew I couldn't miss!" he cried, exultingly, as he dashed ahead.

The deer recovered its feet, and floundered through the snow. But the slim boy rapidly gained on the wounded animal, and, waiting until he was within easy range, fired again.

This time, the doe, struck in a vital part, dropped in her tracks and rolled heavily in the snow.

Hackett rushed forward in the greatest excitement. A cry of triumph came from his lips. The only great achievement of the trip had been his—already, he saw himself looked upon as a mighty hunter by the Kingswood boys.

But as he approached the body of the doe, a plaintive cry attracted his attention, so soft and faint as to almost pass unheard.

"What's that, I wonder?" muttered Hackett, in astonishment.

Looking quickly around, he saw a pair of large, pleading eyes, gazing into his own. Partially hidden by a mass of underbrush stood a young fawn.

The little creature seemed to be on the point of leaping off, but, as Hackett remained perfectly still, it apparently took courage, then gazed at the doe with such a mournful expression that the young hunter felt touched.

"Hang it all, Somers," he exclaimed, regretfully, "I wish I hadn't made such a corking good shot. I do—and no mistake."

"A fawn, by George! I thought I saw something moving along back of that bush," cried Bob Somers. "Come here," he said, coaxingly, holding out his hand.

But the small creature leaped lightly aside.

"My eye! I'll take him back with me," declared Hackett. "You bet I will."

"Catch him first," laughed Bob.

"I think we can manage it. See, he hasn't gone far. Leave it to me, Somers. It will be sporting up and down my father's lawn yet."

With an assortment of strange sounds, Hackett stepped forward. But as long as he was in motion the fawn kept moving away, showing no disposition, however, to go very far from the slain doe.

Hackett displayed a great deal of patience, and finally the fawn, apparently realizing that no harm was intended, allowed him to approach.

In the meantime, Bob Somers had made a noose out of a piece of cord, and when the slim boy finally succeeded in coaxing the animal to his side, they managed, by careful work, to slip it over the fawn's neck, and it was then a prisoner.

CHAPTER XXIII

BACK TO CAMP

"It's the fellows, as sure as you live!" cried Dick Travers. "Whoop! Isn't that great, Chubby? Makes me feel like dancing for joy."

The faint report of a gun came over the frosty air, following a signal fired by Yardsley.

"Must be the cap'n an' mate," commented the trapper, with hope in his voice.

"Cracky, I only hope we're not going to be disappointed," put in Sam Randall, anxiously. "Shall we fire again?"

"'Tain't no use now," declared Musgrove, decidedly.

On reaching the top of a hill, the eager searchers were rewarded by seeing two figures slowly moving along in the valley below.

"Is it them?" asked Tim Sladder, earnestly.

"I'm sure it is," declared Dick Travers; "I'd know Hackett's thin figure a mile away."

"I don't even mind losin' them furs—if that's the cap'n an' mate, safe an' sound," exclaimed Yardsley, heartily. "Tell the truth, I ain't had a minute's rest fur thinkin' about 'em."

"Hi, hi—hey!" yelled Nat; "hello, Hacky—whoop!" and he waved his hand frantically in the air.

An answering call reached their ears.

"My goodness, but I'm glad," cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "This is the best moment of the trip."

"I knew they would turn up all right, though," commented Dave Brandon. But his shining eyes and tone indicated a feeling of the greatest relief. "What is that they have with them—a dog, or what?" he asked abruptly.

"Most likely a 'What,'" grinned Nat.

"Some four-legged critter, sure enough," put in Tim Sladder.

"Bless you," began Yardsley—he shaded his eyes—"what can it be? Youngsters," he added, in a surprised tone, "the cap'n an' mate's got a fawn. Did you ever hear the beat of it? Really—if I ain't surprised!"

"Christopher! They must be getting a menagerie together," observed Nat Wingate, wonderingly.

Swiftly the snow-shoes glided over the white surface of the slope, Yardsley leading the way, and soon they were within easy call.

A chorus of cheers floated over the air, and before the echoes had ceased lusty shouts came from the others.

"Ah, but it's good ter see 'em again," cried Yardsley. "An' they don't look none the wuss fur it, neither."

"Hurrah for the bounding brotherhood of deer catchers," yelled Nat, and above the din which followed was heard Billy Musgrove's loud laugh.

"Hello, fellows!"

"Hello, Nat, old man!"

Enthusiastic greetings, hand-shaking and exclamations followed. Questions, sharp, quick and to the point, were hurled back and forth. All spoke at once, and no one managed to get a clear idea of anything until Yardsley waved his hand for silence.

"Softly, youngsters," he exclaimed; "give 'em time."

"It strikes me you're right," agreed Sam Randall. "Quit that racket, fellows. What's that, Bob—wolves? Say—"

"Wolves!" echoed Hackett. "Did we have a fight?—Well!" the slim boy drew a long breath.

The tumult threatened to break out again, but the pause was well timed, and Hackett launched forth into a vivid description, which was punctuated at telling points by a chorus of "ah's and oh's" from his interested listeners.

"Boys, I'm proud of yer," declared the trapper, beamingly, as he extended his hand to each in turn. "Born hunters—both of yer. What d'ye think of it?" and he turned toward Sladder and Musgrove.

"Ain't bad, fur town fellers, but," and Musgrove grinned in his impudent fashion, "me an' Tim wouldn't think nothing of it. No, sir! Why—"

"But do tell us about the fawn," interposed Dick Travers, impatiently, as Hackett's eyes began to glare.

During the reunion, the small animal had made frantic efforts to escape. The sight of big, lumbering Bowser especially terrified it, but the dog, slowly walking forth and back, kept at a considerable distance, eying the newcomer askance, occasionally uttering a doleful bark.

"Brave dog of yours, Sladder," sneered Hackett. "Wonder it hasn't keeled over. It can hardly stand up now, for fright."

Tim grinned, then glanced, with a rather peculiar expression, at Yardsley. "He ain't never been hisself since he heard them awful screeches outside our shanty," he declared. "'Most had a spell then; but you ain't got money enough ter buy him."

"He's only good enough for the dog pound."

"Oh, but the fawn—do tell us about the fawn," put in Tom Clifton.

Hackett complied.

"Somers will tell you what a corking good shot it was. I'd like to see any one in this crowd beat it," he declared, decisively, as the story was concluded.

"Them fawns, if yer runs acrost 'em at the proper age, are easy tamed," said John Yardsley.

"What beautiful eyes," remarked Tom Clifton, admiringly.

"And pretty head," added Dick. "What are you going to do with it, 'Hatchet'?"

"It goes back to Kingswood, and will walk around my governor's lawn, larger than life."

"Are we going to stand here gabbing all day?" asked Bob, with a comical grimace. "Talk about feeling hungry—and tired—and cold."

"That's so! You sure had a fierce time of it!" exclaimed Yardsley, apologetically. "Come with me, an' I'll make a spread fur the hull crowd—that I will."

This arrangement was gladly acceded to, especially as the last spread had been one to be remembered.

Every one was glad when the cabin came in view, and still more glad when a fire was started. While Tom Clifton and Dick Travers assisted the hunter, the rest discussed the various events which had befallen them.

"No, I ain't seen them fellers 'crost the lake," snapped Billy Musgrove, in answer to a question. "Ain't pertic'lar 'bout it, neither. No, sir; Piker an' Jobson got too fresh. Say, what d'ye think Jobson says ter me?" A peculiarly injured expression crossed his face, and, for a moment, a pair of small eyes blinked angrily. "He says, 'Muzzy, yer got the biggest mouth I ever seen.' Honest, he did, Springate—them was his words."

"But you called him down all right, Billy," grinned Tim Sladder.

"Sure I did! What's that, Springate—you think they stole Pardsley's furs?"

"I didn't say anything to you, Musgrove," said Nat, annoyed that an unguarded remark had been overheard.

"I hearn you, though, that I did. Say, you don't know nothing about it. No, sir." Billy Musgrove leaned back on an empty soap box. "I ain't a-sayin' I like 'em," he went on, looking down on the floor, and slowly twirling his thumbs, "an' I don't know nothing about 'em, but—"

"I reckon we'll never l'arn who robbed me," broke in Yardsley.

"An' I don't keer," continued Billy Musgrove, calmly.

"An' I was going ter say," interposed the trapper, "that now the cap'n an' his mate's got back safely, I ain't a-kickin'."

"See here, Wardsley, what makes you call Scummers 'cap'n'?" asked Musgrove, with a grin and a wink. "D'ye think he's boss? If yer do, ask that long-legged chap."

"You make me think of a purp in a mud puddle—always stirring up things," remarked Hackett, half angrily. "Don't get too gay. I won't stand for it—no, sir. Ask me pal, Nat," and he mimicked Billy's voice so well that the boys fairly exploded with laughter.

"Want to go over with us to-morrow night, and see 'Piper' and the rest, Sladder?" asked Nat, when quiet was restored.

"What are you goin' fur?"

"Nothing special. Just to see how they are making out," answered Nat, evasively.

"Sure thing, we'll go," interrupted Musgrove. "Wouldn't hev 'em think they scared us none. To-morrow night, eh?—Suits me, all right."

"Wonder what luck they've had, anyway?" observed Sladder.

"Them chaps ain't no hunters. Ain't many hunters out here neither;" and at this very obvious insinuation Billy winked several times, and affected not to notice the dense silence which, for a moment, followed his words.

Appetizing odors soon filled the room, and the half-famished wanderers could scarcely wait until the steaming viands were placed on the long table near the window.

The meal was thoroughly enjoyed, and at its completion the poet laureate distinguished himself by promptly going to sleep.

"Let him be, mates," observed Yardsley. "And who's a-goin' with me ter fetch that there deer to camp?" he asked, a moment later.

"I will," said Dick Travers.

"Guess I'll go, too," added Randall.

"We'd best be going soon," continued Yardsley, "or we'll find that the varmints have made a meal of it."

When Yardsley and the two Ramblers started off after the deer, the others began to make their way toward the lake.

As the afternoon advanced, the clouds which still dotted the sky began to disappear, and before dark the last whitish patch had vanished behind a hill. Finally a glimmering light began to show in the northeast, and the moon rose against a steel blue sky sprinkled with stars.

Sam Randall and Dick Travers returned, and announced the success of their trip.

The rigor of a keen, cutting air was greatly lessened by a roaring fire, and the boys managed to make themselves comfortable.

Bob Somers and Hackett, however, thoroughly worn out, concluded to retire early, and while the figures of Sladder, Musgrove and Bowser were yet patches of dark against a snowy background, each was ready for his bed of fir brush.

CHAPTER XXIV

A QUARREL

"Here comes Sladder, Musgrove and the mighty Bowser," laughed Bob, when supper was finished next evening.

"There's a light in the cabin, so we might as well get ready," added Sam Randall, rising to his feet.

The Stony Creek hunters soon drew up alongside the blazing fire.

"Evenin'! You fellers goin' over now? Piker's gang is there," said Musgrove. "A bully night, too, fur skatin'," he added.

The full moon gleamed brightly from a cloudless sky, sending the shadows of the dark trees in a delicate tracery over the foreground. The huts were edged with light, while beyond stretched a pale, ghostly expanse of snow, broken here and there by dark patches of trees and underbrush. Overhead, a few bright stars sparkled upon the field of blue.

"Big crowd of us, isn't there?" said Tom Clifton, with a glance over his shoulder, as all started for the lake.

"Sure," replied Sladder; "with Bowser, it makes ten. Guess there won't be much room in that there cabin when all of us gits inside."

"Race, Wackett?" grinned Musgrove, as the crisp whirr of the steel rang out.

"Do you think I want to break my neck? A fellow might run across an air hole or thin spot somewhere. Daytime for me. And say, Mushroom"—Hackett's voice betrayed a trace of impatience—"you won't talk so much about racing after the next time."

"Huh—what's the reason I won't?"

"You'll find out. I'll have the Stony Creek championship dangling from my belt before long, eh, Nat?" and Hackett playfully poked his chum in the ribs.

The starlike point of light in the cabin grew larger and brighter, and finally the log structure could be faintly seen against the side of the hill.

"Hello—hi, hi!" yelled Hackett, and the chorus of shouts which followed soon brought a response.

The door was opened, sending a stream of light out upon the snow. Dark forms crowded the entrance, and Piper's voice was heard, inviting them to come in.

The snow-drifts along the shore and around the cabin were particularly heavy, but the boys quickly floundered through them.

"I'm glad to see you," said Piper, heartily, as the group approached. "Been wondering how you fared in the storm. Hello—you here?"

His eye had rested on the forms of Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove, who stood in the full glare of light.

At this remark, the latter's face assumed its most impudent expression. He folded his arms and surveyed the speaker an instant before replying, "Certainly—an' why not?"

"Oh, well—didn't expect you—that's all."

Piper's voice grew sarcastic, his manner became frigid, while Robson, standing just inside, gave a short laugh. "Anyway, we don't want that Bowser in here," went on Piper. "A hundred pounds of dog would take up too much room."

"An' I suppose me an' me pal, Tim, ain't good 'nough ter come in, neither—eh?" growled Musgrove, compressing his lips.

"No use getting riled. Move lively, fellows—don't want to let in too much cold air."

For an instant the Stony Creek boys held back. Then Sladder whispered in his chum's ear, and the two slowly walked inside. Bowser, left out in the cold, set up a mournful howl and began scratching at the door.

"Sit on anything you can find, fellows," said Piper, with a pleasant smile. "It seems to me," he added, "that we ought to build an addition to this shack. What's the matter with that brute?"

"Don't you think a dog feels the cold jest like humans, Swiper?" interposed Musgrove.

"Seems to me it's more of a great big calf than a canine," laughed Piper. "Pretty heavy storm we had, eh? It was a job clearing away some of the snow-drifts. Seems to me I never worked so hard in my life. How did you fellows make out?"

"Well, Piper," replied Nat Wingate, sitting in an indolent fashion near the stove, "there was excitement on our side of the lake, and plenty of it, too."

"Bob Somers and Hackett had an awful time," ventured Tom Clifton. "Almost got chewed up by wolves."

"By wolves?" echoed Heydon, in surprise.

"Yes! We certainly had the fight of our lives—and no mistake," answered Hackett. "You see, Piper, it was this way—"

A particularly loud whine from the disconsolate Bowser interrupted him.

"We'll have to let the poor brute in," remarked Rex Heydon. "If we don't, the meeting will be disturbed too much."

"Seems to me," put in Piper, reflectively, "that I wouldn't own a dog like that."

"Don't say nothin' agin Bowser," protested Tim Sladder, warmly. He opened the door to admit the animal, which bounded in with a great demonstration of joy.

"Now spin your yarn," said Piper.

Nat Wingate, quite anxious to see if the trio displayed any evidence of guilt, quickly spoke up. "Yardsley had all his furs and skins stolen," he exclaimed, abruptly, and pausing to note the effect of his words, he glanced sharply at the three young men.

They seemed profoundly astonished.

"Had his furs stolen?" gasped Piper. "How—when?"

Nat proceeded to tell them, and when he had finished Hackett began his tale.

"Well, you fellows certainly had a strenuous day, all right," commented Robson with a long breath as he concluded. "Let's see—say, it happened just about the time I sent up the smoke signals, eh?"

Piper contracted his brow on hearing this, and stared reflectively at the floor. "It seems to me," he began.

"Can't you say nothin' else than 'it seems ter me'?" grinned Musgrove, impudently. "That's the ninth time yer said it. I counted 'em."

"Seems to me that you—"

"Makes ten!" Billy shifted his position and chuckled audibly, while Piper glared angrily for a moment, then resumed, "This is a pretty serious business, boys. Have you seen any one around lately?"

"No!"

"And doesn't Yardsley have any suspicions?"

An uncomfortable expression flitted across Nat Wingate's face, and slight as it was, Piper's quick eye detected it.

"Oh, ho!" put in the poet laureate, "it's all a mystery. Yardsley said yesterday that he never expected to find out who took them."

A sort of chuckle came from Billy Musgrove, which seemed to irritate Piper considerably. Heydon, too, looked over with a surprised air, remarking, "I'm sure I can't see what there is to amuse any one in an affair like this."

"I ain't said I was amused at the rob'ry," returned Musgrove with another chuckle.

"But at something—that's quite apparent," said Piper. For a moment he remained thoughtful, then, as an idea suddenly entered his mind, a slight flush crossed his face. "What is this, Wingate?" he asked, rather sharply. "What did old Yardsley say? Come, out with it. No need of any mystery."

"Brandon just told you," answered Nat, evasively.

"Oh, yes—but I'll be bound that wasn't all. Look at Musgrove—he can scarcely keep his face straight."

Silence followed this remark. It was broken by Rex Heydon, who observed, "I guess we can see through a wall when there's a hole in it. What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid?" Nat Wingate mechanically repeated the word, then came to a pause, looking considerably nonplussed.

Piper turned toward the smallest member of the Rambler Club and held up his finger. "Tom Clifton," he said, with a trace of anger in his voice, "I want to know exactly what that old trapper had to say!"

But Billy Musgrove interrupted. "What are you gittin' excited 'bout, Sniper?" he asked, the grin leaving his face. "Why do you want ter know what Pardsley says?"

"I'm not talking to you," snapped Piper.

"Come now—don't be scared, Tommy," he went on, encouragingly; "out with it. Wingate knows, but won't tell. Kind of lost his nerve, perhaps."

"You must think I lose my nerve pretty easily," laughed Nat.

"Well, it seems to me—that will do, Musgrove, if my English doesn't happen to please your scholarly mind, I can't help it—that you ought to be frank, Wingate. Your nature may be a little timid—some people are that way—and—"

"Can't say I like that," interrupted Nat, his eyes beginning to flash. "A little timid, eh? I guess you don't know me very well yet, Piper."

"Well, then, we'll test that a bit—of course no offense intended. Now it seems to me—"

A groan came from Musgrove. Piper cast an angry look in his direction, and continued, "Now—just show me how much nerve you have. I can tell that old Yardsley said something about us—don't deny it. Really doesn't make any difference, but—"

Nat Wingate half arose. He felt that all eyes were upon him and to be even mildly accused of lack of courage made the hot blood mount to his face. "Do you think I'd lose my nerve on your account?" he exclaimed,—"not much!"

"Come—come, fellows!" expostulated Dave Brandon, quietly; "there is no need of any trouble."

"The idea of him talkin' like that, when Springate's been insulted," chuckled Musgrove, in a hoarse whisper. "This is as good as a circus. But Sniper can't scare Springate none no, sir—not he."

"Piper," spoke up Robson, at this juncture, "you made a mistake in letting Muzz come in, after his impudence the other day."

"My imperdence?" Billy rose excitedly. "My imperdence?" he repeated, furiously. "If that don't beat all! I like that—of all the sassy fellers I ever run acrost, Sniper, you're the wust." Musgrove leaned forward—the light revealed a face purple with rage. "But yer can't scare me, or me pal, Tim—no, sir!"

"And I won't stand fur no sass, neither," asserted Sladder, taking a stand by the side of his chum. "We ain't lookin' fur trouble, but when it comes, we kin handle an awful lot."

Piper glared for a moment at the two boys, then arose. "You will have precious little opportunity for handling any around here," he observed, "or for making any, either."

"'Seems ter me,'" retorted Musgrove, also arising, "that it was you what's been makin' a fuss. I never seen sich a crowd."

Charlie Piper was thoroughly incensed. "Get out of this cabin, you grinning jackanapes," he cried, wrathfully. Then, walking to the door, he threw it open. "Take yourselves and that clumsy old brute out of here before my temper gets the best of me."

"Oh, we ain't pertic'lar anxious ter stay," sneered Musgrove, as he spitefully kicked over the box on which he had been sitting and edged away. "You're a nice one—a pertic'lar nice one—oh, yes! An' Springate ain't the feller I think he is, if he lets hisself be insulted. Imperdence, eh? Well, you know how ter hand it out, all right."

"An' I ain't standing fur no more of it, neither," added Tim Sladder. "Come on, Bowser!" And the Stony Creek boys stalked slowly and defiantly toward the door.

"Nice, pleasant evening," remarked Nat, dryly.

"Mean anything by that?" queried Piper.

"Come now, Charlie," interposed Heydon. "Those Stony Creek fellows have kind of spoiled things. Let it drop."

"If some one had had the courage to speak out in a manly fashion, this trouble could all have been avoided," returned the other. "Don't blame the whole thing on them."

"Boys!" exclaimed Heydon, with a deprecatory gesture. "No use taking that seriously. Call the thing ended. Won't you have a cup of coffee?"

"I think not," answered Nat, coldly, as he arose from his seat. "Guess I'll be going, too," he continued. "Hang it all—no matter what Yardsley said, it's no affair of ours."

"Might be better to change the subject now," said Fulmer Robson, with a forced laugh, "and begin—"

"I'll say good-night, fellows," continued Nat, as he took a step toward the door. "Coming along, Hackett?"

"Well, if you are in such a humor as that," snapped Piper, "I've nothing further to say. No doubt that fellow Yardsley thinks we stole his furs—I could read it in your face."

"We're not responsible for another person's opinion," observed Hackett, a little disappointed that the row had not assumed larger proportions.

"Still I notice that no one has the sand to let me know what he said." Piper spoke in a most sarcastic tone, and glanced from Hackett to Wingate.

Nat's brown eyes flashed. "You'll admit yourself, Piper," he blurted out, "that it looks mighty singular. Just at the time we are sent for, the furs happen to disappear. Anybody would be a fool not to—"

"That will do," interrupted Piper, harshly. "The whole crowd of you might as well get out. This isn't the end of the affair by a long shot!"

Hackett opened the door. "And you'll find out that we have as much sand as anybody," he growled. "Don't you forget it."

"It needs to be proven," retorted Piper, angrily. "If you are going, kindly shut the door. We don't care to be frozen out."

"If you want proofs," snapped Hackett, "you'll get them fast enough. This crowd doesn't take a back seat for anybody."

"Very good—but just remember that we're in no mood to be trifled with," was Piper's parting fling.

Almost before they realized it, the boys found themselves standing outside the cabin, wondering at the strange termination of their visit.

Meanwhile Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove had not left the vicinity. They considered themselves grievously insulted, and Bowser, too, had been referred to in the most slurring manner. As the two conversed in low tones, their anger grew, rather than lessened.

In the full glare of moonlight, the Stony Creek boys stood, dark and mysterious against a background of silvery white snow, now and then turning toward the cabin to make a threatening gesture. Finally, instead of re-crossing the lake, and moving as if some momentous scheme was under way, they began to climb the hill back of the cabin. It was steep and partially bare of trees.

On reaching the top, Billy Musgrove chuckled—it was a particularly mirthful chuckle, and seemed to indicate that his wrathful feelings had been swallowed up in those of a more pleasant nature. Below, the cabin appeared as a dark patch, while a glimmer of pale yellow light spread over the snow from the window on the other side.

"We jest hit the right scheme, Tim," exclaimed Musgrove, cautiously. "'Bout here is the spot. We'll make a whopper, an' it oughter swoop down like a streak o' lightnin'. That 'seems ter me' feller will find out it ain't good ter insult us none."

Tim Sladder grinned. "I can hardly wait," he said. "Here you, Bowser—keep quiet. Guess it will surprise 'em some. Let's begin ter scoop it up. Plenty of big drifts jest in the right place."

"My, but Springate was mad with Sniper," chuckled Billy. "Hope they ain't gone when this here punk'n begins a-rollin'."

With an energy that would have done credit to a more worthy cause, the Stony Creek boys began to get together a pile of snow. A big mass was pounded and rolled together until it became firm and solid.

They watched the white ball growing into formidable dimensions with many stifled bursts of laughter, while old Bowser, taking a languid interest in the proceedings, gazed curiously as it was rolled from place to place gathering up more snow.

"Hello—believe them chaps is a-comin' out now," observed Sladder. "Ain't that Piper a-talkin' loud?"

"Guess you're right, Tim," chuckled Musgrove, listening intently. "Sounds like a scrap, don't it?"

"Wouldn't worry me none, if it was. But don't let 'em see you, Billy."

"This here huckleberry is 'most done an' ready ter roll. Git back a bit, Tim. I can see 'em hangin' around the door. Say—there's Scummers a-callin' us."

"Let 'im call. We ain't got no time ter gab. Important business on hand." Tim Sladder chuckled and peered cautiously over the edge of the declivity. An exclamation of impatience escaped him, as he saw several dusky figures wending their way toward the base of the hill. "By jingo, they must have heard us," he exclaimed. "Believe they're a-comin' up, too."

Consternation seemed to seize Musgrove. "An' we jest ready ter start the ball a-rollin'," he growled. "Quick, Tim—if they once gits up, they'll stop us, maybe. Shove the punk'n over, an' scoot."

The boys jumped toward the huge snowball. With an effort that taxed all their strength, they managed to roll it toward a mass of underbrush, then the two disappeared amidst the trees.

The sound of voices from below grew louder, and Musgrove, with the greatest caution, presently moved forward to a place where he could see over the edge of the hill.

"What are they a-doin'?" questioned Tim, eagerly.

"Tryin' ter mind our business, fur sure—the hull crowd is a-comin' up."

"Right this way?" asked Sladder, in alarm.

"No! Kinder circlin' around. Yer can yell yer head off, Scummers, but nobody ain't goin' ter answer."

"Can't we roll it over now?" put in Sladder, eagerly.

"Best wait." Billy drew back like a shot. "Thought sure they seed me that time," he whispered. "Lay low—get down, you Bowser."

Screening themselves behind a mass of underbrush, the boys kept their eyes on the others, who, climbing the hill some distance off, were occasionally lost to view behind the trees.

Hoping that they would soon be discouraged and give up the search, Sladder and Musgrove remained silent, but as the minutes flew by they saw the Kingswood boys pushing steadily up the hill.

"Ain't this the meanest luck?" growled Sladder, in scarcely audible tones. "But they ain't a-goin' ter stop us—no, sir—they ain't. Wow! They's a-comin' this way. Stir yourself, Billy!"

"They must have heerd us, or they wouldn't have been nosin' around fur fifteen minutes," returned Musgrove, disgustedly.

Throwing aside all caution, the latter straightened up, and with Sladder at his heels, boldly walked toward the huge snowball.

"Crickets, Billy, this is 'most as heavy as lead," puffed the latter, as he attempted to roll it.

"It's a whopper, all right—quick—them fellers is a-gittin' close't."

Putting their shoulders to the mass, they shoved it over to the brink of the hill.

Their presence had now been discovered, for Bowser, not understanding the necessity for silence, uttered a long, doleful bark.

"Get it headed straight, Tim," exclaimed Musgrove, breathing hard. "Jest a leetle this way. Aim fur them twigs in front, an' it'll land all right."

"Them fellers can't stop us now," said Sladder, with a grin of delight. "Everything ready, eh?—one—two—three!"

From the point where the two stood, there was a smooth, steep declivity, then a nearly level stretch leading to the cabin.

Chuckling loudly, the two boys gave the enormous ball a mighty shove.

"Mind your eye when Swiper an' Jobson come out. Won't they be wild? Oh, my, it's a-tearin' along, eh? Somethin' goin' ter bust, sure."

Eagerly they kept their eyes on the ball, which gathered speed every instant and was headed directly for the cabin.

With an irresistible rush it reached the bottom of the hill, dashed across the intervening stretch like a flash and brought up with a frightful bang against the side of the cabin. An ominous crashing of timbers followed, and gleams of light were seen issuing from the spot where it had struck. Then silence reigned.

It was but for an instant, however. With loud shouts of vengeance, three young men, wildly excited, issued from the door and made a bee-line for seven boys who had come to a stop at the summit of the hill.

Sladder, Musgrove and Bowser melted silently away into the sombre depths of the woods.

CHAPTER XXV

SELF-DEFENSE

The seven Kingswood boys after leaving the cabin stood irresolutely for a moment.

"Talk about being disgusted," sniffed Nat Wingate. "Did you ever meet such a queer chap as that Piper?"

"Listen!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, raising his hand. "Didn't I hear a voice?"

After a short discussion, the group began to ascend the hill. They kept a sharp look-out for the others, and once or twice shouted their names loudly.

Not being in a hurry and stopping at intervals to talk, the boys had managed to use up the better part of a quarter of an hour when a bark from Bowser indicated the position of Sladder and Musgrove.

"Right over there, eh?" exclaimed Bob Somers.

"I see 'em," cried Tom Clifton. "What in the world are they doing?"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Hackett; "I told you so. If that isn't a dandy snowball, and—"

"They're going to send it where it will do the most harm, too, I'll bet," chuckled Nat.

"We ought to stop them," interposed Bob Somers, hastily.

"Too late! They've done it," put in Dick Travers. "Whew! it's traveling some, I can tell you."

"Ah—ah—but that was a smack for you!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, breathlessly, as the snowball struck the hut. "Will they—"

His further speech was interrupted by the three hunters, who burst furiously out of the door.

Enraged beyond measure, and fully believing that the Kingswood boys were responsible for the outrage, they charged toward them.

"Guess we'd better make a break for it, too!" exclaimed Nat Wingate, with a short laugh. "Christopher, I'll back Tommy against Musgrove any time, after seeing this."

Swiftly seven figures sped over the snow, while at a little distance came Piper and his friends, uttering loud calls for them to stop and take their medicine.

"Nice, pleasant evening," observed Nat, for the second time.

"Oh, ho," panted Dave, "society in the wilderness—social calls seem somewhat dangerous."

"Hello! Got discouraged pretty quick, eh?" put in Nat, looking over his shoulder.

The three young men had stopped, then began to retrace their steps. Seeing this, the boys slowed up, and, breathing hard, reached the edge of the lake.

"They're coming out again, fellows," exclaimed Sam Randall hastily, "and making this way, too."

Hackett's face began to darken. "We're seven," he exclaimed, in an angry tone. "Let's stand up to them."

"Oh, ho—might be better to avoid trouble, if possible," put in Dave Brandon. "Wait 'til they get in a more reasonable frame of mind."

Swiftly the boys began to cut over the icy surface. The moon had risen far above the hills, casting a silvery light over the broad, greenish expanse of lake, and touching the snow-drifts with sharp, glinting rays.

Glancing over their shoulders, the boys saw the dark forms of the pursuers coming steadily on.

It was an exciting chase. Occasionally the skaters plunged and floundered through snow-drifts, so as to keep a straight course for their camp. Gradually the shore grew more distinct, the dark, grim trees on the hilltop stood out clearly against the moonlit sky. Then the huts, bathed in the soft light, came into view.

"Great Scott!" panted Sam Randall. "Look, they have changed their course."

Puffing, and almost breathless from the wild race, the boys slackened their speed, then stopped, to gaze after the forms of the hunters now speeding down the lake.

"What?—what do you think of that?" gasped Nat Wingate.

"Looking for Sladder and Musgrove, perhaps," exclaimed Dick Travers, breathing hard.

"But you can just bet they will be coming back," put in Sam. "Let's get over to the place and be ready for them."

"It will take more than those chaps to drive us away, too," declared Bob Somers; "eh, Chubby?"

"Fellows," exclaimed the poet laureate, "what is the first law of nature?"

"Self-defense."

"Right you are. Now—in order to avoid trouble, we have considerably overheated ourselves, besides allowing an unjust suspicion to rest on the whole crowd."

"Well?" said Hackett, fiercely.

"It isn't well. But we can make no more concessions to ill temper. Hasty action must now meet with its proper reward."

"Hear—hear—what's coming?"

"Just this—let's make an enormous quantity of white pellets, otherwise known as snowballs, and in case hostilities are resumed, use them with promptness and dispatch."

"You must be going to become a pedagogue, Chub," laughed Hackett.

"We are losing valuable time by standing here gabbing," broke in Dick, impatiently. "Come ahead."

The remaining distance was quickly covered, and the boys, once more at the huts, removed their skates, and prepared to follow Dave Brandon's advice.

In a short time, by hard work, the seven boys had collected great piles of ammunition, and stood waiting.

"I suppose those chaps think that any time they choose to come along we'll run," observed Bob Somers.

"Piper and the others are pretty strong fellows," said Tom Clifton. "Did you ever notice what muscles Heydon has? I wouldn't like to get in a scrap with him."

This remark caused a hearty outburst of laughter, which considerably nettled young Clifton's feelings.

"Hi, hi—get out of that! Vamoose—skip!"

These cries, uttered in very loud tones, suddenly startled the camp. Tearing around the slope of the hill came three figures, with Piper well in the lead.

CHAPTER XXVI

SNOWBALLS

"What do you want?" yelled Bob Somers, holding up his hand to stay any hasty action.

"You'll find out quick enough," came an angry retort. "Something has happened to Musgrove's hut."

"Well, nothing is going to happen to ours."

"In just about two minutes—"

"Stay where you are, Piper," interrupted Hackett, fiercely. "We didn't roll that snowball against your pile of logs."

"Yes—better keep back!" warned Bob.

The three dark figures continued to advance.

Seven arms drew back and as many snowballs were sent spinning through the air.

The invaders, unprepared for so sudden a response, fell back in confusion.

"You'll pay dearly for this," yelled Piper.

A second hail of missiles, sent with precision, whirled against them. Then, before they could make a move, others landed with thuds and thumps, until the young men were forced to beat a hurried retreat.

Flying before the fusillade, Piper and his companions struck out for the lake, with a shower of snowballs rattling about them. Their anger and chagrin at finding themselves helpless before the machine-like attacks of the boys was unbounded.

"Oh, my, what a rout," puffed Nat, with a delighted grin. "Ha, ha! Guess Piper must be about boiling over."

"Hello! My gracious—what's that?"

Dave Brandon, who had interrupted the speaker, pointed across the lake.

A dull, fitful light had appeared, which gradually grew brighter, until a tongue of flame shot upward.

"Their cabin's afire," gasped Nat Wingate. "Gee! look at that!"

Hackett gave a lusty shout. "Hello, you pill-throwers," he cried; "look across the lake, and run for the fire company around the corner. Whoop—your shanty's a goner!"

Hostilities ceased on the instant. Piper and his companions gave one shout, and then began a rapid flight toward their camp.

"It's getting bigger and bigger," declared Travers, excitedly.

"I'd bet on those chaps in a race, now, Hacky," said Sam Randall. "Shall we go over and give them a hand?"

With all speed, the boys strapped on their skates, and, fairly leaping over the snow, made for the ice.

"Cracky—look at it now!" observed Tom Clifton. "Aren't those flames bright? Won't be anything but a pile of cinders when we get there."

John Hackett quickly took the lead, his long legs fairly seeming to fly, but Bob Somers pushed him closely. The flames grew brighter, and a veil of smoke could be seen drifting slowly in front of the dark trees, to rise like a blur against the clear, moonlit sky.

"Nothing can save the old shanty now," cried Hackett. "My eye—wow!—Say! We're sold—everybody sold! If this doesn't beat all!"

In making a long détour, so as to avoid a field of snow, the other side of the cabin came in view, disclosing an enormous bonfire, built at a safe distance from the structure. The flames, leaping furiously upward, cast a bright glare around.

For a moment there was silence, then a roar of merriment broke forth.

"Oh, my!" laughed Nat Wingate, holding his sides; "this is the richest joke yet. It's Musgrove's work—ha, ha! That's the time he outdid old Yardsley."

"It's the biggest bonfire I ever saw," laughed Sam Randall. "Guess they must have seen those chaps chasing us across the lake."

A couple of dark figures were seen to emerge from a mass of trees to their left, and strike out on the lake.

"Sladder and Musgrove," asserted Bob Somers. "You can't mistake Muzzy for any one else." In a few moments the two joined them.

"Don't believe you'll find much left of your hut," said Tom Clifton.

"No odds, sonny," replied Musgrove, calmly; "we didn't git the wust of it by a long shot."

CHAPTER XXVII

A CAVE AND A BEAR

Two days later, the boys, on a hunting expedition, in company with John Yardsley, stood on a barren ridge and saw before them a succession of rolling, snow-clad hills. Lake Wolverine had been left far behind, and the region was wild and desolate.

"A stormy time of it ye must hev had t'other night, cap'n," remarked the trapper, reflectively. "Sorry now I spoke ag'in them fellers so quick," he went on. "Suppose, if it hadn't been fur Musgrove actin' the way he did, mebbe nothin' would hev happened, but, arter all, I really done it—I'm sorry 'nough."

"I never saw such a sensitive chap as Piper," said Bob. "He reminds me of a firecracker."

"D'ye think those young scamps damaged their cabin much?"

"We didn't think it best to stay and find out," laughed Bob; "but I'll bet one side was nearly caved in."

"An' what did Piper an' his crowd do ter Musgrove's hut?"

"Not much—Billy and Tim fixed it up pretty quickly."

On reaching the base of the hill the march was continued along a timbered valley. Here and there, shafts of sunlight, finding their way between the trees, made the snow gleam with dazzling whiteness, while the frostwork covering underbrush and boughs sparkled brightly.

Snowbirds flitted about, and, as if rejoicing in the weather, the redbirds uttered their cheerful notes, and occasionally darted like a flash of flame against the darker background. Chattering squirrels leaped lightly from branch to branch, and rabbits, disturbed by the intrusion, quickly disappeared in the friendly shelter of tangled thickets.

"Hey! Where are you bound for, Hacky?" asked Nat, as the slim boy ambled slowly ahead.

"Just going to look around a bit. Say, Somers, want to come along?—good!"

"Don't stay long, cap'n," interposed Yardsley; "an' by the time yer git back, we'll have a good blaze a-goin'."

"Let's go around the point," suggested Hackett, with a move of his hand, indicating a part of the hill which jutted out for a considerable distance.

Keeping a careful watch for game, the hunters glided ahead with long, swinging strides, soon passing and skirting around the point. The rocks rose rather abruptly for a short distance, then sloped upward in a gentle curve.

Bob, who was several yards distant from his companion, suddenly stopped and gazed earnestly toward the rocks. Hackett, puzzled at his action, followed suit, without seeing anything more than a mass of underbrush.

"There's a cave over there," declared Bob.

"I don't see anything."

"You will from here."

"Yes, it's a cave," said Hackett, a moment later, with great interest, "and we ought to take a look inside."

Spreading the bushes apart, Hackett boldly pushed inside.

"Talk about blackness," came a muffled voice, as the twigs rustled back in place. "Whew! a lump of pitch would make a light in here."

"Better strike a match."

A few moments passed, then Hackett followed his companion's advice, and a feeble light flickered against the blackness.

"How big is it?" began Bob, with his face close to the opening. "I—"

But his further words were stopped by a loud yell. It came with such abruptness, and expressed so much fright, that Bob Somers jumped quickly backward, with an exclamation.

Before he had time to frame a question, Hackett suddenly reappeared, without his rifle. His eyes were wild and staring, and, almost hurling himself through the opening, he sprawled in the snow.

"What—what's the matter?" cried Bob, in alarm.

The slim boy instantly picked himself up, and, with a terror-stricken glance over his shoulder, yelled, hoarsely, "Mind your eye, Somers! Lose yourself! It's big as a house, and comin' right out!"

Blending in with his words came a deep, ominous growl. Then another, rising in a sort of crescendo, while a pair of eyes suddenly flashed against the blackness. Then a huge black bear, evidently furious at having his domain invaded, lumbered forth, while the two boys, with rapidly beating hearts, retreated.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bob saw Hackett's long legs fairly flying over the ground. But bruin was not particular as to whom he should charge. Lunging forward, the animal, with a hoarse growl, made directly for him.

Though his nerves tingled with excitement, Bob Somers quickly recovered his wits. As the bear rose on its hind legs, he fired point-blank.

His bullet only rendered the beast still more furious. Dropping upon all fours, and accompanying the act by another angry snarl, he charged again, with such suddenness and speed, that Bob Somers had scarcely time to dodge aside. Before he could make another move, the ponderous beast again rose.

For an instant it seemed as if nothing could save him. But Bob Somers, despite the unsteady feeling which attacked his legs at this critical moment, mastered himself, and fired again.

Almost simultaneously with the sharp report of the rifle, bruin crashed heavily to the ground and lay in a heap. His head sank low, and all the dignity of his towering strength was gone.

For an instant Bob Somers, scarcely realizing that the peril was over, stood gazing at the animal, half expecting to see it arise and renew the attack. Then, moving cautiously forward, he touched the motionless form with the muzzle of his rifle, and his face flushed with triumph.

"Hello—hello!" came a hail from the distance. It was Sam Randall's voice, and looking up, they saw him waving his hand.

"Come on over!" yelled Bob, anxious to show his prize.

Sam, perceiving that something unusual had occurred, soon joined them.

He opened his eyes wide with astonishment when he saw the great, dark form stretched out in the snow.

"Who shot him?" he exclaimed, excitedly. "You, Bob? Well, I was never more surprised in my life!"

"And won't I have a dandy souvenir of the trip, Sam!" exclaimed Bob, gleefully. "Just look at that slick coat! I'll get Yardsley to skin him—but come on—I want to see Chubby open his eyes."

"What's the matter, cap'n?" exclaimed Yardsley, as the three appeared. "You look kinder joyous!"

"Had a little adventure over there, and shot a bear," said Bob, with sparkling eyes.

A variety of exclamations greeted his words. The speaker, with great satisfaction, then told his story.

"Jest listen ter him," exclaimed Yardsley, delighted. "Cap'n, I'm proud of yer. A born hunter—an' never lost yer nerve, I'll be bound."

Lunch was soon over, and the group of hunters hurried to the scene of the encounter.

"H'm—a regular monster," cried Tom Clifton with wide-open eyes, as they approached. "Just look at those paws! One crack and it would have been all over, eh?"

"That it would," agreed Yardsley.

"But how about the bear's skin?" asked Bob, eagerly. "I'd give anything to take it home with me."

"Make yer mind easy on that score, cap'n. I'll tend ter the hull thing fur yer to-morrer. An' a bit of bear meat won't go bad, either. We'll jest drag him back where he come from, block up the hole, an' yours truly will fix the rest."

In a short time, the party came in sight of a lake. The opposite shore, fringed with a dark line of evergreens, became almost lost in a veil of bluish haze which enveloped the distance, while against the sky rose a line of low snow-clad hills.

"That there we call Goose Lake," announced Yardsley, "an' it's a good name, too, fur durin' the fall yer never seen so many of them birds in yer life as comes 'round."

"Many here now?" asked Hackett, eagerly.

The trapper shook his head. "Yer kin see 'em, but they ain't plentiful."

The lake was soon crossed, and on reaching the opposite shore they found themselves in a pine forest, dark, sombre and silent. In about twenty minutes the trapper held out his hand as a signal to halt.

"We're right by the shore," he whispered, "an' the geese is somewhere near."

Silently, the group spread out, each one heading for the lake, which could be seen between the trees.

To the eager and expectant hunters, it seemed an age before they reached the edge of the woods. Again Yardsley held up his hand.

Upon a gravelly bank which a combination of circumstances had kept partially free from snow was a flock of geese.

As it was still too far off to make it worth while to risk a shot, the hunters, scarcely breathing, crept slowly on.

Finally Yardsley paused. He looked at the boys, nodded, and raised his gun, the others instantly following suit. A roar, as the reports blended in one tremendous volume of sound, fairly deafened them all; the separated wreaths of smoke joined into a bluish cloud, while the eager hunters dashed quickly forward.

Swiftly flying against the clear blue sky, could be seen all of the flock that had escaped the massacre, and there, on the ground, lay many birds—ten in all.

"This here is Goose Lake, an' them is geese," remarked Yardsley, dryly.

A loud cheer followed his words.

"Simply great, isn't it?" cried Nat, enthusiastically.

"And all big fellows, too," commented Bob Somers, gleefully. "We'll have a feast fit for a king."

It was unanimously decided to return at once to camp.

It was a long, toilsome tramp, and the sun hung low on the horizon when Yardsley's log cabin at length came in view.

"I am so glad," sighed Dave Brandon, wearily. "I can scarcely move."

"What is that stuck on the door?" asked Bob Somers, as his eye caught sight of a white patch showing out clearly against the logs.

"It looks like a sheet of paper," asserted Nat Wingate.

"Powerful strange," commented Yardsley. "Some chap must hev left his visitin' card—an' it's tacked on, too."

In a moment, the trapper tore the paper loose.

As he turned it over, and glanced at a message written on the reverse side, he gave an exclamation of astonishment.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE NOTE ON THE DOOR

"What is it?" questioned Bob Somers, with interest.

"The most powerful strange thing I ever hearn tell of, cap'n."

"Hurry up, and tell us," put in Nat, impatiently.

"Cap'n, read it ter the lads." Yardsley extended the paper.

Bob whistled. "This is the funniest thing yet," he exclaimed. "Listen:

"'If you want to know where your furs are hidden, go to the place where you found the sled. There is a gully about fifty feet to the north. It is half full of snow, and a stick marks the spot. Dig—dig—and dig some more. Yours, The Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits.'"

"I don't understand this," said the trapper, blankly, scratching his head. "It can't be that them furs weren't stole, arter all? Bless me, what does it mean?" He stared in a bewildered manner at the others.

"That this is a very funny region," mused the poet laureate. "It's another one of those things that makes a fellow's head ache to think about."

But the trapper's hopeful expression soon vanished. He shook his head, soberly. "No sich luck, mate," he said. "This here is jest the work—"

"Of the Bounding Brotherhood of Brilliant Jokers," broke in Nat, with a laugh. "Do you suppose that this is Musgrove's doings?"

Hackett sniffed. He picked up the paper, which had fallen in the snow, and held it under his chum's nose. "Look at that writing, and tell me if you think either Sladder or Musgrove could have done it," he said. And as a doubting look came over Nat Wingate's face, he added, significantly, "How about the Piper gang? Perhaps they are trying to get square with Yardsley for suspecting them, eh, Chubby?"

"I feel myself drifting into deep thought, in spite of everything," replied the stout boy, solemnly. "You may be right, Hackett. It does look that way—just a hoax."

"An' what's your opinion, cap'n?"

"That you'd better do as this paper says."

"Then I'll take yer advice. It can't do no harm."

As no amount of discussion could solve the mystery, the subject was finally changed.

"Then we'll see you in the morning, eh?" asked Bob Somers, as they trooped out.

"Yer sartingly will—good-night!"

The young hunters lost no time in reaching camp, and, tired from their long tramp, immediately turned in.

Early next morning, John Yardsley skated across Lake Wolverine, and half an hour later the boys saw him returning, in company with Piper and his friends.

"Humph!" muttered Hackett, "here comes that nice crowd again."

"Don't care, I'm sure," said Nat, with a rather peculiar glance toward Piper.

To their surprise, however, the hunters from across the lake greeted them pleasantly.

"Boys," said Robinson, with an embarrassed air, "too bad about that little misunderstanding we had the other night. We were certain it was you who rolled the snowball."

"Why didn't you take a little time to find out?" interposed Nat Wingate, curtly, with a flash of his brown eyes.

"Oh, come now," put in Heydon, "no hard feelings. We're not any of us perfect, you know."

"Well," said Hackett, "what made you fellows change your minds, after being so sure?"

"The fact is," said Robson, with a sorry attempt to appear at his ease, "we found a note under the door of the shack. It was written by that precious young scamp, Musgrove, and he said that you fellows had nothing to do with it."

"How was the handwriting?" asked Bob Somers, quickly.

"Villainous, the spelling remarkable, and the grammar on a par with Musgrove's intellectual expression."

"Then," said the poet laureate in a low tone to Bob Somers, "the mystery deepens."

"We came over yesterday to tell you about it," added Piper, "but no one was here."

"Wal, lads, as these young gentlemen think it might be a good plan ter go an' dig fur them skins, I think we'd best be goin'," said Yardsley.

Armed with two shovels, the party soon started off on their strange expedition.

"If it wasn't fine weather you wouldn't catch me on such a wild goose chase as this," growled Hackett. "Look at Yardsley—by the way he's getting along, you might think he had discovered a gold mine."

Without hesitation, the trapper kept on, and finally, to the great relief of his tired followers, slowed down considerably.

"We're gittin' near there, mates," he announced. "Now you fellers divide up, an' look fur the gully what the note speaks about."

This suggestion was quickly acted upon, and in the course of a few minutes a hail was heard from Sam Randall.

"Look!" cried Sam, eagerly. He held up a paper. "I fished it off the stick with a branch," he explained.

"Another message?" asked Bob Somers.

Sam laughed and proceeded to read the following:

"'This is the place. Dig—dig—and dig some more.

"'The Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits.'"

"Great wits, eh?" laughed Piper. "Give me a shovel; we'll soon find out something."

Heydon followed his example, and, with much vigor, the young men attacked the work. Snow fairly flew off to the sides, while an eager group crowded expectantly around.

"Only a hoax!" groaned Yardsley, as the minutes flew by and nothing was revealed.

Heydon finally paused, a look of disgust came over his face, and he was about to make some remark, when Robson's shovel struck a hard object.

"Hello! What's this—a box?" he exclaimed.

"Doesn't feel as if anything was in it," remarked Heydon, giving the box a rude shove with his foot.

"The mean rascal," groaned Yardsley. "All this tramp fur nothin'—jest ter find an empty box—never was so riled in my life."

A portion of the cover being loose, Robson ripped it off, and putting his hand inside, drew out another paper.

"Ah ha! Maybe this is a solution of the mystery!" he cried. But, as his glance fell upon it, an impatient exclamation escaped him. "Of all the foolish stuff, this is the worst. Listen!

"'Go back where you came from,'" he read, "'and consider yourselves being laughed at. Ha, ha! U. R. Easy.

"'Yours—The Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits!'"

"What does this mean?" cried Piper, sternly, looking from one to another. A queer light gleamed in his eye.

"And we working like slaves," cried Robson, angrily.

"See here, Yardsley, and you chaps," broke in Piper, now quite convinced that they had been duped, "I have my opinion of a man of your age who does such tricks!"

Piper spoke in a loud and threatening manner, while Robson and Heydon seemed no less angry than himself.

"Softly," interrupted Yardsley. "Human natur' is queer—a bad case of misunderstandin' t'other night, an' a powerful wuss one now. I have a failin', I'll admit, but on my honor, Piper, this time the joke is on me."

His sincerity could not be doubted, and the three young men began to feel that they had acted too hastily.

"Well," said Piper, stiffly, "it looked mighty suspicious."

"Like the other night," snapped Hackett.

"Oh, come now," put in Bob Somers, "a wretched joke like this is enough to put any one in a bad humor, but there's no use in quarreling."

"That's right, Somers," observed Robson, thoughtfully, "and we can't find out anything by talking here all day."

"Jest so," sighed Yardsley. "We might as well git back."

"We come out with great hopes," sighed Yardsley, as he pushed open the cabin door. "Bless me, it was mean—give me the shovels, mates. I'll put 'em in the storehouse."

He opened the door which led to it, then the others heard a sharp exclamation.

"What's up now?" called Bob.

Yardsley did not answer, but hurriedly crossing the room, opened the outer door, admitting a flood of daylight. Then, almost speechless with astonishment, he stood, staring about him with wide-open eyes, while the others crowded in.

"What is it?" cried Bob—he stopped short, with a gasp.

There, neatly piled on shelves or stretched out on boards were the trapper's furs, exactly as he had arranged them before.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE NEAR-BANDITS

Yardsley glanced from one to another with a helpless expression, then stared at the bundles of furs as if doubting that he saw aright, while a variety of exclamations came from the astonished boys.

"Never was so beat in all my life," murmured the trapper, scratching his head. "Honest, cap'n! Ter think of goin' off on a chase like that, an' then findin' the hull shootin' match when we gits back."

Piper surveyed the speaker with a peculiar expression.

"And these are the furs and skins you claimed to have lost, Yardsley," he said, with strong emphasis.

"The identical ones, jist as they was afore."

"And how do you account for their being back on the shelves again?"

"Yer got me thar, Piper. Bless me—I don't know."

"Perhaps you will tell us that some woodland fairy boldly entered through a crack under the door, moved her little wand, and presto—the furs sailed through the air and landed on the shelves again—is that it?" asked Piper, with a sarcastic smile.

"Never seen sich chaps as ye be," said Yardsley, impatiently. "How many more times must I tell yer the joke's on me?"

"It strikes me," put in Bob Somers, quietly, "that we can soon find out how the cabin was visited."

"Of course," laughed Dave, "they either came in through the doors or window. Don't think we need consider the stovepipe."

"Well, the door we came in by was pad-locked, I believe," said Piper, stiffly.

"Quite correct."

"And the window is probably fastened."

Piper led the way into the main room, and Dave tried the window.

"Correct, again," he said.

"How about the storehouse door, Yardsley?" asked Piper.

"HOW ABOUT THE STOREHOUSE DOOR?"

"Wal," replied the trapper, with a faint grin, "we can't tell much from that, mates. When them furs was taken out, the bolt was knocked clean off. Then, not havin' nothin' of value left, I never fixed it."

"Nothing forgotten," sneered Piper.

"Hello, I believe there is another paper up there," broke in Dave Brandon, abruptly.

"Where, Chubby?" asked Dick.

"Sticking out over that bundle!"

The poet laureate spread the paper out, started to read, then suddenly paused.

"What's the matter?" asked Piper. He leaned over the stout boy's shoulder. "H'm, I don't wonder you stopped," he added. "Here's what it says, Heydon:

"'We feel sorry for the poor chump who dug, dug, dug. Oh, say—was it a hard job? Did your back ache? After this, consider yourself easy. Sit down and think it over.

"'The Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits.'

"That settles it," sneered Piper, wrathfully. "But we don't need to sit down and think it over. We'll stand up and think, and tell you what we think—of you. In the first place, Yardsley, I didn't know you wrote such a good hand.—My compliments."

The trapper looked at the angry face of his visitor and had difficulty in repressing a smile. "Young feller," he said, "I allow it all looks kinder queer, an' mebbe I shouldn't blame ye, but I tell yer fur the last time that this ain't none of my doin's, an' I want yer ter believe—"

A series of wild war-whoops suddenly interrupted him. Then, from behind a clump of trees, to the astonishment of all, Musgrove, Sladder and Bowser stepped slowly forth.

The Stony Creek boys presented a strange and picturesque appearance. Their cheeks were liberally daubed with red and white chalk; each wore a thick bunch of goose feathers in his cap, and carried in his right hand a club of tremendous size.

"We're the Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits!" roared Sladder, swinging his club vigorously.

"An' ain't afear'd of nothin' that walks!" yelled Musgrove. "Ha, ha—Pardsley won't never try no more funny tricks on us—ha, ha!"

"Ye young scamps," cried Yardsley, but there was no anger in his voice. His eyes beamed, and he chuckled, as the "Unterrified Band" defiantly leaned on their clubs. "Wal—wal! Paid back in me own coin, eh? It sartingly beats all! Them two chaps hev been clean too much fur us!"

Fulmer Robson walked forward, extending his hand. "Yardsley," he said, "please accept my apologies. Too bad that this row occurred. I hope you have no hard feelings?"

"Not I!" replied the trapper, heartily.

"Ha, ha—look at Sniper an' Pardsley a-shakin' hands," cried Musgrove. "Oh, ain't it a purty sight, Tim?—Hey—want us ter come over? No more funny tricks, eh, Pardsley?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nary a thing—my word on it. All bad feelin's declared off."

The Stony Creek boys conferred together a moment, then, tightly clutching their clubs, marched forward.

But Yardsley's good-natured smile soon dissipated their fears.

"What's that, Pardsley—who writ them notes?—Why, me pal, Tim Sladder—he's a scholar, he is—yes, sir."

"Took a prize at school," asserted Sladder, proudly. "Keep me dad's books. I kin spell, too, all right, you bet."

"You sartingly can," laughed Yardsley. "Now, boys, tell us how yer done all these things, an' we'll call it square."

Billy Musgrove laughed. "Well, Pardsley, I tole yer in the fust place ter never try no more tricks on us."

"But how my friend, the animalist, would laugh at the way yer paid me back," said Yardsley, soothingly; "bless me, he would."

"Wal, of course, we know'd all about yer havin' the furs," said Musgrove, "an' watched our chance ter git 'em. Tim an' me pried open the door, took the stuff, an' hid the hull business under a pile of hemlock boughs. Then we covered it with snow." He pointed toward a thick copse of woods only a short distance off.

"Did yer ever hear the beat of it?" said the trapper.

"Yer own fault, Yardsley. Tim an' me puts a big rock on a sled, an' hikes away, an' if it hadn't been fur the storm yer'd have gone a sight further than yer did, eh, Tim?"

"Lucky for you we didn't know about it at the time," said Hackett.

"Huh!" Billy straightened up. "An' what would you an' Scummers have did, eh?"

"Finish yer tale, lad," put in Yardsley.

"Ain't much more ter say. Tim an' me didn't think the storm would turn out so bad, Wackett—that's honest. Anyways, we ain't a-goin' ter stay around these parts much longer, so Tim writ that note an' fixed it on the door. We had lots of time ter put them furs back, Pardsley, an' mebbe yer ain't been laughed at."

"Wal," said Yardsley, "I'm powerful glad ter git them furs back, an' jist as powerful glad that good feelin's been restored. Shake hands with Piper, lads, an' we'll call everything all right. Let's bury the hatchet.

"Now, fellers," added Yardsley, "I'll expect the hull crowd of yer ter come over here to-morrer night, an' pertake of the finest feast yer ever hearn tell of."

A unanimous chorus of assent immediately came from his hearers.

CHAPTER XXX

BURYING THE HATCHET

Early on the following morning, the boys, accompanied by Yardsley, set out with a couple of sleds to get Bob Somers' bear.

The carcass was found undisturbed, and the trapper immediately set to work to skin it, the "cap'n" assisting to the best of his ability. Yardsley cut up the meat, which the boys then placed upon the sleds.

The clouds were still edged with the tints of sunset when Piper and his companions arrived, and shortly before dusk three dark figures were seen slowly approaching, Bowser giving evidence of his presence by his usual doleful bark.

"Evenin', people!" greeted Billy Musgrove. "Hello, Wackett,—bear meat? H'm, smells good, don't it? Me an' Tim hasn't eaten nothin' all day—gittin' ready fur this."

"An' yer done well," said Yardsley. "It's pitch in an' help yerself, 'til natur' cries enough."

Nightfall came, and the fire sent up towering flames and showers of sparks, illuminating the surroundings with a fitful glare. The feast was ready.

"An' ter think that Scummers shot a bear," remarked Musgrove, reflectively, as he sliced off a huge piece of meat; "an' me an' Tim ain't seen one for a year, 'most."

At length the banquet was over; sighs of contentment came from many.

"An occasion sich as this ain't never complete without a bit of speech-makin'," suggested Yardsley, with a glance around. "Who wants ter start the ball a-rollin'?"

Dave Brandon slowly arose.

"I feel uncommonly like taking a nap," he said, with a smile, "but I suppose somebody must say a few words at such an auspicious time."

"He knows some big ones, all right," came a hoarse whisper from Musgrove.

"I think," continued Dave, "our winter camp has been a great success. Best of all, our friend, Nat Wingate, is now sound as a dollar. Life in the open has taught us many lessons, among them habits of self-reliance, and willingness to work. Oh, yes, I've watched you many times, boys, and was pleased to note the energy of everybody except yours truly. It's a good sign. We know that town boys can be hunters, and trappers gentlemen, and that a dinner in the wilds can furnish more enjoyment than one in the richest dining-room. I think I voice the sentiments of all, when I say that we greatly appreciate the efforts of our host, John Yardsley, and that we are thankful the bear furnished a meal for us, and not Bob Somers for the bear."

A burst of cheers arose, as the poet laureate, beaming good-naturedly, sat down, and Musgrove was heard to remark, "There's a smart lad fur yer, Tim—talks like one of the real speechers."

"Our stout young friend has spoken words of wisdom," began Yardsley, rising. "I must say I never enjoyed a winter like this in me life, an' I hate ter think of yer leavin'. These here woods will sartingly seem like a silent, dreary place, arter this. I can say, without meanin' ter flatter no one, that I never come acrost a likelier crowd of young chaps—success ter ye all!"

The banquet was voted a grand success by everybody, and the moon had risen high in the heavens before the visitors began their march to camp.

CHAPTER XXXI

YARDSLEY'S LAST JOKE

In the latter part of March, the Kingswood high school had been restored to its former condition, and on the Saturday before the re-opening a great crowd of boys trooped through the building.

In the assembly room they saw just above the platform, resting on a bracket, a stuffed eagle, with wings outstretched in an attitude of flight. Beneath was a card which stated that the donor was Thomas Clifton, of Kingswood. It was a proud day for the young member of the Rambler Club.

Those who got a glimpse inside the president's office also saw a beautiful silver gray fox over the bookcase, and the reputation of the young hunters was now firmly established.

John Hackett's fawn had arrived safely, and was enjoying life in comfortable quarters. The huge bearskin had been converted into a rug and adorned a room in Mr. Somers' house.

One afternoon, just after school had begun, Bob Somers was seated in his study, engaged on the very problem which had occupied his attention on the night of the fire, when a domestic called him to the speaking tube.

"Mr. Griffin is in the drawing-room, and wishes to see you, Mr. Robert," she said.

"Mr. Griffin," repeated Bob; "guess he wants to see dad."

But the girl was quite certain that she had made no mistake.

"Well, tell him I'll be down," said Bob, in a puzzled tone. He closed his book and descended to the drawing-room.

As he entered, a tall, thin man with rugged, kindly features rose to meet him.

For an instant, Bob did not recognize his well-dressed visitor. Then, like a flash, memory served him. Yet in this man, clean-shaven and sprucely attired, there was little to suggest the trapper they had known in the wilds.

"Yardsley!" he gasped, in the greatest astonishment, wringing his hand. "Why—how—it scarcely seems possible—and Maggie made such a mistake—said Mr. Griffin wanted to see me."

"She was quite correct," laughed the other—"J. Yardsley Griffin, at your service."

Bob stared at him in surprise.

Mr. Griffin seemed to be considerably amused, and continued, slowly, "You know I promised to call on you—and I make it a point to always keep my word."

Bob Somers' astonishment was growing. The trapper's manner of speech had changed as much as his appearance. There was no suggestion of the backwoods vernacular, and divining his thoughts, Mr. Griffin laughed.

"I am fond of a practical joke, as you know," he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "and I must confess that I practiced an innocent deception. Let me add to my introduction—graduate of Harvard, 1885. I expect, soon, to be a professor."

"Professor Griffin!" gasped Bob. "Was I ever more surprised in my life?"

The former trapper sank back in his chair.

"Appearances are often deceptive," he said. "Clothes make the man, and suitable surroundings will add to any illusion."

"But haven't you lived a long time in the woods?" asked Bob.

"Oh, yes! Off and on for years. You see," he continued, with a laugh, "I am a zoölogist and naturalist who believes in studying nature at first hand."

"But didn't I hear you say once," asked Bob, "that you hadn't as much book learning as you wanted?"

"Exactly—and neither have I. There is such a vast amount of knowledge to be gained, that even the most learned are sometimes discouraged."

"And how in the world did you manage to keep up that backwoods talk, even when the furs were taken?" asked Bob.

"Well, the illusion pleased me, and, as I felt sure of seeing you some time in town, I kept it up, picturing in my mind your surprise. I must say, though, on the occasion when you and Hackett were lost, only my strong conviction that you would come out right enabled me to keep it up."

"Will wonders never cease?"

Professor Griffin laughed again and continued, "Well, my friend the 'animalist' has offered me a professorship in the college of which he is president, and I have accepted it."

"What will my father say to this, after all my talk about the trapper?" said Bob. "It is certainly a good joke on us," and he smiled.

"I hope to meet him," observed Professor Griffin, politely.

"You certainly shall. Can't you stay to dinner this evening? Please say yes!" And Professor Griffin accepted the invitation.

It was a merry dinner party that evening. Mr. and Mrs. Somers were delighted to meet the man who had helped to make the boys' outing a pleasant and interesting one, and all had many a hearty laugh, as they talked over the haps and mishaps of the Rambler Club's Winter Camp.

Other books in this series are:
The Rambler Club Afloat
The Rambler Club in the Mountains
The Rambler Club On Circle T Ranch

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Table of Contents

- The Rambler Club's Winter Camp
- Introduction
- Contents
- Illustrations
- The Rambler Club's Winter Camp

- CHAPTER I

- THE FIRE-BELL

- CHAPTER II

- THE BUCKET BRIGADE

- CHAPTER III

- OFF TO THE WOODS

- CHAPTER IV

- "UNDENIABLE FACT"

- CHAPTER V

- THE ROAD OF ICE

- CHAPTER VI

- MAKING CAMP

- CHAPTER VII

- THE FIRST HUNT

- CHAPTER VIII

- THE GUARDIANS

- CHAPTER IX

- A NEW SPORT

- CHAPTER X

- A SKATING MATCH

- CHAPTER XI

- A NIGHT ALARM

- CHAPTER XII

- THE WILDCAT

- CHAPTER XIII

- ON THE TRAIL

- CHAPTER XIV

- HUNTER AND TRAPPER

- CHAPTER XV

- A PRACTICAL JOKE

- CHAPTER XVI

- YARDSLEY'S TRAPS

- CHAPTER XVII

- SMOKE SIGNALS

- CHAPTER XVIII

- WHO TOOK THE FURS?

- CHAPTER XIX

- LOST IN THE SNOW

- CHAPTER XX

- WOLVES!

- CHAPTER XXI

- SUSPICIONS

- CHAPTER XXII

- THE FAWN

- CHAPTER XXIII

- BACK TO CAMP

- CHAPTER XXIV

- A QUARREL

- CHAPTER XXV

- SELF-DEFENSE

- CHAPTER XXVI

- SNOWBALLS

- CHAPTER XXVII

- A CAVE AND A BEAR

- CHAPTER XXVIII

- THE NOTE ON THE DOOR

- CHAPTER XXIX

- THE NEAR-BANDITS

- CHAPTER XXX

- BURYING THE HATCHET

- CHAPTER XXXI

- YARDSLEY'S LAST JOKE

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE