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Title: The Rambler club in the mountains

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release Date: September 27, 2022 [eBook #69054]

Language: English

Produced by: David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS ***

# The Rambler Club
in the Mountains

## BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP" ETC.

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMX

COPYRIGHT
1910 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

## Introduction

In pursuance of his intention to write stories full of lively, wholesome adventure for boys, the author presents "The Rambler Club in the Mountains," following "The Rambler Club Afloat," and "The Rambler Club's Winter Camp."

The five boys leave their home in Wisconsin and journey to the far-away state of Oregon. There, in the mountain wilderness, among the haunts of big game, they meet with plenty of exciting adventures; and Dick Travers, the "official photographer," succeeds in making some remarkable snap-shots.

"Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin, who are harboring fancied grievances, unintentionally bring the boys into great peril. Their thrilling experience, however, enables them to solve the mystery in the fate of Howard Fenton, who has been carried through the gorge of Canyon River.

The Ramblers find all their courage and endurance called into play, but prove again that they are made of the right stuff.

In spite of all they have gone through, the boys have not lost their love for roughing it, and they look forward with pleasure to other adventures with rifle and rod, some of which are recounted in "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch."

W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.

## Contents

I. | UP TO THE LAKE
II. | HOWARD FENTON
III. | ON THE "DAUNTLESS"
IV. | THE ISLAND CAMP
V. | OUT IN THE STORM
VI. | THE NATIONAL GAME
VII. | FUR, FIN, AND FEATHER
VIII. | THE INTRUDER
IX. | AN EXCURSION
X. | HOWARD IN DANGER
XI. | "LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP"
XII. | DOWN THE GORGE
XIII. | HANK MERWIN'S CABIN
XIV. | A BEACON LIGHT
XV. | DICK'S MOOSE
XVI. | TACKLING "OLD EPHRAIM"
XVII. | ON THE MOUNTAIN
XVIII. | THE PRESCOTT PUZZLE
XIX. | ABOVE THE CLOUDS
XX. | BOB'S WILDCAT
XXI. | DAVE PAINTS A PICTURE
XXII. | CHASING "LITTLE BILL"
XXIII. | CANYON RIVER
XXIV. | "YOU SAVED MY LIFE!"
XXV. | "HELLO, BOB SOMERS!"
XXVI. | ACROSS THE CURRENT
XXVII. | UP THE CLIFFS
XXVIII. | ALL TOGETHER

## Illustrations

A BOY STEPPED FORWARD
THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE
"THE 'DAUNTLESS' IS IN THE GORGE"
"HE'S DONE FOR"
DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT

## The Rambler Club in the Mountains

## CHAPTER I

### UP TO THE LAKE

"Well, boys, here we are at last!"

Bob Somers, with a smile of satisfaction on his healthy, sunburned face, uttered these words, as he stood, surrounded by his fellow members of the Rambler Club, at a small railroad station in Oregon. To their left, above a line of trees, columns of brownish smoke and jets of dazzling white steam shot up, each moment changing position and showing how fast the train from which they had just alighted was speeding on its way over the iron rails.

About them was a rich and fertile valley overlooked by a range of rugged mountains, several of whose summits, crowned with snow, gleamed brightly against the sky. It was a wild and beautiful prospect that met the Ramblers' gaze, and their eyes sparkled.

"Well, here we are at last!" repeated "Captain Bob," seating himself upon a trunk. "What do you think of it, Chubby?"

Stout, good-natured Dave Brandon, fanning his face vigorously, paused for an instant, turned slowly around until his eyes had taken in the entire scene, and then replied, "Simply grand, Bob. My, but won't I make some great sketches!"

"Chub—artist in chief," laughed Dick Travers, "also poet laureate. But don't forget, fellows, that I'm the official photographer."

"Dick's going to snap all the bears and wildcats before we shoot 'em," grinned little Tom Clifton—"real exciting sport, that."

"Oh, bother pictures and photographs," put in Sam Randall, scornfully. "It's hunting and fishing I'm after. Why, you know Bob Somers' uncle said——"

"Oh, that's the fifteenth time you've told us already," interrupted Tom Clifton. "Lots of grizzly and ginger bears in the mountains, and——"

"Huh! Who ever heard of ginger bears?" laughed Sam.

"Cinnamon, he means," put in Bob Somers, smilingly.

"Cinnamon—that's it—knew it was like some kind of spice," said Tom, with a wink. "But say, fellows," he added, glancing at the road, which curved toward the mountains, "I wonder what's the matter with that stage-coach. Hope it won't be a case of walk."

"Walk!" The poet laureate, seated on a box, leaned his substantial frame against the side of the station and groaned. "Don't you dare suggest such an awful thing, Tom Clifton," he said, severely. "I feel uncommonly tired—and hungry, too. Why, it's three hours since I had a square meal."

A gruff, hearty laugh rang out, as the station-master stepped from the door.

"You don't look, son, as if you needed another for a week," he remarked, pleasantly. "Reckon you fellows are going to stay a spell, jedging by the truck you've got." He waved his hand toward the baggage.

Bob nodded. "How about the stage?" he inquired, anxiously.

"Oh, 'Big Bill' ain't never on time," volunteered the station-master, reassuringly; "that is, more'n once in about two months," he connected; "but he'll be here all right—don't worry yourselves—there!"

He stopped short, raised his arm, and the boys, following its direction with their eyes, saw on a short stretch of yellow road a dark object which had appeared in view from behind a ridge. It was far off and apparently moving at a snail's pace.

"'Big Bill,'" added the man, laconically.

"Bill isn't hurting his horses," remarked Sam Randall. "Crickets, I wish he would hurry."

"Bound for Isaac Barton's place, ain't you?" inquired the station-master, curiously. "'Big Bill' says, yisterday, as how some party was a-going to have the place this summer."

"Guessed it the first time," laughed Sam; "that is, if he ever gets us there."

Eager to reach their destination, time passed slowly indeed, and the boys breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the stage-coach finally resolved itself into definite shape, and the crack of the driver's whip came over the still air.

In the midst of a cloud of yellow dust, the coach, drawn by four dapple grays, rattled briskly along.

"Oh, ho, never was so glad to see anything in my life," observe Dave Brandon, resuming a standing posture.

To the accompaniment of many shouts, the driver skilfully swung his horses around, the coach thundered up to the platform and stopped short.

"Pretty well done, that," murmured Bob.

"Mornin', Jed—mornin', gents!"

The driver passed his lines over a convenient hook, surveyed the group critically for a moment, then climbed slowly down from his lofty perch.

In spite of his nickname, he was not a big man. A long, aquiline nose, a pair of restless, gray eyes, and a complexion bronzed a deep brown were his distinguishing features, and several of the boys also noted that he wore an extremely sour expression.

"Well, Bill Dugan," observed the station-master, pleasantly, "a regular party here to-day, an' all of 'em bound for the old Rickham House."

"I see 'em—my eyes is still good," grumbled Bill; "an' a sight of truck to hoist on the old rattleboard, too. You chaps is goin' to stay here all your lives, ain't yer?"

"Big Bill's" glance rested on the stout form of Dave Brandon.

"Oh, no, not so bad as that," laughed the poet laureate. "We'll give you a hand in getting the stuff aboard."

But the driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. He seated himself on one of the boxes, leaned back and folded his arms.

"Them nags has to take a rest," he announced, calmly. "Beats me, Jed, why any one should want to come out here. Only wish I had 'nuff coin to git away."

The station-master laughed.

"'Tain't the first time you've said so, Bill," he observed, dryly.

"An' won't be the last, nuther. I ain't never had no chance. Jack Bender went off to Portland, an' I hear tell he's makin' lots of money. I'm smart as him, any day."

"Big Bill's" restless eyes fixed themselves on the other's face, and, as if expecting that his statement might be challenged, he paused.

Then, as silence ensued, Bob Somers spoke up. "How long will it take us to reach the village?" he asked.

"If the old rattleboard don't git throw'd down the precipice, about five hours."

"What precipice?" asked Tom Clifton, with an uneasy look.

"Over at Blinker's Pass—a clean drop of three hundred feet, 'most straight as the walls of this here shanty, eh, Jed?"

"Whew! Anything ever happen there?" asked Tom.

"Four year ago next June, a hoss slipped, took over his mate, an' as neat a trap as you ever laid yer eyes on was busted into a thousand pieces."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Tom, breathlessly, "wasn't that awful! Driver go over, too?"

"Jest managed to jump an' save hisself."

"Are your horses liable to stumble?" Tom's voice was slightly tremulous, and he glanced sharply at the four dapple grays.

"All hosses is," was the unsatisfactory reply, "but I cant be a-talkin' here all day—give us a hand, Jed—no, we don't want no help." He waved aside the boys, seized hold of a box, and, within a few minutes, assisted by the station-master, had stowed away the baggage upon the top of the vehicle.

"Lucky we ain't got no other passengers to-day," he grumbled, as he passed an enormous red handkerchief across his perspiring forehead. "Fetch out the mail-bag, Jed, an' we'll git. Somebody can ride up with me, if he wants to."

"I will," said Bob Somers, quickly.

In a jiffy, he had climbed up to the seat.

"Awful selfish, I know, fellows," he said, smilingly, "and——"

But his further speech was cut short by "Big Bill," who dropped heavily beside him and picked up the lines.

"Git up, there! Whoa—steady, boy, steady—so long, Jed." His long, snake-like whip twisted and writhed through the air, cracking like a volley of pistol-shots; the leaders plunged forward, and, in a moment, a cloud of dust again arose, and the little station was veiled behind the flying particles.

The dapple grays, at an even trot, pounded over the yellow road, past white farmhouses, green fields and orchards loaded with fruit, toward the tree-covered mountains which loomed up straight ahead.

"This is a dandy country," cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "Must be all kinds of game out here. Say, are there many visitors at the village?"

"Ever since people got the idea that it was a good health resort, we've had 'em—that is now an' then," responded the driver, skilfully flipping the off-horse on the ear, "but I only wish I could git away."

Bob smiled. "Any young fellows around?" he asked—"enough to make up a baseball nine? It would be jolly good fun to have a game."

"I ain't got no time for such foolishness," growled "Big Bill," flipping the other horse with equal skill. "There's young fellers around, of course. Did you ever see a place without 'em? An' I ain't a-sayin' that they're all they should be, neither."

"Some people from New York here, aren't there?"

"How did you know?" queried Dugan, with a look of surprise.

"Oh, my uncle told me something about 'em. Said they were good sort, and all that."

"Guess you're talkin' 'bout Fenton an' his son, Howard," responded Dugan, frowning until the lines on either side of his nose had deepened into ruts. "They're staying at the hotel. A good sort, you say? Well, I haven't much use for 'em. Neither one never throw'd no coin in my way. Whoa, you brute! If that little feller inside sees old 'Peggy' a-stumblin' like that, he'll be scared enough to git out—an' walk."

Dugan's sour expression relaxed, and he laughed loudly.

The road led across a rolling valley, and Bob Somers drew an involuntary breath of admiration as the ever-changing panorama opened out before him. Rugged forms on the mountains gradually grew more distinct, until the rocky sides of frowning precipices could be clearly seen.

"Pretty heavily timbered," observed Bob, with a glance aloft. "Great Scott, that mountain we're coming to is a whopper, all right."

"'Tain't nothin' to some," replied Dugan, "but I reckon when we git to Blinkers Pass you'll want to climb inside—most of 'em does."

"Not I," laughed Bob. "Only wish we were there now. Hello, Dave!" he sang out.

"Hello, Bob!" came a cheery response from within the coach.

"What do you think of this for scenery—isn't it great?"

"Oh, ho—best I ever saw. I'm getting inspirations every minute. Did you ever see anything prettier than this?"

As he spoke, the vehicle lumbered heavily over a bridge. Below, a turbulent stream foamed its way in and out among rocks and boulders, sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. The trail led upward, and when an hour had passed—an hour full of delight to the boys—they were in the midst of a wild and unfrequented region. Here and there, leaves of the maple and ash shone out against the darker pines and cedars, while the dogwood in full bloom lightened the landscape with its cheerful colors. Forest perfumes filled the air, and the notes of many woodland songsters rose above the steady grind of the coach.

"Perfectly su-perb—magnificent!" floated out of the window, and Bob Somers chuckled as he listened to the delighted comments of his friends.

It was a long, toilsome ascent. The road twisted and turned, now lost in the dark, gloomy recesses of the mountain, then emerging into the clear daylight, where views of the broad valley were obtained.

"Crickets, but we are getting up in the air," called out Tom Clifton. "How much further is it to that pass?"

Dugan pulled up his panting horses. "A right smart ways, yet," he answered, "but you'll know it when we get there, young 'un."

At the next halting place, a magnificent view caused the Ramblers to almost exhaust their vocabulary of admiring expressions. A veil of bluish mist hung over the opposite mountain, while its snow-capped summit, rising clear, shone out brilliantly against the sky. Far down in the valley a silver torrent threaded its way among the rich masses of vegetation.

"Glorious!" cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "It certainly makes a chap feel small. Know how high that mountain is, Mr. Dugan?"

The driver snorted.

"Bill—plain Bill's my name," he said, sourly. "Never had no tape measure long enough to find out, but some says it's five thousand feet."

"And it looks it," was Bob's comment.

"In ten minutes we'll git to Blinker's Pass," went on "Big Bill," slowly. "Don't know but what we oughter blindfold that little feller inside—say, what's the fat boy's name?"

"Dave Brandon."

"He don't look as if he ever done a lick of work in his life. Whoa, you 'Peggy.' Too clost to the pass for any of that game;" and Bill, with a laugh, gazed into Bob Somers' face.

"Might as well give it up, Bill—you can't scare me," laughed Bob. "Guess you won't find Tom Clifton showing the white feather, either."

"We hain't came to it yet," and Bill smiled grimly.

But the pass was soon reached. The road rose steeply, then stretched ahead in a level course for a considerable distance.

Bob Somers, in spite of his assurance, felt a strange tremor run through him, as they reached the dangerous point. Below, the jagged rocks extended in a sheer descent of several hundred feet, and between them and the bottom was but a narrow strip of turf and rocks. He clutched hold of the seat in a firm grasp and gazed breathlessly at the thrilling sight.

"Something of a drop, eh?" chuckled "Big Bill." "Toss over one of them rocks an' you won't hear a sound when it strikes."

"Great Scott, it's like being in a balloon," gasped Bob.

"It's taken the nerve of many a fellow—it has. Hey, young 'un, are you too scared to take a look?"

The driver leaned around and glanced toward the window. He saw Dave Brandon's smiling face looking calmly down.

"It's deep, and no mistake," observed the stout boy; "but not quite as bad as I hoped."

"Don't expect much, Chubby, do you?" laughed Bob.

As for little Tom Clifton, he smiled faintly, but made no reply to Dugan's question, and the latter was quite sure that he breathed a sigh of relief when the precipice was hidden from view behind a ridge.

Again the coach climbed laboriously upward. Many times the panting animals were allowed to rest, and the Ramblers became impatient to reach their destination. Hunger attacked them, and Dave sighed dolefully as he thought of the long wait before their appetites could be satisfied.

But at length the road began to descend, and about two o'clock they caught a glimpse of a shining body of water with two dark spots at its western end.

"What are they?" asked Bob, with interest.

"Promontory and Hemlock Islands," replied Dugan. "That's Mountain Lake. We're gittin' there now—village is jist beyond the middle of the lake."

"And mighty glad I am to see it," said Bob. "I can make out some of the buildings. Are those white spots farmhouses?"

The driver nodded.

"This must be a great place for boating and fishing."

"'Tain't bad—but jist let me give you a word of advice—keep away from them islands."

"Why?"

"Why?" echoed Dugan, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, jist this side of 'em is the entrance to Canyon River. It runs a-racin' an' teamin' through an awful gorge, an' any feller that gits swept in is a goner."

"Whew! No one ever go through in safety?"

"None that I ever hearn tell of. The sides of the gorge rise plumb out of the water, an' even if you kin swim like a fish it wouldn't do you no good."

"Well, I guess you won't catch me trying to swim through," laughed Bob.

"The end of the lake is all right for a feller that knows the currents," went on Dugan. "That's what I told Howard Fenton."

As if glad that their journey was about over, the horses broke into a brisk trot and the coach rattled noisily along, swerving from side to side, while Bill Dugan cracked his long whip at frequent intervals.

He was a skilful but reckless driver, and the last stretch was taken at a clip which made Bob Somers hold tightly to his seat.

As they approached the lake, Captain Bob became more and more pleased with its surroundings. The forms of the two islands began to stand out clearly, and he soon saw that the nearest was scarcely more than two hundred yards from the end of the picturesque sheet of water. The lake rounded sharply at this point, being shut in by granite cliffs. It was here, immediately opposite Promontory Island, that Canyon River had its source, the water flowing into a gorge whose towering walls rose in places from five hundred to a thousand feet.

"Do people climb the mountain?" asked Bob.

"Anybody that don't mind riskin' their necks kin. But it's an awful job, an' nobody with any sense would try it," growled Dugan. "Onct, I was foolish enough ter go up with some fellers. We set out early, an'"—Dugan paused; the recollections brought out the wrinkles on his forehead again—"I'll never forgit it. After a-climbin' an' climbin', we came to a wall of rock risin' most straight up in the air."

"Well, what happened?"

"The fust thing we did arter that was to run inter a hornet's nest, an' in tryin' ter git away from the pesky bugs I fell down a bank, every blessed cent I had rolled out of me pockets, an', for all I know, they're a-rollin' yet."

Bob politely refrained from smiling at Bill Dugan's ludicrous expression of disgust.

"Not only that," went on the driver, "but I ruined me best pair of boots, an' was laid up for a week with a bad arm. An' all that jist to hear the sound of a waterfall in the distance—always did run in mean luck."

"Climb the wall of rock?" queried Bob.

"I did not," snorted Dugan. "T'other chaps wanted to, but I says, 'Not fur me.'"

"Then you never saw the waterfall?"

"No! An' don't want to, nuther. Some fellers has, but the pesky birds an' animals kin do all the lookin', as fur as I keer. As I tole you afore, anybody what gits caught in that gorge is a goner. Where the river comes out there's a current that would make you shiver to look at. No boat could git up it."

"How is the mountain on the other side?"

"Like a twin brother to this one, an' hard to tell which is the meanest. None of us around here ever keers to go up, but strangers, like as not, will be crazy 'nuff ter try it."

"That's mighty interesting—I mean the waterfall," observed Bob Somers.

"I suspicioned you'd say so, an' wouldn't s'prise me if you turned out to be one of them fellers what don't mind a-runnin' inter danger—the wuss, the better. Only hopes you git cured soon," and with this ill-natured remark the driver lapsed into silence, while Bob devoted his attention to the scenery.

The lake now stretched straight ahead, its furthest shore almost lost in a haze that enveloped the base of the mountains beyond. The road led down to the water's edge, and once there, it seemed but a few minutes before the stage-coach was rattling past the outlying farms. The individual houses of the village were now clearly distinguishable, as well as a wharf, at which several boats were moored.

At length, the vehicle drew up in front of the Resort House, a rather pretentious building which combined hotel, post-office and general store.

It seemed as if the entire male population had assembled to witness the arrival of the coach. Men and boys lolled about, exhibiting the liveliest interest in the proceedings, and gaping curiously at the five boys, as they stepped to the ground.

"Act as if they'd never seen a human being before," whispered Sam Randall. "My, but it's good to stretch one's legs again."

"Say, which of you fellows is Bob Somers?" exclaimed a cheery voice.

A BOY STEPPED FORWARD.

From among the group, a boy stepped forward, looking inquiringly from one to another.

## CHAPTER II

### HOWARD FENTON

His general appearance indicated at once that he was not a native of that region. His neat blue suit, of the latest cut, set off a slight, boyish figure to advantage, and seemed more appropriate to Fifth Avenue than to a small mountain village. A shock of chestnut hair, in defiance of comb and brush, swept across a white forehead, and his frank blue eyes were pleasant to look upon. Below them, a coat of tan told of his outdoor life.

Bob Somers held out his hand.

"I'll bet you're Howard Fenton," he said, warmly.

"You've struck it," laughed the other, accepting the proffered hand and giving it a hearty shake. "And mighty glad I am, too, that you chaps have arrived," he went on, totally ignoring the presence of many interested listeners.

"My uncle spoke to me about you," said Bob. "Fellows, this is Howard Fenton."

"Feels good to meet some one," laughed Dave. "Takes off some of the strangeness of landing in a strange place. How do you like it out here?"

"For a while, not at all," replied Fenton, lowering his voice. "You see," he added, confidentially, "I was always used to the city, and the strangeness you speak of—well"—he drew a long breath—"it hit me pretty hard, at first. Silly, I know, but the pater—he's out here with me—thought he knew what kind of a vacation I'd enjoy."

"And he wasn't mistaken, after all," interrupted Bob; "I can see that by your face."

"I should say not. A few days, and I began to like it immensely."

"See here," broke in Dugan's rough voice, as its owner stepped out of the post-office, "I'm going to take your truck over to the house. If you're goin', jump in;" and, without waiting for a reply, he mounted to his seat.

"Coming along, Fenton, aren't you?" inquired Bob, cordially.

The New York boy nodded.

"Sure," he answered. "We'll get better acquainted on the way. Maybe I can help you to get things started."

As the coach whirled along, Fenton told them that he intended taking a scientific course in Columbia University and had brought a few text-books along to study between times.

"And I haven't opened one of them yet," he added, with a laugh.

"Best plan for vacation," said Dave Brandon, lazily.

"Mr. Barton told me that you fellows have formed a club."

"That's right—and we've seen some great times, too," responded Somers.

"Go in for parliamentary procedure and all that, do you—whereas, etc., etc., be it therefore resolved that——"

"Not much," grinned Sam Randall. "Hunting, fishing, and having a good time generally is what we're after. That stout boy opposite is our poet laureate and artist in chief; Dick, here, is photographer; Bob's captain, and Tom Clifton and I are just ordinaries."

Fenton laughed.

"Do you really paint?" he asked, with interest, turning toward Dave.

"Oh, yes—a little," admitted the latter. "Just took it up last winter, though."

"Are you going to make any sketches out here?"

"It would take an awful lot to keep me from it. I have a stack of canvas that has to be daubed up. And talk about fine views, never saw anything to beat 'em."

"I met Mr. Barton several times," went on Fenton. "He sort of took to me because I came from New York."

"Yes, that's where he used to live," said Bob. "Uncle Isaac came out here a good many years ago. He has some big orchards a few miles away—grows all sorts of fruits, you know. He bought this house because it's right near the lake."

"Mighty good of him to invite us out here, wasn't it?" put in Sam Randall.

"Uncle got the idea of going to Europe," added Bob, by way of explanation, "so he suggested that the whole crowd come over. And he left a colored boy to do the cooking, too."

Fenton nodded, and Bob went on, "The Rambler Club rendered father a big service not long ago. We took a trip for him, and on the way some fellows blew up our motor boat."

"Blew it up?" gasped Fenton.

"Yes—into a thousand bits. I'll tell you about it some time. Well, dad insisted upon making up the loss in some way, and when Uncle Isaac proposed this jaunt, I didn't have any trouble in fixing it up. Uncle Isaac and his wife left a bit sooner than they expected, and hustled us out here."

"Nothing could have suited me better," declared Fenton, warmly. "I guess you won't mind my mixing in with you once in a while. Most of the visitors in town are elderly people, and the boys," he lowered his voice, "well, they're good enough chaps in their way, but not just the sort I like. Jim Havens and Tom Sanders are the two I know best."

"Why do they call Dugan 'Big Bill'?" asked Tom Clifton. "He isn't big."

Fenton grinned.

"Has a nephew of the same name," he explained. "He's smaller, so it's 'Big Bill' and 'Little Bill.' Fine pair they are, too. Hello—here we are."

This announcement interested the boys immensely. The coach was turning into a private road, which led toward a substantial two-story building. Standing some distance back of the main thoroughfare, its graceful white outlines could be seen, surrounded by beautiful trees and shrubbery. To its left was a stable.

"Not a bad looking place, eh, fellows?" observed Bob, with satisfaction.

"It's dandy," put in Dick Travers, enthusiastically. "And so close to the lake."

"Yum—yum, I can't see anything, I'm so hungry," sighed Dave. "Thank goodness—no more traveling to-day."

As Dugan brought up his horses before the entrance, a smiling colored lad rushed out.

"I 'clar' to goodness, the boys has come at last, eh? Mistah Dugan!" he exclaimed. "I certainly is glad, for suah."

"Show it then, Sam Bins, by helpin' to git this here truck off the rattleboard," growled the driver.

"So you is Mistah Somers, an' party," went on the lad. "I've been a-lookin' for yo' every day. Yo' sho must be hungry, gemmen. All right, Mistah Dugan, I'll help yo'. Step inside, Mistah Somers an' fren's, an' I'll git a meal that'll do yo' a power of good."

"Glorious words," murmured Dave, "to be followed by glorious action."

Ten minutes later, the "rattleboard" had disappeared, and the boys were busily engaged in removing the dust and stains of travel.

The rooms of Rickham House were large and furnished more for comfort than appearance. As the boys collected in the large, square dining-hall, they examined with interest the old-fashioned fireplace, substantial oak furniture and numerous engravings of hunting scenes which hung upon the walls.

Sam Bins had disappeared, but occasionally sounds from the open door indicated that something was happening in the kitchen.

"Did you ever think how much we owe to cooks?" said Dave, as he settled down in a comfortable chair. "Why——"

"Huh, cut it out, Chubby," admonished Dick Travers. "Let's talk about something worth while."

"Won't do it now, after being sat on like that," sighed the poet. "Wake me up, fellows, when dinner is ready," and he closed his eyes.

Sam Bins was a good cook and had a proper appreciation of the size of a hungry boy's appetite. The meal was therefore a bountiful one.

Between talking over their plans, relating stories and listening to Fenton's description of New York, the Ramblers passed a very pleasant time.

The meal at length having been concluded, Sam Bins took them to the stable and exhibited a pair of fine saddle-horses.

"Yo' fellahs know how to ride, ob course," he said, with a huge grin.

"Not I," responded Fenton, decidedly, as the others nodded. "Never was on a horse in my life."

Sam Bins was profoundly astonished.

"Then I wouldn't advise yo' to try either of dese," he said, rather scornfully. "Dey's got a lot ob spirit—dey has."

Fenton laughingly assured him that he wouldn't.

The rest of the day was spent in arranging their rooms. Dave and Sam took one, Tom and Dick another, while Bob Somers used a smaller one at the western end.

Since leaving their homes in Wisconsin, they had been almost constantly traveling, and the whole of the previous night was spent on the cars. This, with the journey on the stage-coach, had fatigued them greatly. But in spite of eyes that persisted in blinking, they bravely kept at work until their belongings were arranged to suit them.

Fenton, the city boy, had a wholesome respect for firearms, and the Ramblers, as they exhibited their brightly polished shotguns and rifles, filled him with apprehension.

"I'd be afraid of my life to handle one of those things," he admitted, candidly. "You see," he grinned, "I never had any occasion to use 'em in New York. But there are two things I've learned pretty well out here—sailing a boat and handling a canoe—what's the matter with taking a sail day after to-morrow?" he rattled on. "The pater has a good boat, the 'Dauntless,' and, if you like, we'll explore Promontory and Hemlock Islands. They camp out there once in a while. Tom Sanders and Jim Havens, the fellows I spoke about, are over there now."

"You can just bet we'd like it," declared Bob, enthusiastically.

"The lake is perfectly safe as far as the passage between the islands," went on Fenton. "I won't take you into any danger."

"You are not going to find us a scary crowd," laughed Bob; and the matter was arranged then and there. Fenton soon after took his departure.

"A nice chap, that," observed Dave, as his slight figure grew small in the distance.

"Awful glad we got acquainted so soon," said Tom. "Somehow or other, he doesn't seem like a stranger. A smart fellow, too."

"He's in good company, then, Tom," was Dick Travers' rejoinder.

That evening, the Ramblers sat on the wide veranda, enjoying the pleasant air.

The moon was mirrored in shining streaks on the breeze-swept waters of the lake, and its light played hide-and-seek on the mountain crags beyond. Several peaks gleamed ghostly white against a greenish sky, while the valley appeared gray and mysterious.

"Some of those mountains look like volcanoes," observed Tom.

"When did you ever see a volcano?" laughed Dick.

"In books, smarty."

"Some of them were volcanoes at one time," declared Dave Brandon, "and there must have been terrible eruptions. I've read that there's lots of lava and basaltic rock to be seen, and——"

"Basaltic rock? Excuse me, Chubby, but don't spring anything like that so suddenly. Basaltic—wow!" and Dick's companions joined in the laugh that followed.

"Oregon is a great state," went on Dave, with a twinkle in his eye. "There's a lake—Crater Lake they call it—an awful big sheet of water, right in the crater of an extinct volcano, away up in the air, with high walls all around."

"Nice place to drop in," commented Sam.

"Canyon River interests me a whole lot," observed Bob. "Of course most of the rivers here are swift-flowing, and there are many canyons—but that waterfall—great to get a look at it, eh?"

"Yes, if we could soar above it in a flying machine," drawled Dave. "Even the thought of climbing a mountain makes me tired. Fellows, I'm going to turn right in."

And the others decided to follow his example.

## CHAPTER III

### ON THE "DAUNTLESS"

Breakfast on the following morning was quite late. Only a series of wild whoops and yells, which almost scared Sam Bins out of his senses, had served to awaken Dave Brandon, and he protested vigorously.

"Why can't you let a fellow sleep?" he grumbled. "It's only eleven hours ago that I tumbled into bed."

"Nine o'clock, nine o'clock!" called Sam, laughingly. "Do you want to sleep all day?"

"Yes, Sam—you've struck it exactly. Think I will," and Dave tried to lock the door.

But three sturdy shoulders proved too much, and he capitulated.

A tour of the grounds followed their meal. To the east of Rickham House was a large, level field, and on reaching it Sam Randall uttered an exclamation.

"As I live, a regular diamond!" he said. "Crickets, isn't this fine?"

"Well, I should say so," put in Dick.

"Uncle Isaac was always great on baseball," explained Bob. "Played a good bit himself—centre field, I think. Well, I suppose he managed to have a game here, once in a while. But, come on, fellows, let's take a look at the boats."

Right across the road, which followed the course of the lake, and almost directly opposite the house, was Mr. Barton's private wharf. Besides several canoes, he owned the sailboats "Speedy" and "Spray." Both were about twenty feet long, but the former was narrow of beam and built mainly for the purpose which its name implied.

"What a grand summer we'll have," cried Tom Clifton, enthusiastically, as he stooped over to examine the trim-looking craft.

"Well, I rather guess so," said Sam. "But it's time now to get over and see Fenton."

Back to the yellow road they trudged. It led past farmhouses, and fields with growing crops, or orchards containing many kinds of fruit trees. It was a rich and fertile valley. Here and there, flowers grew in rich profusion, roses, lilac and rhododendrons mingling their color in harmonious contrasts.

The village was about half a mile from Rickham House. It had enjoyed a boom as a health resort, on account of newly-discovered springs near by, and the Resort House was one of the results which followed. Another hotel was in the near future.

The boys found a few loungers on the porch of the hotel. They stared at the Ramblers curiously. One in particular—a typical mountaineer—seemed the most interested. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply wrinkled face, scraggly brownish beard, and wore an expression which Dick Travers declared "made 'Big Bill's' face seem positively mirthful."

"Wal, wal! what's all this?" he growled. "Where did this parcel of boys drop from?"

"Not from an air-ship, that's sure," replied Dick, flippantly.

"That ain't answerin' my question, youngster. Be you a-goin' ter stay long?"

"Long enough to knock over a grizzly or two," laughed Dick. "Ever see any?"

"Did I ever see any?" snorted the tall man. "Boys—you hear that? Askin' old Joe Tomlin sich a question."

"He's makin' fun of ye, Joe," said some one, with a sly wink.

"No one kin do that," exclaimed the other, fiercely. "See here, kid——"

But the Ramblers had entered the hotel.

They soon found Howard Fenton, who introduced them to his father, a slender, grave-looking gentleman wearing a beard.

But they soon found that Mr. Fenton's cold appearance belied his nature. He entered into their talk with almost the zest of a boy, and all were really sorry when he declined an invitation to accompany them.

"Just the kind of weather for a sail," observed Howard, as they walked out upon the wharf.

The sky was partly overcast and the low clouds scudded before a breeze that deeply rippled the surface of the lake. Several boats moored to the pilings were lazily rocking or straining at their ropes. The largest was the "Dauntless," a staunch boat, built both for speed and safety.

"It's mine, boys," said Fenton, with a smile. "Jump in, and let me show you what a good sailor I've become."

The lines were cast off and the sail run up. In an instant it filled out. Careening over, under the full force of the wind, the "Dauntless" plunged her bow into the choppy water, and a cloud of spray dashed over the rail. Soon she was fairly racing toward the islands, Promontory rising grim and majestic against the lowering sky.

"Isn't this grand?" cried Bob. "See how fast we're leaving the shore. Where are you going to land us, Fenton?"

"On Promontory Island. But we have to go through the passageway and around on the other side."

It seemed but a short time before they were skirting the shore of Hemlock Island, while a little way off the more rugged sides of the other rose, in places, almost perpendicularly. Here and there, stunted growth struggled for existence, but the summit was crowned with a thick growth of trees. Hemlock Island was flat, and almost entirely wooded.

"Look alive, fellows!" warned Fenton, at length.

The boom swung around, the "Dauntless" shivered and shook, then, righting herself easily, sent the spray flying again, as she came about and headed for the passageway.

"What whopping big trees," cried Tom Clifton, admiringly, noticing the giants that rose here and there among the dark firs.

"Redwood," said Fenton. "This is a glorious country for trees and plant life generally. There are oaks in there, besides wild cherry and many other kinds. Of course some parts of the state are barren, with salt marshes and plains covered with sage-brush."

"Give me this part every time, then," said Bob. "Doesn't it look inviting in there, fellows? Imagine a nice little camp, and dinner under way."

"Wait until you see the other side of Promontory," put in Fenton; "it beats this all hollow."

At the proper time, the course of the boat was again changed slightly, and they entered a wide channel.

The passageway was almost in the shape of a letter V, with irregular sides.

In the shelter of the great crags, the speed of the "Dauntless" was considerably checked, indeed, within the channel, she was almost becalmed.

"Think of trying to climb that cliff, Chubby," exclaimed Sam Randall, glancing aloft. "Whew, wouldn't it be awful?"

"Makes me nervous to think of it, even," broke in Tommy Clifton.

"I can show you a way to reach the top without danger," laughed Fenton. "From there, you get a good view of Canyon River."

In a short time the "Dauntless" swung around a point.

On this side, the character of the island was different. In parts there were rocky cliffs, while elsewhere thickly-wooded slopes led upward. They were steep, but easily climbed.

Now and then they passed picturesque coves and wooded points, and the newcomers were thoroughly charmed.

"Hello, I see a boat!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly.

"And by the flying partridge, the smoke of a camp-fire," laughed Dave.

"And a tent," chimed in Sam Randall.

"Probably Jim Havens and Tom Sanders," put in Fenton. "Might as well land;" and so speaking, he headed the "Dauntless" toward the shore.

As they approached the camp, which was built on a knoll, three young men were seen lazily reclining on the ground. They sprang to their feet and walked forward.

## CHAPTER IV

### THE ISLAND CAMP

"Havens, Sanders and 'Little Bill' Dugan," added Fenton, quietly, as a hail came from the shore.

"A jolly good place for a camp," observed Bob.

"But no game around worth shooting at," objected Sam. "Hello, look at that sign they've got."

On a strip of canvas, stretching from one tree to another, was painted in rude black letters, "Idleman's Club."

"Hello there, Fenton," came from the shore; "what crowd is that you've got?"

"Wait and see, Havens," replied Howard, smilingly.

The sail rattled down and the "Dauntless" glided slowly over the transparent water toward a boat moored close by. Havens caught a rope, and, in a moment, the boys were scrambling ashore.

Jim Havens was a sturdy-looking boy, with a rather pleasant face and manner, while Tom Sanders, slimly built, had sharp features and a loud voice. The Ramblers did not need to be told which was "Little Bill." That lad had the same aquiline nose, gray eyes and sour expression which characterized his uncle, the stage-driver.

"Come over to the camp, fellows," invited Havens, pleasantly. "This is a surprise, all right."

The Idleman's Club had chosen a most inviting situation. Not far away was a thick grove of trees, while the heights which rose back of them formed a most pleasing picture.

As the group walked toward the camp-fire, "Little Bill" trailed in the rear. He did not seem glad to see the visitors, and on learning who Bob Somers and his friends were, his manner became even less cordial.

Before the tent a brisk fire was burning. Suspended above it several pots were steaming merrily and sending forth a delicious odor.

The boys examined the camp with interest, peeped into the tent, and then looked at the game which the Idleman's Club had bagged the day before.

"Havens," said "Little Bill," suddenly, "I want to go over and see Mr. Barton this afternoon, an'——"

"Didn't you know he had gone?" asked Bob, in surprise.

"Gone?" echoed Dugan; "yer don't mean ter say so." A blank look came over his face. "Gone," he repeated, "since when?"

"About five days ago," answered Bob.

"Little Bill" made an angry gesture.

"An' I thought he wasn't a-leavin' till next week."

"Changed his mind," said Bob.

"Wal, wal—an' me here without known' a thing about it. Ain't that luck?"

Dugan seemed much perturbed.

"An' didn't he say nothin' 'bout me?" he demanded.

"Why, no," replied Bob. "Not in any of his letters."

"Mighty funny, for a fact. I've done odd jobs over at Rickham fur a long spell, now, an' I was powerful sure he'd give me the job of lookin' after his horses this summer. Ask Sanders if I wasn't."

"Sure you were," said the thin boy.

"He always called me 'Bill'—old Barton did. He says ter me, 'Bill, I'll see about it.' Say, why didn't Sam Bins go with him?"

"I don't know," said Bob.

"An' there's another thing. Seein' as how he wouldn't be here this summer, I wanted ter use the 'Spray.' I spoke to him 'bout that, too."

"Would he agree to that?"

"He didn't say nothin'," admitted Dugan, reluctantly, "but I'm powerful sure he intended to. Didn't tell me no. Anyway, I suppose it'll be all right, eh?" and "Little Bill" looked eagerly at Captain Bob.

"I'll write my uncle and find out. I'd like to oblige you, Dugan, but I'm responsible for things just now. Of course, if he says the word——"

"Guess anybody kin tell what that means," interrupted Dugan, fiercely. "Talk about the meanest luck yet—lose a job an' all the sport I was a-goin' ter have this summer—the whole business busted ter bits! Can you beat it? Mebbe you don't believe what I says, eh?"

Bill raised his voice—his eyes began to snap.

"Certainly I do," laughed Bob.

"Then won't yer let me have the boat like a good feller?"

"Honest, Dugan—I can't, 'til I hear. You can go out with us any time."

"Oh, ain't that partic'lar nice?" sneered "Little Bill." "Eh, Sanders, did you hear him?"

"Some people's middle name is meanness," was Sanders' diplomatic response.

Dugan was fast working himself into a passion.

"Old Barton intended to let me use that boat," he cried. "Onct he says ter me, 'Bill,' he says——"

"Here, here!" interrupted Havens; "you're raising an awful holler over nothin'."

"I'm standin' up fur me rights'. He says, 'Bill'——"

"Don't get mad, Dugan," said Bob, soothingly. "Come now—be sensible."

"Oh, ho, glorious views around here," broke in Dave. "Going to stay long, Havens?"

Dugan took a searching look at the poet's smiling fare, sniffed audibly, and then lapsed into silence.

"Don't know exactly," said Havens, in reply to the question. "There's plenty of small game, an' fishin' is great. A feller gets sick of the village."

"Sick of it?" echoed Sanders. "Worse'n that—eh, Dugan?"

The latter nodded.

"I can't git away often enough," he said, sourly.

"Well, fellows," asked Bob, "what do you say to climbing the hill?"

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

"Oh, you won't find it hard," exclaimed Havens, reassuringly.

"I feel uncommonly sleepy," declared the poet, and he ambled leisurely toward a mossy bank.

"What will you do when we get to the mountains, Dave?" asked Bob.

"You fellows going there?" asked Havens.

"We certainly are."

The sour expression left Dugan's face. He looked interested and exchanged glances with Sanders.

"That's where you will find the big game," said Havens, "and I know how to pilot you around, all right."

"Great!" exclaimed Dick.

"It's pretty risky, though, if you're not good shots."

"We're not so bad at it," laughed Bob; "eh, Chub, over there? But say, fellows, come on. Let's get our legs in training," and he started off.

Fifteen minutes later, Bob sat down by the side of a huge boulder to rest. The others were some distance below.

"Little Bill" and Sanders, who had been conversing in low tones, were the first to approach.

"See here," began Dugan, in a whining voice, "yer ain't riled at the way I talked, a spell back, are ye? I'm an outspoken feller, I am."

"No, I'm not a bit mad, Dugan," assured Bob.

"Wal," "Little Bill" looked cautiously around, "there ain't nobody here who knows the mountains better'n Sanders an' me. Don't need ter go no further fur a guide. Yer couldn't never go there alone. Somebody out of the crowd would sure git lost, or fall down a precerpice, or be drownded in one of them mountain streams. It's certain as your name ain't Willie. Say—is it a go?"

"I'll have to talk to the other chaps, Dugan," answered Bob, evasively.

"But it's only right to take me, after what I've lost," persisted the other. "Ain't that so?"

"I'll talk to you about it later."

Captain Bob's manner was not encouraging, and Dugan's expression began to change.

"I suppos'n you'll have Havens," he snapped, "an' is skeered ter say so."

Bob made no answer, but a faint smile flitted across his face, and Dugan was quick to notice it. Two lines, rivaling those on his uncle's forehead, appeared, and he turned away abruptly.

"Wal, I don't keer what yer does," he snapped.

Stalking down the hillside, he rejoined Sanders, who had paused a short distance away, and the latter was heard to exclaim in a stage whisper, "Some people's middle name is meanness."

A moment later, the two were lost to view amidst the shrubbery.

When at length the tired boys reached the hilltop, a beautiful view repaid them. Patches of blue sky appeared between dazzling white clouds and straight ahead rose the frowning walls of Crescent and Round Mountains, with the gorge of Canyon River at the base of the former.

Making their way past a small cabin which stood in an open space, the boys walked out as far as they dared.

Exclamations of wonder and admiration escaped their lips. Far below them, the water foamed and madly tossed, as it rushed into the narrow confines of the gorge. For a long distance it stretched ahead, dark and gloomy, then disappeared behind a jutting crag at a point where the walls separated, leaving a grassy strip on each side of the river. To the left, at a great height, the weather-beaten summit of Crescent Mountain was partially obscured by a slowly-moving cloud.

"I never saw anything finer," declared Bob Somers, at length.

"Think of getting spilled into that current," murmured Dick, whose thoughts turned in another direction.

"You'd be a goner," said Havens, dryly.

"Suppose, after all, we won't see that waterfall," continued Bob, in a tone of regret, "eh, Sam?"

"Not much danger of seeing it, but lots trying to," grinned Havens. "I've climbed most of the mountains around, but I let those two fellows alone."

As they turned away, a flock of screaming crows circled close overhead.

"Let's take a look at the cabin," suggested Sam. "Seems most as old as the cliff."

"Nothing left of the door, and window isn't much better," said Tom. "Wonder who could have lived here."

"Most likely some old crank," put in Dick, as he peeped inside.

The cabin contained a shaky table, a stool with one leg missing and an empty box, all thickly covered with dust.

"Interesting, but it smells kind of musty," said Sam. "Let's skip."

The descent was made quickly.

"Well, well—what boat is that?" cried Fenton, suddenly.

The group, at that moment, had come in sight of the camp.

"As I live, the 'Dauntless'!" exclaimed Dick. "Doesn't that beat all?"

Sure enough, the graceful sailboat was slowly swinging out from the shore, and the grinning faces of Sanders and "Little Bill" could be plainly seen.

"Never heard of such a cheeky pair," put in Bob, indignantly.

"Good-bye, little boys," yelled Sanders. "We've borrowed yer boat fur a spell." Then, with derisive shouts, they waved their arms, pulled away at several ropes and the "Dauntless," catching the breeze, rapidly receded.

## CHAPTER V

### OUT IN THE STORM

"Hey, there, come back with that boat!" yelled Howard Fenton.

"Oh, of course we won't!" came from "Little Bill."

"Swim out, Willie, and we'll throw you a line!" shouted Sanders, with a derisive laugh.

"Make a hundred yards' dash for it. I'll bet on the fat boy!"

"Give Fenton ten feet start, an' he wouldn't lose by more'n a hundred!"

"Dive off the cliff! Don't go in Havens' boat—it has a hole in it!"

These words, floating over the air, grew fainter, as the "Dauntless" drew away from the island, her sail, a shining patch of white in the sunlight, and her hull scarcely seen against the rippling water.

"Well, this is a pretty how-de-do, isn't it?" growled Dick. "Talk about cheek, eh? Looks as if they're going to take their time in coming back, too."

"Oh, never mind," said Fenton, resignedly. "As long as the boat isn't hurt, I don't care. Anyway, we can't help ourselves."

Jim Havens looked disturbed.

"Honest, fellows, I didn't know a thing about it," he exclaimed, earnestly. "Didn't think that Sanders would play such a mean trick."

"Fenton ought to punch him good and plenty," said hot-headed Dick Travers.

"Rather out of my line," laughed the New York boy. "It's only a bit of fun on their part. Let's be philosophical, like our friend," and he pointed toward Dave Brandon asleep on the mossy bank.

"Guess you're right," assented Bob. "Perhaps they won't be long. Awful nerve, though."

Jim Havens brightened up when he saw that the visitors were disposed to take it good-naturedly.

"They're not going to hurt the boat," he said; "but I'm afraid that Dugan will keep right on to the village. He's been wanting for some time to get a gun that he left with his uncle."

"Why didn't he take your boat, then?"

"Well, the 'Dart' ain't much for speed," admitted Jim, with a faint smile.

"Oh, that's it. But say, I've heard that 'Little Bill' is rather reckless with boats."

"Maybe, but Sanders ain't. Whenever you fellers are ready, I'll take you to the shore—that is, if the two don't get back before that time."

"How about that hole in the boat?" asked Tom Clifton.

"It isn't much. We ran into a rock yesterday and dented a couple of boards. It's all fixed now."

"And strong enough to hold a ton or so?" laughed Travers, pointing toward Dave Brandon.

The object of his remarks sat up and yawned.

"Had a fine nap—say, what's up?" he asked.

"You haven't been, for one thing," replied Dick. "Pirates have run off with the 'Dauntless.'"

"Is that all?" said the poet, calmly, rubbing his eyes. "Thought, from the way you looked, that something had happened. Tell me about it."

Dave smiled at the recital.

"Real saucy chaps," he said. "That bank makes a capital place for a nap. When the 'Dauntless' hoves in sight, let me know."

But when several hours had passed, and there was no sign of the boat, all concluded that Havens' surmise must be correct.

The boys sat around, talked about baseball and hunting, and stood up and talked about the same things. Then they strolled up and down the pebbly beach, and cast many an anxious look over the choppy water, for the wind was blowing much more strongly, and only Dave Brandon was content.

Finally they lounged around a cheerful blaze, while supper was being prepared.

THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE.

Being accustomed to roughing it, none would have cared if they had been compelled to spend the night on the island, but Howard Fenton did not wish to worry his father by an unexpected absence. Therefore, when darkness began to approach, he asked Jim Havens to get the "Dart" ready.

They stayed, however, to finish their scanty meal, and then cleaned up, still hoping that the "Dauntless" would put in an appearance.

When Howard Fenton finally walked down to the water's edge, the tree tops were sighing noisily, and black, wild-looking clouds had risen above the top of the cliff. A sudden and rapidly growing darkness fell over the scene. It was apparent that the twilight would be very quickly blotted out.

"Guess we'll have a rough night of it," observed Bob.

"A downright stormy one," grumbled Dick. "Why don't those duffers come back?"

"We're in for a good ducking—that's what," put in Tom Clifton.

"I really have to get over to the shore, fellows," spoke up Fenton, earnestly. "My pater would imagine all sorts of terrible things."

"Well, here we go," said Havens, briefly.

"Pile in," added Bob, as he sprang on board the "Dart."

"By Jove, it certainly looks wild out there," declared Sam Randall, indicating the sombre expanse of lake.

"Enough to make a fellow feel kind of creepy, eh?" chimed in Tom. "The wind is freshening, too."

"Don't get scared," said Havens, calmly. "Let me run up a couple of these 'electric lights,' and we'll get under way with a rush."

Several lanterns were fastened in position, then the skipper, aided by Howard Fenton, started to shove off. Clumsy and heavily laden, the boat resisted their efforts for a moment, then swung out suddenly into the gurgling water, at the same instant giving a lurch which was far from reassuring.

The sail was hoisted and the "Dart" instantly responded by plunging her nose deeply in the water, white showers of spray were sent flying in all directions.

Dave Brandon was presently heard to murmur, "H'm—that last one hit the only dry spot left."

In the dim light, the crags of Promontory Island looked gigantic and the dark line of firs on Hemlock blended mysteriously into the distance.

"I 'most wish we hadn't come," declared Tom Clifton, nervously. "Wow! I thought she was going over that time sure."

"Wind enough to blow a fellow's head off," grumbled Dick. "It's worse than I thought."

"And listen to that water gurgling," observed Fenton. "Keep your eyes open for the 'Dauntless.'"

"Likely to meet her in the passageway," said Havens, grimly. "Hold on tight, fellows, and mind your heads!"

The sail rattled and banged as the boom swung around, while a sheet of water foamed over the sides. Already they were drawing near the space which separated the islands.

"Oh, we'll get smashed to bits," groaned Tom Clifton.

"Not on your life, sonny," laughed the skipper. "I could go through here with my eyes shut."

A moment more, and the "Dart" glided into comparatively smooth water.

"Oh, ho! This is better," remarked the "poet," cheerfully, "but I guess the next stretch will be worse than ever, eh, Bob?"

"We're going to be tossed about a bit, that's sure," commented the captain. "How wet are you, Chub, anyway?"

"Just a little more than if I'd been soused in the lake," laughed Dave. "Hello, here comes the finishing touch—rain, by Jove! Might as well get out and swim."

When the "Dart" reached the end of the passageway, the lights of the village could be seen, apparently so distant that Tom uttered an exclamation.

"Crickets, think of all that water to be crossed!" he groaned.

"Seems a lot because it's dark," put in Havens. "The 'Dart' isn't so fast, but she'll make it in no time, with this breeze."

As they rounded the shore of Hemlock Island, a pouring rain began to beat in their faces, and almost every instant hissing, foaming water dashed over the gunwale. Once outside its friendly shelter, the "Dart" began to pitch and toss in an alarming manner.

Suddenly, a furious blast heeled her far over and she shivered from stem to stern.

A chorus of excited exclamations rose above the whistling wind.

"Get the bucket, somebody!" yelled Havens. "Bale her out, quick!"

Bob Somers, reaching forward, was tumbled to his knees in the water that swished forth and back with every movement of the boat.

But he got the bucket. Dick seized another, and both set vigorously to work.

"Don't let up, fellows," commanded Havens. "Here's another big one. Hold on tight!"

Again the "Dart" staggered and shook. For an instant, the boys fairly held their breath. Then Sam Randall made an alarming discovery.

"Great Cæsar!" he cried. "The piece of wood which plugged up that hole in the side is gone!"

"And the water is just pouring in," added Havens, in a voice which betrayed both surprise and agitation.

"Oh, why did we ever come!" wailed little Tom Clifton.

"Everybody look around for that piece of board," went on the skipper, earnestly. "Hurry up—hole isn't much above the water line."

A quick search proved without result.

"Fill it up with any old thing," commanded Dave. "Don't get scared, fellows. Shore isn't very far now."

The boy's calm tones inspired the others, and an instant later Bob Somers was stuffing an old coat through the opening. Even Tom Clifton forgot his fright for the moment.

The downpour increased, however, until the village lights were entirely blotted out. Nothing could now be seen through the impenetrable blackness, and all sense of direction was speedily lost. The lanterns threw weird splashes of light around the storm-tossed boat and upon its water-soaked occupants. All strained their eyes to pierce the gloom, hoping that each moment the veil might lift, but the minutes flew by with nothing to cheer their sight.

"We're in an awful fix," groaned Tom Clifton, his teeth almost chattering. "Where in the dickens are we, Havens?"

"It would take a smarter chap than I am to tell you, Tom."

"And we're just racing along, too."

"Going like sixty—that's a fact."

"Jim, you're a reckless skipper," said Howard Fenton. "It's a good thing you know more than we do about the lake."

The light revealed an anxious expression upon Havens' face, but he held the tiller with a firm grip and remained perfectly cool.

"Here, Sam, take hold of this bucket for a moment and bail!" cried Dick Travers. "Whew! we owe Sanders and Dugan something for this;" and, as he was relieved, Dick groped his way forward.

The violent motion began to have its effect upon Tom Clifton. "I feel awful funny, fellows," he gasped. "Christopher, I do!"

"I say, Havens," yelled Bob, "we must be getting pretty well in, now. Hadn't you better come about on another tack?"

"Wouldn't be surprised. The wind has shifted two or three times and there's no telling which way we may be headed." The skipper smiled grimly. "The rain is letting up a bit," he added. "Look out for the lights ahead and keep on bailing."

"Feeling better now, Tommy?" asked Dave Brandon. "You'll be——"

"Great Cæsar!" An exclamation interrupted him. Then a series of wild shouts arose on the night air, as a crunching and grinding suddenly sounded.

"What's up—what's the——" But Dave did not finish the sentence.

A violent shock tumbled the boys in a confused heap. Then came a terrific pounding. The "Dart" gave a convulsive shiver, turned sharply over on its side, and seven boys, wildly grabbing at empty space, were sent heels over head into the black water of Mountain Lake.

As he felt the chilling water encircle his neck, Tom Clifton gave a frantic shout for help. Then his cries were instantly stifled.

Choking, gripped by a terror which nerved him to fight with all the energy he possessed, Tom struggled to reach the surface. Unable, like the others, to swim, he could only kick and thresh out with his arms in a blind and desperate effort. He had a confused idea of touching bottom—then, gasping and choking, his head rose clear of the swirling water.

Vainly he tried to keep afloat. Down he went again, until his ears began to sing and the water poured down his throat. Then, as he gave up hope, something touched his collar with a firm, strong grip, and he felt himself rising. His head came above the surface for the second time, and a voice shouted in his ear, "Put your legs down and stand straight up!"

Dave Brandon's strong arms held him, and, mechanically obeying his friend's command, Tom found to his astonishment that by so doing he could touch bottom.

The wave of thankfulness which swept through him could not quite blot out the few awful moments through which he had just passed, and, for the time being, all he could do was to stand erect and hold on tight.

"Feel all right, Tommy?" asked the "poet," kindly.

It was difficult to talk, with the water bubbling and splashing around them. And the wind was cold. Even Dave's teeth were chattering and his words came out in a series of jerks.

"Sure—fine," whispered Tom.

His hand closed with a tighter grip on that of Dave's. Then his eyes fell on a curious spectacle.

Close by, partly submerged, was the "Dart." A lone lantern illuminated with a feeble, yellow glow the heads of his companions, all staring at him anxiously.

"You make me think of a lot of pumpkins."

That is what Tom meant to say, but the cold and a strange weakness prevented such a lengthy effort.

Presently he heard Jim Havens remark, "Tommy's all right, fellows. Let's skip before we get stuck in the mud." Then, almost before he realized it, they had left the treacherous water and were climbing up a bank.

"I feel like a beautiful mess," groaned Havens, when they came to a halt.

"I'd like to have a good, square look at you," returned Bob, grimly. "I want to laugh, but can't. It isn't any island for you to-night, eh, Havens?"

"Not unless I swim back," was the reply. "Something is holding the 'Dart' fast. Awful lucky we weren't spilled out in the middle of the lake. Come along, fellows," he added. "Let's get our blood in circulation;" and he started off on a trot.

Bedraggled and miserable, his companions followed through the rain. The exercise began to warm their chilled bodies and the prospect of reaching shelter spurred them on.

When the lights of the Resort House were seen burning against the blackness, the group slowed down.

They declined Fenton's invitation to stop at the hotel.

"We'd like to, old man," grinned Bob, "but it's the Rickham for us to-night."

Sam Bins was amazed when the five boys arrived.

"Fo' de land ob goodness, is you de same gemmen what left dis mornin'?" he asked. "Whar', fo' goodness' sake, has yo' been?"

"In the lake, paying a visit to the fishes," replied Bob, as he made a break for his room.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the Ramblers, in dry clothes, were enjoying a hearty meal, and Sam Bins' curiosity was satisfied.

## CHAPTER VI

### THE NATIONAL GAME

Dugan and Sanders had intended to return the "Dauntless" that night. They sailed to the end of the lake, where "Big Bill's" cottage was situated, and tied up. But the storm coming up prevented them from carrying out their plans.

At daybreak the following morning, they set out, and were startled to see the "Dart" lying in shoal water. Badly frightened, the boys immediately headed for the hotel wharf, and lost no time in mooring the "Dauntless" to her accustomed place.

When Havens was encountered, later in the morning, the members of the Idleman's Club had a falling out. It was a lively affair, and proved very amusing to a group of loungers on the Resort House porch. Mr. Fenton, hearing the rumpus, also took a hand in the proceedings, to the great discomfiture of the two bold pirates.

Of course the encampment on Promontory Island came to an abrupt close. Dugan and Sanders, disgusted at the outcome, also quarreled and went their separate ways.

One morning, just before breakfast, Bob Somers and Dick Travers were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool air.

"So the ball game's coming off to-morrow, eh, Bob?" remarked the latter, in a tone of satisfaction. "Who's on our team besides Fenton?"

"Phil Levins, Havens, and that little fellow from Boston."

"Old duck, with a bald head, eh?" said Dick, flippantly.

"Plays ball like a streak, though, they say. Fairly eats up hot liners and all that sort of thing. He played short-stop for Harvard, I'm told."

"Just the kind we need. These chaps out here may know a thing or two about the game. No telling but what Mr. Barton has done a lot of coaching. Hello, Chub!"

The stout boy ambled slowly out on the porch. "You fellows still talking baseball?" he asked. "Why don't you look at that great effect over there? See that hazy light across the mountains?"

"Oh, the dickens with that," grumbled Dick. "The game's coming off to-morrow, and you've got to hold down first base."

"By Jove, that's a hard thing to do, though. Still, I'd like to try it."

"What—painting or first base?"

"Why—weren't we talking about painting, Dick Travers?"

"I'll begin on 'camera' pretty soon, unless you quit, Dave Brandon."

"Oh, well, who do we play against, then?" sighed Dave.

"A lot of village chaps, and if we get beaten they'll have a jolly good laugh on us, too."

"I always did like ham and eggs, boys," observed Dave, reflectively. "Hope Sam Bins is cooking enough. Yesterday I only had three eggs and——"

But, with a despairing gesture, Dick Travers arose and walked inside.

That afternoon the boys spent in practicing. Havens was on hand, and Phil Levins, a village lad, also took an active part. The visitor from Boston proved to be Mr. George Kimball, a small man, with a fringe of sandy hair around a dome-shaped head, watery blue eyes and insignificant yellow moustache.

"I see you chaps can play some," he said, in a high-pitched voice; "but several, I won't say who, take a bit too much time in getting set before throwing the ball. Shoot it right over. Here, Somers, let me show you. Bat out a liner."

Mr. Kimball smiled complacently and trotted out in the field. Then a sharp crack of the bat sounded.

"By Jove, he's a hummer, and no mistake," remarked Sam. "Look how he took that bounder and sent it back."

"Yes! But Dave is what bothers me," whispered Dick. "He reminds me of a freight car, and side-tracked at that."

"Well, boys," said Bob, as, perspiring and happy, they walked toward the house, "we ought to put up a pretty good game."

"And I suppose I'll have to hop around like a sparrow again to-morrow," said Dave, with a quizzical look at the others, and a wide, very wide smile played for a moment on the face of Mr. George Kimball, of Boston.

The day for the game proved ideal. The sky was flecked with a few white clouds and a slight breeze tempered the rays of the sun.

No one would have dreamed that so many people could be found in the small mountain village and its immediate surroundings. They came by twos, threes, and in groups, flocking under the shade of a few big trees, and cheered when the town boys began to practice.

"Little Bill" Dugan was among the players. He glanced coldly toward the Ramblers and their friends, and sniffed scornfully at a white board which Dick Travers had nailed to an apple tree. Painted on it in big letters was the following:

Somers, p.
Brandon, 1b.
Randall, c.
Travers, cf.
Clifton, rf.
Havens, ss.
Fenton, 3b.
Levins, 2b.
Kimball, lf.

Mr. Fenton accepted the position of official scorer, while a man from Chicago, Mr. Perkins, was agreed upon as umpire.

The Ramblers won the toss and took their positions upon the field.

"Play ball!"

The spectators sat up, and the game was on.

"Speed 'em over, Bob," yelled Dick. "Make him hit it. Put the lap dazzle shoot on it—yi, yi!"

Bob smiled, and sent in a wide out-curve.

"One ball!" yelled Mr. Perkins.

"H'm," muttered the pitcher.

Crack. Grimshaw, of the mountain team, swung, smashing the ball squarely, and sped for first.

Then came a loud shout, when Kimball in left field jumped in the air and pulled down the fly.

The next man also solved Bob's delivery, but Havens managed to get the ball over to Dave an instant ahead of the runner.

"It wasn't out!" yelled Dugan.

"You keep quiet," counseled one of the others, and "Little Bill," scowling fiercely, turned away.

The next man struck out, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Bob walked in and picked up a bat.

"Take it easy, Somers," advised Dave. "Don't slam at the first. There—that's the way."

"Ball!" cried Mr. Perkins.

"Two balls!"

"Three!"

"One strike!"

Crack. A hot liner burned the short-stop's hand. He let it drop, and Bob, smiling good-naturedly, was safe on first.

Dave Brandon slowly ambled up to the plate.

"Chuck me an easy one, Grimshaw," he said.

The pitcher grinned. One strike—two strikes—the smile broadened, but the stout boy did not seem in the least disturbed.

Dick Travers groaned. "Mind yourself, Dave. Get Bob off that bag."

Hurrah! Dave's sturdy arms swung the bat with telling force. Gleefully the Ramblers saw the ball flying far beyond the right-fielder's reach, and the "freight car" getting over the ground at astonishing speed.

Bob, with a desperate slide, managed to reach home, while Dave, puffing and blowing, stopped on third.

But the boys' high hopes, at this auspicious beginning, were dashed when Randall and Travers were thrown out at first and Clifton fanned the air three times.

"Never mind," laughed Bob, as the shrill yells of the mountain adherents were still echoing; "keep up your good work, Dave. We have them beaten by a mile."

But the next inning proved disastrous. Their rivals earned three runs, and the shouting redoubled.

"Hi, hi! Did they ever see a ball before?" yelled "Little Bill."

"Ah—ah! Look at that hit—yi, yi, yi!" came from others.

Mr. Kimball looked worried. "Not working quite enough together, boys," he said. "Take it easy—don't let the noise rattle you. Who's up? You, Havens? Now give us a line drive like Dave's, and we won't find any fault with you."

Havens prided himself upon being a heavy hitter. He swung his bat far around and after missing two good balls landed on the third. Grimshaw dodged. Dugan, at second base, made a wild grab for the sphere, tripped and tumbled head foremost into the grass. Then, as it neared the limits of the grounds, two fielders came together with a crash. Havens ran for all he was worth, did not stop to look around and was home long before the ball had been recovered.

"Good work, old man," cried the delighted Sam Randall. "Only one more, and the score is tied."

Fenton hit safely. Levins was out on a foul tip and Kimball walked to first on balls.

The head of the batting order was again up. Bob had his eye on the ball and another line drive resulted from his efforts, but it went straight into the hands of the waiting second baseman, who easily threw him out.

"How's that for style?" called "Little Bill," a moment after the first baseman's gloves closed on his throw.

"Worst play I ever saw," returned Dave Brandon, who was already at the plate; "you had lots of time to touch second and make a double play."

Dave swung fiercely at the first ball pitched, only to miss it by a very scant margin, and the fielders all played out as far as possible. A tantalizing slow one he failed to aim at, and strike two was called on him.

The instant Grimshaw received the return throw, he whipped in the speediest inshoot of which he was capable. Brandon was not caught napping. He met it by the merest tip, and a little pop fly dropped safely in the territory usually covered by short-stop.

Fenton raced home, and the score was tied.

"Hi, hi! Did we ever see a ball before!" cried Dick. "Oh—wow! It'll be about ten to three."

But the end of the seventh told a different story. Mr. Fenton's card showed the score to be seven to six in favor of the Ramblers.

Bob stepped up, determined to make a mighty effort. Grimshaw was weakening.

"Put it over, Grimmy," yelled Dugan. "He can't hit anything—never could."

The captain smiled, then bunted, and the ball rolled slowly toward the pitcher. Grimshaw made a frantic dash, fumbled it, and Bob, on a close decision, was declared safe at first.

"Oh, yi, yi, he calls that safe!" yelled Dugan. "The feller was out by a mile. We won't stand for anything like that."

He came in from second, followed by several of the others, and the home plate was immediately surrounded. Then the crowd began to shout.

"Get back to your places," commanded the umpire, briefly.

"Yes, skip back, Dugan," added Dave. "That hit was easily safe."

"I ain't a-talkin' to you," cried "Little Bill," angrily. "I say it wasn't safe."

"Come now, Dugan, trot out in the field," went on Brandon, quietly.

"I will not! An'——"

"The man was safe, and my decision stands," exclaimed Mr. Perkins in an authoritative tone.

"You don't know the game, then," blustered Dugan, excitedly. "Look out! Don't you bump into me, fat feller."

Dave laughed good-naturedly.

"You make an awful lot of noise for a little chap," he said.

"A little chap, eh?" Bill clenched his fists, his eyes blazed with passion. Dave had touched him on a tender point.

"I'll show you how little I am," he yelled. "Here's where trouble begins."

His right fist shot out in the direction of Dave's nose.

But the "poet" jumped nimbly aside, then his sturdy arms encircled "Little Bill's" waist, and, in an instant, the latter found himself on the ground.

"Let go—lemme be!" he cried.

But Dave was calmly sitting on his shoulder.

"Look out—help! You'll mash me ter nuthin'!" yelled Bill, frantically.

"Keep quiet," admonished Dave. "Lie still! A little conversation might be all right, but we don't want any shouting."

"Push that elephant off, somebody. I'm mashed to a pulp a'ready. Oh, now, Grimshaw, don't stand there like an idjit."

"We were talking," said Dave, pleasantly, "about keeping quiet. Now, if you promise to do what I say, an awful lot of trouble will be saved."

There was no help for it. Dave Brandon's hundred and seventy-two pounds held the belligerent ball player helpless, and Bill, furious and chagrined, was obliged to surrender.

"You ain't heard the last of this, you clumsy elephant!" he shouted, as he arose and edged away. "Don't you forget it!"

Dave's face wore a very broad grin.

But Mr. Perkins was speaking—"No, Dugan, you cannot continue to play," he said, firmly. "How is it, boys?—good—we don't want any rowdyism on this field."

There was a few minutes of silence. Grimshaw held a brief conference with his fellow players, then walked forward and called out in a loud voice, "Hello, Sanders, get down there to second and play the base."

It was a very willing boy that hurried forward to obey this summons, and Bill Dugan, thoroughly discomfited, almost immediately saw the game going on without him.

And the score still stood seven to six when the villagers came to bat in the ninth. It was their last chance, and they were determined to at least tie the score.

"My arm's getting kind of played out, Dave," whispered Bob. "I'll do what I can."

"You can't do any more," said the other, soothingly. "Make them hit it—we'll do the rest," and the stout boy grinned.

Clayton was the name of their opponents' first batsman. He came within one of striking out, then drove the ball over Havens' head and sprinted to second.

Loud cheers came from the spectators, and Bob looked worried.

"Don't let them get your nerve, old man," called Sam.

The loud coaching of Mills and continuous cries from the field, intended to disconcert the Ramblers, only served to spur pitcher Somers to greater efforts. Putting forth every ounce of strength he possessed, the captain sent in an inshoot.

The batter knocked a fly, which Fenton on third easily caught. Clayton, who had been playing off second, just got back in the nick of time.

Mills fanned the air three times, and threw down his bat in disgust. Their chances seemed about to go glimmering, yet one good hit might save the day.

Dalton, a big, strong chap, older than any of his team mates, faced the pitcher. Clayton played away off second. It was a moment of intense interest to the spectators and anxiety to the Ramblers.

Bob forced the runner back to the base by a throw, then pitched the ball quickly. Clayton anticipated this, risked everything and was instantly off on a wild dash for third.

Sam handled the sphere nicely, making a perfect throw.

There was an expectant hush, as ball and runner neared the bag. A cloud of dust arose. Clayton had thrown himself flat, and touched the base with his hand.

The silence, intensified until not a sound could be heard, continued for a moment longer. Then Mr. Perkins' voice rang out clearly. "Safe," he said.

A storm of cheers broke forth, while the cries which it was hoped would disconcert the pitcher redoubled.

"One strike!"

"Two strikes!"

Bob grinned and gripped the ball more firmly. Then came Mr. Perkins' voice again, "One ball—two balls!"

All eyes were upon the stalwart form of Dalton. One more strike, and the game would be over.

But as the next ball shot above the plate, a solid smack sounded. An awkward bounder was ripping toward first base at such a speed that the eye could scarcely follow it.

Another great shout arose as Clayton sped home. No one expected that the ball would be fielded until the batter was safe on second.

Then the spectators witnessed an astonishing sight. Dave Brandon darted off the bag with lightning agility. Breathlessly they watched him. The stout boy reached far out.

"Look at that elephant," remarked "Little Bill" to the boy sitting next to him. "What does he think he's going to do?"

Smack! The ball had bounded, striking squarely in the centre of Brandon's mitt. Dave instantly recovered himself and made for first base.

Then a series of wild yells and whoops from the Ramblers broke forth, for Mr. Perkins was heard to say, "Runner out on first." By a fraction of a second, Dave had beaten Dalton in the race and won the game.

Even the villagers were good-natured enough to cheer his play, and the "poet" almost blushed when his enthusiastic friends surrounded him.

"Bully boy," said Mr. Kimball, patting him on the shoulder. "Biggest surprise out. Thought, from the way you moved yesterday, that—oh, well, what's the use of saying it?"

"And I called him a 'side-tracked freight car,'" mused Dick, with a smile.

"When Chub gets waked up, he's like a streak o' lightning," declared Bob. "Now, I'm satisfied. We've had a good game, and, what's more, won it. Let's skip off on our hunting trip next week——Say, but wasn't 'Little Bill' wild, though," and Bob smiled at the recollection.

"An' don't you think he's goin' ter forgit what that elephant done, neither," growled a voice.

Unobserved, Dugan had approached. But he stopped at a respectful distance, and pointed his finger threateningly toward Dave Brandon.

"You'll wish yer hadn't, fat feller!" he cried. "Remember what I says," and he stalked slowly off the field.

"He's wearing his number one sour expression," laughed Dick. "Most as bad as the mountaineer we saw at the hotel."

"Bill's a pretty mean fellow at times," put in Jim Havens, "but I wouldn't pay any attention to him. Let's fix it up about that trip to the mountains."

The boys, accordingly, made their way to the porch of the Rickham House, Mr. Kimball and Phil Levins accompanying them.

Before supper time, all arrangements had been made. It was decided that Bob, Dave Brandon and Dick Travers would take the first jaunt, and on their return Sam and Tom could go off on theirs.

"That way, we'll all have a fling at it during the summer," said Bob; "not once, but a couple of times, and the Rickham will never be left without an occupant."

"You fellows ought to have a daisy time," observed Phil Levins.

"It makes me feel real envious, boys," said Mr. Kimball of Boston, "but—well, I never handled a gun or fishing pole in my life—I'm more at home running over a column of figures in a ledger than I would be facing a grizzly—but, seriously, don't you think it's rather a risky undertaking?"

"Huh! I guess the Rambler Club can take care of itself," and Mr. Kimball laughed at the scorn which Dick Travers put into his tones.

## CHAPTER VII

### FUR, FIN, AND FEATHER

Four panting and tired boys came to a halt in the midst of a dense forest on the sloping sides of a mountain. Early that morning, Sam Bins had driven them as far as he could toward their destination.

Besides weapons and fishing-tackle, each hunter had a pair of blankets—rubber and woolen—and a water-proof canvas bag which contained tin dishes, a pair of moccasins, a compass, match-safe, and plenty of rope and twine, besides nails. Havens carried a lantern and small saw. All were provided with hatchets and hunting knives, and provisions were divided up among them.

Dave Brandon, in addition, carried a brand new paint box, and the official photographer his camera. Everything unnecessary had been omitted, yet the outfits strapped to their backs were not light ones.

Dave Brandon threw himself wearily upon a flat rock.

"Oh, but I am tired," he exclaimed. "This truck weighs a ton. Where are we going to stop, Jim?"

"I know a dugout that's just the thing for us," responded Havens. "Sanders and I used it for a while last year. A long time ago, 'Surly Joe' hung out there."

"'Surly Joe', that's a nice name," laughed Bob. "A good disposition, I suppose, eh?"

"Such a nice one that I hope we don't meet him. But there isn't a better hunter around these parts than Joe Tomlin."

"Why, that's the old chap we saw at the hotel," put in Dick Travers. "Remember, Bob?"

"Sure thing. Don't wonder they call him 'Surly Joe.' He certainly looked sour enough."

"He's a good friend of 'Big Bill's,'" explained Havens. "Every once in a while Joe gets to the village, but he and I don't gee together a bit."

"This climbing is tough work," drawled Dave. "I ache all over. How far is that dugout, Havens?"

"We ought to reach it before nightfall."

Dave, who had arisen, sank back on the rock, with a gesture of dismay.

"And this is what we get for going after fur, fin and feather," he groaned.

In a short time, the march was resumed. The region about them was wild and rugged. The forest contained a great variety of trees; shrubbery, underbrush and tangled vines were so dense in places as to make progress difficult. Boulders and rocks lay strewn about in profusion, and the boys found it necessary to rest frequently.

"Should think there would be a lot of caves around here," panted Bob.

"There are," replied Havens, "and if you run across any, knock on the door before you stick your head inside."

"Oh, we know," laughed Dick; "bears and other beasts."

"That's right. If you keep your eyes open, you can see their tracks all around."

"Just listen to the birds," observed Dave. "Doesn't their singing and chattering sound fine? Hear that woodpecker tapping."

"Working for his living, eh?" grinned Dick.

"Look—a Jack rabbit," cried Bob, suddenly. "I'll bet I could have knocked him over easy. See him? He jumped over that log, running like sixty."

"I see something prettier," said Dave.

A bird, singing cheerily, had just darted across, a flaming spot of orange against the rich green hemlocks beyond.

"An oriole," announced the "poet." "A beautiful little bird, and a noisy one, too. Listen to his chatter."

"If you fellows don't want to sleep out in the open to-night, you'd better be coming along," said Havens, and Dave, with a sigh, again struggled to his feet.

"Listen!" Dick stopped and held up his hand. "What's that noise?" he asked.

"The rapids," replied Havens. "I thought we must be pretty close to them."

"When we get there, let's stop and have some grub," said Dick. "Wow! My back's 'most broken. Always did hate to lug things."

"I'll sleep all day to-morrow," declared Dave.

"If you do, I'll set a bear on you," laughed Dick.

The noise of rushing water grew louder, and finally, after scrambling over a pile of rocks and forcing their way through a tangled thicket, they reached the bank.

Before them was a dashing, tumbling stream, eddying and foaming past the grim-looking rocks, which for countless ages had disputed its passage in vain. Dancing drops sparkled like silver in the sunshine, currents swirled and bubbled, as the ever-rushing torrent gurgled forth its musical lament.

"Oh, ho, what a lovely sight," exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Look at those trees bending over, the reflection in the water and that mass of pink dogwood."

"Pretty enough, Chubby," admitted Dick, "but I'm thirsty as thunder."

"You can get a drink a bit further along," said Havens. "We have to get across, anyway."

"Get across?" echoed Dick.

"Sure thing. The dugout's on the other side."

"Then I suppose I'll have the joy of helping to fish somebody out of the stream," said Dave. "Hello, did I hear anything?"

A low growl seemed to come from the opposite bank.

"What in the world is that?" cried Dick, in a startled tone.

"I see it," exclaimed Bob Somers, excitedly. "Some kind of an animal. Look! It's on that limb. Great Cæsar! What a whopper!"

Partially screened behind a mass of leaves, a long, tawny animal was crouching, with ears thrown back and glaring eyes. Its long tail lashed from side to side, and its powerful, muscular body seemed to quiver with anger.

As if fascinated, the boys gazed at it for some instants without speaking. Their nerves tingled.

"What is it?" asked Bob, in a suppressed voice. "A panther?"

"Yes, though most people out here call the beast a mountain lion, or painter," replied Jim Havens. "That is one of the biggest I ever saw."

"Awful glad he's on the other side of the street," murmured Dave. "Not so sure, now, that I'm fond of hunting. Say—doesn't he look fierce?"

"They won't bother you much if they're let alone, but corner 'em, and I'd 'most as soon have a grizzly in front of me. It's a quiet beast—doesn't screech much, though once in a while he'll let out a yell that makes you sit up and take notice."

"Shall we risk a shot?" asked Dick, eagerly.

"No, I think not," replied Havens. "You might only wound him, and in case he managed to get across—well, Sanders and I had a scrap with one last year, and I ain't anxious for another."

"Look—he's off!" cried Bob.

With a low growl, the panther dropped lightly to the ground and disappeared in a dense thicket.

"They're great fellows for staying in trees," went on Havens, "and for springing down upon any animal that happens to pass. Hard to see, too—the color is so much like the bark."

"Well, I'm glad it's skipped," said Dick. "Hang it, if I'd only thought, I might have made a snap-shot."

"The trip is just begun," laughed Havens. "Get out your grub, fellows. Cat or no cat, James is going to eat."

"Maybe that ferocious beast is waiting for us on the other side of the creek," said Dave.

"And possibly is ready for lunch, too," added Bob.

The boys looked at the swirling water and slippery rocks, the dark, overhanging banks with here and there gnarled roots exposed by crumbling away of the earth, then paused to consider.

"I think it will not be necessary for us to cross just now," said Dave, facetiously.

No one offered an objection, and the quartet thereupon found seats.

Sandwiches, washed down with clear, cold water, refreshed them all.

On resuming the march, they kept as close as possible to the rapids. Presently Havens led the way out on a bank.

"What a magnificent view," exclaimed Dave, pointing toward the opposite range of mountains.

"Couldn't be finer, Chubby," declared Bob.

"This is where we cross the stream, fellows," put in Havens. "Get ready for your bath."

"I'm going first—here's a scheme," he added. "I'll tie a rope around my waist. You fellows hang on to the end, and if I slip I won't go ten miles without stopping."

"Right you are, old man," said Bob. "That water is pretty deep in places."

The necessary precaution having been attended to, Havens carefully stepped upon a large, flat rock.

"Slippery as the dickens," he said.

"Why shouldn't it be?" observed the "poet." "It's been here for a million years, perhaps."

"Don't get to dreaming, Dave," laughed Bob.

"Chubby's the clumsiest chap I ever saw, yet he does everything right," observed Dick, thoughtfully. "At times, I feel like splashing him."

Dave laughed good-naturedly.

Havens made his way carefully from rock to rock. Out in the midst of the stream, with eddying currents and masses of foam on all sides, it looked bigger and more dangerous than when viewed from the bank. The main channel was too wide to jump, and the only means of crossing it was a series of small round boulders so smooth as to scarcely afford a footing.

His companions, who had followed part way, held the rope tightly and waited for him to fall in. It was a matter of some surprise when they found that this was not going to happen.

"Hope that we are just as lucky," said Dick, as he grasped the rope which Havens had tied to a tree, and prepared to follow.

By the time that Travers stood on the opposite bank Bob and Dave were well on their way across. These two worthies did not meet with any mishap, though the stout boy gracefully accepted all the aid that was proffered when it came to the final climb.

"I wonder if his catship is anywhere around," remarked Dick Travers.

"Maybe," answered Havens. "They have a way of skulking about. Keep your eyes peeled."

The boys were soon winded again, but even weariness did not prevent them from enjoying the forest. Gloomy and grand, it surrounded them on all sides. With heads bared to the whispering breeze, the boys lolled on the ground and looked at the patches of clear blue sky between the interlacing branches, and forgot, for the moment, whatever dangers might exist. Each breath of air brought with it some woodland odor—of fragrant pine or dogwood and many other plants.

"Grand," sighed Dave, peering dreamily through half-closed eyelids.

"Worth all our trouble," said Bob. "But say, Jim, will you be able to find that dugout?"

"I'd be a silly chump if I couldn't," answered Havens. "Tramped these mountains too many times to lose my bearings."

"But suppose some one is living there?"

"Build a lean-to; or I know a cave where we might put up for a few days."

"Rent high?" asked Dick.

"No, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had a bear for a landlord."

Fifteen minutes later, just as Dave was about to declare his inability to go a step further, Jim announced that the dugout was close at hand.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed the "poet," wearily.

But it was still some time before Havens uttered a grunt of satisfaction, then said, "It's right over there, fellows—back of that clump of trees."

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick.

"Me, too," sighed Dave. "I'd holler like that if I wasn't so tired."

In a few moments, they saw a log structure built against a wall of rock.

"Never was so glad to see anything in my life," declared Bob Somers. "It doesn't look big enough for the whole bunch, though, Jim."

Havens smiled. "Don't you know that a dugout is a log cabin or some kind of a shack built in front of a cave?" he asked.

"Good! This is a dandy place, eh, Dave?" cried Bob, enthusiastically. "Imagine sitting out here, after a good day's sport, with a venison steak broiling over the fire!"

"I'll get indigestion, if you talk that way, Bob Somers," said Dave, severely, as he threw his burden down on the turf.

"Don't go rushing in, fellows," warned Jim. "Sometimes a varmint takes it into his ugly head to use it for a stopping place."

But impatient Dick Travers was already at the door, uttering a series of wild whoops.

"All right!" he sang out, as his form disappeared from view.

The dugout, though solidly built, showed the ravages of time. The door was missing and a tree, dislodged by some gale, had fallen across the roof, leaving a gaping hole.

But, in spite of these defects, the boys were delighted.

"We can fix it up in short order," declared Bob.

"Not to-day, thank you," said Dave.

The light from a single window illuminated the interior of a spacious cave. Several reminders of its former occupants, a rude table and chairs, were scattered around.

"Don't see any piano," murmured Dave Brandon.

"Fell over a precipice as they were bringing it up," laughed Havens.

After a short rest, Jim, who seemed to be the least tired, set about collecting fuel, and soon had a fire started. Then outfits were unpacked, and dishes and provisions brought forth.

Bob suddenly straightened up. "Jim," he said, solemnly, "how about water?"

"Just beyond that big cedar," Havens indicated the direction, "you'll find a rivulet. Don't go without your gun."

"Oh, no," laughed the other; "I've been out in the woods before."

Bob had no trouble in finding water, and when he returned preparations for supper were under way. Havens and Brandon attended to this duty, while Dick Travers and Bob Somers went off in search of cedar boughs.

Armed with hatchets, they kept steadily at work, and although very tired, did not desist until a large quantity of the fragrant leaves had been collected. Then Dave helped drag them to the dugout. Four beds were made in the cave, after which the hunters, well satisfied with the result of their labor, sat down to supper.

"What's on the bill of fare?" asked Bob.

"Sardines, bacon, crackers, cheese and coffee," said Dave.

"Not bad, for a starter. Guess I can get away with my share all right."

"Nothing like outdoor life to give a fellow an appetite," commented Dick.

Dusk soon gathered. The forest looked grim and sombre, and when night came it was pleasant to watch the twinkling stars overhead and to listen to the weird sounds which often filled the air.

Havens piled a couple of logs on the fire and the dancing flames sent forth a cheerful glow.

Finally Dave Brandon picked up a lantern and led the way into the dugout. When all were inside, he stretched a blanket across the door, then, following the example of the others, spread his rubber blanket over the fir brush. Bob hung the lantern upon a board projecting near the hole in the roof.

"Good-night, fellows," said Jim.

"Good-night," responded the others. Then silence reigned.

Dick Travers' slumber was not refreshing. Occasionally, he half opened his eyes. The interior of the cave, in the dim light, looked very strange. Deep black shadows stretched up to the jagged roof, and, in places, some mineral sparkled brightly.

But it was something else that finally caught his attention, and caused him to sit bolt upright. A strange sound seemed to come from the roof of the log house.

Dick slowly rose to his feet, and listened intently. He hesitated to awaken his soundly sleeping companions.

As the boy was about to steal forward, a sharp crash echoed throughout the cave with startling clearness. Then followed a series of sounds which fairly made his hair stand on end.

## CHAPTER VIII

### THE INTRUDER

The sleepers awoke on the instant, and scrambled to their feet.

"Great Scott! What was that?" cried Bob Somers.

"Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Dave.

"Grab your guns!" yelled Havens.

Several timbers fell with a loud clatter, and the lantern, dashed to the floor, promptly went out. Then a dark form crashed through the roof, flopping heavily on its back, while a series of savage growls and whines made the boys cower back in the darkest part of the cave.

"A bear!" shouted Jim Havens, "and a whopper."

Dick Travers, who had left his gun in front, was panic-stricken at the idea of being bottled up. Out in the open, he would at least have a chance in flight.

The pale moonlight, streaming through the window, revealed the animal pinioned beneath heavy timbers. Now was his chance. With a yell, Dick darted forward, and just as he did so, bruin rolled over on his feet.

Dick Travers' terror lent him strength. Bounding forward, he grazed the animal's back, brought up against the blanket, tore it from its fastenings, then stumbled at full length outside the door.

Bruin, no doubt astonished and alarmed at his own mishap and the commotion which followed, uttered another roar and turned tail.

Just as Dick Travers scrambled to his feet, a huge black body dashing by knocked him flat, and the boy let out a yell which could have been heard a mile.

The moon had risen above a belt of timber, throwing a silvery light over the landscape, and it showed the bear getting away at surprising speed.

The three boys who remained in the cave quickly recovered their wits.

"After him!" cried Havens, loudly.

Bob was first at the entrance. Raising his rifle, he sent a bullet speeding toward the retreating form. Then Havens' gun echoed sharply, but it was evident that neither shot took effect.

"Well, well," panted the poet. "A nice little surprise, eh? Hurt, Dick?"

"Not a bit of it, Dave." Dick's tones spoke of a troubled spirit. His companions were looking at him slyly.

"Ever take a prize in jumping?" asked Havens. "I'd bet on you, all right."

"I might as well admit it—he got my nerve," said Dick, frankly.

"Don't let it worry you, old man," said the "poet," laughingly.

"What do you suppose the old duffer was up to?" asked Bob.

"Guess he thought things looked kinder funny 'round here, so he walked up the tree and stepped on the roof. It's a beautiful mess, now isn't it?"

"A good day's work to fix it," commented Bob.

"Think the bear is likely to come back?" queried Dick.

"Not after the scare you gave him," grinned Havens. "Still, to be on the safe side, we'll take turns on guard."

This arrangement was agreed to, but the rest of the night passed without incident.

After breakfast, the boys decided to work on the hut. Bob Somers and Dick Travers climbed to the roof and began to remove the loose boards.

"Work, you fellows, work," said Dave, as he lay indolently on a bit of turf. "I'll help with advice."

"All right, Chub," laughed Bob.

"Don't think I will, either—I'll paint a sketch."

"Good," cried Dick. "Good."

Havens, axe and saw in hand, had gone off to the woods to get material, and the sounds which came from the timber indicated that he must be hard at work.

Dave got out his paint box and, seated Turk fashion before a canvas, began to squint dreadfully.

"Hey there, who are you making faces at?" asked Dick.

"Oh, of course you don't understand," said Dave Brandon, loftily. "That's to shut out the detail. All artists do it. You ought to see Professor Mead when he paints."

"Glad I don't have to, if he puts on such a face as that."

"It's worse."

"It couldn't be. Hello, what's up?"

Havens was heard to shout—then a second cry came from the woods.

"More bears, I wonder?" exclaimed Bob.

"Sounds as if he was running like sixty," cried Dick. "Here he comes. What in thunder's the matter? Did you catch what he said?"

"No."

Bob hastily lowered himself to the ground, and the three boys started toward the rapidly advancing figure.

Then it was seen that Jim Havens' head was surrounded by a dancing cloud of insects.

"Get some pine-knots," yelled the fugitive, slapping wildly at his tormentors. "Ouch! Stir yourselves—beat 'em off—help!"

"Bees!" cried Dave. "Bugville to the front."

All signs of laziness instantly disappeared. He jumped nimbly to his feet, and rushed, with the others, to the fire, where several half-consumed sticks were smouldering.

Havens arrived in their midst. So did the bees. They acted with charming impartiality.

Dick Travers slapped his cheek. "I'm stung first!" he yelled. "Ouch—wow—great Cæsar!"

"Welcome to the honor," said Dave. "Thunderation! Oh—oh! By the flying partridge, that hurts!"

Smoking sticks began to describe half circles and other curves in the air. The boys danced wildly, and hit right and left, up and down, all the while uttering exclamations, as numerous sharp stings were received from the angry insects.

"Take that—and that!" panted Dave. "You will tackle my painting hand, eh?"

"Give it to them!" yelled Bob.

The battle raged furiously, but at length, unable to withstand the onslaught, the insects suddenly buzzed away, leaving not a few of their number slain on the field.

"Oh, my—look at Bob's nose," snickered Dick.

"You ought to feel it."

"I'm satisfied with getting it in the neck;" and Travers tenderly placed his hand on a huge bump behind the ear.

"Three stings on one cheek is about enough, isn't it?" asked Dave.

"What did we ever do to you, Jim?" asked Bob, reproachfully. "It'll take a lot of explaining."

"Oh, I say," whispered Dick, "who's got that book—'First Aid to the Injured'? Trot it out, somebody."

"It's missing," said Dave.

"How's that?"

"Because nobody brought it."

Dick groaned. "Nice way to make a book useful," he said. "What'll we do?"

"Pooh—you fellows haven't got any stings," broke in Havens. He held out his hands ruefully. "Must have been about a thousand buzzing 'round me. Honest—I couldn't handle them alone. Lucky I brought something to——"

"Oh, say that again," cried Dick, hopefully. "You brought something along, eh?—Quick!"

Jim dived for his canvas bag, and took out a bottle.

"Smells like a drug store," said Bob, "but dish it out."

In a few minutes the smarting was somewhat allayed.

"Jim, you have a head," said Dick, admiringly. "Did you expect this to happen?"

"Sure! Anything's liable to happen in the woods."

"What else have you?"

"Something for snake bites and poison ivy."

"Great head! Anything for panther bites and bear hugs?"

"And now, Havens," interrupted Bob, "we want to know how this happened."

"Well, I came across an old hollow tree back there—bees hang out in such places, you know."

"Do they?" said Dick, with tremendous sarcasm.

"As luck would have it, my hatchet fell plumb in the hole—then I strolled over to tell you about it."

"Next time, Jim," said Dave, "you have our permission to do all your strolling in the opposite direction. But," he added, brightening up, "maybe there's some honey over there."

"Light some pine-knots, and we'll soon find out," said Havens.

His directions were put into effect, and in a few minutes they reached the hollow tree.

Havens began operations by hurling a stone.

"Watch 'em," he said.

The angry insects buzzed forth, but were easily put to flight by the blazing torches. Then vigorous blows from Jim Havens' hatchet sent the chips flying.

A cheer broke forth, when a great quantity of honey was disposed to view.

"Bet there's fifty pounds in there," said Dick, gleefully.

"Um—um," exclaimed Dave. "For breakfast, dinner and supper."

"You'll be um—umming more when you taste it," said Bob, slyly.

Back to the dugout for pans and dishes they tramped. These were soon filled to the brim with the most delicious honey. The four proceeded to enjoy some at once, and it was quite a while before work was resumed.

The slender maples which Havens had cut were then dragged to camp. These were nailed about six inches apart over the hole in the roof and a quantity of fir brush interwoven. A rough door was next fashioned out of the remaining saplings, and their work was done.

Late in the afternoon, the four, guns in hand, started off after game. In the course of an hour, they were a considerable distance from the dugout, skirting along the edge of a precipice.

Dick Travers, in advance of the others, caught a glimpse of some animal skulking through the underbrush straight ahead. With visions of securing a pelt worth while, he stole steadily forward.

"As I live, it's a fox," he murmured, excitedly. "Gee, I must get a crack at that."

Flinging caution to the winds, Dick leaped rapidly forward. Suddenly a cry of alarm escaped his lips.

Rushing full tilt through a mass of vegetation, he saw a yawning crevice, a sort of crack extending backward from the face of the cliff, before him. His impetus was too great to be checked, and Dick gave a gasp of horror, as he felt himself sliding over the edge.

## CHAPTER IX

### AN EXCURSION

"Grab hold of him—do, that's a good fellow! Stop the beast! Whoa, Buttercup, whoa! Oh, dear, won't somebody stop him?"

Howard Fenton, seated on Mr. Barton's big black horse, was having a most uncomfortable time in the field by the house. It was the first of a series of lessons in the art of horseback riding that Sam Randall had undertaken to give him.

Sam, Tom Clifton and young Bins, painful to relate, were roaring with laughter.

"Golly, but dis chile neber seed nuthin' like that. Oh, dese city fellers! Golly!" and Sam showed his white teeth again.

Buttercup, as if indignant at the awkwardness of his rider, danced and pawed the ground and bobbed his head up and down, while Howard struggled desperately to hold his seat.

"I know I shall fall! Oh, oh, for goodness' sake—if I break my neck, Sam, it's your—oh—oh——"

The sentence, ending in a wail, was too much for Sam. He seized Buttercup by the bridle, while Bins, nearly convulsed with laughter, aided the frightened rider to dismount.

"Thanks, old chap," panted Howard. "I know I made an awful spectacle of myself. Talk about jolts, bumps and aching bones—say, does anybody really enjoy riding?"

"Oh, listen to him!" cried Sam Bins, with another explosion.

"Of course they do," said Randall, loftily, bestowing a compassionate look upon the crestfallen Howard. "Let me show you how to do it," and he vaulted into the saddle.

Fenton gazed after him admiringly, as he rode around in a wide circle, then skilfully drew his spirited steed alongside.

"You're a crackerjack, Sam," he exclaimed. "But I'll stick to electric cars and trains."

"Oh, dese city fellers," chuckled Sam Bins.

"Here—I'll take a turn, too," put in Tom Clifton.

The smallest member of the Rambler Club also managed Buttercup with ease. Proudly, he put the horse through its paces, and, flushed with triumph, called out, as he rode up, "How's that for riding?"

"You country chaps can beat us out in some things, that's sure," laughed Fenton, good-naturedly.

"Come ahead—you can learn to ride," urged Sam.

"Yes, do. It's as easy as rolling off a log," chimed in Tom.

"Nothing easier than falling off a horse, I think," returned Fenton, with a faint smile. "But not to-day, boys. Oh, no! Guess I've had enough."

"Oh, dese city fellers," repeated Sam Bins, as he led Buttercup back to the stable.

"Wonder how Bob and the other fellows are getting along in the wilderness," said Howard, when the group had turned toward the porch.

"Guess they won't leave any bears or moose for Tom and me," grinned Sam. "They are crack shots—that is all except Chubby. He never seems to hit a thing, any more."

"Hope Dick will get some pictures," put in Tom. "Wish I had a camera, I'd snap some, too."

"I say, Howard," exclaimed Sam, suddenly, "Phil Levins, Tom and I are going over to Promontory this afternoon. I'm teaching Clifton how to swim. Want to take a sail in the 'Spray'? It's a bully day for an outing."

"I may come over later, in the 'Dauntless.' Promised pater I'd do some writing for him," replied Fenton. "Guess I can make it, though, and we'll have a little race on the way back."

"Good! But the 'Spray' will run away from the 'Dauntless,' old man."

"It will—like fun," laughed Fenton, as he took his leave.

Phil Levins met the Ramblers at the wharf. Just as they were clambering aboard the "Spray," "Little Bill" happened to pass. He surveyed them with a scowl.

"I'm a-goin' ter take out that boat, some day, an' don't you forgit it. Old Barton says ter me one day—he says, 'Bill'——"

These were the words that greeted the boys, and Sam Randall cut them off by exclaiming, "Oh, we're not talking about that now, Bill Dugan."

"Ain't you? Well, I'm talking about it, all right. Afear'd I'd hurt the boat, eh? Think you're sich swell sailors, eh? Jist you wait, fellers."

"All year, if you want," laughed Sam. "Give the boat a shove, boys. Rattling good breeze, eh? That's it—we're off."

The sail quickly filled out, and the boat drew away from the wharf.

"Jest you wait," repeated "Little Bill," loudly.

"That's what we're doing."

"I ain't forgot what that elephant done."

"Don't let it worry you, grouchy," and the boys waved their hands toward the disgusted Dugan.

The "Spray" was a fast boat, and with a strong, favorable wind, cut through the water at a rapid rate.

The dark firs on Hemlock and the crags of Promontory Island, began to loom up clear and distinct. It was exhilarating sport, and, as the water foamed and gurgled and occasionally dashed over the gunwale, the boys began to sing.

"This is great," exclaimed Tom Clifton, at length. "We'll have a dandy race, if Fenton comes over."

"We ought to give him a handicap."

"Sure thing. The 'Dauntless' isn't a patch on the 'Spray' for speed."

In a short time, the "Spray" dashed into the passageway beneath the towering crags. Emerging on the other side, they sailed past the site of the former "Idleman's Club" and continued on until a picturesque cove appeared in view.

"Ease over the sheet, Phil," said Sam. "That's right. Haul it down when I say the word."

In a sheltered situation, the "Spray" glided smoothly over the limpid water and entered the cove. At Sam's command, the sail was lowered and an anchor heaved overboard. The boat came to a stop within a few feet of a jutting bank, where the water was so clear that the pebbly bottom could be plainly seen.

"Done like old salts," laughed Sam. "Off with shoes and stockings, fellows; we'll have to wade."

In a few minutes they stood on shore. Then all took seats on a convenient rock.

Clouds of dazzling whiteness glistened against the deep blue sky, shadows flitted across the surface of the lake and over the rugged crags above, while now and then a cool, pleasant breeze blew strongly in their faces.

They were in a delightful cove. A group of willows on the opposite side mirrored themselves in the clear water; pond-lilies and aquatic growth bobbed gently on the listless current.

"This is where Dave would enjoy himself," observed Sam. "Listen to the birds—say, look at that bit of blue sky," and Sam imitated the "poet's" tones so well that Tom burst out laughing.

"Can he really paint and write poetry?" asked Phil Levins.

"Oh, Chub can do anything," replied Sam, with conviction. "He's a dandy. But here, Tommy, get off your duds. If you don't look out, you won't be able to swim any better than Fenton can ride."

"Oh, suffering catfish," said Tom, flippantly.

The boys quickly donned their bathing suits, and walked along the shelving beach to the end of the cove.

"Oh, but the water's cold. Hold on there, Sam Randall, don't push."

"Don't crowd him," grinned Phil.

"Oh, of course not," snickered Sam, and the next minute, Tom, neatly tripped, hit the water with a loud splash and a yell.

For the next half hour, they had great sport. The water was shallow and well suited to their purpose. Tom made a little progress, and by actual count was able to keep afloat for seventeen seconds. Then he paddled around, while Sam and Phil, both good swimmers, raced out to the end of the cove and back, Sam leading by a few feet.

When they were again dressed, the three resumed their place on the rock.

"Most time for Fenton to come," observed Phil Levins.

"I'll bet he won't turn up," grumbled Sam, as he shied a rock into the water. "I'd give a lot to have that race, too."

"Let's take a walk," suggested Tom.

"Where—up on the cliff?"

"No siree! Around the base as far as we can go."

"All right, son, we'll do it," agreed Sam. "If Fenton comes along, he'll know how to find us."

Thick vegetation, at times, forced them toward the base of the cliff, while at others they skirted along the bank. Pretty wild flowers nodded in the breeze and brilliant-hued butterflies hovered about. Occasionally, a rustle amidst the underbrush indicated the presence of some startled creature.

Straight ahead, bright in the sunlight, loomed the towering walls of Crescent Mountain, its opposite neighbor being partly hidden by the cliff near at hand.

At length the end of the island was reached, and the boys only stopped where the cliff, rising straight out of the water, barred further progress.

"A daisy view," commented Tom. "Look at the current, Sam—pretty strong even here, eh?"

"That's right, Tommy. I wouldn't care to be more than fifty feet from shore. Nice fresh breeze, too, though we don't get so much of it on this side."

Sam seated himself, the others following his example. Now and then a stick or branch floated slowly by, occasionally caught by some counter current and swung in to shore, only to again be started on its journey toward the gorge of Canyon River.

Sam picked up a stout limb and sent it far out, then idly watched the current carrying it away.

"Wonder, Tom," he said, reflectively, "what kind of a journey the thing will have. Maybe it will go over that mysterious falls."

"I'm sure I don't care. Let's skip back, and see if Fenton has come."

"You run over and see, Tommy, like a good fellow."

"I will not, you lazy-bones. What are your legs for?"

"Lots of things," laughed Sam, as he made a lunge for Tom. But the latter jumped nimbly aside.

The boys started to retrace their steps and presently reached a point from which the "Spray" could be seen. They saw that no one was on the beach, while the clear expanse of Mountain Lake was unspotted by craft of any kind.

"I told you so, Tom Clifton."

"Never mind—let's sit down and wait."

Suddenly a shout came from Phil Levins, who had lagged in the rear. It was so full of terror, that Sam and Tom looked at each other in wonder and alarm.

"What's up now?" gasped the latter.

Phil was waving his arms wildly.

"Hurry up—hurry up!" he yelled, frantically, and the Ramblers broke into a run.

Over bushes and rocks they dashed, until they caught sight of something which seemed to make their blood run cold. Their faces blanched.

A quarter of a mile away, caught in the treacherous current of Canyon River, was the "Dauntless," her white hull sparkling in the sunshine and her tapering mast bobbing back and forth against the background of cliffs.

## CHAPTER X

### HOWARD IN DANGER

"It's Howard Fenton!" cried Sam Randall, in terrified tones. "Can't something be done to save him?"

"The boat will be carried into the gorge, as sure as fate," groaned Phil Levins. "See—it's moving faster every minute."

"Awful!" breathed Tom Clifton. "Awful to stand here and see that!"

Into the minds of each flashed the dreadful conviction that Howard Fenton was doomed. Spellbound, they watched the "Dauntless" struggling in the current, tossing about like a chip, now floating broadside, then stern foremost, and each moment nearing the dark, gloomy gorge of Canyon River.

Sam Randall brought out his field-glass.

"I see Howard plainly," he gasped. "He's holding on to a rope. The water is rough out there. Great Scott! This is terrible!"

"I wonder how it happened," groaned pale-faced Tom Clifton.

"It seems like an awful dream," panted Phil. "See how fast the 'Dauntless' is going now. In a few minutes he'll be in the gorge."

"Oh, why did we ever ask Howard to come over?"

Sam Randall directed his glass toward the base of the cliff, and a shiver ran through him.

A ridge of white foam shot up against the dark rocks which rose sheer from the water. There was nothing in that glance to inspire hope, and breathlessly they waited.

Glittering in the sunshine, the white hull, tossing and pitching violently, shot toward the base of Round Mountain.

"Poor Howard," groaned Sam. "No hope now. The 'Dauntless' is in the gorge."

"THE DAUNTLESS IS IN THE GORGE."

He turned away to hide his feelings, and when he looked again the boat was sweeping rapidly between the cliffs. Silently the boys watched, until the jutting crag hid it from view, and then, with heavy hearts, retraced their steps. For some time none could trust themselves to speak.

"What an awful difference a few hours has made," said Sam, finally, in an unsteady voice. "Poor Howard, I can't understand how he was ever caught like that."

"Looked to me as if the 'Dauntless' had lost its rudder," answered Phil, tremulously. "The wind's pretty strong, too, and if an accident happened near the passageway it would be easy to get carried out."

"Never felt so bad in all my life," put in Tom Clifton. "Fenton was such a jolly good chap."

"I can't help feeling that Howard will be saved in some way," said Sam.

But Phil Levins shook his head gloomily.

"You don't know Canyon River, Sam," he exclaimed. "Everybody will tell you that Fenton hasn't a chance."

They soon reached the "Spray," and hastily embarked. So eager were they to get ashore that the boat seemed to move at a snail's pace. But once outside the passageway, a good, stiff breeze carried them along at a rattling clip. They were obliged to tack many times, and their patience was sorely tried.

At length, however, the hotel wharf was reached, and the boys jumped ashore.

They found great excitement at the Resort House. Groups had congregated, eagerly discussing the accident.

The arrival of Sam, Tom and Phil furnished fresh interest. The three were besieged with questions, and they, in turn, asked many others.

"Yes, we saw it," said Philip Brown, the proprietor's son. "A searching party has already gone off to the place where Canyon River comes out of the gorge. Dear knows how long it will take them to get there."

"An' when they do, 'twon't be any use, I calc'late," remarked "Big Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver. "I tole Fenton many a time ter look out fur that current. Awful news fur his dad, when he gits back."

"Where is Mr. Fenton?" asked Sam.

"Went a-ridin' jist afore Howard put off in the boat. It beats me, it does—this business."

"Say, Sam, let's go over to White Rocks," suggested Phil Levins. "Coming, Tom? You can get a good idea of the current there."

"Like as not yer'll drop in," growled Dugan. "Best keep away. It's 'nuff ter have one stranger carried down, without bein' plumb crazy 'nuff ter run any more chances."

But the boys had already started off.

The White Rocks were a series of huge boulders and flat stones which extended into the lake not far from the base of Round Mountain.

Led by Phil Levins, the boys were soon making their way from rock to rock. But Tom Clifton finally balked. The distance which separated him from the next was a little more than he cared to cross.

"Better not go out any further, fellows," he cautioned.

"Wait here, Tom. Your legs ain't quite long enough," replied Sam, as he made a flying leap.

Phil Levins, like most of the village boys, had often been out on the Rocks, and knew the easiest way, but Sam Randall drew many a long breath during the time that he was jumping and scrambling from one to another.

"Christopher! Isn't it terrific!" he cried, when they finally came to a pause on the smooth, flat top of a rock near the outer end.

The water foamed and boiled against its sides; miniature whirlpools formed here and there, while long, rippling swells with a glassy surface separated them from the boulders beyond.

Above all other sounds was the steady roar of the torrent thundering toward the barrier. As if angry at resistance, it lashed itself into a fury, beating and splashing against the sullen cliff. Hurled back, its blue-green waves, patched with foam, paused for an instant before rushing in mad triumph toward the gorge of Canyon River, about fifty yards ahead.

Sam Randall was fascinated at the spectacle. From where they stood, it was possible to see down-stream for a considerate distance, and the boys eagerly turned their gaze in that direction, vainly hoping that the "Dauntless" might be somewhere in sight.

"Well, what do you think of it now?" asked Phil Levins, at length.

"I give up. No one would have the least chance in such a current," said Sam, in a hollow voice.

## CHAPTER XI

### "LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP"

Dick Travers dropped his gun and frantically seized a stout sapling which grew close to the edge. A cry of horror escaped his lips, as it began to bend beneath his weight, and his hands to glide over the slippery surface.

"Dave—Bob!" he yelled, despairingly. "Help!"

Through the crevice, narrow as it was, came a patch of light. He turned his head, to shut out the view of the awful chasm below, but in even that quick glance the jutting crags and great boulders strewn about the base were indelibly fixed upon his memory.

The sapling was still bending, but with the grip of despair he clung to it, fearing each instant to hear the fatal snap.

"Help! Bob, Dave!" he gasped again. "Help!"

Then his dangling feet bumped against the face of the cliff and struck a projection. Daring to look down again, he saw a ledge about a foot wide, and hope sprang within him.

A crashing through the underbrush sounded from above and three pale faces were gazing into his own.

"We'll save you," cried Dave Brandon. "Courage, old man!"

"Hurry," gasped Dick. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead, but Dave's voice cheered him.

"Lucky we brought a rope along," panted Dave. "Quick—make a noose—put it around me!"

Bob Somers had implicit confidence in Dave Brandon, and asked no questions. In a moment the noose was slipped over his sturdy shoulders and under his arms.

"Now pass the end around that tree," instructed Dave, hurriedly. "Hang on to it, Bob. Here, Jim, grab hold of my legs, and don't let go."

"Hurry up, fellows," came a cry from below.

"Courage, old boy," sang out Bob. "We're coming."

Dave threw himself flat on the ground and worked his way to the edge of the opening, then leaned far over.

Havens, with a firm grip on the stout boy's legs, twisted his arm around a convenient sapling.

"I've got you, Brandon," he said grimly.

Farther and farther Dave stretched over. He paid no heed to the yawning depths. All he saw was Dick Travers' fear-stricken face just below.

A few inches more, and the "poet's" strong hands closed with a vise-like grip over his fellow Rambler's wrist.

"Keep a tight grip on the sapling, Dick," he commanded, in a tense voice, and the other obeyed.

It was a thrilling moment for all. But Dave's strength was equal to the emergency. With a mighty effort, he began to work his way back inch by inch.

Bob Somers, after fastening the rope securely, sprang forward. No words were spoken. Dave Brandon grunted and groaned, while the perspiration rolled off his round face.

Presently Bob Somers leaned over and grabbed Dick Travers' left arm. Up, up came the dangling form.

"Now, Havens, pull for all you are worth," panted Dave. "Pull like the dickens," and Jim bent all his strength to the task.

Another instant, and Dick was seized by the waistband and dragged over the edge to safety.

It would be hard to give an idea of the thankfulness that was in the hearts of all. For several moments, Dick Travers lay without speaking. The shock had been a severe one.

"Thanks, fellows," was all he said, finally. But his tone spoke volumes.

"Look before you leap next time, Dick," observed Jim Havens. "Lots of dangerous places around these mountains."

"You bet I will. Crickets! It was awful to hang over that chasm. I felt sure the sapling was going to snap," and Dick shuddered at the thought.

Still puffing and blowing, Dave Brandon was busy wiping his perspiring face, while he lay at full length on the ground.

None of them felt quite in the mood for hunting, and the stout boy finally proposed that they return to the dugout.

"I need a good, square meal," he said.

"And you deserve it, too," said Dick, heartily. "Let's vamoose."

Tired and hungry, they finally pushed through the last belt of timber, and came in view of the dugout.

"Well, well, who in the world is that?" exclaimed Bob Somers in surprise, as he observed a figure sitting on a log before the entrance, calmly smoking a big pipe.

"By the flying partridge, a visitor out here," laughed Dave.

"Didn't know we had any neighbors in this block," said Dick.

"Think I know that feller," put in Havens. "Looks like Hank Merwin, the trapper."

The visitor did not arise as the boys approached. He was evidently a very tall, raw-boned man, and his face was bronzed to almost the color of an Indian's. He rested a Winchester rifle across his knees, and fastened to his belt was a holster containing a huge Colt revolver.

He looked impassively at the campers, then drawled, slowly, "Wal, young uns, arternoon!"

"Hello, Hank!" greeted Jim, familiarly. "These are some friends of mine out hunting and fishing. Speak your names, fellows."

Hank Merwin listened calmly. His face was as expressionless as a wooden Indian's.

"Huntin' an' fishin', eh? Wal, I happened along this way, and I sees that some one was a-usin' the dugout, so I stays."

"Glad you did, Hank," said Jim, cordially. "Grub with us to-night."

"Don't mind if I do."

When everything was under way, Dick Travers brought out his camera.

"As long as we have a real trapper here," he announced, "I'm going to take a picture of the whole crowd."

"Knew a feller oncet who had one of them jiggers," observed Hank, slowly. "I never had no picter of myself."

"Well, I'll give you one of these," said Dick. "Step this way, gentlemen, and get your phizzes taken. Get up, Dave. Stay right where you are, Hank."

He stepped back, while the others ranged themselves around. There was a sharp click, and Dick announced that it was all over.

"I'm going to take some wild animals with this, Hank," he said.

"Wild critters, eh, lad?"

Hank's gray eyes rested on the youthful photographer. Then he gazed reflectively at the rings of smoke again.

"Mebbe I kin help ye," he said, kindly. "Kin ye take one of them picters at night—by jacklight?"

"By jacklight?" questioned Dick, in puzzled tones.

"Sartingly! But perhaps you never hearn tell of it?"

"Hank often goes out hunting by jacklight," interposed Havens. "He has a lamp in front of his boat, and a reflector sends the light an awful way ahead. Well—moose and deer are fond of feeding on lily-pads and grasses near the shore, and every once in a while he runs across 'em."

"Should think they would scoot away like sixty," said Dick.

"They don't. The light sort of blinds them and they can't see the hunter."

"Wal, lad," continued Hank Merwin, "kin ye take a picter by that 'ere light?"

"You just bet I can," cried the official photographer, enthusiastically. "I've got a lot of flashlight powder, and it will be as easy as rolling off a log. Thanks awfully, Hank. Snap-shots by jacklight sounds fine, eh, Bob?"

"Right you are."

"Wal, whenever you takes the notion, look me up," said Hank, "but you'd best wait 'til thar ain't no moon."

Dick Travers was delighted at the prospect, and the others were no less pleased.

After supper, sitting before a pleasant fire, Hank Merwin, who had taken a great fancy to the boys, related many thrilling incidents in his life as a trapper. The moon rose above the belt of timber, enveloping the landscape in its pale greenish light; the whispering breeze brought with it many strange sounds from the forest, and, as the fire crackled and glowed, sending up showers of dancing sparks, the boys were more and more charmed with life in the open.

## CHAPTER XII

### DOWN THE GORGE

During the week, the boys went out on several hunting expeditions. Many quail and jack-rabbits fell victims to their good aim. Dick Travers had been gradually developing what Dave described as a severe attack of "photographis nightowlis." He was constantly talking of Hank Merwin and the promised jacklight expedition, and Dave was sympathetic.

"Before it gets any worse, fellows, we'd better pull up stakes for a while," he said.

"That's good," approved Havens. "We can come back to the dugout any time," and, Bob agreeing, the matter was thereupon settled.

One morning, bright and early, they were ready to start. A great part of the outfit was hidden, the hunters carrying only what was absolutely necessary. Of course each was provided with a stout pole having a spike at the end.

"We'll have a dandy time out with Hank Merwin," said Havens. "He looks solemn enough—never smiles—but he'll treat you white."

At the first clearing, a magnificent view brought forth delighted exclamations. Streamers of purple mist hung over the valley, while the early morning sun cast a rosy glow over the snow-covered mountain summits which stood out against a pearly green sky.

Masses of pink and white laurel, gay in sunlight and cool in shadow, sent forth their delicate odors to mingle with those of the wild rose and grape blossoms.

Presently Bob Somers held up his hand—"Listen."

A faint musical murmur reached their ears.

"It's a cascade," announced Havens. "Let's steer for it."

As they progressed, the sound changed into a steady roar. It was not difficult to guide themselves by it, nor easy to go in a direct line, on account of irregularities in the mountain slope. Dense masses of vegetation also interfered, but by persevering for about fifteen minutes the boys emerged from a heavy belt of timber, to find an extensive prospect opening out before them.

"Gee willikens! Isn't that a wonderful sight!" cried Dick Travers, enthusiastically.

"Oh, ho—the finest I ever saw," sighed the "poet."

"Perfectly stunning!" burst out Bob Somers, while Havens smiled at their enthusiasm.

Rising almost perpendicularly, a gigantic wall of whitish rock jutted out from the side of a gorge. Perhaps a hundred feet above them, a foaming, glittering stream dashed over the edge, spreading out like a fan in its descent, and dashing with a thunderous roar upon the rocks below. Clouds of mist rose above the boiling, bubbling water and showers of dancing drops glittered like diamonds in the sunlight.

The four approached the edge of the ravine that hemmed in the torrent. Havens, shouting at the top of his voice, explained that a short distance further along there was another cascade.

Dave nodded. Then he slowly raised his arm and pointed upward to the mountain slope beyond.

Several animals on the heights above the cascade were seen moving about, now and then leaping lightly from rock to rock.

"Big horns—mountain sheep—good eating, too," said Havens, laconically.

Bob Somers brought out his field-glass. "By Jove, isn't it wonderful how they keep their footing?" he cried. "Look, Dave!"

The powerful glass brought the animals close into view, and the "poet" gazed long and earnestly. He could see them bunch their four feet together, poise for an instant, then leap gracefully and land on the steepest rocks.

"That's a great sight, Bob," he said, at length.

"Big horns generally keep above the timber line," explained Havens. "They go in bands of about fifty. Some of the old stagers are whoppers."

"Wish I could get a snap-shot of 'em," sighed Dick.

They watched the wild sheep for some time, then retraced their steps and before long were again on their way down the mountain slopes. They found the descent both difficult and dangerous. Gullies and precipices were encountered, and a misstep might have resulted disastrously.

It was about noon when they finally scrambled over a ledge of rocks and reached a clear, swift-flowing stream.

"Oh, ho, how glad I am to get down with arms and legs safe and sound," sighed Dave.

"This stream leads to the lake where Hank Merwin has his cabin," announced Jim Havens.

"That's what I call a bit of good news," said Bob. "Let's have a bite to eat—that is if Chubby is willing."

"Willing?" groaned Dave, as he lolled at full length. "I couldn't go a step further without something to strengthen me. If there was only a store around where a fellow could get a plate of ice cream, eh? Um—um."

"Wish to thunder we could swim to Hank Merwin's," remarked Dick, with a glance toward the swift current.

"Not as much as I do," said Dave, languidly.

"Hank is a crackerjack at cooking," put in Havens. "Most likely he'll get up a fine spread, if we reach there in time."

"Eh? That sounds interesting," said Dave. "We must give him a chance. Come ahead, fellows," and he sank back on the turf and closed his eyes.

A little judicious tickling with a blade of grass soon brought him to his feet, however, whereupon the boys, in single file, began to trudge along the bank.

In about half an hour they reached a dilapidated log cabin.

"H'm—about the worst wreck I ever saw," commented Bob. "Struck by lightning, blown over by a cyclone, or knocked out by an earthquake?"

"All three—I should say," chimed in Dick, with a grin. "More logs lying about the ground than on the walls."

"Hey, fellows, I've got an idea," said Bob, suddenly. "A dandy one, too."

"Quick—speak out. Don't let it get away," grinned Dick. "Something tells me it's something."

"Well, why not make a raft?"

"A raft!" echoed his companions.

"Yes! Why not? That's better than swimming, isn't it? We ought to be able to steer with a couple of poles, all right, and keep out of the way of rocks, eh, Havens? Dandy fun, besides."

Jim reflected. "A good scheme, Bob. Only there are some pretty swift rapids. We might get upset in the middle of one—that sounds nice, eh?"

"But if we walk," drawled Dave, "it means a lot more climbing, doesn't it?"

"Sure thing," said Jim.

"Then I say, real loud, build a raft—but do you think it can be done?" An anxious look came over the stout boy's face.

"Of course," asserted Bob, confidently.

"But how? Don't keep me in suspense. My! Wouldn't it be great to float down that stream."

"By Jove, there are enough loose logs around to build two rafts, Chubby," said Bob. "Don't you see 'em? But let's begin on the job."

"I'm willing, if the rest are," put in Jim Havens, slowly.

"Hurrah for the raft!" shouted Bob.

In a few minutes the four guns were stacked, their outfits piled in a heap, and then the sound of axe and hatchet resounded through the forest. Cutting the logs to the proper length was a hard task, but the boys worked with a vim and were rewarded by success. A sufficient number finally lay at the water's edge.

"Now, fellows, we need tough roots to bind 'em together," said Bob. "Must be lots around."

"And with the old door from the cabin nailed across it ought to be solid," said Dick.

The work progressed rapidly. The raft was not a thing of beauty, but it promised to hold together. The roots used were extremely tough and flexible, and, fortunately, great quantities were close at hand. Bound securely with these, and braced by strips from the door, the raft was completed to their satisfaction.

"Now we'll fashion a couple of paddles, and begin our voyage," said Bob.

"Don't forget a rest for the guns," put in Dave.

"That's so, my boy. Great head."

"A couple of short logs, with a strip nailed across the tops, will do the trick."

"Somebody's got to look out for 'em, though. You will, Dave?—good."

At last, everything was ready. The raft had been built on a shelving bank, and after a hard tussle was set afloat.

"All aboard the 'Mayflower'!" yelled Bob. He stood, paddle in hand, with Havens at his side.

"Let 'er go, cap'n!" cried Dave. "All overboard at the next rock. Hurrah! We're off, and still on!"

The clumsy pile of logs swung slowly out, then caught by the swift current, began its voyage down-stream.

With but little effort the boys kept it well out from the shore, and the motion was delightful.

"Whoop la! This is dandy," cried Dick, in great glee. "It beats walking all hollow, eh?"

"Oh, ho, what views—look at the reflections," said Dave.

"And isn't the water clear?" put in Bob. "You can see the bottom."

"We'll see it closer, if you don't keep her steady," said Havens, with a laugh.

At good speed, they swept along. The stream soon widened out, each shore presenting a most picturesque appearance. Oaks and maples hung far over, and occasionally a birch stood out sharply white against its fellows.

"Rocks ahead! Port your helm," sang out Dick.

"Aye, aye, sir!" laughed Bob.

The two navigators pushed their poles down against the pebbly bottom and by exerting all their strength succeeded in swinging the unwieldy craft to one side.

But an instant later, a terrific jolt made Havens sit down with a thud.

"By jingo!" cried Dick. "We're stuck."

He had hardly uttered the words, however, when the mass of logs slowly ground off the submerged rock into clear water again.

"And this is just the beginning," remarked Havens, rubbing his legs. "Nothing soft about these logs, fellows."

"Hello, we're going into a canyon soon, sure as blazes," remarked Dick, rather apprehensively. "I'll bet the old thing hits a rock and busts."

The valley began to narrow, and before many minutes had elapsed the raft was running between high, precipitous banks, then, swinging around a bend, the walls of a canyon came into view.

"We're in for it now," said Havens, with a long breath. "Wow!"

As they entered the dark gorge, a chilling breeze swept in their faces; the current fairly raced along, and, as the voyagers looked up at the straight walls of rock, they began to doubt the wisdom of their course. Rocks, and snags, too, were numerous.

"Mind your eye!" yelled Havens. "If we get dumped into this pocket, we'll be in a mess, sure enough."

"You bet we will," panted Bob. "Look out for that rock straight ahead, Jim. Now—both together."

By vigorous efforts, they once more kept clear of the obstruction, then, as the gorge became still narrower, they were obliged to redouble their efforts.

"Oh, ho, real exciting sport, this," remarked Dave.

"Just a bit too much so," grumbled Dick. "Wow! We're coming to another bend."

"Canyon ends just beyond it," called out Havens. "Look out, though, we're coming to the worst stretch of all."

With a rush and a roar, the river swept around the giant cliffs. The "Mayflower" shook convulsively, swung in a half-circle, then, gripped by another current, wobbled violently.

Only quick work prevented a catastrophe, and all breathed a sigh of relief when the wider valley was again reached.

As the raft approached a clump of trees, a flock of ducks arose with cries of alarm.

"Hey there, ye chumps—what d'ye mean by scarin' away them ducks?" yelled a stentorian voice.

A tall, lank figure stepped into view, and shook his fist angrily toward the advancing raft.

"'Surly Joe,'" said Havens, laconically.

## CHAPTER XIII

### HANK MERWIN'S CABIN

"Oh, I remember him," said Bob, surveying the hunter with interest. "He's the old fellow we saw at the Resort House."

"He of the sour face," added Dave, laughingly. "Seems real mad, eh?"

"Hey, you lot of wooden heads," shouted the trapper, "what are ye doin' out here?"

"Enjoying ourselves," laughed Havens.

"Wal, if ye bother my game another time, ye won't," snarled Joe. "Were you waterbugs crazy 'nuff ter come through the canyon on that thing?"

"Sure, Mr. Tomlin," grinned Dick.

"Don't give me none of yer imperdence, kid. I won't stand fur no sass."

"There might have been a dandy mixup if we'd been on shore," remarked the "poet," grimly.

When the sun had sunk from view behind the range of mountains the raft entered Lake Cloud, a beautiful sheet of water about two miles long, three-quarters broad, and partly hemmed in by mountains.

The rich, dark evergreens and lofty peaks were reflected with wonderful clearness in the limpid surface. Straight ahead, rising against the golden sky, was a snow-capped summit, purple and hazy, while nearer at hand were red-brown cliffs, with the higher walls still touched by a glow of sunlight.

"No words are strong enough for this scenery," declared the "poet." "Hank Merwin certainly knows where to hang out."

"There isn't a prettier place around," asserted Jim Havens. "And talk about game—it's chuck full—bears and deer. But Hank can tell you all about that."

"Beats any place I ever saw," said Bob, enthusiastically. "Now, fellows, we'll have to desert this good old craft."

"Right you are," was Havens' rejoinder. "Hank's shack is over on the north shore."

The raft was soon poled through the lily-pads and rushes bordering the lake, and the boys jumped ashore.

"Feel kind of stiff, for a fact," said Dick.

"Haven't very far to go," put in Havens, cheerfully.

With a last look at the rude pile of logs which had served them so well, the boys shouldered their outfits and started off.

Hank Merwin's cabin was in a clearing behind a spur of a mountain and not far from the lake.

They found him sitting before the entrance, calmly smoking his pipe. He looked up as the boys trooped forward, but no change of expression came over his impassive face.

"How d'ye do, young uns?" he drawled, without rising. "I've been kinder lookin' fur ye."

"And we've had a grand trip," said Havens. "A raft most of the way."

"Young uns will be frisky," commented the trapper; "but I reckon, lads, ye're hungry."

The venison steak and corn dodgers, together with coffee made a very enjoyable supper. When it was over, Hank assisted them in making bough beds. Then they turned in, and were quickly lulled to sleep by the whispering pines.

Next morning, up bright and early, Dick Travers made several photographs of the surrounding scenery.

"Crickets, I can hardly wait for that jacklight trip to-night," he said to Brandon.

"Time will be here before you know it," drawled Dave. "I'm going to make a sketch of the lake."

Dave was only a beginner, but his work impressed Hank greatly, and his delight was unbounded when the picture was finished and the boy, after tacking it on the wall of the cabin, said that there it was going to remain.

Before supper, the trapper got his fourteen foot boat ready.

"I can't take all of ye lads," he said, regretfully, "but some kin go another time."

In drawing lots for the coveted position of assistant to the official photographer, Dave Brandon secured the lucky number.

Eager with anticipation, Dick Travers scarcely tasted his food, and the sight of Dave calmly munching away annoyed him.

"For goodness' sake, Chub, do get excited—or something."

"Let it be something," yawned Dave. "Nerve-tingling business isn't in my line."

Hank Merwin lighted the lamp on the bow of his boat, and a powerful reflector sent a stream of light to pierce the blackness.

"Jacklight's a-goin'—git aboard, lads," instructed the trapper.

The boys eagerly obeyed. In a moment, comfortably seated, they heard the faint sound of ripples lapping against the sides of the boat, then the fire in front of the cabin gradually grew smaller.

Hank handled the paddles with great skill, keeping far enough out to clear the aquatic plants which grew in profusion.

"Lads," he said, in a low voice, "no talkin'. Our frien's kin do all that," and Dave smiled, for the voices of the two on shore reached them with astonishing clearness.

Occasionally, the cry of some bird or animal in the forest sounded weirdly, while night-hawks, hovering over the lake, made their sharp voices heard at frequent intervals.

"Oh, ho," murmured Dave; he lay back and repeated, in barely audible tones:

"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar
And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore.'"

Meanwhile Dick Travers directed the rays of the lantern toward the bank. They flitted fantastically from tree to tree, now darting between and dragging into view some delicate tracery beyond, then shooting across the inky black water, revealing lilies and rushes.

The steady, rhythmic sound of the paddle, barely heard above the soft lament of the pines, the faint gurgle of the water, and the easy, gliding motion, produced a dreamy, unreal effect, which charmed the Ramblers and soon lulled one of them to sleep.

But Dick was ever alert. He strained his ears and eyes for the fairest evidence which might indicate the presence of some wild animal, but without avail.

Still Hank Merwin paddled on—his muscular arms seemed tireless—and still Dick shot the blinding glare over water and shore. The end of the lake was reached. Looming faintly against the sky, they now saw a great snow-capped peak, and Dick Travers caught a low, musical murmur.

"A cascade," he whispered, and Hank, who had heard him, grunted affirmatively.

Dick began to feel that his chances of getting a photograph were very slim indeed.

A half hour passed; then a faint sound set his nerves to tingling.

"Hank—Hank!" he whispered.

"Sh—sh," came from the trapper.

Dick felt a gleam of hope, for instantly the boat shot ahead at redoubled speed. In spite of himself, the hand that directed the jacklight trembled. Gradually the sound grew more distinct; its nature puzzled the youth more and more.

"What in the world can it be?" he thought. "Crickets, it sounds funny. Wish I dared ask Hank."

But there was something in the boatman's manner which impelled silence.

They were skimming rapidly past the trees now. The boat shot ahead almost noiselessly toward the mysterious sound, which seemed to be just ahead.

Dick touched Dave on the shoulder.

"Wake up, wake up!" he whispered, excitedly.

"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar,'" murmured the stout boy. Then he sat bolt upright, with an exclamation, and peered ahead. "What's the——" he began.

But a low, stern injunction for silence from Hank Merwin cut him short.

Evidently something extraordinary was going on out there in the night.

Suddenly the beam from the search-light, shooting past a jutting point of shore, fell upon a most remarkable spectacle and one which sent a thrill through both boys.

Two great animals, engaged in terrific combat, reared and plunged, as they charged each other with lowered heads.

## CHAPTER XIV

### A BEACON LIGHT

"Ten days ago—ten, mind you, since poor Howard Fenton was carried into the canyon," said Sam Randall, softly.

He and Tom Clifton were seated on the porch of Rickham House. The night was very dark, and several starlike points of light indicated the village.

Tom Clifton tilted his chair back against the wall.

"Maybe it won't make Bob Somers and the rest of them feel badly," he remarked, reflectively.

"It couldn't fail to. Wonder if anything has been heard from Mr. Fenton?"

"Walter Brown says not. Very funny how he disappeared right after the accident."

"Certainly is—and never told any one where he was going. Left a lot of stuff at the hotel, too."

"Perhaps he's off in the mountains somewhere," suggested Tom. "The searching party never found a trace of either Howard or the 'Dauntless.'"

"A terrible thing—indeed it was."

For a while the boys lapsed into gloomy silence.

Presently Sam rose to his feet and peered earnestly in the direction of the islands.

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Tom, do you see anything?"

"Of course I do. A light—a light on Promontory. Now what in the dickens can that be?"

A tiny spot of light, seemingly suspended in the air, had suddenly appeared in view, steadily growing brighter until it looked like a blazing beacon.

"Maybe the old log cabin is afire. I'll bet that's just what it is," said Sam. "Christopher, where's the field-glass?"

He darted inside, and presently returned.

"I can't make it out," he said, finally, in a perplexed tone. "Here, Tom, take a squint."

But the younger member of the Rambler Club shook his head.

"By jinks, I give it up, Sam," he remarked, slowly. "Mighty funny—I never saw a light there before. Shouldn't wonder if some camper is living in the old shack."

"Huh! And I suppose he's making a pot of coffee."

Tom laughed.

"Must be a good-sized blaze to make all that light," he admitted. "Let's take a run over to-morrow, and find out."

"I've got a better scheme than that, Tommy. Why not go out a bit on the lake now?"

"Now?" echoed Tom, in astonishment.

"Sure! It's a dandy night—not too much breeze. It will be lots of fun, cruising around. Come ahead."

"I'm not so anxious, Sam. It's blacker than a stack of black cats out there. I'd rather stay on the porch."

"Oh, pshaw, Tommy! Be a sport. With a lantern to keep us company, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, suffering catfish! Who said anything about being afraid, Sam Randall?" exclaimed Tom, flaring up. "Sure we'll go." He settled his cap firmly on his head, and then, with another glance at the distant beacon, rose to his feet.

In a few minutes the Ramblers were at the wharf. The water looked very black, and it seemed so silent and lonely that Tom, despite his words, felt many misgivings as he stepped aboard the "Speedy."

Sam lighted a lantern; then the sail was run up, and within a quarter of an hour they were well on their way toward the far end of the lake.

"It's burning brighter than ever, Tommy, so I guess it ain't the old shack," observed Sam; "but what in thunder do they want such a whopping big bonfire for?"

"Might be 'Little Bill' and his pals having some fun."

"Perhaps. This is bully sport, eh?"

Soon the thickly-wooded shore of Hemlock Island began to separate itself from the lake, and the lofty crags of Promontory rose dimly against the star-studded sky.

At the proper time, Sam Randall skilfully brought the "Speedy" about, and they prepared to enter the channel.

Just as the sharp turn was being made, the sound of oars reached their ears.

"H'm, some of the night-picnickers, now, perhaps," muttered Sam.

He half arose, in order to get a better view, and at that instant a rowboat shot out of the passageway directly across their bow. A collision seemed inevitable.

The Ramblers gave a lusty shout; Sam swung the helm hard down, and the sail rattled to the deck in a jiffy, but despite these efforts, the sailboat struck the other a glancing blow near the stern.

The occupant of the rowboat, however, had used his oars skilfully, and escaped being thrown into the water by a narrow margin. The two craft grated past each other, and quickly came to a stop. Then the oarsman, with a couple of strokes, drew up alongside the "Speedy."

As the rays of the lantern shot across his face, the boys were profoundly astonished to recognize Mr. Fenton.

"I suppose I must plead guilty to having made a blunder," said the latter, after replying to the boys' salutations; "but surely the last thing I expected was to encounter a boat. I must thank you for having handled yours so nicely that I was spared a wetting."

"Good thing there isn't much wind," was Sam Randall's response. Then he added, abruptly, "We saw a light on top of the bluff, Mr. Fenton, and thought it would be a good idea to cruise around a bit to see if we could find out what it was."

"Not remarkable, then, that we should run across each other."

"Suppose you saw the bonfire? It's been making quite an illumination."

Mr. Fenton did not answer for a moment, and when he spoke his voice betrayed some embarrassment.

"Yes, Sam, I noticed it," he said. "But, really, it's about time that I got back to the hotel. It's quite a long pull, and——"

"Oh, we couldn't let you row, Mr. Fenton," interrupted Sam, quickly. "We'll tow you back."

"Of course," put in Tom, wondering at the oarsman's courage in venturing out at night in a small boat and on such dangerous waters.

As if divining his thoughts, Mr. Fenton said, "It's safe enough if one hugs the shore of Hemlock Island for some distance. That makes the way a bit longer, but really, boys, I don't feel that I ought to put you to the trouble."

"No trouble at all," asserted Sam. He stooped down and passed over the painter. Mr. Fenton thanked him quietly, and made it fast to his boat.

As there was very little wind in the passageway, it was necessary to use a pair of oars in bringing the "Speedy" about. Mr. Fenton clambered over the side, and the return trip began.

When they were well out in the lake again, the Ramblers looked curiously toward the top of the cliff, but the mysterious light had entirely vanished.

With natural delicacy, neither Sam nor Tom touched upon the recent happening, nor did Mr. Fenton himself mention it. They landed him at the hotel wharf, then set sail for Rickham House.

"Tom," remarked Sam, slowly, when they were out of hearing, "what do you make of this adventure? Doesn't it seem kind o' queer that Mr. Fenton should be near Promontory Island at this time of night?"

"Well, rather. And he didn't seem to care to talk about that bonfire."

"No—I can't make head or tail out of it, Tommy."

"Perhaps the place where his son used to go has a sort of attraction for him," said Tom, hesitatingly. "I've heard of people like that, and——"

"But it doesn't explain the light."

"No!"

"How long do you suppose he's been back at the hotel?"

"Can't guess. Why didn't you think to ask him?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, his manner kind of rattled me," said Tom. "Never knew him to be so cold and stiff."

"You wouldn't expect him to be like he was, would you?"

"No! I guess not. The shock must have been terrible."

"What do you think about that bonfire, anyway?"

"Give it up."

Early next morning, the "Speedy" was again headed for Promontory, and, aided by a strong breeze, reached it in a short time.

Almost immediately the boys were scrambling up the cliff. They arrived at the top much out of breath, very dusty, and also very eager.

Sitting in front of the cabin was a short, stout man with a full beard whom neither had ever seen before. He was calmly smoking a pipe.

Both boys immediately noticed a great pile of charred sticks—remains of the huge bonfire of the night before.

At the sight of visitors, the man jumped to his feet.

"Well, well," he said, gruffly; "in a powerful big hurry, boys, ain't ye? Wait till you get yer breath." He waved his hand and reseated himself. "Ever been up here before?"

"Sure," answered Sam; "and it's the first time we ever met anybody. Hello! The cabin's fixed up in great shape, eh, Tommy? New door and window, besides a whole lot of patching."

He looked inquiringly at the stout man. "Should think you'd find it lonesome and dull up here."

The other knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"Sometimes, boy," he responded, slowly, "but I don't git bothered much by people that have questions to ask. Now I suppose you're as curious as most people, and are a-wonderin' who the old codger is."

He paused, and refilled his pipe.

"Well, I'm Neil Prescott, at nobody's service."

The boys grinned, and introduced themselves. Then Sam began to tell Mr. Prescott how they had seen the light of his fire the night before.

"Well, what of it?" asked the stout man, gruffly.

"Nothing," said Sam, somewhat surprised. "Only I thought——"

"A power of things, no doubt, an' all of 'em wrong."

"You didn't need a blaze like that to cook by, did you?"

"Well, well! That's a good one. I was just a-tryin' ter find out what the village looked like."

"And I guess you came pretty near doing it," said Sam, with a grin. "If you had piled on a bit more wood, we wouldn't have run into Mr. Fenton's boat."

"Eh—what? Run into Mr. Fenton's boat?" gasped Mr. Prescott, half rising from his seat. "Say that ag'in."

"Then you know him?" broke in Tom Clifton, abruptly.

"Did I say anything about knowin' 'im? Did yer hear me utter any words to the effect that I knew him, eh?"

Mr. Prescott brought out an enormous bandana handkerchief, and mopped his perspiring forehead.

"If you boys ain't quizzers from Quizzerville—well, this Mr. What-you-may-call-him wasn't hurt, was he?"

"Not so you could notice it," said Sam, flippantly. "Going to stay here long, Mr. Prescott?"

"Mebbe—mebbe not. If you hev time ter wait, I'll write out the story of me life an' give it ter you. Where did you come from, an' what are you doin' out here?"

A grim smile played over Mr. Prescott's features. He began to speak rapidly, and more gruffly than ever.

"Answerin' questions ain't sich fun as askin' 'em, eh? 'Tain't well ter mind other people's business, lads. Did yer ever think of that?"

And, well satisfied with this home thrust, Mr. Neil Prescott laughed gruffly.

He soon became quite pleasant, however, and entertained his visitors with several stories. But not a word of information did he volunteer about himself. When they took their leave, Sam and Tom's curiosity, instead of being satisfied, was aroused to a greater degree than ever.

"He doesn't belong to the village," said Sam, positively, "and isn't any hunter—you can bet on that. Wonder where in the dickens he came from? Say—did you notice the big box of provisions he had inside?"

"Yes—and the whole place was cleaned up as nice as you please. Any one could tell that he knows Mr. Fenton, too. Wonder why he tried to bluff us off."

"It's kind of mysterious, Tommy—and I hate mysteries. You and I, old chap, will have to clear this thing up. Neil Prescott isn't staying in that cabin for the fun of the thing. No, sir," and Sam shook his head with conviction.

That night there was no sign of life from the solitary occupant of Promontory Island, but late on the evening following the strange beacon burned even more brightly than before.

## CHAPTER XV

### DICK'S MOOSE

Hank Merwin ceased plying his paddle and the boat rested almost motionless.

The jacklight revealed a sight which might have thrilled even a veteran hunter. The boys found it hard to steady their tingling nerves.

"Gee!" gasped Dick Travers. "I never——"

But a stern, though almost inaudible admonition from Hank Merwin effectually silenced him.

In spite of the glare of light which streamed over them, the infuriated moose continued their deadly combat. Bellowing and snorting, they reared and plunged, striking with both hoofs and horns, churning the shallow water into foam and trampling down the lilies and rushes which grew thickly about.

The novelty of the situation, the weird light, cutting its way through the blackness, and the struggle to the death, made it seem more like some wild dream than reality, and the chums rested almost motionless, half expecting, each moment, that their presence would be discovered.

But the monarchs of the forest were too intent upon their war. Although of clumsy build, with huge head, short neck and long, ungainly fore legs, they moved about with wonderful speed.

Suddenly their antlers came together with terrific force, and two foam-flecked bodies swayed back and forth. The battle raged hotter. Now the smaller animal was borne almost to his knees; then, recovering himself, forced the other back, and the latter, in turn exerting his enormous strength to the utmost, pushed his rival partly around.

A huge head was silhouetted for an instant against the background; a spreading pair of antlers descended. The blow was struck with all the force that a powerful pair of shoulders could give—a blow of crushing force.

The smaller animal staggered; a snort of agony and rage echoed over the lake, as he flopped to his knees, sending forth a circling wave to surge against the sides of the boat.

"He's done for," breathed Dick.

"HE'S DONE FOR."

"No—not yet. Look—he's game."

The fighters were on the edge of the jacklight now, and Dick's hands trembled with excitement as he adjusted the reflector.

The moose, with a desperate effort, bravely arose and locked horns again.

Then it was that Dave Brandon aroused himself.

"Quick, Dick Travers," he exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper, "quick! What's the matter with you—get your picture!"

The official photographer had almost forgotten his mission. But he set about repairing his error with so much energy that he nearly fell overboard.

A warning "sh—sh" from Hank steadied him, and, to his relief, the animals paid no heed.

Eagerly, he again adjusted the light and sighted the camera.

"Ready, Dave," he whispered. "Set off the powder."

A blinding glare followed, and Dick Travers gave a low cry of triumph.

"As sure as you live, I got it," he murmured, exultantly. "Christopher!"

The combat was approaching an end.

The larger moose backed away, then plunged forward.

Crash! Its antlers landed with telling force; its antagonist staggered, sank to his knees, then toppled heavily over, and a wave surged forth as he fell among the water-lilies and rushes. The mountains threw back on the night air the conqueror's bellow of triumph.

Then, as if conscious for the first time of danger, the moose wheeled sharply about and made for the shore as fast as his exhausted condition would permit.

In an instant, Dick had raised his rifle, and, seeing this, Hank Merwin lowered his own.

"At him, lad; and shoot straight," he encouraged.

There was a flash and a report—the moose fell backward on his haunches.

"I've got him!" yelled Dick, in great excitement.

But, almost as he spoke, there was a floundering in the water; the wounded and enraged animal staggered to his feet and charged directly for the boat.

It was a critical moment.

But Hank Merwin did not lose his head. With a quick stroke, he sent the craft forward, and, as he turned it, the rays of the jacklight swept past the charging moose to the shore beyond.

"He's coming right for us!" yelled Dick, in terror.

"Don't none of yer shoot," commanded the trapper, sharply.

The moose was right behind them. Its ungainly form could be dimly seen, as it lumbered through the dense aquatic growth, bent on vengeance.

But Hank shot the boat out in deep water, then quickly turned. The jacklight was again directed toward the moose.

Its rays were barely in time to reveal a most unexpected sight. The animal suddenly staggered and fell.

Dick Travers' shot, together with the wounds received in battle, had proved too much for the gallant old beast, whose eyes glared defiance to the last.

"Hurrah!" cried the official photographer, in a wild burst of enthusiasm. "Oh, Christopher! Isn't this a piece of luck? Got a picture and brought down a moose—how's that, Dave, old boy?" and in his delight, he slapped his friend vigorously on the shoulder. "Ain't I a hunter, eh?"

"Yes, lad, didn't do bad," put in Hank, kindly, "but if the ole critter hadn't had that tussle—wal—you'd be a heap wetter'n you are now, an' the boat might have been smashed ter bits."

"I say, Hank, could—I—I get the antlers?" asked Dick, breathlessly.

"Sartin, my lad. I'll fix 'em fur ye. I'd best be gittin' ter work right away, too."

Hank Merwin's sharp hunting-knife began to do wonders. He cut and slashed in a manner which showed his familiarity with such work. Finally, the head, skin and several choice pieces of meat lay in the bottom of the boat.

"To-morrer we'll come over an' finish the job," declared Hank. "Ye sartingly were in luck, lads. It was a sight that many an ole stager in the woods ain't seen."

"We've had a grand trip," said Dave, "and when we get back I'm going to celebrate by taking the biggest snooze I ever had."

Bob Somers and Jim Havens were greatly astonished when they learned what had happened.

"Christopher! Just look at that pair of horns!" exclaimed the captain, as the moose's head was dragged ashore. "Greatest luck I ever heard of," he added, "and if that picture only comes out right, won't it make some of the Kingswood boys open their eyes?"

"I guess it will," laughed Dick. "And we ought to have a few more adventures before the trip is over. When do we start climbing again?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Thought it was week after next," drawled Dave.

"Why not stay a while longer, lads?" put in Hank Merwin.

But Bob shook his head.

"Sam and little Tommy Clifton must have their fling at it pretty soon," he said. "Guess they think we're lost already."

Next morning, the four piled into Hank Merwin's boat, and were paddled to the scene of the battle. They helped the trapper skin the second moose, and spent the rest of the day fishing. A good haul of trout resulted.

On the following morning, immediately after breakfast, Hank Merwin rowed them to the far end of the lake. He was sorry to see them go, but the boys assured him that they would be back in a few days.

"It's funny," remarked Dick, after they had been on the way for some time, "how close that mountain looked to the lake, and we've been walking and walking."

"And haven't even come to the base," grumbled Dave. "That's always the way with mountains—they do it on purpose."

"Notice how the trees have thinned out?" queried Havens; "well, this place is called 'Scattered Pines.' Used to be a lot of moose around here—guess there are still. But come ahead, fellows; we have a long climb."

Presently, between the pines, a stream appeared in view. It sang so cheerily that Dave was charmed.

"Oh, ho," he murmured, as he reached the bank; "makes me think of that poem by—"

"That will do, Chubby," laughed Dick.

"By Bryant. It begins—now listen——"

"Great Cæsar, fellows, keep quiet," broke in Bob, in a low tone. "What in the dickens is that straight ahead? Look, Havens—there—it moved!"

"A bear, and I'll bet a grizzly," said Jim.

"Where—where, for goodness' sake?" asked Dick, gazing wildly around.

"Right on that fallen tree," answered Dave.

"The old rascal is fishing. See—he scooped up something then."

"Sure he did," agreed Havens. "Grizzlies are great fishers, and the old dub there is so anxious to get a square meal that he hasn't even noticed us."

"Let's creep up on him," proposed Jim. "But you'll need all your nerve. Who wants to go?"

"Huh! Do you think we came out here to hunt sparrows?" whispered Dick, scornfully, and the others smiled.

Very cautiously, and keeping out of sight as much as possible, the quartet pushed ahead, and presently arrived at a point where the bear could be plainly seen.

He was stretched out on a trunk which had fallen across the stream, forming a natural bridge. His broad, massive head lay far over, and his gaze was fixed intently upon the water below. His powerful right paw, ready for instant action, hung low, but the heavy, brownish yellow form seemed as motionless as the trunk itself.

The grizzly was not resting, however, or merely enjoying the pleasant sunshine. He was working for his living, and doing it in a thorough and efficient manner.

Quick as a flash, his paw struck the water, and when it came out, a glistening, wriggling fish was tossed on the bank.

"Fellows, I'm going to make a snap-shot of that," whispered Dick, in great excitement. "By jingo—look at him eating! That is a sight worth seeing, eh?"

"Quick, then," said Havens, in cautious tones.

With hands that trembled in spite of himself, Dick Travers sighted the camera, and just as the grizzly was again making a catch, its click sounded sharply.

Success emboldened them to wait and try to get another. The bear continued his feasting, and all was silent. At least the boys were sure they were acting with commendable caution. Whether they were mistaken in this, or whether something else attracted the animal's attention, they never knew, but Dick Travers, about to take another look through the camera, drew back as if he had been shot.

The bear slowly turned his head; then, with a sort of coughing growl, arose, and his powerful frame was silhouetted against the firs on the opposite bank. In another moment, he had lumbered off the tree trunk, and was pushing forward directly toward the venturesome hunters.

## CHAPTER XVI

### TACKLING "OLD EPHRAIM"

"Old Ephraim is out to investigate," declared Havens, excitedly. "Throw down everything but your guns. Take my advice, and shin up a tree—every blessed one of you."

"But," protested Bob, "we——"

Jim waved his hand impatiently.

"The worst animal in the mountains to tackle," he said, earnestly. "Better do what I say. Quick! The old brute's coming this way."

The crackling of twigs and crashing among the underbrush indicated that the bear was steadily advancing.

The hunters' nerves began to tingle at the prospect of meeting such a formidable antagonist, but a certain pride prevented them from adopting the wisest course.

Old Ephraim evidently felt that everything was not as it should be, and seemed determined to be fully satisfied before returning to his fishing.

While the four stood irresolute, the underbrush parted, and a broad head with a rather pointed snout came into view. A pair of small eyes gazed inquiringly around, and their owner, taking in the young nimrods, uttered a low growl. He seemed to be indignant at the invasion of his domain. Such a proceeding must be discouraged.

With a roar, he lumbered forward, and the Ramblers, feeling that closer acquaintanceship was not to be desired, scattered.

All but Jim Havens were startled and disconcerted at the size of the animal, and began to regret that they were not viewing the scene nicely perched on some branch out of reach of his terrible claws.

In the meantime, the grizzly singled out Bob Somers for immediate vengeance. The captain felt that it was too late to follow Havens' advice. He steadied his nerves and awaited a favorable moment.

"Shoot straight!" yelled Havens.

Four rifles were ready, though they may have wavered a little.

One of them presently spoke; a sharp report reverberated; a wreath of bluish smoke curled lazily upward, and a terrifying roar rang out.

Bob's shot had only checked the animal for an instant. It rose on its hind legs, then dropped upon all fours again, and, maddened beyond measure, redoubled its speed.

"Run for your life, Bob," shouted Havens. "We'll get him."

Then a wild chase began.

Afraid of hitting their companion, the others refrained from firing, while the captain tore around the trees with the huge animal in hot pursuit.

The three boys, with shouts and yells of encouragement, which they hoped might also divert the bear's attention, followed. It seemed to the frightened group that the captain was certain to be overtaken.

But, with a desperate effort, Bob suddenly swerved to one side, and by the time the clumsy brute could turn he had gained several feet.

"Keep it up, Bob!" shouted Dave Brandon, encouragingly.

The stout boy was puffing and blowing, but despite his handicap in weight kept well ahead of the others.

"Hi, hi! Christopher!"

"Great Cæsar!"

"My eye!"

Bob had reached the bank, and the grizzly was again almost within reach. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that a turn to either the right or left might be disastrous. Then, without hesitation, he threw aside his gun and plunged into the stream.

The bear, as if puzzled by this strange proceeding, stood for a moment gazing after the swimmer. But he did not mean to be cheated in such a fashion as that. With another hoarse growl, his ponderous body sent the water splashing.

Two shots rang out almost simultaneously.

"You missed him," called out Havens, his eyes shining with excitement. "Come ahead—we've got him!"

At full speed, he led the way toward the fallen tree. But the remnants of the grizzly's feast had made the trunk very slippery. Jim Havens' right foot began to slide—he gave an exclamation—then the left gave way.

The rifle dropped from his grasp; he flung his arms wildly over his head, and, with a lusty yell of dismay, plunged forward and landed in the water with a tremendous splash.

When, coughing and spluttering, he arose to the surface, it was about ten feet further down-stream.

"Wow—I—I——"

But a sharp report drowned the rest of his sentence.

Dave Brandon had succeeded in crossing the natural bridge just as the dripping bear clambered out on the opposite side. He sank to one knee, and fired.

The grizzly rose on its hind legs, its mouth opened, showing an array of formidable teeth; then, with a last defiant snarl, Old Ephraim fell heavily over, gave several convulsive movements and finally lay limp and lifeless.

"Hurrah!" yelled Bob Somers.

He stood on the bank, with his wet clothes clinging tightly to him and his hair matted fantastically to his forehead.

"Bully boy!" yelled Havens, who had scrambled ashore; "and I had an idea you couldn't shoot."

"Oh, no, he can't. Dave is the champion nimrod of the crowd," laughed Dick Travers. "Christopher—some excitement, eh?" Then he burst out laughing. "You're not hurt, are you, Havens?" he asked. "Honest, you were the funniest thing I ever saw when you went in."

"The whole thing was a comedy of errors," smiled Bob.

"It's lucky I didn't fall on a rock," said Havens, with a very faint grin. "That old fish-eating monster caused us a peck of trouble. And my rifle—we'll have to dig that up," he added, ruefully. "Somers, you and I are pretty sights."

The two dry nimrods and the two wet were soon examining the carcass. It was a monster, over eight feet long, and probably weighing about nine hundred pounds.

The task of skinning Old Ephraim was not an easy one, but Havens' experience counted. When the work was finally accomplished, all realized that it would be impossible to reach the mountain top that night.

"What's the odds?" remarked Bob. "We're not in any hurry."

Four o'clock found the boys weary, footsore, and looking for a camp. They were a long way up the mountain.

During the march, Dick Travers, who carried a shotgun, brought down a brace of quail.

When they came to a stop, it was at a point where a barren, rocky area surrounded them. Evidently at some remote period a fearful convulsion of nature had split and rent the great rocks and piled others together in the utmost confusion.

Looming against the sky, high above, was a rounded summit of the purest white.

Dave Brandon and Dick Travers rested by the wayside, while Bob Somers and Jim went off on a skirmishing expedition toward a belt of timber.

In a few moments, shouts were heard.

"Think there's anything up?" asked Dick, in an anxious voice.

"No! Bob doesn't yell as if a bear was after him," laughed Dave. "Here they come. What's that he says?"

"Found a cave, and a whopper, too."

"H'm—only hope it has a nice smooth floor, a soda fountain, and——"

"Hello, boys, we've struck a dandy place for a camp," called Bob; he arrived, panting and gleeful. "Finest cave you ever saw, Chubby," he declared.

"A crackerjack," added Havens. "Let's tote the stuff over, and get our grub."

In a few minutes, the boys reached the entrance, which was partially concealed by a fringe of bushes.

"Did you fellows have the nerve to go in there?" asked Dick.

"Not until we made sure that it was safe," responded Jim.

Dick eagerly pushed aside the bushes, and entered. For a moment everything was black, and he lingered on the threshold, fearing that some pitfall might be close at hand. Then, as he stepped forward, his eyes gradually accustomed themselves to the dim light which filtered in through the entrance.

But this disappeared almost entirely, as Dave's stout form squeezed through. Dick lighted a match.

When the tiny flame flared up, he uttered an exclamation of astonishment. It seemed as if he had been transported into some fairy chamber of wondrous beauty.

## CHAPTER XVII

### ON THE MOUNTAIN

From the lofty roof hung stalactites which flashed and sparkled in the light, while the walls were formed of smooth rock of astonishing whiteness.

Dick lighted another match, and pushed forward over the hard floor.

"By Jove, isn't this great, Chubby?" he exclaimed. "Hello, as I live, another chamber."

His voice reverberated in a series of roars and he wondered if the stout boy understood. But Dave was soon at his side, and the others followed.

As a flood of light illuminated the interior brightly, a murmur of admiration arose. From almost every nook and corner, the rays were flashed back in dazzling gleams, while fantastic groups of stalactites sparkled with a delicate, silvery whiteness.

"Swell, eh?" said Havens.

"I should say so," cried Dick. "Like some enchanted region. Let's go in the other chamber." Around a huge pillar of rock, a cavern somewhat larger was entered.

Presently, Bob Somers grasped Dave by the arm. "Listen! Don't I hear the sound of running water?" asked Bob. "That's where the sound comes from. Look out, fellows!" he pointed his torch toward a yawning pit which extended across the floor.

The quartet cautiously approached.

The steady swash of running water reached their ears, but the torches, held low, revealed nothing but the rocky sides of the pit. Its lower portion was wrapped in inky blackness.

Despite the strangeness of their surroundings, the boys slept as soundly as they ever did in their lives.

"Gee whitaker!"

Bob Somers raised himself on his elbow, and looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock! Wake up, fellows!" he cried.

The reverberations promptly aroused Havens and Dick, but the "poet laureate" lay still.

"Get up, Chub!" yelled Dick. "Whoop la!"

"Lemme be—I've just turned in," protested Dave. "Lemme be! If you don't, I'll hurt somebody."

But in spite of this awful threat, he was promptly dragged to his feet.

"Fellows," he said, after breakfast, "let's leave the bearskin here. It ought to be perfectly safe, eh, Havens?"

"Sure thing. We can blaze a trail, and find the cave again easy enough."

After concealing the entrance as well as possible, the hunters began their toilsome climb.

Great masses of whitish clouds flecked the blue sky, and the snow-capped summit was often hidden. They saw plenty of small game and several times heard the cry of wolves. Jim Havens blazed a trail through the deep pine and oak forests.

About noon they came to a small clearing and a halt was made.

"Weather's beginning to look threatening, fellows," observed Jim Havens. "Shouldn't wonder if a storm was coming up."

"Neither would I," said Bob. "We haven't had a drop of rain since starting."

"But managed to get wet, just the same," grinned Havens.

Lunch over, the climb was resumed.

"Wish we'd run across some big horns or goats," grumbled Dick, wiping his forehead.

"Too early for that, Dick. They don't often come down below the timber line," said Havens.

"Sort of high-livers, eh?" laughed Dave.

"Yes, and look down on most of the other critters, though painters often get after 'em."

At each open space, the quartet looked anxiously aloft, but there was always another ridge ahead and the summit seemed as far away as ever.

"Don't believe we can get any nearer," grumbled Dave. "This mountain's growing. Bet we're further away than when we started."

"There! Another cloud has bumped into the old thing," broke in Dick.

"Crickets, seems funny to have clouds coming to meet us," remarked Dick. "Gee! The wind is getting a bit too strong for comfort."

A harsh scream suddenly startled the boys, and, as they looked overhead, a bird with great, spreading wings soared above the tree tops.

"A bald eagle," said Havens. "We might have plugged the old robber."

"Why do you call him a robber?" asked Dick.

"Because he doesn't mind stealing. The old codger will watch a hawk catch a fish, bird or small animal, then sweep down, and the meal changes hands."

"Or changes claws," smiled Dave.

"That's it. He's a sneaking rascal. Always watching his chance to let other birds work for him. There he is now!"

Ahead, the forest opened out. Into this the eagle was sweeping, in a long, graceful curve, his wings scarcely seeming to move. The four instantly detected his object. A frightened rabbit was scampering for dear life through the grass, headed for a thicket.

But the woodland drama was soon over.

"He's got it," cried Dick.

With lightning speed, the bird overtook the fleeing animal; then the struggling bunny was borne aloft in the eagle's claws, and almost before the boys realized it, bird and prey were but a speck in the sky.

"Gee whitaker, that happened quickly," said Bob.

"Makes me feel glad that there are no rocs around," laughed Dave.

"Don't think one could have carried you off," said Dick, facetiously. "Their limit was a horse or elephant."

The timber line was left behind. There was nothing now but stunted vegetation, barren rocks, and, above them, perpetual snow.

"And this," observed Havens, waving his hand, "is the home of the big horn and mountain goat. Is it getting too steep for you?" He dislodged a rock, which rattled noisily down the incline.

"It's dangerous; besides, we can't see," grumbled the "poet." "In a few minutes, it will be like trying to climb up the side of a cathedral."

"Seems out of the world," declared Dick; "and say, that cold is getting worse—whew!"

He pulled up his collar, and the others followed suit.

"Hello! Rain at last."

The four shadowy forms came to a halt. A few big drops sprinkled around them, then increased to a steady patter. A flock of screaming birds darted swiftly by.

"H'm, flying before the storm," murmured Dave. "Sounds kind of ominous. Let's grope around a bit for a more sheltered place. Out here we're a regular target."

But before they had gone far, a torrent was beating in their faces. Clinging to whatever support they could find, the four huddled together and awaited the outcome.

## CHAPTER XVIII

### THE PRESCOTT PUZZLE

"Yes, sir—ter my mind, he's plumb crazy."

"Big Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver, wearing his usual sour expression, growled these words, as he stood, late one afternoon, on the Resort House porch.

There was the usual crowd present, sitting and lounging around, and "Big Bill's" harsh voice was loud enough to reach them all. Sile Stringer, the old man of Mountain Village, who had been half dozing in a chair, sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Plumb crazy—who's plumb crazy, Bill Dugan?" he quavered.

"When I says a thing, Stringer, I says it oncet," growled Bill. "If yer can't listen, I——"

"Who's plumb crazy?"

"Jest listen at him!" The lines above Dugan's nose deepened. "That feller over ter Promontory."

"What's he gone and did now?"

"Always a-buttin' in, Sile Stringer—go ter sleep ag'in," and Dugan walked impatiently to the other end of the porch.

"Neil Prescott crazy?" questioned Sam Randall; "I guess not—he's sharp as a steel trap."

"I'm not talkin' ter the nursery," said Bill Dugan, ungraciously, "but, ter my mind, if ye'd like ter know, he's plumb out of his senses."

"How—in what way?"

"What's he a-buyin' sich stacks of grub for, eh? He's got 'nuff ter last a man six months."

"How d'ye find that out, Bill?" interrupted Tom Sanders.

"The feller he bought 'em of tole me—that's how. An' only yisterday I seen him takin' over a lot more. An' ain't it 'nuff ter make any man laugh ter see the way he handles that boat?"

Old Sile again sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Who—who d'ye mean, Bill Dugan? Handles what boat?" he asked.

The stage-driver cast a withering look at the "oldest inhabitant."

"Go ter sleep," he growled. "If the man ain't crazy, would he build a fire so big that yer kin 'most feel the heat of it over here? No, sir, fur my part, he's plumb crazy. An' what's he doin' on the island; an' where's 'e come from, ennyway? Who knows 'im?" "Big Bill" paused and glared at his auditors. "Who knows 'im?" he repeated.

"Knows who, Bill Dugan?" came a quavering voice.

This time, the stage-driver paid no heed. "If that man ain't plumb crazy, I'm mistook."

"Wouldn't be the fust time," sneered Tom Sanders.

"Now, now—be good," laughed Mr. George Kimball, of Boston. "Bill, tell us something more about this mysterious old character."

The stage-driver sniffed.

"As long's ye got nothin' ter do but loaf around all day, I should think you'd know more'n me, who's got ter work fur a livin'," he growled. "Guess nobody's goin' ter ask me ter grub with 'em, so I'll git."

"I say, Bill Dugan," came a voice, "did you say some one's plumb crazy? Who's plumb crazy?"

A sort of grunt not unlike the growl of a bear sounded, and "Big Bill" Dugan was down the steps.

Old Sile Stringer sat up and looked around with a quizzical smile. Then he remarked, "I suspicioned he was going to act that 'ere way. I've know'd 'im since he was a kid, an' I ain't never know'd a day when Bill didn't speak rude to some one."

When Sam Randall and Tom Clifton walked home, they were accompanied part way by the last named youth, with whom they had made peace. Their principal topic of conversation was the strange dweller on Promontory Island.

"Let's skip over to-morrer mornin' an' see old Squeal Pressed Biscuits," suggested Sanders.

Early next morning, the boys met at the wharf, and were not particularly surprised to find "Little Bill" hanging around.

"He's brought the Dugan scowl with him, all right," observed Tommy Clifton, with a laugh.

"Sure, jest look at the mug on him," added Sanders.

"Let's get on board so as to be as far away as possible when the row starts," chimed in Sam, and his advice was followed.

Before the lines were cast off, however, "Little Bill" turned toward them.

"My eye, Sanders," he exclaimed, "I always thought you was a purty big chump, an' now I knows it. Goin' with this here crowd, now?"

"Run right along, an' warble ter Billee the Big," growled Sanders. "If I oncet git up there, I'll chase yer!"

"Yer will, hey?" retorted "Little Bill." "Yer ain't big 'nuff by two feet ter chase me. Yer 'most as bad as that elephant roamin' the mountains. Chase me, hey?"

A bucket half full of water was standing near by; "Little Bill's" wrath was too great to be appeased by mere words. Before Sam Randall could push off, a sheet of water curved gracefully through the air and descended squarely on Sanders' head and shoulders.

"Know'd I git a chancet some day," cried "Little Bill."

Then he and a cloud of dust kept pace together up the yellow road.

When Sanders had recovered sufficiently to speak, he turned a forlorn-looking face toward the two Ramblers, and observed, with considerable vehemence, "It's a good thing yer ain't a-laughin' at me."

Sam Randall's face had turned purple from suppressed mirth; it was only by a great effort that he stifled his desire to roar, and thus a tremendous row was probably averted.

Meanwhile, they had made a start. For once, they skirted the far shore of Hemlock Island, finally anchoring just below the passageway.

The climb to Neil Prescott's cabin brought them a disappointment—the place was deserted.

"Gee! This is mean luck!" grumbled Tommy.

"But the old duffer is on the island, for we saw his boat," put in Sam. "Let's look around a bit."

So down the cliff they scrambled; then began to wander around amidst the trees, gradually working their way toward the western end of the island.

"Gee! Where can he be, I wonder?" said Sam. "We can't get much further."

"Hello! Look at this," remarked Sanders, presently. "Pertaters."

He pointed to the ground.

"Jiminy! A regular trail of 'em," put in Sam.

"Maybe old Pressed Biscuits is going ter start a patch."

"Wonder how in the dickens they came here, anyway?" mused Tom.

"Give it up," said Sanders. "All I know is how some of 'em is a-goin' ter leave."

Stooping over, he gathered a pocketful.

"For goodness' sake—there's Neil now!" exclaimed Sam, suddenly.

They had emerged from a clump of trees and the end of the island was in sight.

Neil Prescott, at the very farthest point, had his back turned. He was leaning over, with a long pole in his hand, apparently gazing at the water. The boys saw an object resembling a cask floating slowly away on the current.

"Sh—sh! Let's see what Pressed Bricks—that's as good a name fur him—is up ter," whispered Sanders.

"Say! This is funny," muttered Tom.

Neil straightened up; then sat down on a rock, with his back still to them.

"I'm a-goin' ter give him the s'prise of his life," grinned Sanders. "Watch!"

He drew forth a potato, and sent it flying toward the sitter, observing, pleasantly, "Keep still, an' listen fur the plunk."

The tuber was small and round, and the curve Sanders gave it was perfect. Neil Prescott received it directly in the middle of the back, and proceeded to arise much more quickly than he had sat down.

Sanders let out a tremendous yell, waved his arms in the air, and the trio walked forward.

For an instant, the "hermit" seemed greatly nonplussed. Then, recognizing the boys, he quietly resumed his seat.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, reproachfully; "this here is a surprise—who throw'd it?"

"See here, old sport," said Sanders, ignoring the question, and pointing to the cask, "why did you chuck that in the lake?"

"H'm," Neil Prescott looked at the speaker calmly; "you're another one of them quizzers from Quizzerville—jest joined, eh? Hain't got me life's history writ out yet, an'——"

"Aw—wake up, an' answer me."

"Yes—go ahead, Neil," coaxed Sam Randall.

"Didn't yer never hear tell of them scientists what do all sorts o' funny things?"

"What's this 'bout yer buyin' three tons of grub a week, old sport?" asked Sanders, rudely.

"I kin swear I ain't buyin' an ounce over a ton," replied Neil, as he filled a very large pipe and winked at Tommy Clifton. "No, fur a fact, I hain't."

Tom Sanders sniffed.

"Now, old sport, you ain't as smart as you think. What was you a-goin' ter do with them 'taters back there?" A jerk of his thumb indicated the direction.

"'Tatars' is Latin fur pertaters, ain't it? I never went ter no college, but l'arnin' comes nat'ral ter me, jist as it acts kinder opposite with you. I remember oncet, when I was young an' unsoapfixycated, a man says ter me——"

"Aw—cut it out," growled the disgusted Sanders. "Why did you throw that thing in the water?"

"So as ter put in me life's hist'ry—writ by special request of the chief quizzer of Quizzerville—that Neil Prescott, at the height of his career, was a-studyin' currents. Who's a-comin' up ter the office?"

Neil winked and chuckled many times on the walk back, and laughed gruffly at parting.

"We've learned an awful lot eh?" ventured Tommy Clifton.

"My eye, but I think Billee the Big hit it about right," said Sanders. "The feller ain't got no sense in him."

"One thing sure," remarked Sam Randall, "Neil had just shoved off that keg."

"Yep."

"And what in the dickens were those potatoes doing there?" put in Tommy.

The boys walked along in silence for a few steps, when Sam turned toward his companions, and said, abruptly, "I give it up. The whole thing is just a bit too deep for me."

## CHAPTER XIX

### ABOVE THE CLOUDS

Rain, fog and wind form a decidedly unpleasant combination on the sloping sides of a mountain.

The three Ramblers and their friend Jim Havens were not long in having this fact impressed upon them. With surprising suddenness, the wind increased to a gale, sweeping everything before it, and the boys, crouching almost flat, had difficulty in avoiding the stones which rattled down from above.

Presently, the ominous darkness was momentarily dispelled by a dazzling gleam of bluish-white. Then followed a crackling sound, which merged into a crash that seemed to jar the mountain.

The obscurity grew denser. Never in their lives had they been in such a fog. It almost startled them to realize that they could scarcely see each other—that they were, in fact, amidst the very storm-clouds.

Each moment they expected another blinding glare and solemn peal of thunder, but it seemed as if nature had spent most of its electrical energy. The next flash, which only came after a considerate interval, was much less brilliant.

Dick Travers protected his precious camera as well as he could, but several times it almost slipped from his grasp.

Chilled, and soaked to the skin, the boys could do nothing but wait. The clouds kept swirling past, while the wind moaned and howled, making conversation almost impossible.

About half an hour later, Dave Brandon eased himself slowly to his feet.

"Weather to-day threatening and showery, fellows," he remarked, cheerily. "To-night, clear and colder."

"That will do, Chub," said Bob, ruefully. "Wow—but I am glad the rain is letting up."

"And the wind going down," chimed in Dick, his teeth chattering. "I feel worse than an icicle."

"It's colder than all outdoors," added Jim, with a tremendous shiver. "What shall we do?"

"Nothing—just wait for things to get better," answered the philosophical Dave.

The wind continued brisk, and the boys felt it so keenly that they were glad to keep their chilled bodies in motion.

"It's so steep I don't see how we can get much higher," observed Dick Travers. "Say—where are you going, Jim Havens?"

Their guide, his eyes bent on the rock, was crawling upon hands and knees toward a ledge that overhung a steep declivity.

"Plenty of signs of goats, fellows," he cried. "Look!" And Bob, who had followed, saw that the surface was worn and indented by the tread of countless hoofs.

"By jingo, it must have taken years to cut into the solid rock like that," he said, reflectively.

"Hundreds, maybe," returned Havens. "Goats," he explained, "have regular beaten trails. You'll find plenty of them all over the upper parts of the mountains."

The group continued cautiously along, on the lookout for a break in the slope which might enable them to ascend.

"Down there is a mighty bad place."

Dick Travers pointed just below and to their left.

The steep declivity they were on led down to a ledge at the brink of a precipice, on one side of which the rocks jutted out abruptly, forming a spur.

"Think you could climb down it?" asked Jim, with a grin.

"I'd leave that for——" began the "poet"; then he paused, gripped Havens' arm, and whispered,

"Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the rocks
And disturb not a goat that so actively hops,"

and having changed the lines to suit the situation, a broad smile played over his face.

"Stoop down, everybody," commanded Jim, sharply. "A herd of goats on the ledge, as sure as you're a foot high—the wind in our favor, too. By George! They're running to beat the band."

"Must be something chasing them," murmured Dick.

Havens gripped his rifle, and lay low.

A savage growl reached their ears; then a lithe, gray mountain lion appeared in view. With lashing tail, he crept steadily forward.

An old buck courageously planted himself between it and the retreating flock.

"We're going to see something now," whispered Havens, excitedly.

"Brave old codger," murmured Bob, "but he doesn't stand any show."

"Of course not," breathed Dick. "Look—the scrap begins."

With a savage snarl, the panther leaped in the air. Had the buck remained still, the cat would have landed squarely upon his back. But the grizzled old warrior sprang quickly to one side; then, with lowered head, dashed furiously at his foe.

The force was so great that the mountain lion, partly off its balance, fell back. A horrid screech rang out—then another, as the buck landed its hoofs viciously on the prostrate form.

But the tawny beast recovered himself quickly, crouched with flattened ears, and fiercely attacked its prey.

Bravely the buck met the advance, but the powerful paws of the panther soon brought him to his knees.

"That's the end of him," whispered Bob. "Christopher! No, he's up again. Look at that!"

"Wish he'd send the old monster over the cliff," said Dick, breathlessly. "He's doing wonders."

With a desperate effort, the goat rose on its hind legs, and shook off his antagonist. Backing away, the animal approached the edge of the precipice.

"Wow!" gasped Dick, "he'll be over in a minute."

"The brave old buck deserves to live, after putting up such a game fight," declared Dave. "Come on, fellows—to the rescue!"

The four began scrambling hastily down over the rocks toward the combatants.

"Hey! Don't fire until I get a chance with my camera," panted Dick, excitedly.

"All right, photographer—quick," said Havens.

The cat sprang again, and landed on the back of its antagonist; the buck partly rose, the weight of the panther pulled him sideways, and both goat and cat, struggling madly, fell in a heap upon the very edge of the precipice.

The battle was no longer against each other—it was now to regain their footing on the brink.

Breathlessly the boys watched; Dick Travers pointed his camera.

For an instant, the outcome was in doubt; then the buck, with wildly waving legs, plunged backward into the abyss, dragging his snarling foe with him.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Dave; "what a finish!"

"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. "They'll be knocked into a thousand bits."

"By Jingo—both done for," added Havens.

Then something else happened.

Dick Travers, in his eagerness to get a photo, failed to notice a projecting rock; he tripped, and found himself going forward.

It was a very sudden lurch, and the involuntary motion to recover his balance resumed in the camera slipping from his grasp. Bumping and sliding, it shot swiftly down the incline.

Bob Somers sprang forward to Dick's assistance, while Dave tried to catch the instrument. The former was successful, but the stout boy had no chance to intercept the camera.

With wild, staring eyes, Dick Travers watched the precious instrument headed straight for the precipice. Nothing could save it.

"It's gone," he said, in a hollow voice.

An instant later, the official photographer's official instrument sailed grandly over the brink, and followed goat and panther to the rocks below.

Dick Travers was inconsolable.

"Never mind, old man," said Bob, soothingly. "My dad will send you out another—honest, he will. You've got all your negatives safe."

"Fellows, look," remarked Havens, in a few minutes. He pointed to several large birds circling above the chasm. "Vultures," he said, briefly.

"After the goat and panther already?" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.

"Of course. I'd like to put a ball through the ugly rascals."

As soon as the great birds were hidden behind the precipice, the Ramblers continued on.

"Here's a place where we can get up," observed Bob, at length.

He began scrambling over a pile of rocks, and the others followed.

After many difficulties, and assisting each other over places which at first glance seemed impassable, the boys reached the snow.

"It's jolly fun to do this in summer, eh?" cried Bob, as he playfully shied a lump at Dave.

"I should say so," laughed the stout boy, returning the compliment.

"I can't forget that camera," sighed Dick, gloomily. "Excuse me, Havens, I didn't mean to soak you so hard."

Jim brushed a large quantity of snowflakes from around his neck.

"Oh, ho," said Dave, "this is a wonderful sight. A bit too cold to suit me, though. Our friends, the goats, have been here, all right—see the tracks?"

"And that's about all we will see of 'em," put in Havens. "They're scary critters. Big horns the same way."

Cautiously, the four climbed on. A magnificent panorama was before them—of valley and rugged mountains, of dark timber and rocks, all in sunshine save where the shadow of some floating cloud dotted the landscape.

The sun was now hanging just above a high peak, and within a short time the shade would creep through the valley, the rosy glow fade from the opposite mountains and the dense forests become sombre and gloomy.

Dave Brandon thought of this, and proposed returning, but the others were anxious to reach the highest point.

"Come on, Chubby," protested Bob. "Don't talk that way until we have balanced ourselves on the peak."

"Clouds coming up again, fellows," broke in Dick. "Gee, but aren't they far below us?"

"Wish they would spread all around," said Bob.

"By jingo, it looks as if a fellow could walk on them without falling through, doesn't it, Chub?" remarked Dick.

"Yes—makes it feel safe up here. Sort of holds us in."

"Funny to be looking down upon a pile of clouds," observed Bob, reflectively.

In ten minutes, the slowly-moving clouds had again cleared almost entirely away, and the boys, as they slipped and scrambled around a huge snow-bank, came across a view which brought them to a sudden halt.

"Jiminy crickets!" cried Bob, with arm outstretched; "look—Mountain Lake!"

"That's just what it is," said Dick, wonderingly. "Isn't it great, though? Can see just the shape and everything. The two islands look like a tiny little speck."

"Wish we had the Lick telescope," was Dave Brandon's remark. "Might see Sam and Tom on the porch or fishing in the lake. And think," he added, in tones which spoke of a troubled soul, "of all the weary tramping we've got to do before we see it again."

"Freezing snowbirds, I can't do the standing act," chattered Dick.

Their way, however, was soon barred by a narrow ledge which sloped abruptly downward on either hand.

"Never had any practice on tight ropes, and don't care to negotiate it," announced Dave, firmly.

"If you please, Chubby, we know you are right up in big words, but you'd better save 'em for Professor Hopkins," said Bob, with a smile.

"Very good," returned Dave; "but I am unalterably opposed to a continuance of——"

A series of groans stopped him.

For a few moments they contemplated in silence the dazzling depths below. Then Havens spoke up.

"Better be moving, fellows," he said. "There are some pretty tough places to get down, and we want to spend the night in the cave again."

"That's so," said Bob, "and often it's worse than climbing."

"Makes me tired to think of coming all this way, and then find that you just can't reach the top," exclaimed Dick Travers.

He looked longingly toward the summit, whereupon the other boys faced about and began the homeward march.

"Wouldn't do you any good to plead for it," said Dave. "I'm satisfied with being this far out of the world."

The descent, across sloping fields of snow, over slippery hillocks and declivities, proved to be more difficult than they had anticipated. Many anxious moments were spent at places where a slip or misstep might have meant a terrible fall.

When the timber line was reached, Havens' trail was soon found, and the four plunged into the thick pine forest.

"It's going to be blacker than pitch," remarked Dave, cheerily.

"Who cares?" said Bob. "We won't get lost—that's sure."

"And I wouldn't mind if we did," put in Dick, gloomily. "I can't get over that camera."

"Brighten up, old man—the worst is always ahead of us," laughed Dave.

"Don't even whisper, fellows," said Bob, a moment later. "Our supper is over there."

"Where—where?" came a low chorus.

"Don't you see a flock of birds in the open space beyond that old oak?"

"Sure," said Dick, in a stage whisper. "We mustn't miss anything like that."

"And won't, either," asserted Havens. "Be careful now."

Cautiously, the hunters spread out, and began to creep along, avoiding obstructions almost as well as Hank Merwin could have done. Not a word was spoken.

Through every opening they eagerly peered, and saw the flock still feeding, unconscious of danger. A little further, and four guns were raised toward the glade. Then four reports echoed, almost in unison, and almost instantly afterward the guns spoke in a more scattered fashion, while a flock of ducks, with loud quacking, took wing and disappeared amid the thick foliage.

"Hurrah!" yelled Bob Somers. "I told you so. We'll have a dandy supper."

Quickly they covered the ground which separated them from the glade, to find three plump birds.

"That's bully," cried Havens.

"Um—um," said the "poet." He picked up a bird by the legs and held it aloft. "Isn't that a daisy wood-duck?" he cried, admiringly. "Look at the lovely color—it's the prettiest of all ducks."

"Right you are, Chubby, but it will look even prettier when it gets over the fire. Come ahead—it's growing dark fast."

Already the light was beginning to fade from the sky, and before long it would be difficult to find the trees which Havens had marked.

"It means a torchlight procession pretty soon," remarked Dave, and this prediction was soon verified. When night came, four flaring pine-knots flashed a pathway through the forest, and caused many of its inhabitants to dash madly for the nearest thickets.

Strange sounds met their ears, the plaintive note of the whippoorwill, the weird hooting of owls, and sometimes the cries of animals in the distance.

Every one of the group kept his eyes and ears open for signs of any dangerous beasts which might be lurking in their path.

Owing to Havens' forethought in "blazing" the trees at short intervals, the trail was easily found, and the cave at last reached.

"Oh, how glad I am to get here," said Dave. "Nice late supper we'll have, though I'm 'most too tired to eat."

"Isn't possible," said Dick. He lighted a fresh pine-knot, and continued, "Let's take a look inside the hotel."

"See if my bearskin's safe," drawled Dave.

He propped his flaring torch between two stones and sank wearily down, while Bob and Dick entered the cave.

A moment later, Dick Travers poked his head outside the opening, and, in a voice that trembled with excitement, made this startling announcement:

"Hello, Dave Brandon—it's gone!"

## CHAPTER XX

### BOB'S WILDCAT

"Gone? It can't be!" gasped Dave. He rose slowly to his feet. "You're joking, Dick."

"Not a bit of it. Sure as you're bigger than a grasshopper, somebody's swiped it, eh, Bob?"

Bob nodded.

"It's gone, Chubby—and who could have taken it?"

"I told you, Dick Travers, that the worst is always ahead of us," grumbled Dave. "I had a place selected for that rug—wouldn't have sold it for any money."

"Gee! Mighty hard luck, old man," commented Havens, sympathetically. "I must take a look into this."

He hastily entered the cave.

The flaring pine torch revealed the fact that Old Ephraim's valuable pelt had actually disappeared.

"Not a blessed thing to give us a clue," said Dave, gloomily. "No handkerchief, no bit of paper, conveniently torn, so as to fit another piece later found on the culprit, no bit of cloth hanging to a bush, no footprints, because it's all rock. That's the way it is in real life." He heaved a sigh, and extended his hand toward Dick Travers. "Partners in misfortune," he said, and the two shook hands.

After one of the ducks had been dressed, Jim Havens took charge of it and proceeded to make a record for speedy broiling.

Appetites having been sharpened by the long tramp and bracing air, the meal was thoroughly enjoyed.

It was late before they turned in, and the sun had risen far above the mountains when a breakfast of cold duck and coffee was disposed of.

"Our time is about over," said Bob Somers, regretfully, as they prepared to leave. "Sam and Tommy must have their chance."

"We've had a bully trip," said Dick. "Glad that we're going to see old Hank Merwin again."

"And if we could only run across the fellow who took that bearskin, I'd feel better," murmured Dave.

"Don't think you'll ever lay eyes on it again," put in Havens, frankly.

The hunters kept a sharp lookout for game, and encountered plenty of the smaller variety. A pair of gray wolves, skulking among the pines, hastily left for other parts when Dick Travers sent a load of buckshot rattling over their heads.

After lunch, beautiful Lake Cloud was sighted. About the same instant, the four discovered several large white birds with long, graceful necks swimming close in shore.

"Sh—sh!" said Havens.

"Sh—sh!" said all the rest in unison.

"Swans," whispered Jim.

"One of 'em might look well stuffed—a nice souvenir of our trip," put in Bob.

Bob, Dick and Jim crept cautiously ahead. Afraid that the birds might take wing, they decided to risk a long-distance shot, although Dick felt sure that his would be wasted.

"Too far for buckshot," he whispered, "but never mind—here goes."

He fired, and then Jim followed suit. Bob Somers, whose foot had caught in a trailing vine, looked up in time to see three white forms rising against the background of greenish mountains. Neither shot had taken effect.

"Well, well," muttered Havens, chagrined. "Hello!"

Bob Somers had raised his gun instantly, and fired. Scarcely believing his eyes, he saw the flight of the nearest bird checked. With fluttering wings, it dropped in shallow water, close to an ancient cypress tree.

"Bully shot, Bob," cried Dick. "Simply stunning—well, what do you think of that?"

As they started to run forward, a yellowish-gray animal suddenly appeared in view from behind a thicket, and, with a growl, sprang boldly out and grappled the still struggling swan by the neck.

"That's nerve for you," yelled Bob. "We'll teach the old robber a lesson."

"Be quick," panted Dick; "he'll get away."

The wildcat speedily dragged the swan out of the water into the thicket, and when the three boys arrived both were out of sight.

"Doesn't that beat all?" cried Bob, disgustedly.

"Hard luck, after making such a dandy shot," said Dick. "The rascal is close by—we'll chase him out of the bushes. What are you going to do, Bob?"

"Climb the old cypress; I'll find out where he is."

The thick trunk was gnarled, and, by the aid of a low branch, Bob managed to reach a stout limb, bare of foliage. Sitting astride, he worked his way carefully out over the thicket.

A harsh, rasping cry broke the stillness. Almost directly beneath, in a tiny clearing, was the robber, with one paw on the swan. His ears were thrown back, while the yellow eyes glared savagely and his tail switched back and forth.

"I'll make short work of you, old chap," muttered Bob.

He unslung his rifle.

"Just one minute—all right, Dick, he's here. I'll——"

An ominous sound suddenly rang out, the limb shivered and shook, while Bob Somers glanced wildly around. A cry came from his lips.

A crack in the limb had escaped his attention, and it was giving way beneath his weight. His companions' startled exclamations joined in with his own.

"Get over—quick," yelled Dick Travers, in dismay.

But, with another sharp crack, the limb broke in twain, and Bob Somers shot downward.

An awful screech came from the wildcat.

"He'll be torn to pieces," cried Havens.

"Jehoshaphat! This is terrible," gasped Dave Brandon.

In an instant Bob landed in the midst of a mass of underbrush and tangled vines. His fall was broken by these, and he managed to hold on to his rifle.

The wildcat crouched and emitted another blood-curdling screech; Bob strove to regain his feet. Then, as he got on one knee, a lithe form launched itself in the air.

It was a critical moment. Bob's arms trembled; he had no time to bring the rifle to his shoulder, but managed to blindly point it upward and pull the trigger. The cat dropped heavily in the bushes and lay quite still.

The bullet had pierced its brain.

For an instant, Bob Somers could scarcely realize his good fortune. Then, as his excited companions pushed their way toward him, he uttered a cry of triumph.

"I've got him, Chubby," he cried, "and with one shot, too. And never aimed, either—what do you think of that?"

"Hurt?" came a chorus of excited voices.

"Not a bit of it. Scratched up a bit by these plagued vines—that's all. And the swan's most as good as ever. Hurrah! Got two souvenirs, instead of one."

"Gee whitaker, but I was scared," said Dick Travers. "Thought sure you'd be nearly chewed to pieces."

"You hold the record now, Somers—two bully shots," broke in Havens. "But say—as you don't need any help, excuse me from pushing any further into this mess."

"You're a lucky chap," came from Dave. "Mighty good your first shot settled him."

Bob found it very hard to extricate himself from the thick mass of underbrush and creepers. He touched the wildcat gingerly with his toe, then stooped over and examined the wicked-looking head.

"You're an awful monster," he exclaimed. "Here, Chubby—catch a few pounds of wildcat."

He picked up the animal, and with a hard effort managed to land it near the edge of the thicket; then the swan followed.

By the time Bob got out of his unpleasant position, he was badly scratched up.

The swan was not seriously damaged, although the marks of the wildcat's teeth showed plainly on its neck.

"Fellows," said Bob, proudly, "I'll have both of these stuffed—make a group of 'em—see if I don't."

"Good," approved Dave. "This counts as another little adventure which is going to cause Sam and Tommy to open their eyes."

Hank Merwin was not at his cabin when the four arrived. But about sundown his lanky form appeared in view. Over his shoulder he carried a well-filled game-bag.

"Hello, Hank!" called Jim.

"Arternoon, lads," responded the trapper, quietly. "Back ag'in, eh?" He glanced at the wildcat and swan. "Not bad, lads. The horns is fixed fine; I'll show ye."

He opened the door, and the boys followed him into the cabin.

In one corner stood the great moose antlers, nicely cleaned and prepared. Dick Travers' eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"I'm ever so much obliged, Hank," he cried, seizing the trapper's brawny hand. "Isn't it great to have things like that to show the fellows at Kingswood, eh, Chubby?"

"Got a lot of pelts, Hank?" questioned Jim.

"Not a bad haul, lad. Mink, an' otter, an' beaver, an' a fox. But I reckon you lads 'ud like a bit of grub."

"We'll give you a hand, Hank," said Bob. "Come on, Dick—help get a fire started."

Hank had a treat, in shape of several trout, and these, cooked between hot stones, were declared delicious.

The boys had a great deal to talk about. Hank listened gravely, making but little comment, until Dave spoke about the bearskin.

"Stole, eh?" he exclaimed, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air. "Tough luck, lad. Only a pesky snake 'ud do a thing like that."

The firelight brought out the wrinkles and seams on his rugged face, and for an instant his kindly eye flashed sternly.

"A bad business, lads," he continued. "A bad business." Then he gazed at the smoke rings again, apparently in deep thought.

Early next morning, Hank prepared the wildcat's skin, as well as that of the swan, and, loaded with these and the moose antlers, the boys bade him good-bye.

"Look out fur yerselves, lads," he said. "Perhaps I may run acrost ye ag'in."

"Certainly hope so, Hank," declared Dick. "I'll never forget you or that jacklight trip. Three cheers for Hank Merwin!"

And the lusty shouts that followed made a faint smile play across the impassive face of the trapper.

The moose antlers had been firmly attached to stout poles, each carried by two boys. With such a heavy load, progress was slow.

That night they camped on the mountainside, and at noon the following day reached the dugout.

An unpleasant surprise awaited them—the honey was gone.

"A bear's been here," declared Havens. "The old brute busted in the door to get it."

"And I've been thinking about that honey for the last three days," said Dave, dolefully.

## CHAPTER XXI

### DAVE PAINTS A PICTURE

The Ramblers had been back two days. Bob and his companions were deeply shocked to hear about Howard Fenton, and went immediately to the Resort House, to express their sympathy to his father, but Mr. Fenton had left the village.

The boys found plenty to talk about. Sam Randall and Tommy Clifton listened eagerly to the story of their chums' experiences in the mountains, while Bob and his companions were interested to hear about mysterious Neil Prescott and the strange bonfire which often burned on the heights of Promontory Island.

"Nobody knows a thing about him, either," remarked Sam, as they sat around the porch, early one morning. "When Tom and I take our trip to the mountains, you chaps ought to do a bit of detective work."

"Guess he's only some old crank," said Bob, "not worth bothering about."

"He's sharp enough, eh, Tommy?"

Clifton nodded.

"You bet," he said. "Whenever we start to quizzing, he always says, 'Now, youngsters, I'll spin a little yarn.' He's great at it, too."

"Couldn't beat Hank Merwin," said Dick.

"Huh—you haven't heard Neil Prescott."

"And you haven't heard Hank."

"Fellows," interrupted Bob, "let's get away from this porch. Suppose we take a jaunt somewhere?"

The captain arose, and picked up his gun. "Saw some ducks yesterday," he went on. "Might get a crack at 'em."

"And I'm going to make a sketch," declared Dave.

Dick Travers accompanied him inside and walked to the drawing-room, while the other went up-stairs for his painting materials.

The "official photographer's" eyes glowed with pride, as his gaze rested upon a pair of moose antlers.

"And to think I brought him down," he muttered, for about the fiftieth time. "Gee!" and he straightened himself up with a thrill of pride.

"Say, what are you doing in there?" called Tommy Clifton, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

"Did you see my handkerchief laying around anywhere?" stammered Dick.

"No! But I see those horns," gurgled Tommy, with a sly wink.

"That will do, Tommy. If you practice a bit, maybe you'll bring down something, too. Hello—I hear Tom Sanders' sweet voice outside."

Dave Brandon came down-stairs at this moment, with his paint box, easel, canvas and a huge white umbrella.

"Look at the fat peddler," snickered Clifton, as they walked out on the porch.

Tom Sanders was greatly interested.

"What a rig!" he said, loudly. "Say, are you goin' to make a paintin'?"

"Yep."

"Bartlett's pond is awful purty."

"Then let's make a bee-line for it."

"That your dog, Sanders?" asked Dave, presently.

He pointed to a large, scrawny animal which was squatting on the ground close by. Its color was a dull yellow; of all the dogs they had seen in Mountain Village this was quite the ugliest.

"Ain't you never seen Tige afore?" asked Sanders, in surprise. "He's a bully dorg, he is—say! I'll lay me cap down, an' if any of you fellers kin git away with it, it's yours."

This liberal offer was politely declined.

"He ain't afear'd of nuthin'," went on Sanders. "That dorg couldn't be bought fur five dollars. Oncet a feller offered me fifty cents, but I says 'no.'"

"Well, we won't tempt you to part with him," laughed Bob.

As he approached, the animal raised his head slightly, and showed a row of gleaming teeth.

"He's got a disposition like 'Surly Joe's,'" said Dick, with a grin.

A few minutes later, the six boys crossed the baseball diamond, and were soon on the road.

Bartlett's pond was about two miles from Rickham House, on the edge of a fringe of woods, charmingly framed in by the distant mountains.

"Ah, this is great," murmured Dave, presently. "Ought to make a dandy sketch."

To the left, a clump of trees overhung the pond, while in the foreground an ancient flat-bottomed boat lay partly submerged, with reeds and tall grass growing all around.

A canvas was placed on the easel, and then Dave began to set his palette, surrounded by an interested group.

"Ain't them purty colors fur ye?" said Sanders.

"It's the mixing that would bother me," put in Tom Clifton, confidentially.

At last Dave was ready.

"What's yer a-puttin' on that awful mug fur?" demanded Sanders. "D'ye feel sick?"

"Sick?" echoed the artist.

"Sure! Mebbe the smell of paint ain't good. There was Phil Levins' dad—started ter paint his barn, an' was took somphin' awful."

Sanders looked mildly astonished when his hearers roared with laughter.

"Bang—there it goes," said Sam, as Dave started to sketch in the general lines with charcoal.

"Ah!" said Bob, when the first dab of color struck the canvas.

And Dave squinted his eyes and sighed, and contracted his brows, as the surface was gradually covered.

"Don't look like nothin' ter me," said Sanders, frankly, his face within two feet of the canvas. "'Tain't smooth."

"If," said Dave, calmly, "that paint gets on your nose, Sanders, don't blame me."

Half an hour later, Bob Somers observed, "Looks great—doesn't it, boys?"

"Dave, you're a wonder," added Sam.

"Don't look like nothin' ter me," repeated Sanders. "What's the use of doin' it?"

"Thus is genius always unappreciated," smiled Dave. "Some day, Sanders, when you hear a big noise, rolling like distant thunder, you'll know it's my fame reaching Mountain Village."

A low growl came from Tige at this moment. A boy and a large dog were approaching. The dog soon led. It was larger than Tige, shaggy, and wore an expression which indicated that timidity was not a part of its nature.

Trouble was brewing, and it came sooner than expected.

The newcomer wasted no time in preliminaries. The moment he saw Tige he sprang for him.

All but Dave Brandon retreated—he didn't have time.

Smack! The animals backed up against the easel, sending it flying.

Bang! The canvas smote Dave Brandon on the nose, his stool tilted, and over he went backward, while his palette dropped squarely on Tige's back. The big umbrella, after gracefully sailing through the air, landed a few feet away.

As Dave picked himself up, he was not pleased to find that operations continued with great activity close around him. Each dog let out a series of howls, barks, whines and grunts; each got knocked down, and each knocked the other down, while eight legs waved wildly in all directions.

"Whee!" cried Dave, as one after the other bumped into him. "It's time they had a lesson in manners."

He seized his rest stick, and raised it aloft, aiming toward the spot where the mixture of dog seemed thickest.

About one second later, a howl such as rarely issued from a canine throat disturbed the atmosphere, and one dog was seen rapidly backing away. Then the rest stick hit the other dog in the back, and the noise in that immediate vicinity was considerably augmented.

"Don't hit my poor dorg ag'in!" screamed Sanders, rushing forward.

But Dave had not intended his blows to land. They served, however, to keep the two howling canines from renewing their fights, and by that time the owner of the visiting dog had come running up, hatless, and out of breath.

"W-w-what d-d-do you m-ean?" he stammered, taking a position between Dave's stick and his own pet.

"What does the dog mean?" demanded Dave, facetiously, again.

"I guess he was just sparring for points," laughed the newcomer, perceiving that Dave was disposed to view the situation in a humorous light.

At this moment several hearty peals of laughter rang out.

"Awful sorry, old man," snickered Bob, "but I can't help it. Maybe Tige isn't a beautiful sight, and your face—wow!"

"Funniest thing I ever saw," gasped Dick.

The artist was calmly wiping his forehead and cheeks, thereby spreading the color.

As for the owner of the dog which had caused all the trouble, he now seized the animal by the collar, and bending forward looked at Dave with a scared expression.

"I'm awful sorry," he said. "I——"

"Might have known your old brute would raise the mischief, Ben Henderson," growled Sanders, aiming a kick at Tige which sent the sadly bedaubed animal scurrying away.

"Honest—it wasn't my fault," pleaded the boy. "I'm awful sorry."

"It's all right, son," put in Dave.

"Nip's kind of out of humor to-day, and——"

"'Nip'? That's a mighty queer name."

"Yes, sir! We have another dog named Tuck, so it's Nip and Tuck."

"Thank goodness Tuck didn't come along," said Dave, as he picked up the easel and set his sketch in place.

"Awful glad your paintin' wasn't spoiled," said the boy. "It's bully. You're a regular artist, ain't you?"

At this remark a very wide smile played over the stout boy's features.

"I draw pictures, too," stammered Ben.

"You do?" said Dave, with interest. "See here, Ben, do you tend sheep?"

"Sure," answered the boy, in surprise. "Why?"

"Well, well," continued Dave, laughingly; "fellows, maybe we've discovered another Giotto."

"Giotto?" echoed Ben. "Who's he?"

"Oh, an Italian artist who lived several hundred years ago," explained Dave. "While tending sheep, he used to draw, and afterward he became famous."

"I've drawn pictures, too, while the sheep were grazing," said Ben, eagerly.

"Suffering catfish, how like the other Gee Otto," put in Tommy Clifton.

"I'll draw you a picture now. Oh, you needn't laugh, Tom Sanders."

Ben seized the sketch-book which Dave held out, and began to work.

"Good boy! You've got the stuff all right," exclaimed the stout boy.

Young Henderson looked pleased.

"Isn't this like my father's house, Sanders?" he asked, holding up the sketch, and Tom admitted that it was.

"Wish Professor Mead could see it," murmured Dave. "If you want me to give you a few pointers, come over to Rickham."

Ben was delighted.

"You bet I'll come over," he said, with sparkling eyes.

"Then I must order a pair of spectacles," said Dave, solemnly, "and cultivate a severe frown and deep voice, and if you don't become a second Giotto, it won't be my fault."

## CHAPTER XXII

### CHASING "LITTLE BILL"

Ben Henderson lost no time in taking advantage of Dave Brandon's kind offer; in fact, the very next morning he appeared at the Rickham House, happy and expectant.

Ben proved an apt pupil, and Dave enjoyed his new rôle as a professor.

One morning, just after breakfast, Dick Travers poked his head out-of-doors.

"May have to stick inside all day," he grumbled. "Clouds are dark and the wind is pretty brisk—it's going to rain."

"Well, it isn't raining now," called out Dave from the dining-room. "Let's ramble around for an hour or two, anyway."

"Right you are, Chubby," agreed Bob. "I'm going to take my gun. Might knock over a couple of hares."

In a few minutes, the boys were crossing the field, headed for a fringe of woods.

As they were about to enter, Dick Travers happened to turn his head. He stopped abruptly, and uttered an exclamation.

"What's the matter, Dick?" asked Bob.

"Some fellows going out on our wharf," was the answer.

"I'll bet it's 'Little Bill' after the 'Spray' again," cried Tom, excitedly.

"Let's watch 'em a bit," counseled Bob.

"Now's the time to put a stop to their funny business," said Bob. "Come ahead, fellows. Guess Mr. Bill Dugan won't take the boat out to-day."

"He has awful nerve," said Dick, angrily.

"Perhaps he won't have so much when the Ramblers get through with him."

The boys, fully aroused, broke into a run, and presently recognized "Little Bill." But Dugan and his companion, busily engaged in casting off the ropes, did not look around until the indignant boys were almost upon the wharf.

"Hey there, Bill Dugan," yelled Bob; "get away from that boat!"

"Well, I declare—if that isn't 'Surly Joe' with him," panted Dick. "Crickets, but this is a surprise!"

Both the trapper and "Little Bill" wheeled sharply around at Bob's command. Dugan's face flushed; he was evidently disconcerted and no doubt felt like taking to his heels, but "Surly Joe's" unamiable countenance glared defiance.

"Don't pay no attention to 'em, Bill," snarled the latter. "They hain't got no more sense than ter skeer away a hull flock of the finest ducks you ever see. Jump in, an'——"

"Don't do anything of the sort, Dugan," commanded Bob, firmly. "You have no right to touch that boat!"

"What's the reason I hain't?" cried "Little Bill," with a show of courage. "Old Barton says ter me—he says, 'Bill, if ever——'"

"Don't chin with 'em all day, but jump in," interrupted "Surly Joe," angrily. "Didn't you say that you an' me could have a little sail? You ain't skeered of them young kids, I hope, Bill Dugan?"

"You don't know how to sail a boat, anyway," cried Bob. "We won't stand any nonsense now."

"Jist listen at him—wal, did I ever hear the beat of it? If that ain't impertinence fur ye," growled Joe Tomlin. "He's insulted, ye, Bill Dugan—that's what he's done. Do you stand fur sich talk as that?"

"No, I don't!" yelled Dugan, fiercely.

His right hand shot out; he seized Bob Somers' rifle, and wrested it from his grasp.

"Jump in, Joe," he cried. "Here goes!"

He leaped aboard the "Spray," and "Surly Joe" instantly followed. The boat had been straining and tugging, with but one rope left to hold her, and this Joe Tomlin instantly cast off.

The boys were entirely unprepared for such sudden action, and their indignation was thoroughly aroused as the "Spray" slowly drifted away from the wharf, and "Surly Joe" was seen hauling up the sail.

"I'll teach yer not ter be gittin' gay with me," cried Dugan. "When yer apologizes, ye gits back yer old shootin' iron, an' not before. I'll show you—an' that fat elephant, too."

"After them in the 'Speedy,' fellows," cried Bob.

"That's the idea!" yelled Dick.

But the boys, in their excitement and hurry, proceeded to prove the truth of the old saying, "The more haste, the less speed." Nothing went right. Tommy Clifton fell down and bumped his nose; the ropes were stubborn—one of them got wedged in a crack on the wharf, and Bob, impatient at the delay, cut it loose.

"Pile aboard, fellows!" he cried.

A strong wind was blowing, and the "Spray," headed for Promontory Island, had a good start.

"Crickets! We'll have to go some to catch up with 'em," cried Bob. "Give me a hand with the sail, Dick—that's it. Keep her steady, Sam."

"What's the program?" asked Dave, calmly.

"Board the 'Spray,' if necessary. When Dugan and 'Surly Joe' find we mean business, they'll back down."

"Maybe they won't, Bob," put in Tommy Clifton, nervously.

"You might as well give it up," came floating over the air. "Little Bill," in the stern, was waving Bob Somers' rifle tauntingly.

"If you know what's best for yourself you'll come about," shouted Bob.

"Is that elephant holding yer back?" sneered Dugan, and "Surly Joe's" harsh laugh reached their ears.

"Jiminy, the wind's kicking up awful big waves," said Tommy Clifton a few minutes later. "Might be better to get back."

"No siree, Tommy. It's now or never. We're not so easy as all that."

"We must get that gun, even if they lead us a chase around the two islands," put in Sam, emphatically.

Heavy, rolling clouds shut from view the surrounding mountains; drops of rain began to fall, and every moment the "Speedy" buried her nose in the white-capped waves, while flying spray soaked the occupants.

The quantity of water pouring over the gunwale assumed such proportions that Dick and Bob Somers began bailing.

Hemlock and Promontory Islands soon loomed up clearly, the latter grim and majestic in the gray light.

"Great sport, this," cried Dave. "We're gaining fast, Bob. Mind yourself, Sam. This boat's a bit too narrow for stormy weather. There goes the 'Spray' into the passageway."

As the wind blew stronger and the angry, hissing water broke against the boat with great force, Tom Clifton's fears increased. He kept looking at the shore, and each time the "Speedy" heeled far over felt a shiver run through him.

"Look out, Sam," he shouted, as a particularly violent gust bore down upon them. "Look out! Jiminy, we'll be over in a minute."

But the "Speedy" bravely righted herself, and struggled ahead.

This was repeated so many times that the boys began to think they were experiencing the worst that was in store for them, and that after all there was no real danger.

"Fine sport—fine," said Dave Brandon, at length. "Just fierce enough to be enjoyable."

"Right you are," added Sam, emphatically.

As the steersman was about to change his course, a sudden and unexpected lurch tore the tiller from his grasp and sent him crashing against the gunwale. The sail began to thrash and bang violently in the wind, and cries of alarm instantly arose.

"Drop the sail!" yelled Bob, struggling to Sam's assistance.

The "Speedy" careened far over; before Dave Brandon and Dick Travers could master the flapping canvas, the boom swung swiftly across. Tommy Clifton tried to duck, but too late. His horrified chums saw him swept backward into the choppy water.

It had happened so quickly that not a move could be made to aid him.

But Tommy's yell of terror had scarcely ceased, when Dick Travers threw off his coat and shoes, and, without an instant's hesitation, dived overboard.

As he rose to the surface, bravely battling against wind and foam-crested waves, he clearly felt the grip of the treacherous current.

Tommy Clifton's head bobbed up close by, and, swimming hand over hand, Dick made straight for him.

"Keep up, Tommy, old boy," he managed to gasp.

But the terror-stricken lad did not seem to hear. He grasped wildly at his rescuer, who, however, knew enough to keep clear.

At a favorable moment he seized Tommy by the hair and by a quick move turned him on his back. So far, he had been buoyed up by the hope that the "Speedy" would immediately tack to their assistance, and, hampered by his clothes, he strove merely to keep afloat.

The force of the wind and waves dashing in his face almost took his breath away; his muscles ached, but he held on to white-faced Tommy Clifton with a grip which could not be broken.

"Why don't they come?" he murmured. Then he managed to turn, and, with a great effort, glance over the crests of the gray, storm-swept waves.

"Great Scott!"

An icy chill swept through him. Instead of the "Speedy" being close at hand and coming to their assistance, the instantaneous glance showed him a boat bottom up, with several figures clinging to it.

## CHAPTER XXIII

### CANYON RIVER

The accident had thrown the Ramblers into such consternation that for an instant all seemed incapable of action.

But the seriousness of their situation demanded immediate attention. The "Speedy" had already passed the passageway, and each moment the current of Canyon River and the wind were dragging it nearer the dreaded gorge.

Bob Somers was the first to arouse himself. The yell of Tommy Clifton seemed to be still ringing in his ears. He grasped the tiller.

"Ease over the sheet, Dave," he shouted. "We're coming about on the starboard tack—quick!"

But the instant's delay had been fatal. Before the boat could respond to her helm, another furious blast sent her heeling over. This time, the tapering mast met the water; the boys shot out in all directions; then the "Speedy" turned bottom up, and, as if rejoicing at another victim, the current raced her swiftly along.

When they rose to the surface, the Ramblers, with one accord, struck out for the boat; each felt that to stem the force of wind and water was impossible. Numerous rocks studded the channel a bit further down, and their only hope seemed to lie in reaching one of these. At any rate, they had already gone so far that no effort at swimming could have saved them from the turbulent water below.

Clinging to the hull, they could only glance at each other with white faces—faces which reflected the terror that gripped their hearts.

By this time, dark, rolling clouds had blotted out the mountain tops, and seemed to be on the point of pouring earthward a flood of rain. Nature was, indeed, in a wild and threatening mood.

And now an ominous roar rose above the sound of wind and waves. Already the upturned boat was sweeping past the lower end of Promontory Island.

The cliffs lashed with perpetual foam were near at hand.

Like one in a dream, Sam Randall saw flashing into view the white rocks upon which he had stood only a short time before. Then, almost instantly, torn like the others from their hold on the "Speedy," he was battling for life in a seething vortex.

Exhausted by the pounding and almost blinded, he struggled desperately to keep his head above water and reach one of the rocks. But a short distance separated him from a haven of safety. He kept his eye fixed on a form over which the water pounded and lashed. A few feet more, and his hand would reach it.

At last, with the agony of despair, Sam Randall grasped hold of the projecting point. His fingers closed tightly around it, and for an instant it looked as if success would crown his effort.

Then he was torn away.

A deafening roar rang in his ears; he seemed to be fairly lifted above the madly swirling water, then forced beneath, and when, gasping and choking, he rose to the surface, it was within the gloomy gorge, with nothing but rocky walls on either hand.

Yes, Bob and Dave were there, too.

The current was now smooth and even, and the three, notwithstanding their exhausted condition, found little difficulty in keeping to the surface. The "Speedy" could be seen not far ahead.

Bob Somers felt a strange calmness steal over him; the first crushing shock had gone, and even when, a few minutes later, a steady murmur rose above the gurgle of the lapping water, it did not seem to increase his agitation.

The cataract was not far ahead.

The sound rapidly increased in volume, a steady droning, musical and solemn.

The swimmers shot around a jutting crag; then Bob Somers felt like uttering a shout. Hope swept away the unnatural calmness, and renewed his strength.

The river widened out; on the left side a green field, dotted with trees, sloped gently to the water's edge.

"Let's try to land there," cried Bob, and the boys struck out in that direction. The current was swift, and they realized that an instant's delay would result in their being swept down to the falls. Already more than half the green shore was behind them, when Bob Somers won his battle. He grasped an overhanging tree and pulled himself up on the bank. Then, a bit further along, Dave Brandon crawled up on a shelving rock, and lastly, Sam Randall.

Exhausted, the three lay perfectly still, their hearts filled with thankfulness at their wonderful escape. Bob Somers was the first to rise, and, in a moment, the others joined him. They were three strange-looking boys, pale-faced, with wet, bedraggled clothing that stuck tightly to their forms.

"We had a narrow escape, fellows," exclaimed Sam Randall, with a shiver. "I never expected to get out of it."

"One adventure like this would last a fellow a lifetime," murmured Dave. "We ought to thank our stars. I'll never forget how I felt when we were in that gorge," and Dave shuddered.

"Nor I," said Bob. "If we only knew what happened to poor Tommy and Dick."

"Travers is a good swimmer; the current doesn't run very strong there, and they were close to Hemlock Island."

Dave's cheering words brightened the others considerably.

"Listen to the roar of that cataract," put in Sam. "It can't be far off—sounds like a whopper."

"Suppose this valley had been on the other side of the falls, instead of this," said Dave, reflectively.

"Don't, Chubby," and Bob shivered. "Poor old 'Speedy,' she's smashed to bits, now—nice news for Uncle Barton. Maybe he won't have a few things to say to Dugan."

"Fellows," said Sam, suddenly, "how are we going to get out of this place? We may be in a fine pickle after all—let's explore a bit."

The valley seemed circular, and less than a quarter of a mile across. Trees and all sorts of vegetation grew in the richest profusion. Above, the cliffs were enveloped in the low, scudding clouds, and occasionally big drops of rain spattered about them.

The three came to a halt at the end of the valley. The rocky walls rose sheer from the water again, and all hope of escape in that direction was cut off. A little below them, on the other side of the river, they could see another green shore, but its extent could not be determined on account of the cliff which jutted in front.

"Might have been better if we'd landed there," said Dave, reflectively. "Look at that spur extending out into the stream."

"Maybe," admitted Bob. "Suppose we explore the rest of the valley."

At the end of half an hour, the boys looked at each other in dismay. Every nook and corner of the border line had been inspected, and a disheartening fact was forced upon them—the valley had no outlet.

"Bob, we're bottled up," said Sam, gloomily.

"An awful fix," murmured the captain, with sinking heart.

Dave glanced upward.

"Might as well think of trying to climb the sides of a house, Chubby," said Sam, despairingly. "Hang it—what's to be done?"

"Have lunch," answered the "poet." He pointed toward a mass of blackberry bushes. "Better than nothing," he added.

The others thought so, too, and began an onslaught which lasted until their hunger was considerably appeased. Then, despite a drizzly rain, they wandered back to the river, and ran up and down the banks to keep warm. The top of Promontory Island could be faintly seen between the canyon walls.

"If we only had some matches, it might be worth while to build a fire," remarked Sam. "Old Neil Prescott would be sure to see it."

"But Bill Dugan said that no one could ascend the river from below," declared Bob.

"And no one's coming the way we did. What can be done, Dave?"

"Eat blackberries, and hope," counseled the "poet," and, as Sam made an impatient gesture, he added, "Until to-morrow, at least."

"And to-morrow?" said Sam.

But his question remained unanswered.

Soon they sought shelter under a thick clump of trees.

"Seems a pity that such a beautiful little place should be hidden," remarked the "poet," thoughtfully. "Remember the poem,

"'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air'?"

But neither Bob nor Sam could view the situation as cheerfully as their companion, and remained moodily silent.

Never could the boys remember so tiresome a wait as they had beneath the trees that afternoon. The minutes seemed to drag out interminably. It was late when the rain stopped, and they continued their exploration, in a vain hope that some way out of their dilemma might be discovered.

"No use," said Sam, wearily. "We are in an awful pickle."

Dave Brandon and his chums nodded.

Toward dusk the clouds began to clear away, and when night came, twinkling stars peeped between the flying masses. But it was a black, gloomy night; the wind rustled the tree-tops mournfully, and the monotonous roar of the cataract sounded louder than ever.

## CHAPTER XXIV

### "YOU SAVED MY LIFE!"

The sight of the overturned boat seemed to take all the strength from sturdy Dick Travers' frame. The full realization of his own and Tommy Clifton's peril was swallowed up for an instant in the thought of the terrible danger which menaced his chums. For the next few moments he simply drifted along on the current.

But fast failing strength, the helpless condition of Tommy Clifton, and the hiss and splash of the water all around soon aroused him to a sense of present duty.

"Help, help!" he cried, hoping that perhaps "Little Bill" and "Surly Joe" might be within hearing.

He was just abreast of the narrow entrance to the passageway at the foot of Hemlock Island.

Presently Dick Travers repeated the call; then he half closed his eyes, and, with set mouth and contracted brow, renewed the battle.

Suddenly a shout reached his ears.

Dick Travers' heart bounded with hope.

"Keep up—we'll be there in a jiffy," were the words that floated over the air.

Dick's senses were becoming benumbed; from which direction the sound came he could not tell, but his plight had been discovered—that was enough—and again came the encouraging cry, "Keep up!"

He summoned all his fleeting strength, but it was not sufficient to enable him to raise himself above the waste of gray water.

Then a dark form suddenly appeared from the direction of Hemlock Island, and he saw a boat headed straight toward them.

Nearer, nearer it came; and now he could hear the steady click of oars.

Again encouraging cries reached him.

"Great Scott! Jim Havens and Phil Levins," was the thought that flashed through Dick Travers' mind.

Two oarsmen were rowing desperately, and, aided by the current, their rowboat shot quickly ahead. As it loomed close above him, the figures of the mountain boys vaguely reminded Dick of giants.

A wave larger than the rest was bearing down upon him, and in a moment he would be buried beneath its foaming crest. Once more he summoned his strength—he knew it would be the final effort.

Just as that terrifying line of white rose before his eyes, he felt a strong hand grip his collar; he was conscious of seeing indistinct forms before him, of hearing voices and of helping to lift Tom Clifton out of the water—then a darkness obscured his vision.

When he opened his eyes again, Jim Havens and Phil Levins were gazing eagerly in his face.

"He's all right," came from Havens. Then Dick saw that he was lying amidst tall grasses, and that Tommy Clifton, with a dazed expression, was sitting propped up against a rock.

"My," he whispered; "that was a narrow escape. I——"

"Quick—tell us how you got into the water," said Havens, excitedly. "Where did your boat get to?"

"Yes, tell us," chimed in Phil.

"What's become of Bob Somers and the other boys?" asked Tom Clifton, in a hoarse whisper.

"Then you don't know?" Dick Travers shook his head sadly. "The 'Speedy' and the whole crowd was carried into the gorge. Isn't it awful?"

"I was afraid of that," cried Havens, in dismay. "Great Cæsar!"

"Carried into the gorge of Canyon River?" gasped Phil Levins, breathlessly; "it can't be possible! How do you know?"

Dick Travers' voice faltered as he gave an account of their thrilling experience, and when he had finished a silence fell upon the group.

It was broken by Dick, who inquired, "How did you happen to see us?"

"The 'Dart' is anchored in the passageway, behind that clump of trees," Havens explained, in a low voice. "Phil and I came over to get a few rabbits, and hadn't been ashore but a short time when 'Little Bill' and 'Surly Joe' came along in the 'Spray.' 'Little Bill' asked us what we thought of his 'private yacht,' and both Phil and I felt sure he'd run off with it, as he did before.

"Well, we were loafing around, when all of a sudden your shout for help nearly startled the life out of us."

"And it's a mighty lucky thing I borrowed Grimshaw's boat this morning and we towed it over," added Phil Levins. "Don't believe the clumsy old 'Dart' would ever have reached you in time."

"Dick!" exclaimed Tom, abruptly, "you saved my life!"

"And Havens and Levins saved us both," said Dick, warmly. "But, oh, isn't it awful about our fellows? I'll never get over it—never!"

"What's to be done, Dick?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," and Dick struggled to repress the emotions which surged within him.

The sky grew darker; the trees soughed mournfully in the breeze, and the dreary aspect of nature was in accord with their feelings. Gloomily they sat around, with no consoling thoughts to cheer them.

"Don't you think there's a chance for Bob and the others?" ventured pale-faced Tommy Clifton.

"You know how it was with Howard Fenton," answered Dick. "This is a fine ending to our trip."

## CHAPTER XXV

### "HELLO, BOB SOMERS!"

It seemed to the boys in the canyon as if the night would never end. At intervals, they dozed, but their slumber, disturbed by distressing thoughts, was not refreshing.

Bob Somers, in his wakeful moments, felt the strangeness and danger of the situation with full force. How out of the world he felt, hemmed in between those great walls; how was it going to end? He cudgeled his brain in vain, and occasionally rose and walked to the edge of the river, where he tried to pierce the gloom that enshrouded them.

At dawn, a chilling air was sweeping through the canyon. The narrow slit of sky seen between the towering heights was of a palish green. A rosy cloud floated slowly across, and a lone hawk winged its way, high up. They mechanically watched the bird approach, pass overhead, and disappear.

Bob Somers drew a long breath, as he glanced aloft.

"Don't believe I ever saw anything look so high," he said.

"Let's go for our breakfast," suggested Dave.

"Blackberries," said Bob, with a sniff of disgust. "I hate blackberries—shape, smell, taste—everything. Don't believe I shall ever eat another."

"And I don't believe we shall ever eat anything else," observed Sam, gloomily.

"Cheer up, fellows! While there's blackberries, there's hope," put in Dave, with a faint smile. "After breakfast, we'll hold a council—something must be done."

With difficulty, the three managed to swallow the berries, and then drink a quantity of water, as Bob said, to "take the taste out of their mouths."

By this time, the sunlight was slanting across the tops of the mountains.

Sam Randall seated himself on a rock, the picture of gloom and dejection.

"Now what's what?" he asked.

"We can't climb the cliff," answered Dave. "Do you think——" He hesitated.

"Think what, Chubby?"

"That it would be too risky to swim for the other shore?"

Bob and Sam looked at the current and listened to the roar of the cataract. The thought of again trusting themselves to the mercy of such waters made them shiver.

"The current is much swifter over there," said Sam, "and if we missed that point of rock——" An expressive gesture finished the sentence.

"Guess the searching parties are out for us now," observed Bob Somers.

"Even if they discover where we are, how in the dickens could they help us?" demanded Sam.

"You have me there. But I want to take a day off from that river. I'll chance it with the two of you to-morrow."

"Good," said the "poet." "We won't give up till we have to. I wouldn't mind it half so much if we had anything to eat besides——"

But Bob cut him short. "Don't say it, Chubby," he remarked dolefully. "I'm trying to forget 'em."

"And I can't," added Sam.

The hours dragged wearily by. Sometimes they lolled on the ground, watching the high clouds floating slowly across, then wandered around in search of food.

"Blackberry Valley—nothing else here," sighed Bob.

As long as daylight lasted and the glow of the afternoon sun gilded the clouds, they kept up their courage, but the approach of night filled them with dread. It grew dark very soon within the rocky confines, and the barren gray walls wore a cheerless aspect.

The three hungry and worried boys were again obliged to partake of the much despised fruit, after which they returned, as before, to the river.

Sleep, in spite of their weariness, seemed out of the question. The stars came out against the darkening sky, and shone brilliantly.

"Oh, how I hate the nights in Blackberry Valley," groaned Bob.

"No more than I," said Sam. "Maybe this is all a dream."

"You mean a nightmare."

Moodily, they sat around; conversation lagged; an hour dragged slowly by. Then Bob Somers, who had been gazing dejectedly through half-closed eyes, started up.

"Look, fellows—look!" he cried, excitedly.

"Where—where? What is it?" asked Dave.

"A light—don't you see? Straight ahead."

"Jiminy crickets! As I live, it's Neil Prescott's bonfire, on Promontory Island," gasped Sam. "Gee, but that's good to see."

"Wish we knew what in the world he's up to," said Bob.

"Thought you might find out when Tommy and I went to the mountains," replied Sam, gloomily.

With intense interest they watched the speck of light. At intervals, it almost disappeared, then shone forth again, and finally burned steadily like a beacon against the dark sky.

"Mighty strange," murmured Bob.

"There's some reason for it," put in Dave. "As sure as you live, it's a signal."

"But to whom?"

"Gee! I don't know. It's a mystery I'd give a lot to solve."

The Ramblers kept their eyes eagerly glued to the one link which still bound them to civilization, and breathed a sigh of regret as it began to slowly fade from view. At length but a tiny glimmer remained, and finally night blotted this out.

"It's gone," breathed Sam. "Old Neil Prescott is a jolly good fellow, and—great Scott—say! Am I awake or dreaming? Pinch me, somebody—quick!—What's that?"

Sam excitedly raised his voice to a shout, and sprang to his feet, while the others, with wild exclamations, followed.

"What in the world is it?" cried Bob Somers.

A light was springing into view on the opposite shore, apparently on the jutting point.

With throbbing hearts, the three watched it grow. For a moment, not a word was spoken. It seemed so unreal, so extraordinary, that they almost doubted their eyes.

"A fire, down here in the gorge!" gasped Bob Somers. "It doesn't seem possible."

"A fire!" echoed Sam, in amazement.

"By all that's wonderful!" murmured the "poet."

Yes—flames were growing larger, curling and twisting; a ruddy light was spreading around—it meant that they were not alone in the terrible gorge.

The restoration from despair to hope sent such a wave of thankfulness into the minds of each that they felt like dancing with joy. Then their united voices rose in a volume of sound which echoed and reëchoed throughout the narrow confines with startling clearness.

They paused, and waited anxiously.

For an instant, there was no response. Then, "Hello, hello! Who are you?" came a voice, the tones of which seemed to indicate the greatest amazement.

Saved—saved! What a blessed thought!

"Hurrah!" yelled Bob.

"Who are you?" repeated the speaker across the river.

His voice had a strangely familiar sound.

"It can't be possible," said Bob, excitedly. "I wonder if—but no——" He stopped, and peered eagerly toward the fire, which, flaring up, revealed two figures.

"I'm Bob Somers!" he shouted. "Dave Brandon and Sam Randall are with me. Who are you?"

This announcement was followed by another pause. Then came an amazing response.

"Hello, Bob Somers—I'm Howard Fenton."

## CHAPTER XXVI

### ACROSS THE CURRENT

"Howard Fenton—I thought it was his voice," gasped Bob. "Great Scott!"

"Howard Fenton!" exclaimed Dave, while Sam Randall uttered a joyous shout, ejaculating, "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of."

"And the finest," declared Bob, enthusiastically. "Chubby, I can scarcely believe it's true."

"Nor I," declared the delighted Dave.

Volleys of questions were hurled back and forth, but the noise of the waterfall made conversation difficult, and it was decided to postpone explanations until the following morning.

They learned one thing, however—Howard Fenton was not hemmed in as they were, and he was not alone.

What a difference a few minutes had made. When the tumult of emotions had subsided, the boys talked and laughed until weariness could no longer be denied.

Hunger was forgotten, and they slept until the rosy glow of early morning was tingeing the clouds. Faces were washed in the clear water, and they felt somewhat better.

This had scarcely been finished, when a cheery shout greeted their ears. Howard Fenton and his companion had appeared in view. The latter carried a long rope.

"I said, Dave, that I'd take a chance with you this morning, and try for the other side," said Bob. "It's good-bye to Blackberry Valley, now. Hello, Howard!" he shouted.

Fenton again waved his hand, and shouted, "Are you ready to come over?"

"Yes!"

"Listen! It's a dangerous swim, unless you're feeling pretty husky. It wouldn't do to take any chances."

"We'd starve over here—nothing else for us to do, Howard."

"The cataract is about a quarter of a mile below," went on Fenton. "If you should miss the ledge where we had the fire last night—well—nothing can save you. But when you get near enough, we'll throw a line. Grab it and hang on for all you are worth."

Fenton tried to speak lightly, but his tones showed a suppressed agitation which the boys did not fail to notice.

"Well," said Sam, in an undertone, gritting his teeth and glancing at the gurgling water, "we aren't out of the woods yet."

"We'll be in 'em sure enough when we strike the water," observed Dave, with a faint smile.

"I'll go first," announced Bob, "and the best place to start from is the upper end of the valley." Then, raising his voice, he yelled, "Are you ready, Howard? Got your rope?"

Quickly, the three walked to the most favorable point on the beach.

"Good-bye, fellows, I'll see you on the other side."

It was a moment that none of the little group would ever forget. Dave Brandon and Sam Randall gripped the captain's hand.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, Bob, old man," whispered the "poet."

Bob Somers drew a long breath. It took all the courage he possessed to deliberately launch himself into Canyon River, but he waved his hand to the others, and took the plunge.

In an instant he was buffeting the powerful current. Again he saw the gray walls flying swiftly by; again the water lapped and splashed around him and murmured and sang.

The swimmer kept his eyes fixed on the opposite cliff and its rugged outline rising from the ledge where Howard Fenton and his companion awaited him. Already he was approaching it; the boom of the falls suddenly seemed to grow louder.

"Here comes the rope—look out for it!" he heard a voice cry.

Bravely battling, Bob Somers caught a momentary glimpse of the lariat hurtling through the air. With a hiss, it fell a few feet in front—the one thing which stood between him and the dreaded cataract.

But the throw had been well-timed, and the captain, with his nerves set to the keenest tension, grasped the line just as it was beginning to sink.

Desperately, he clung to it.

DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT.

"We'll have you ashore in a moment, Bob," called Howard Fenton; "hang on to it."

Dave and Dick's yell of exultation followed—Bob Somers was safe at last.

A slight pull on the rope swerved him sufficiently from his course, and he swung in directly toward the ledge; then, a few seconds later, willing hands dragged him ashore, where he lay panting and exhausted.

"My stars, but I am thankful for this!" exclaimed Fenton, fervently.

"A good swim," said his companion, with an approving nod.

The first thing Bob Somers did upon rising was to shake his rescuers warmly by the hand.

"Well, Howard," he gasped, "this is a mighty strange meeting."

"You bet it is, old man," exclaimed the New York boy. "But say, Bob, I guess you'd better not do much talking till you get a bite to eat. Ready, eh?"

"For a mile of anything but blackberries," smiled Bob.

"Out in the wilds, I was forgetting my parlor manners—Bob, this is Stuart Wells."

The two again shook hands.

"And now," laughed Wells, "those other castaways are getting impatient. Who's that yelling?"

"Sam Randall," said Bob. "Hi, hi!" he shouted. "Ready, eh? Come ahead!"

Stuart Wells stood calmly, with lariat in hand. He watched Sam Randall spring into the water, and at the critical moment again sent the rope in a graceful curve through the air.

Bob Somers drew a breath of relief when he saw his chum seize it.

No sooner had Sam been assisted to a place of safety on the ledge than Dave Brandon followed his example, and the good-natured "poet" soon joined the group.

It was a happy reunion, but even in their thankfulness the Ramblers could not forget the clamoring of nature.

"I'm burning up with curiosity to hear about everything, Howard," said Bob, "but——"

"Not a word till we pilot you to Canyon restaurant," laughed the other. "All meals out in the open."

"Um—um—lead us to it right away," cried the dripping Dave.

Howard led the way around a thick clump of trees, and they saw, close to the bluff, a well-built lean-to. Picks, shovels and other tools were scattered about, while just to one side was a great pile of broken stones.

Soon the hungry boys were engaged in disposing of cold rabbit, crackers, cheese and hot coffee, and before this pleasant occupation was brought to an end, Bob Somers briefly acquainted Fenton and Stuart Wells with the facts.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Fenton, when he had finished, "'Little Bill' responsible, eh? He's the cheekiest young rascal I ever met. Mighty lucky Wells and I happened to be here, eh? I tell you I was never more surprised in my life than when I heard you shout last night."

"You must have been," admitted Bob. "Now, Howard, for goodness' sake, tell us all about it."

"Yes! We can't wait a minute longer," put in Sam, impatiently.

"Well, it was this way," began Howard, settling himself comfortably on a log. "The 'Dauntless' was pretty close to the passageway, when, all of a sudden, I found that something was wrong with the rudder. The wind was pretty fresh that day—remember, Sam? Well, I didn't take in the sheet right away, as I should have done, but went to work to find out what was the trouble. Close by, I saw a floating log."

"Bumped in to it, eh?" asked Sam.

"I had come about on a tack, and think the rudder must have struck it squarely, for I found that it was broken loose and wouldn't respond to the tiller. It was some minutes before I realized that it was damaged beyond repair.

"All the while, the wind and current were taking me toward the gorge and I soon discovered what a serious blunder I'd made. Down came the sail in a jiffy—but too late. I'll never forget how I felt when the 'Dauntless' made straight for the entrance to the river."

Fenton lowered his voice and shivered.

"Awful," murmured Bob.

"Tommy and I saw you," cried Sam.

"I didn't see anything but that terrible gorge," continued Howard. "The 'Dauntless' wobbled and twisted, and nearly keeled over when we passed White Rocks. Whew!—'fearful' is about the word that hits it. The boat shot into the canyon and I gave up hope."

"We know what sensations you had," exclaimed Bob Somers. "Don't see how they could be worse."

"As luck would have it, the 'Dauntless' was so close to the opposite cliffs when the first valley was reached that I was afraid to risk a swim. So I stayed where I was, and it turned out to be a mighty good thing that I did. The boat hit that jutting point over there, and I didn't lose any time in getting off."

"How about the 'Dauntless'?" questioned Sam.

"She swung around, started off again, and went over the fall."

"Must be a big one," commented Dave.

"A crackerjack," said Howard. "We'll go down and see it, after a while."

"Keep on with your story," urged Sam.

"Needn't tell you how thankful I was for getting on solid ground again," went on Fenton. "When my nerves stopped shaking I looked about, and found——"

"Blackberries?" said Bob.

"Yes," laughed the other, "and, I might as well tell you, traces of silver in the rocks."

"Of silver?" echoed the boys, in surprise.

"Yes, sir! I've studied a bit on those subjects. Told you I was going to take a course in college—remember, Bob? Well, it didn't take long for me to be satisfied that there was plenty of it, too."

"Gee!" said Sam.

"Mighty interesting," murmured Bob, while Dave stood straight up and stared at the rocks.

Fenton resumed:

"But, fellows, it wasn't very long before I forgot all about silver—thought I was bottled up for sure."

"And how did you get out at last?" questioned Sam, eagerly.

"I'm coming to that. Talk about being scared—I had to stay all night in the blooming valley. Early next morning I began to hunt around for a place to climb out, and, at length, found one that wasn't so bad. It took a long time to get to the top of the cliff, and once near got an awful shock."

"How?" asked Sam, with interest.

"Came to a wide ledge, with a big, round pile of rock above—it looked like my finish; I couldn't see any way around it."

"Gee!" said Sam again.

"Had a pretty hard time of it," remarked Bob, sympathetically.

"But I was desperate—thought that the ledge was wide enough to catch me, if I fell—and so kept right on. Luckily, there were enough irregularities to afford a foothold."

"Guess you were glad when you reached the top?" said Dave.

"You bet I was; and exhausted, too."

"What did you do after that?" asked Dave.

"Started right off. I had a compass and a pretty fair idea of the direction. I blazed a trail—believe that's what you call it—so as to know the place again."

"How?" queried Sam.

"With a big jack-knife. In about two hours I came across some loggers. By that time I was so played out with hunger and excitement that I collapsed completely—don't believe I could have gone a step further, Bob. Of course I was an object of curiosity, but they were a good-hearted lot, and gave me all I wanted to eat. Beans, bacon and coffee tasted good, I can tell you. Well, it was simply great."

"Guess it fixed you up all right," said Bob.

"No, it didn't. I was so stiff and sore and had such a headache that it was a bunk for me the whole of that day and most of the next. One of the men, Jake Lawson, took a letter to the railroad station. Of course, it was to my father, and in it I told him that if he cared anything about a pile of silver it might be well to keep the whole thing quiet for a while."

"Then you didn't tell the loggers what had happened to you?" exclaimed Bob, in great astonishment.

"No—they thought I had merely wandered off and become lost in the woods."

"How did your father manage to find the place?"

"Oh, Jake Lawson met him at the station and piloted him through the woods. I tell you, he was glad to see me alive and well, for by that time I was all right again."

"I'll bet he was," commented Dave.

"My tale about the silver impressed him very much, and he thought it worth while to investigate fully. He did two things right away—sent for a mining expert," Fenton paused and waved his hand toward Stuart Wells, "then for one of his trusted old watchmen, Neil Prescott."

"Ah, ha! Now we're coming to something," exclaimed Sam, with interest. "We know Neil Prescott, all right."

Howard smiled.

"Father only consented to my returning to the valley on condition that I would keep in constant communication with Neil, and——"

"Bully!" interjected Sam.

"Never attempt that climb unless it was absolutely necessary. As for going up and down, carrying provisions and making an indefinite stay—well, he wouldn't hear of it."

"Don't wonder a bit," said Sam.

"Anyway, we hit upon a splendid scheme. I happened to remember that log hut on Promontory and suggested that Neil might fix it up and stay there a while."

"Well, well—also, did you ever!" cried Bob.

"I got up a code of signals; and another dandy thing was the way Neil managed to——"

"Now I see the whole thing," put in Sam, with a grin. "He floated down your provisions. Aha! That explains all his mysterious doings—now we know why your father happened out on the lake that night."

"Yes! You've learned the whole story," laughed Fenton.

"Mighty interesting," observed Dave Brandon. "And the silver?"

"It's going to pan out well," said the mining expert. "I guess Howard's discovery will add a few dollars to his father's pocket-book."

"I hope so," put in Fenton. "Of course the pater and Wells here knew how to go about things, and we have our claim fully protected. Probably a company will be formed in a short time, and the three of us may be out here a good deal, later on. Wells has plans already made for a hoist up the cliff, and a road from there won't be hard to make."

"I'm jolly glad to hear of your good luck, Howard," said Bob, his eyes sparkling.

"Count me in on that," added Dave, warmly.

"And Sam Randall is as much pleased as anybody," exclaimed the owner of that name.

"Enjoy it down here, all bottled up?" asked Bob Somers.

"Oh, yes—of course—but not until I found that the cork was out."

Howard smiled faintly, while several of his hearers laughed, and the former then added, "We were going to let you know as soon as possible that I was very much alive. Pater said it was a downright shame not to tell you fellows right away. Honestly, it was my fault—but it's all right, isn't it, eh?"

"All right, old man," said Bob, and they shook hands all around.

## CHAPTER XXVII

### UP THE CLIFFS

After lunch, the Ramblers accompanied Fenton to "Mystery Falls," as they termed the cataract. To reach it, they had to pass around a ledge of rock into a third valley.

"My!" observed Sam, striving to make his voice heard above the roar and his face paling a little, "isn't it awful to think of what——"

"Don't think of it, Sam," interrupted Dave, with a laugh, "but enjoy the scene."

And all agreed that it was a spectacle well worth seeing. The water of Canyon River, in the shadow of the great walls, roared and thundered, as it dashed with mighty force over the brink, to madly froth and seethe and bubble and swirl away two hundred feet below.

All felt a tremor when they thought of the fate of the "Dauntless" and "Speedy" and the awful plunge which each boat must have taken.

It was a long time before the boys could tear themselves away from the fascinating spectacle. Naturally, they were anxious to return to the village. Now that their own dangers were past, they felt so terribly worried about Dick Travers and Tommy Clifton that any real enjoyment was out of the question.

Howard Fenton agreed to accompany them to Mountain Village on the following day.

That night, he again exchanged signals with Neil Prescott, the boys being deeply interested spectators of the proceeding.

The eventful morning arrived, and the four set out early, leaving Stuart Wells at the camp.

Fenton led the way toward a gully and began scrambling up the side.

"Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Bob. "Work ahead, Chubby."

And Dave's only reply was a long drawn-out groan.

A bit further up, a patch of scrubby firs and bushes stood out sharply against their gray surroundings, and above that there was nothing but barren rock.

From ledge to ledge, the four made their way. Fortunately, footholds on the steep, sloping sides were numerous, otherwise their task would have been almost impossible.

"Whew—hot work," panted Dave.

"But we're getting up, Chubby," said Bob. "The river begins to look like a creek."

They stood on a shelving rock, with somewhat the feeling that an explorer experiences when gazing upon a newly-discovered land for the first time.

"Mighty few people have seen this," quoth Dave. "Pretty little valley, Fenton."

"Yes it is, Dave."

"And there's Wells—looks just like an ant. Can't you hear his voice plainly? Wonderful how sounds carry in a place like this."

Stuart had seen them, and was giving a parting salutation.

Up, up, slipping, sliding and scrambling; now on hands and knees, then drawing themselves almost by main force over rugged rocks, they progressed slowly toward the top.

Each was, of course, provided with a heavy stick, or "alpen-stock," as Dave called it, and these proved very useful.

At length, the toilsome climb was nearly over. They had reached the rounded projection of which Howard had spoken. It rose from a wide ledge, and looked so dangerous that the Ramblers' respect for the city boy's prowess was greatly increased.

"Nice job ahead of us," grumbled Sam. "My stars!"

"You fellows get up and throw me a rope," said Dave. "I shall recommend this for an air-ship station. My! A fellow needs wings to get around anything like that."

"Guess you understand why I felt stumped," laughed Fenton. "But wait till you see it from the top."

"Don't wonder Silver Valley hasn't many visitors," sighed Bob. "I feel like calling for help."

After a long rest, Howard Fenton started ahead, while the others watched. It was hard, toilsome work, but, at length, they saw him drag himself laboriously over the top, and disappear from view. Then a shout of approval went up.

"Here comes a rope, fellows," announced Fenton, a few minutes later.

It dangled downward over the smooth rock.

"I've fastened it up here, all right."

Howard poked his face over the barrier, and peered down. "Come ahead, Chubby," he called. "Don't depend too much on the rope."

The stout boy, with an alarming series of sighs and groans, obeyed.

At last all stood safely on the top, and agreed with Howard that no one who did not know the lay of the land would care to venture down.

"Howard, you have a pile of courage," said Bob, and Fenton smiled at the compliment.

After another short stop, he piloted them into the forest, following his blazed trail without difficulty.

The logger's hut was soon reached. Jake Lawson proved to be a rough, raw-boned mountaineer with an original manner of speech. He was profoundly astonished at the arrival of the boys, and still more astonished when he learned of their adventure in the canyon.

"Wal, wal," he exclaimed, elevating his shaggy eyebrows; "if this hyar keeps up, they'll be a-sendin' pleasure parties through the gorge, an' takin' up tickets at t'other end."

The four partook of a good, square meal of bacon and beans at the cabin, and then resumed their march.

Late in the afternoon, weary, dusty and footsore, they arrived at the Resort House.

## CHAPTER XXVIII

### ALL TOGETHER

Never before had Mountain Village experienced such a sensation. The news of their arrival spread like lightning. All had been given up for lost, their thrilling accident had been discussed and rediscussed, and was still the principal topic of conversation.

But the boys paid little attention to the questions hurled at them by the excited people, until assured of the safety of Dick Travers and Tom Clifton. They were rejoiced to hear of their rescue by Jim Havens and Phil Levins.

They also learned that "Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin had been arrested and taken to the town of Penton, some ten miles distant, to await the action of the authorities.

The Ramblers soon tore themselves away from their interested auditors, and hurried toward Rickham House.

On the porch they saw Dick Travers and Tommy Clifton, who stood for an instant motionless, then, with loud shouts of joy, rushed down the steps.

Two sad, dejected-looking boys were suddenly transformed into the happiest of mortals. They danced around, hugged their chums who had so fortunately escaped the perils of Canyon River, and, altogether, acted as if they had taken leave of their senses.

Little Tommy Clifton, in his joy, actually broke down and began to cry, but the others pretended to take no notice.

"By all that's wonderful!" gasped Dick, wringing Bob's hand for the tenth time, "somehow or other, I felt in my bones that it must come out all right. And Fenton here, too? Great Cæsar, but I'm happy—hurrah, hurrah!" and Dick began another wild jig.

"This is the best thing that ever happened," laughed Tom Clifton, excitedly. "Whoop la!" and he slapped Dave Brandon so energetically on the back that the "poet" declared it was almost a case of assault and battery.

And just as they were about to step on the porch, another yell nearly startled them out of their senses.

Sam Bins, with wildly rolling eyes, stood at the doorway.

"Good land—golly! Mr. Somers an' gemmen!" he cried. "Oh, dis chile can hardly believe it. You hain't never been in dat awful gorge, nohow. It was all a joke, eh?" and Sam's eyes rolled alarmingly. Then he began to laugh, and go through the same kind of antics in which Dick and Tommy had indulged a few moments before.

"Not much joke about it, Sam Bins," said Bob, with a smile, "but come out on the porch and hear the whole story. Hello—people coming, eh?"

"Christopher, a regular mob," chimed in Sam Randall. "Guess we've made some stir in Mountain Village."

For that afternoon, the Resort House was deserted. All who habitually settled affairs of state to their own satisfaction, discussed crops and weather, and speculated about new arrivals, betook themselves to Rickham.

Even old Sile Stringer had hobbled over, when Bob Somers began to graphically relate the story of their trip. Many gasps of astonishment came from his listeners, as he told of first one thrilling experience and then another.

"I always know'd a feller could git through that gorge," quavered old Sile; "always—said so many a time."

Howard Fenton finally had a chance to speak of his own adventures, and it was dark when the last of their visitors departed.

In this happy way was ended an experience which none of the boys would ever forget. And there were a couple of others, too, who were likely to remember the part they had taken in it.

"Little Bill" and "Surly Joe" were a badly frightened pair. Fairly stunned by the catastrophe, and fearful of the consequences of their act, they passed several very unpleasant days.

Their astonishment and relief were, therefore, unbounded at the good news, and soon after came the welcome intelligence that the Ramblers would not press any charges against them.

Even gratitude had a part in the make-up of "Little Bill" and "Surly Joe." When the boys next saw them, they looked very different from the bold spirits who had so defiantly sailed away on the "Spray."

"Surly Joe" in particular seemed ill at ease, and a worried look had replaced the scowl which usually rested upon his countenance.

After having, in his awkward fashion, thanked the boys, he motioned Bob to one side.

"Pardner," he began, in a husky whisper, "I've got somphin' partic'lar ter say."

"All right, Joe," said Bob. "Fire away."

The trapper scratched his head, looked down on the ground, and hesitated.

"Fact is, pardner, I 'most hates ter tell ye," he said, "but speakin' frankly—meanin' no offense, yer understands,—I—I——"

"Go ahead, Joe," encouraged Bob.

"Wal, I didn't like you fellers—kinder struck me as bein' a bit too perky, an' when you scares them ducks away, an' that leetle feller hollers—wal, pardner, I ain't got the best disposition in the world, an' it riled me more'n I was able ter stand."

"That's all right, Joe. You didn't know us," laughed Bob.

"'Tain't all right, pardner—not by a long shot, it ain't."

"Surly Joe" paused, his eyes shifting uneasily.

"Wal, I may as well out with it," he said, desperately. "You fellers killed a b'ar?"

"Sure we did," cried Bob, in surprise. "How did you know?"

"'Cause I seen yer a-luggin' ther hide in the cave," was the surprising answer.

"Well, well," said Bob. "This is a surprise, all right. Where in the dickens were you, Joe?"

"Pretty close by, pardner. But that ain't all—honest, pardner, I hates ter tell yer. I says, says I, 'A hard workin' trapper needs the b'ar's pelt more'n a parcel of sassy young snipes; an' they ain't treated me right, nuther; an'—wal, I ups and takes it. Thar, it's out now," and Joe wiped his perspiring face, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Jiminy crickets—another surprise," murmured Bob.

"I never done nuthin' like it afore," confessed the unhappy Joe.

"And if you never do again, Joe, it's all right," said Bob. "Maybe Dave Brandon won't be glad to hear about this."

"As sure as me name's Joe Tomlin, I'll fetch it to yer; an'—an'—say, pardner, is it all right?"

"Sure thing," cried Bob. "Hello, Dave!"

"Oh, ho, but I am glad!" exclaimed the latter, when he had heard the news. "It's simply great! I know just where I'm going to put that rug, Bob. Sure, it's all right," and he slapped the trapper good-naturedly on the back.

For once, Joe Tomlin's face wore a pleased expression, and when he turned away, Dave murmured, sotto voce, "No longer 'Surly Joe,' but happy Tomlin."

A few days later Dave Brandon was in possession of Old Ephraim's pelt.

After Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by Jim Havens, had paid their visit to the mountains, and returned to tell of wonderful exploits, a grand dinner was given in the old Rickham House. The guests were Howard Fenton, his father, Stuart Wells, Jim Havens, Hank Merwin and Neil Prescott.

Sam Bins, in honor of the occasion, did himself proud, as Dick Travers expressed it. After the meal the trapper and Neil Prescott told several stories; Bob Somers sang a popular song, while Dave Brandon, after a great deal of urging, delivered a recitation.

It was Dick Travers, however, who provided the sensation of the evening. The day before, he had received a package from Portland, but jealously guarded its contents. Now they were exposed to view.

Delighted exclamations came from all. The official photographer's snap-shots had turned out remarkably well.

First in interest was that woodland tragedy, the buck fight. One animal had sunk to its knees in the water, while over him stood his antagonist, with lowered head.

"Truly extraordinary, Dick," said Mr. Fenton. "Allow me to congratulate you. Such a rare picture ought to make a sensation."

"Perfectly bully," cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically.

Next in interest was Old Ephraim in the rôle of a fisherman, while the third showed the group with Hank Merwin in front of the dugout. It was a proud and happy night for the "official photographer."

Hank Merwin's delight knew no bounds when three nicely mounted prints were placed in his hands.

At Mr. Fenton's special request Dick also made him a similar present.

"I suppose," said the gentleman, smilingly, "that I am at liberty to do what I please with these pictures, and if I decide to present them to any one, I may say that it is in your behalf?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Dick, wondering at the request.

One afternoon, while they were sitting on the porch of the Resort House "Big Bill" Dugan's "rattleboard" and a cloud of dust appeared in view. In a few minutes the coach came to a stop, and the stage-driver climbed down.

"Hope there's some letters for us," said Bob. "Got much mail, Dugan?"

"Ain't it easy ter wait an' see?" growled Bill, as he flung the bag on the counter.

"One for Somers," said the postmaster, presently; "you too, Travers."

Dick glanced at his curiously.

"Wonder what the dickens this can be, fellows?" he said, as he saw on the outside of the envelope the name of a famous natural history museum in the East.

"One way to find out is to open it," suggested Dave.

Dick did so, and spread out a formidable-looking letter.

"Great Scott! Look at this, fellows," he cried.

His interested chums read the following:

"Mountain Village, Oregon.

"MR. RICHARD TRAVERS:

"Dear Sir:—Some days ago we received from Mr. George Fenton, in your behalf, two photographs taken by you in the mountains of Oregon.

"The Natural History Society wishes to express its appreciation of your gift, and to say that, as far as we know, the picture of fighting bucks stands unrivaled.

"Enlargements of both prints have been made and are hung in a prominent place, with your name attached.

"Should you at any time come East, the society would be glad to have you pay them a visit."

"Great Scott! What do you think of that?" gasped the delighted Dick.

"It's simply immense," cried Bob, enthusiastically. "Fellows, three cheers for Mr. Fenton and the official photographer of the Rambler Club!" And they were given with a will.

And Mr. "Big Bill" Dugan, about ready to crack his long whip, was heard to remark, "Huh! Canyon River an' the gorge didn't seem to take no spirit out of that lively crowd."

### Other books in this Series are:

THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT

THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP

THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH

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