"HELLO!" EXCLAIMED ONE OF THE STRANGERS
"HELLO!" EXCLAIMED ONE OF THE STRANGERS
"HELLO!" EXCLAIMED ONE OF THE STRANGERS
"Hello!" cried Bob.
There was a hearty, boyish ring about the voice of the newcomer that dispelled all fears from Tom Clifton's mind.
The fire blazed up, revealing plainly the faces and figures of the visitors. The one who had spoken was a bit taller than his companion, with wide, strong shoulders, brown, curly hair, a pleasant face and very red complexion. The other was short and stocky, with a mouth that approached astonishingly close to his ears, a decidedly stubby nose, and cheeks big and round.
It was an odd face—an amazingly impudent face, that surveyed the boys with a comical grin, and one that seemed to invite antagonism. His voice, too, which the boys presently heard, was loud and boisterous.
"Why, these must be the lads your dad told us about, Tim," he exclaimed.
Hackett's face darkened.
"Look here!" he exclaimed, abruptly, "didn't you chaps fire a lot of snowballs at us a while ago?"
"Fire a lot of snowballs at you?" repeated the newcomers, looking from one to the other in apparent surprise. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said."
"No! Of course not—just got here," spoke up the taller boy, unceremoniously piling wood on the blaze. "Hi—get away, Bowser—lie down." Then he added, "My name's Sladder—Tim Sladder, and this is my friend, Billy Musgrove."
"Sladder—Sladder," repeated Hackett. "Sounds kind of familiar. Ah, yes, I remember. Why—say—you must be the son of Hiram Sladder, of the Roadside House."
"You've guessed it," grinned Billy Musgrove.
"Well, how on earth, or how on snow, did you manage to find us?" asked Nat Wingate, with interest.
Musgrove laughed. It was a particularly loud and irritating laugh. He threw back his head and laughed again, although none of the boys could quite understand what there was to excite his merriment.
"It was this way," he began.
"Hold on, Billy; I'll tell it," broke in Tim Sladder. "Get out, Bowser. You see, pop told me all about your coming to the hotel, an' he says—"
Another laugh came from Billy Musgrove.
"An' he says, 'I told 'em whereabouts to go—Lake Wolverine. But them fellers, says I, ain't no hunters. If they don't get chewed up by wolves or wildcats, or get froze, or lost in the woods, or if something don't happen to 'em, I miss my guess, an'—'"
"I call that pretty cool," interrupted Hackett, in fierce tones.
Tim Sladder went on, "You must be the long-legged feller pop spoke about. He—"
"Is it cold up there?" blurted out Musgrove, with another laugh.
"See here—" began Hackett, angrily.
"Now, Billy Musgrove an' me's been a-wantin' to take a trip for a long time," resumed Tim Sladder, "so I says to mom, 'Why can't we go out huntin' an' trappin', an' sort of keep an eye on 'em?' an' she says, 'Just the thing an'—'"
"My eye!" put in Hackett, angrily, "I like that—I do, indeed. What do you think we are, anyway—a lot of two-year-olds?"
Musgrove laughed, while Tim Sladder surveyed the speaker for some moments in mild astonishment.
"I'm only tellin' you how we happened to come along," he continued. "Billy Musgrove an' me's got a bully camp up the lake a bit. We seen the light of your fire—get away, Bowser—an' didn't know but what it might be you fellows. So we walked over."
"And you've got the job of looking out for us, eh, Tim?" laughed Nat. "And that big four-legged brute is going to help?"
"Bowser's a corking good dog—he is."
The owner patted the head of the great hound. "Mild, when he knows you—have to be a little careful, at first. Lie down, Bowser. Say, are you coming over to see our camp to-morrow?"
"If you do," chimed in Musgrove, "we'll show you some real sport."
"What kind?" asked Hackett, with a show of interest.
"Come over an' see! Say, can you fellers skate?"
Hackett grinned.
"If there is anybody around here who can beat me, I'd like to see him."
Musgrove's loud laugh again rang out.
"As good at that as bowling over wildcats, eh? Ha, ha! Tim's dad says as how you could fix 'em. Well—I'll race you. Say, what's your name?"
The light playing on Musgrove's face displayed a grin of enormous dimensions.
The boys tittered, that is, all except the tall youth, who scowled ominously. He was quite unable to fathom Billy Musgrove's manner, or to determine whether his dignity was being assailed or not.
"John Hackett," answered the owner of that name, after a short pause.
Then the other Kingswood boys introduced themselves.
"Well, I'm glad we found you," said Tim Sladder, cheerfully. "I told mom we would. Guess we'll hike back to camp now. Don't forget to look us up to-morrow—so long, fellows! Come on, Bowser."
Both shouldered their guns and started off, at intervals Musgrove's laugh ringing out.
"Mighty funny fellows, I call 'em," said Nat. "Isn't it odd that we should meet that great hunter, Tim Sladder? And it's an 'undeniable fact' that Billy Musgrove is a cool one. Hasn't he the biggest mouth you ever saw?"
"He needs to be taken down a peg or two," growled Hackett. "Little, sawed-off turnip thinks he can skate, eh? I'll show him. The nerve of the chap—'Say what's your name?' I had a mind to flop him in the snow."
"Oh, ho!" laughed Dave; "to flop one of our guardians in the snow, that's too much. I'm going to turn in."
Next morning a dull, leaden canopy of cloud stretched across the entire heavens. The leafless branches cracked and snapped in an icy blast that made the boys shiver and shake until a roaring fire had been kindled.
Shortly after breakfast they put on their skates and started off. The crisp whirr of the steel floated off on the breeze, as, with Hackett in the lead, they glided swiftly over the ice.
"Smoke coming from the cabin over the way, fellows," cried Bob.
"Those jokers must be home, then," remarked Nat. "When we come back, let's drop over and ask 'em about those snowballs—just for fun."
"Sure we will," agreed Hackett; "and about those marks on the snow, too."
In order to escape the icy blasts out in the middle of the lake the boys followed the numerous bays and indentations along the shore. In a few minutes they rounded a point and came in sight of a camp. It was built against the base of a steep hill which was practically bare of trees.
Before a great fire Tim Sladder, Billy Musgrove and Bowser were sitting, the two former with their faces turned toward the lake.
"Hi, hi!" yelled Billy Musgrove, wildly waving his arms.
The skaters swung in to the shore, and walked over the crust of snow to the fire.
"Glad to see you," greeted Tim Sladder, heartily. "Lie down, Bowser! He's all right, fellers, don't be afraid. Have to be a little careful with him at first, that's all. What do you think of our camp—slick, eh?"
"Bully!" responded Sam Randall. His eyes had taken in a hut of substantial dimensions, built on the same principle as their own.
All crowded around the cheerful fire, Tom Clifton keeping on the opposite side from the redoubtable Bowser.
But the big dog seemed to be in a very friendly humor. He ambled lazily from one to the other, looking up into their faces with a peculiarly mild and benign expression.
"Say, Tackett," observed Billy Musgrove, with his ever-present grin, "I—"
"My name is Hackett—John Hackett."
"Oh, it's all the same. Didn't you say that you wanted to see some sport, eh? Well, me and Tim can show you some."
"That's what we want to see."
Musgrove laughed. He pointed to the steep hill back of the hut, then at several strips of wood lying close to the fire. They were about seven feet in length, four inches wide and at one end curved up to a sharp point. In the centre of each was a loop.
"Do you know what them things is, Wackett?" he asked.
"They are called skees, I think," answered Hackett, stiffly.
"That's right," said Musgrove, with a gratified look. "My uncle's a Swede," he went on, "an' over in his country them things is used a lot. Talk about scooting—just watch Tim an' me."
"Going to coast down that hill on those things?" inquired Tom Clifton, in surprise. "It's risky! You might break your neck."
Musgrove's only answer was a loud laugh. He picked up his pair of skees, Tim Sladder following suit.
"Stay here, Bowser!" commanded the latter, shaking his finger in the big dog's face. "Lie down!"
"Don't need to budge from the fire, Wackett," remarked Musgrove. "You can see the whole shooting match from here. Come on, Tim. Is that skating going to be done this morning, Wackett?"
"Whenever you like, Billy Mushroom," returned Hackett, with a steely glare in his eye.
The two boys began slowly climbing up the hill. It was admirably suited to their purpose, being steep and covered with a smooth coating of snow and ice. At the base, it rounded gently upward to a hillock, while the level stretch before it was only here and there covered with underbrush.
"I've often read about that sport," commented Dave Brandon. "Over in Sweden, they take some daring jumps with those things."
"You wouldn't catch me trying it," put in Tom Clifton, nervously.
Hackett sniffed. "It's easy," he asserted. "Must be, if a fellow with a face like Musgrove's can do it. What's the matter with that brute?"
Bowser, who had been intently gazing after his master's form, uttered a series of dismal cries, rising in a sort of crescendo, until the last note was of such a mournful and peculiar loudness that Tom Clifton was positively alarmed.
"Maybe he's going mad," he suggested, brilliantly, edging away.
Dave Brandon laughed. "Tim Sladder has been trying to fool us," he declared. "The dog's as tame as a kitten, and, besides, is nearly as old as the hills—here, you Bowser—come here!"
The big animal obeyed. He fell at the feet of the stout boy and looked plaintively at him. Dave seized his jaws, and opened them wide; not a tooth was visible.
"What did I tell you?" he laughed.
"That settles it, to my mind," said Hackett. "I'll bet those chaps are the ones who threw the snowballs."
"Hi, hi!" yelled Musgrove, from the top of the hill. "Hi, hi! Here I go!"
The boys saw that he had fastened a skee to each foot, and, with a long balance pole in his hand, stood ready to make the descent.
For a moment, he almost disappeared over the crest of the hill. Then the boys saw him moving forward, and the next instant, with arms outstretched, he shot down over the icy surface of the declivity at terrific speed.
"My eye!" cried Hackett.
"Christopher!" chimed in Nat, while various exclamations came from the others.
Musgrove seemed to fairly fly, gathering speed as he passed down the long slope. Breathlessly, the boys watched him skimming nearer and nearer. Like a flash, he mounted the small hillock at the base of the hill—the onlookers saw him shoot off in the air for a distance of fully fifteen feet, then strike the level stretch and skim over its surface at lightning speed.
"Here I come!" yelled Tim Sladder. "Whoop—look out!"
With the swiftness of flight, he flashed down the hill, struck the mound, and went speeding after his companion.
"My eye! That's what I call sport!" exclaimed John Hackett, enthusiastically. "I'd like to take a fling at that myself."
"Better not, 'Hatchet.' Maybe it isn't as easy as it looks," spoke up Dick.
"Wouldn't catch me doing it," added Tom Clifton.
"Why not try it on a hill that isn't so steep?" asked Bob Somers.
John Hackett glanced from one to the other with a look of supreme scorn.
"Listen to 'em talking like a lot of scared cats," he sniffed. "Where's your sand, Somers? Do you suppose I'd let little 'Mushroom' think he has me bluffed? Well, I guess not!"
Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes, now approached.
"Hey, what do you fellers think of that?" demanded the latter. "Ain't it bully sport, eh?"
A chorus of enthusiastic responses showed the boys from Stony Creek what their visitors thought of skeeing.
"Say, 'Mushroom,' just lend me those skees, will you?" asked Hackett, eagerly.
"What?"—Billy Musgrove's pudgy face began to expand into a broader smile—"what?" he repeated. Then he drew back his head, and laughed heartily in his own peculiar fashion.
"Well," snapped the thin boy, "what is there so funny about it?"
"Why—say—if you lose your balance, Sackett, you'll find out—eh, Tim?"
"It's kinder risky fer a feller what ain't never tried it," admitted Sladder.
"It's easy enough," insisted Hackett, half angrily, the opposition having aroused all his combative spirit. "Anybody can do it. Slip off those boards, 'Mushroom,' and hand 'em over."
"Huh!" exclaimed Musgrove. "If you take a header, don't blame me. 'Tain't nothing, eh?" and with a much injured expression, he passed over the skees.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Hackett. "After I start the ball rolling, the rest of you fellows will want to take a crack at it, too. Just watch me slide. Your turn next, Tommy Clifton."
And with these words, the tall youth started confidently up the hill.
"He's a sassy feller, but he's game, all right," grunted Musgrove, admiringly.
With a wild yell that would have done credit to an Indian, Hackett called attention to the fact that he was ready to make the descent.
"Hacky's all right!" laughed Nat. "Here he comes!"
With the speed of the wind, slim John Hackett came skimming down the incline. Half bent over, and balancing himself with the pole, he approached the hillock.
Eagerly the boys watched him.
"Going like an express train!" said Tom Clifton, breathlessly. "Ah—"
A half suppressed cheer came from the boys. Hackett rose from the hillock, and shot forward. It was a tremendous dash through space and the group almost held their breath.
Then a cry of dismay was heard.
Hackett, as he alighted on the level stretch, lost his balance, his feet flew from under him—wildly he swung his arms.
A cry of alarm, swelling into a confused medley of sound, came from the watchers. They saw Hackett lurch on his side, and, lying prostrate, go spinning along on the ice and snow.
"I'm afraid he's badly hurt," wailed Tom Clifton, in the greatest alarm. "I told him not to do it."
"Come on, fellows!" cried Bob Somers, and with the others close at his heels, he dashed forward.
Hackett lay motionless on the snow.
It was with the greatest misgivings that the boys rushed up to him.
"Hacky, I say, Hacky—are you hurt?" panted Nat, anxiously.
Hackett raised himself on his elbow and looked around with a bewildered stare.
"Are you hurt, Hacky?" repeated Nat, as all surrounded the prostrate boy.
"Hurt!" echoed Hackett, with a glare in his eye. "Of course I'm hurt. Do you suppose I could scoop up about eighty-five feet of snow with my back and not get bumped to pieces? And something gave me a fearful clip on the back of the head, too. I tell you, I saw a lot of stars!"
"But you're not hurt much?" cried Bob Somers, with a feeling of great relief.
"How do you know I ain't hurt much, Somers?" snapped Hackett. "You can't feel the pain in my back, can you?—or the slam I got on the neck?—or the bump over my left ear? My eye! I'd like to meet the man that invented this game. Take those sticks, 'Mushroom,' and start a fire with 'em."
Hackett shook his fist toward the skees, then painfully leaned over and began to unfasten them.
"It was a fierce slide you got—that's sure," commented Musgrove, in a greatly relieved tone. "Your own fault, though, Tackett. I told you—"
"If it hadn't been that my foot struck a rock, I'd have gone through all right. Don't stand around looking at me as if I was a prize pig in a show. Give me your hand, Nat!"
It soon became apparent that Hackett's temper had sustained the most serious damage. But this was more easily repaired than broken bones or strained tendons, and the boys were correspondingly thankful.
But Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove had a pleasant surprise in store, which went far toward restoring his temper, and make him forget his aches and pains.
Musgrove went to the back of the hut and reappeared with an enormous wild goose.
"Got 'im yesterday!" he exclaimed. "Ain't he a whopper?"
"Where?" asked Hackett, eagerly. "My eye! I want to get a crack at one myself."
"You'll have plenty of chances, right along the lake. If you fellers want to stop, we'll brile it, eh?"
"You couldn't drive me away, after getting a sight of that," grinned Nat. "Hurry it up, Billy. I can hardly wait."
Sladder and Musgrove worked with commendable speed, and within a few minutes the goose was broiling over the fire.
It took a long time to cook, but the boys were well repaid for their wait, especially as roast potatoes were included in the meal.
"Say, Sladder," remarked Nat Wingate, at length, balancing a tin dipper of coffee in one hand and a goose leg in the other, "what did you mean by making us think that your dog is fierce?"
Sladder grinned. "So you found out?" he said. "Well, Musgrove an' me thought it was a good joke, 'cause Bowser's the tamest dog I ever saw."
"And it was you who threw a lot of snowballs at our camp—honest—wasn't it?"
"No such thing!" protested Tim Sladder, warmly. "Eh, Billy?"
"Own up to it now."
"Certainly we won't! I tell you it wasn't us!" Musgrove managed to say, between huge mouthfuls.
"What has that got to do with a skating match?" demanded Hackett. "Eh, 'Mushroom'?"
"Huh! d'ye mean to say that you feel like skating after sich a tumble as you had?" demanded Musgrove, in astonishment.
"A little thing like that doesn't bother me," said Hackett, reflectively, rubbing his left shoulder. "Who wants to go in the match?"
"I will," said Bob Somers.
"Count me in, too," added Dick Travers.
"And me, too," said Randall.
"How about you, Chubby?" asked Bob.
"Count me out of it," replied Dave, promptly.
"For the championship of Lake Wolverine let it be," grinned John Hackett. "Where'll we begin?"
"From here—to the end of the lake, in your direction," answered Musgrove, promptly.
"Good! In about an hour we'll start."
Sitting around the fire was so pleasant that the hour lengthened into two.
Finally Hackett jumped to his feet. "My eye!" he exclaimed; "it's getting late. Come ahead, 'Mushroom'—clap on your skates."
Billy Musgrove winked. It was an expressive wink, and seemed to be a fitting counterpart to his expansive grin.
"All right, Wackett," he said. "I'm ready—for the championship of Lake Wolverine," and his speech ended with a loud laugh.
"He won't smile so much after the race," whispered Hackett to Nat Wingate. "This is where he gets taken down the first peg."
"You can do it, Hacky, if any one can," returned Nat, in equally cautious tones. "Make him think he's standing still."
Bob Somers presently scratched a long line on the ice, and five contestants eagerly toed the mark.
"Bully sport—skatin'," grinned Musgrove.
"Only your legs ain't very long," chuckled Hackett.
"They don't have to grow none, to beat some fellers."
"One—two—three!" cried Nat,—"go!"
Like a flash, the boys were off.
"Hi, hi, Billy!" yelled Tim Sladder; "go it! hi, hi!"
"Keep it up, Hacky—you've got 'em left at the post!" shouted Nat.
Three of the party kept neck and neck—Bob Somers, Hackett and Musgrove, while Dick Travers and Sam Randall fell to the rear.
All had expected to see slim John Hackett quickly take the lead, but, to their surprise, both Somers and Musgrove at once set such a pace that the tall youth was compelled to exert himself to a far greater degree than he cared to at that stage of the proceedings.
From an unexpectedly one-sided affair, the race developed into an exciting contest.
The non-contestants trailed along in the rear, at a pretty fast clip.
"You're winning, hands down, Hacky!" yelled Nat.
"Keep it up, Bob Somers!" shouted Tom Clifton, excitedly.
"Hi, hi!" cried Tim Sladder. "Go it, Billy—go it!"
Musgrove was going it. His short legs moved with wonderful rapidity. Leaning well forward, he kept up a steady rhythmic movement, occasionally spurting in a manner which showed that he had himself well under control.
Hackett, guarding his strength and wind, saw, first with astonishment, then dismay, that Billy Musgrove refused to be shaken off. He was, before very long, breathing hard; his eyes gleamed with determination; off in the distance he saw the end of the lake rounding in a semicircle—the goal.
The moment for the final spurt had arrived; he was ready to bend all his energies in a last desperate effort to draw away from the grinning face beside him, when a strange sound reached his ears.
It was a curious, crackling noise, which increased in intensity. Then a clear, sharp report like a pistol-shot suddenly reverberated across the lake. Instantly a dark line flashed over the surface of the ice directly in the path of the skaters.
As occasionally happens, the ice had been under a tension, which finally became so great as to cause it to crack, leaving a bare space perhaps five or six inches wide.
The unexpected incident caused the boys to check their momentum, but there was not sufficient time to stop, and Musgrove's skate, striking the edge of the crack, almost sent him headlong. It was only by a powerful effort that he managed to save himself.
Hackett and Somers, who had jumped the crack safely, turned their heads to see how Musgrove had fared—then, puffing and blowing, came to a stop.
"Fierce luck!" panted Musgrove. "Was just going to spurt, too. I had your measure, Tackett."
"Spurt?" sniffed Hackett. "Much good that would have done. You would have been beaten so badly on the last stretch that—"
"Huh! I would, hey? You never saw the day when you could beat me, Crackett!"
"You'll have to grow about a foot, 'Mud-bank,' before you're in my class," retorted Hackett, angrily.
"No use scrapping about it, boys," said Bob Somers. "Plenty of time to settle the championship of Lake Wolverine."
"There ain't no one in Stony Creek can beat me," asserted Musgrove, positively; "ask Tim Sladder."
"Well, there's one here who can."
"'Tain't so! An' Scummers was right up with us, too."
"Oh, ho, fellows," drawled Dave Brandon; "what's the matter with you? The lake is still here, and to-morrow's coming. You can try it again, and maybe I'll go in for the championship myself."
This idea made the expansive grin reappear on Musgrove's face, and, with a survey of the poet laureate's generous proportions, he broke into his usual laugh.
"Let's get over to camp, fellows, and see if any one has been up to more funny tricks," suggested Tom Clifton.
"That's the idea," approved Dave. "It's too late, now, to go over and see those fellows across the lake. Besides, I'm half frozen."
When the party reached the huts, they found everything as it had been left.
"You fellows had better grub with us to-night," said Nat Wingate, addressing Sladder and Musgrove. "How will that do?"
"Bully!" replied the two in unison.
The canopy of cloud still hung over the landscape, and strong gusts of wind made the biting cold seem all the more intense.
"Wow! This is the worst yet," growled Dave. "Wouldn't care to have stayed out on the lake any longer."
"It will get a great deal wuss than this," put in Tim Sladder, cheerfully, "but I don't keer as long as there ain't no blizzard."
"Suppose one will be due pretty soon, eh?" remarked Sam Randall, with a critical glance at the lowering sky. "Bother the wind! Listen to it howling among those trees."
Between dancing, swinging their arms and crowding around the blazing fire, the boys managed to keep fairly comfortable.
Twilight began to blot out the distance and, at length, night enveloped the scene—a sullen, gloomy night—one of the blackest they had ever seen. The towering flames threw a wider circle of light than usual, and the near-by trees stood out weirdly against the background.
"Think I know where there's a b'ar hole," remarked Tim Sladder, in a casual way, as he began to eat with much eagerness a plate of rabbit stew. "Me an' Billy seen it yesterday mornin'."
"My eye! That's what I like to hear," said Hackett, enthusiastically. "Anybody can crack a six ounce rabbit. I'm for heavy-weight game."
"And I'm for eating all kinds," put in Dave Brandon, with a laugh.
"If we don't bring down a deer or two, I'll be disappointed," added Bob.
"I've bagged 'em," began Billy Musgrove, as he leaned over and helped himself to another plate of stew, "an' 'tain't so easy as you think, Plummers. No, sir; I remember once, me an' my dad, an' say—talk about shootin', there ain't none can beat him—well, we spotted a herd of deer in the distance, an', as luck would have it, the wind was just right."
Musgrove paused, and seeing that his hearers were displaying a proper amount of interest, was about to continue, when, with startling abruptness, a series of the most discordant, rasping cries came from the depths of the woods.
"What in the world is that?" cried Tommy Clifton, aghast.
"Christopher!" exclaimed Nat. "Is it a wildcat?"
"A wolf, perhaps!" chimed in Sam Randall, excitedly, straining his eyes to pierce the gloom.
The boys were thoroughly startled, but in a moment each had seized his gun, and stood ready for any emergency.
The cries continued—a steady succession of blood-curdling sounds which made the group of boys look at each other in wonder and alarm.
Bowser began to whine, and utter short, doleful barks; then threw himself on the ground, apparently in great fear.
"Never heard no four-legged critter make sich sounds as them," said Tim Sladder, in awed tones.
"An' it certainly isn't no humans," broke in Musgrove, in a voice that he vainly tried to control.
The cries ceased as suddenly as they had begun.
"My eye! It couldn't have been a wildcat," declared John Hackett.
"And it certainly wasn't a wolf," cried Bob.
"Then what was it?" demanded Nat.
"Never in my born days did I hear anything like it. It was awful!" gasped Sladder. "Listen! Is there anything skulking 'round over there?"
With trembling hands, Musgrove lighted a pine-knot, and, advancing toward the thicket, held it high above his head. The other boys followed closely.
A flaring circle of light slowly danced along over the snow. Bright beams glanced from tree to tree, queer-shaped shadows flitted about, but the hissing, sputtering flames revealed nothing but gaunt trees and underbrush.
"This is the strangest thing yet," declared Bob Somers.
"What kind of a place have we struck, I wonder?" put in Dick Travers. "First we are snowballed by somebody who isn't anybody, and now we get the life scared out of us by an animal that isn't an animal. What do you think about it, Chubby?"
Dave considered. "To tell the truth, Dick, I don't know what to think," he answered, slowly.
"I don't like this—don't, for a fact," declared Musgrove. "I ain't afraid of no animals, or humans either. But take my word on it, there's something funny going on around this place."
All breathed easier as time went on, and there came no repetition of the cries.
The boys had all returned to the camp-fire, but Bob at length exclaimed, "Who has the sand to go out with me and take another look around?—H'm," he added, as he glanced in the direction of the lake and waved his hand toward a starlike point which glimmered faintly in the distance, "there's a light in the cabin."
"So there is!" cried Sam, with interest. "But say—come on—let's scurry around a bit."
WITH THEIR GUNS TIGHTLY CLASPED THEY STARTED
WITH THEIR GUNS TIGHTLY CLASPED THEY STARTED
WITH THEIR GUNS TIGHTLY CLASPED THEY STARTED
Bob, Hackett and Sam procured lanterns. Then, with their guns tightly clasped, they started out. Near the lake, the gusts of wind tore against them with unpleasant violence. Bending over, to escape its full force, they strained their eyes and ears to catch a glimpse or sound of the strange visitor, but their efforts were not rewarded.
"It's back to the fire for me," puffed Sam, at length. "Whew! This cold is awful."
"Hey, did you see anything?" asked Musgrove, eagerly, as they emerged from the darkness.
"Not a thing, 'Mushroom,'" responded Hackett.
"Oh, ho!" said Dave, yawning; "then there's no use making our heads ache about it—I won't, for one."
When the time came for Sladder and Musgrove to leave, they seemed to be in anything but a comfortable frame of mind. Many a nervous glance the two cast toward the outer darkness. But there was no help for it.
"Take one of our lanterns, Sladder," said Bob Somers. "We will get it to-morrow."
"And don't be chewed up by that wandering screecher," called out Nat, with a grin, as they started off.
The boys sat around for a short time, then turned in. On soft bough beds, buried under piles of warm blankets, they were speedily lulled to sleep by the wind which swept around the huts.
After breakfast next morning a great supply of fuel was gathered.
"Hello!" exclaimed Bob. "Here come some fellows across the lake. Three of 'em," he added. "Bet they are from that cabin."
"Let 'em come," said Hackett. "Guess we can stand it."
The skaters were making good speed, and in a short time their forms grew clear and distinct against the gray background of ice. The boys saw that they were young men, probably about the age of twenty-one.
"Aren't they dressed in rough clothes, though?" said Sam.
"And with beards growing to beat the band," added Hackett.
"A fierce-looking lot—that's sure," exclaimed Nat.
Nevertheless, as the three drew up to the camp, our friends saw that their faces were not unprepossessing.
"Hello!—Hello!" they exclaimed, almost in one breath, nodding to the boys in a friendly way.
"Hello!" responded the young hunters, cheerfully.
"We are occupying that cabin across the lake," began one of the youths who appeared to be the elder, "and have several times noticed your camp-fire. So we thought that being so close together it might be well to form a society for mutual protection."
"For mutual protection?" echoed Hackett, in a questioning tone.
"Exactly!" returned the other, with a smile. "Now, I don't know what experience in hunting you may have had, but this time of year, wolves are apt to be on the rampage, and when a howling pack of 'em gets after you—well, a fellow generally wishes he was somewhere else."
"Do you think they are likely to come around here?" put in Tom Clifton.
"They may. Then, in camp life, certain emergencies are liable to arise, when assistance is needed. But I forgot"—the speaker paused, then added, with a short laugh—"before I go any further, we had better introduce ourselves. My name is Charlie Piper."
"Mine is Rex Heydon," put in one of the others.
"And mine is Fulmer Robson," added the third.
The boys, in turn, quickly introduced themselves.
Presently the speaker continued, "We came out on a hunting trip, and stumbled across the cabin. Do you intend to stay here long?"
"Two or three weeks, at least," replied Bob.
"Good! Well, as I was saying, it might not be a bad plan to arrange a code of signals."
"A fine idea," commented Bob Somers. "It might come in very handy, indeed."
"We could use smoke signals," went on Piper. "You know how to make them?"
"How?" asked little Tom Clifton.
"A couple of fellows hold a blanket over the fire—then withdraw it quickly, and repeat. The smoke, of course, rises in detached clouds."
"Sure—we know all about that," interrupted John Hackett, loftily; "and firing off guns, too—two shots close together, then a single one."
"That's it," said Piper. "Of course we may never need anything of the sort—yet it's well to be prepared."
"Suppose we come to an understanding about the signals," suggested Heydon.
"We shall be glad to," assented Bob.
"Well, in case you need assistance of any kind, send up three clouds of smoke, and fire off a gun. You'll find us hiking over here in a hurry."
"And, of course, if the signal comes from our side, we shall expect you to cross the lake in jig time," added Fulmer Robson.
"You can depend upon us," said Bob.
"Well, that point is settled. This locality seems to be a favorite place for hunters, and we're glad of it. A couple of young fellows have a camp near by."
"Yes—their names are Sladder and Musgrove," explained Bob.
"H'm, as I said, it's good to have company, providing we don't take each other for deer or other animals," laughed Piper. "A good, solid pair of shelters you have there, boys."
"Oh, this isn't our first camping trip," said Hackett. "We know a thing or two about it."
"I see that you do."
"Say!" remarked Nat Wingate, rather abruptly. "Didn't you fellows play a little joke on us the other night?"
"How?" asked Piper, in puzzled tones.
"Why—fire a lot of snowballs. One of them knocked over the coffee-pot and another washed Bob Somers' face."
"Why, no! I assure you we didn't do it," said Rex Heydon, quickly. "No, sir—it may have been those two boys."
"Was an animal of some kind prowling around on your side of the lake last night?" broke in Hackett. "We heard the most awful lot of wild screeching you can imagine. It scared some of these little chaps pretty badly."
"Speak for yourself, 'Hatchet,'" said Tom Clifton, indignantly.
"Thought I heard wolves in the distance," answered Piper, "but wasn't sure. Nothing close to camp, though, was there, Robson?"
"Not a thing," was the answer.
The visitors stayed for some time, then, after cordially inviting the boys to come over and see them, shouldered their guns and began the return trip.
"Nice fellows," commented Tom Clifton, "and a good idea of theirs about signals."
"Everybody seems to think we need help," observed Bob, good-humoredly. "Between guardians and smoke signals we ought to be all right. Who wants to go after fish, fellows?" he asked.
"I do," said Sam Randall.
Provided with a couple of spears and an axe, besides their guns, the boys made their way toward the lake, and followed the shore to the south. At length, reaching a point where a number of scraggly willows leaned over the frozen surface, Bob stopped.
It was a dreary, barren spot. A fallen bough of yellow leaves rustled musically in the wind and the trees sighed and shivered. A few tufts of forlorn, withered grass still lingered, as a reminder of the season past.
"Looks like a good place, Sam," he said.
"You try here, and I'll go along a bit further," was the answer.
Bob soon chopped a square hole in the ice, then handed the axe to Sam, who proceeded on his way.
With spear poised for action, Bob waited. It was cold work, and he began to wish that he had gone shooting, instead. Then, quick as a flash, his spear descended through the hole.
"Missed!" he muttered, regretfully, drawing it back by means of the attached rope.
Some time elapsed before another chance presented itself. When, at length, a shadowy form flitted by, Bob again took aim, and sent the spear through the opening.
"But I got one that time," he thought, pulling in the rope. "Great luck—a good-sized pickerel!" he exclaimed, as the prize came in view. "A few more like this will do."
He detached the fish, laid it to one side and was about to continue his occupation when a hail came from Sam Randall.
Turning quickly, he saw the boy wildly gesticulating.
"Wild geese!" came a faint cry.
"By George, he's right!" exclaimed Bob, in excitement, "and what's better, they are coming this way."
In their peculiar V-shaped formation and flying low, a flock of geese were speeding in an easterly direction.
Bob Somers' interest in spearing fish suddenly vanished. Quickly seizing his gun, he made a dash across the ice, and raised it just as the leader veered sharply toward the right. Two reports rang out in quick succession. Each charge found a victim. Two birds came tumbling down, while the others, with cries of alarm, flew swiftly away and were out of range of Sam Randall's gun.
"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Two of 'em—not bad—and big, plump fellows, too."
"That's great, Bob!" exclaimed Sam, as he came up. "Only wish I'd had a chance, too; but never mind—better luck next day."
"Won't 'Hatchet' wish he had been here?" laughed Bob, as he slung the geese over his shoulder. "Got any fish, Sam?"
"No!"
"Well, I beat you by one."
"Guess I'll try again."
"All right, Sam. We'll keep it up for a while."
The boys then separated.
After reloading his gun, Bob picked up the spear and resumed his place by the side of the hole.
Notwithstanding the comparative shelter of his position, he soon began to suffer from the intense cold.
"Hi, hi, hi, Sam!" he yelled. "Do you want to go back?"
"I'll be right with you," came the reply.
Sam Randall soon came up, much disgusted at his poor luck.
"Not a thing the whole morning," he grumbled. "Say, Bob, when are we going off on that great hunt for deer—to-morrow, eh?"
"Of course!"
"Good! And I'll get something, if it's only a squirrel."
When the boys reached camp, they found all hands, including Sladder and Musgrove, around the fire.
"My eye, Somers! That's what I call a good sight!" exclaimed Hackett. "How did it happen? Did they fly down and say, 'Here I am—bang away,' or did you go after 'em with a pinch of salt?"
Bob laughed. "You're not the only crack shot here, 'Hatchet,'" he said. "What's the matter, Musgrove? You look sleepy."
"An' who wouldn't be sleepy?" responded Billy, with a terrific yawn. "Sich a night as me an' Tim put in."
"What was the matter?"
"Matter—say—" Musgrove lowered his voice, and his tone became strained. "Why, we hadn't no more'n turned in, when Bowser began to act queer—cry an' whine—an' of a sudden he flops down. Skeered?—I never seen nothing like it—no, sir. Then them there cries started again—wuss than ever, eh, Tim?"
At the recollection, Musgrove's ruddy face seemed to turn a shade paler, while a frightened expression came into his eyes.
"Wuss than ever? I should say so!" echoed Tim. "I've knocked around in the woods for a long time, but I never heard nothing like it before."
"'Tain't natural, I tell you," said Musgrove. "Neither me or Tim slep' a wink all night."
"It's some kind of a prowling beast, Musgrove," put in Nat. "If we once get a crack at him, there won't be much more howling done."
"That's right, Nat," said John Hackett, "and I only hope we get a chance to-night."
After lunch, the boys in several parties started out on a tour of exploration.
Bob, Sam Randall and Dick Travers discovered a creek, and in the course of their wanderings came across the trail of a fox. The boys had decided to put in the whole of the next day on a trip in quest of big game.
"Every time I think of that buck, I want to start right off," declared Bob Somers.
"So do I," exclaimed Sam. "If we brought one down, it would cause a sensation all right."
Late in the afternoon the camp was reached.
It was soon discovered that Hackett had again made several remarkable shots. Three rabbits lay on the snow, while an owl fastened to a stick stood in front of the hut.
"There's an ex-screecher that's going to be stuffed," announced Hackett, proudly. "Banged him just as he was getting to cover. If that queer animal comes sneaking around again, it'll be another job for a taxidermist."
All hands retired early.
The gray light of morn had just begun to show in the eastern sky when John Hackett awakened with a dreadful start, and looked wildly around.
The blood-curdling cries of the mysterious animal were again sounding, and now apparently close at hand. Hackett felt a cold perspiration standing out upon his face. For an instant, too terrified to move, he listened intently, while the harsh, rasping cries poured out in a steady volume.
Then the spell was broken.
"Nat—wake up!" he cried. "Nat!" and leaning over, he vigorously shook the sleeping boy.
"Why—what's—the—" gasped Nat. Then his blinking eyes opened wide. With a startled exclamation, he sat up, and, at the same moment, Sam Randall and Dick Travers were aroused.
In confusion and terror, the boys reached for their guns, every instant expecting to hear the tread of their foe outside.
"Christopher! It's most on top of us, Hacky," yelled Nat, excitedly. "Quick!"
With a hand that trembled in spite of himself, Hackett drew back the canvas flap. No sooner had he peered through the opening than a wild cry escaped his lips.
Within a few feet of the hut, motionless upon a fallen tree, stood an enormous wildcat. Its large yellow eyes were glaring steadily toward them, and, as if transfixed by sight of the group of pale faces which suddenly appeared, it made not the slightest move.
"Look at those blazing eyes!" cried Sam.
"It's going to spring—watch out, fellows!" shouted Hackett.
"I knew a wildcat was making those awful cries," chattered Dick.
Hackett, with a look of determination, raised his gun, Nat following suit.
The cries had ceased. As if in sullen defiance, the animal glared toward the hut.
"By Jingo, I never saw anything stand so still," exclaimed Sam Randall.
Hackett's arms trembled in his eagerness and excitement, as he pulled the trigger. Two deafening reports blended into one.
Without a cry, the wildcat toppled off the tree trunk, and fell with a thud in the snow, where it lay motionless and stretched out in a strangely stiff position.
With loud shouts of exultation, Hackett and Nat Wingate leaped forward. Clutching his still smoking gun by the barrel, the former swung it with telling force on the animal's head.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" he cried. "I've settled him. Don't be scared, Somers and the rest—wow—"
Hackett suddenly paused, the light of excitement faded from his eyes and he began to stare. A dreadful suspicion that everything wasn't as it should be had entered his head.
Nat, too, was staring, and so were all the others.
The wildcat had a most unusual appearance. Its head was flattened to a most extraordinary degree by Hackett's blow, and its four legs stuck up in the air, stiff and straight, like pokers.
A discovery was made—an amazing discovery—the wildcat was stuffed. One yellow glass eye had dropped out and lay upon the snow.
There was a moment of silence. Then Hackett, with an angry exclamation, delivered an energetic kick, which lifted the stuffed animal in the air and sent it tumbling to the ground several feet away. As it fell, a long rent appeared, from which flew an abundant supply of pine-needles.
A storm of merriment burst forth. The boys danced around, holding their sides, while Hackett, his color rising, glared from one to the other with an expression of the greatest disgust.
"Oh, this is the richest joke I ever heard of," shouted Nat Wingate. "Hacky settled him with that crack on the head. 'Look out, he's going to spring.' Oh, those 'blazing eyes.'" Almost convulsed with laughter, the ex-leader of the Nimrods sent the stuffed specimen once again flying through the air.
Then followed a scene suggestive of the football field. Between rushes could be seen glimpses of a sadly kicked and battered object rising and falling and hurtling back and forth.
"Twenty-five doctors wouldn't have done me as much good as this," declared Nat. "Cheer up, Hacky—you look so sad."
"Never mind what I look like," returned Hackett, fiercely. "Stop your giggling, Tommy Clifton. I owe you one, and—"
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Such is life in the wilderness. There's somebody around here with a sense of humor."
"It would have turned to sadness, if I'd met him," said John Hackett. "I believe it's those fellows across the lake. Smoke signals—all in my eye—they just came over to see the lay of the camp."
"How about Sladder and Musgrove?" asked Dick Travers.
"They haven't brains enough."
"And those awful cries?"
"Well, what do you suppose I know about 'em, Travers?" snapped John Hackett. "I wouldn't mind if they were to start up right now."
"Are we going to try and find out where this beast came from?" inquired Bob.
Hackett glanced toward the strange-looking wildcat with a savage scowl.
"Well, I should say so!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, ho, why not look for tracks, fellows?" proposed Dave Brandon. "The only thing I'm mad about is getting awakened so early in the morning," he went on. "Some one is having great fun at our expense, and if we work quietly there's a chance of finding out who it is."
"Not much use of looking for tracks," growled Hackett. "The snow's been trampled too much for that. Wish I'd caught that fellow in the act."
"This looks like a print made by a snow-shoe!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly.
"That's just what it is," agreed Dave Brandon, leaning over and examining an impression which Somers pointed out.
"And here's another," put in Sam Randall.
In the course of a quarter of an hour distinct tracks were discovered leading around the base of the hill. The boys followed these gleefully for a short distance, then the trail was lost. It was some time, however, before they became discouraged and abandoned the search.
"Wish we could find out who has been playing all these tricks," said Nat, reflectively.
"We're going to—and that pretty soon."
"How shall we do it, Hacky?"
"Leave it to me. Nobody is going to make an easy mark of John Hackett."
During breakfast, the boys continued to discuss the mysterious affair, the majority agreeing that Hackett was right.
"Stuffed wildcats and funny screeches won't prevent me from going on that hunting trip to-day," declared Bob, "and right after breakfast, too."
"When you get back, we may have a little game to show you ourselves," remarked Hackett, dryly.
It had been agreed by the boys that it was better to divide into two parties, as so many tramping together would be apt to scare off game.
In a short time Bob Somers, Sam Randall and Dick Travers had strapped on their snow-shoes and were ready. Each was plentifully supplied with ammunition and had a substantial lunch reposing in the bottom of his game-bag.
They followed the course of the creek, discovered the day before. Its banks were lined with underbrush and overhanging trees, while huge drifts of snow glistened in the early morning light. Finally the creek became so winding that it was abandoned, and the boys began to climb the steep sides of a pine-clad hill.
"Here's where we begin to blaze a trail," said Bob, as he took a small hatchet from his belt.
The top of the ridge was soon reached. Beyond extended a picturesque valley, on the far side of which rose a steep, rugged hill, partly bare of timber. The weather still continued threatening.
"Look there!" cried Dick, abruptly, in his excitement almost shouting the words.
The boys quickly turned. A couple of grayish animals had darted from behind a mass of underbrush.
"Foxes!" exclaimed Bob, excitedly.
In an instant, three reports reverberated from the opposite hills. The foremost fox leaped high in the air and fell motionless in the snow, while the other, with a flying leap, cleared a bush and disappeared from view.
"We got one, anyway!" cried Bob, exultantly. "Make sure he's finished, fellows," he added, as they ran toward their prize; "a fox can give a pretty nasty bite."
"This fellow never will!" exclaimed Dick. "What a beauty—a silver gray fox, too; that kind is rare."
"Guess we all shot at the same one," commented Bob. "Like 'Hatchet's' owl, this fellow ought to be stuffed," he added, meditatively.
"That's the idea," agreed Dick, enthusiastically. "We'll only need a couple more to go around."
"It's pretty heavy. How shall we carry it?" asked Sam.
"Easy enough. Cut a sapling, tie the fox to it, let one end drag in the snow and the other rest on your shoulder. Taking turns, it ought not to be hard work."
Bob quickly felled a sapling and trimmed off the branches. Then he tied the fox's legs in pairs, pushed the pole between and fastened the body with a short piece of rope in such a manner as to prevent it from slipping down.
"Capital, Bob!" observed Dick. "But say—suppose we don't get any others—whose fox is this?"
"The only fair way is to divide it into thirds," laughed Sam. "I'll take the head."
"My scheme is better than that."
"What is it?"
"Present the fox to Professor Hopkins. He will be delighted."
"Oh, that's the idea!" said Dick. "Well, I agree to it. How about you, Sam?"
"It's the best way to settle the matter."
The ground now sloped down to a dark, gloomy ravine, with steep, slippery sides.
"A pretty deep gully, eh, fellows?" remarked Bob.
"How are we going to get across, I wonder?" spoke up Sam.
"There may be a place a bit further along."
"Hello, here's just the thing!" exclaimed Dick, a few moments later. "A piece of luck, I call it."
He pointed toward a tree straight ahead, which a storm had evidently sent crashing earthward. It formed a natural bridge across the chasm.
"Couldn't be better," observed Bob. "We'll get over in a jiffy."
Dick Travers unstrapped his snow-shoes and tossed them over to the opposite side.
"Here goes number one," he said, with a grin.
Carefully, Dick began making his way across.
But a few feet separated him from the brink, when an ominous cracking sound rose sharply on the air. The tree began to sag in an alarming manner.
With an exclamation of dismay, Dick let his gun drop, then, as he felt the support slipping from under him, gave a flying leap.
As he did so, the trunk, split in twain, crashed to the bottom of the gully. Dick's startled companions saw him frantically grasp hold of a low-hanging branch which projected over the brink of the chasm. Bending beneath his weight, it held him suspended in mid-air.
"Great Cæsar!" cried Sam. "If that breaks, he'll get an ugly tumble."
"Hang on tight!" yelled Bob, encouragingly.
But Dick's strong hands were holding with a firm grasp, and after the first moment of fear had passed, he glanced at the bottom of the gully, and, with a long breath, started to swing himself hand over hand to safety.
The strain proved to be too much for the elastic branch. It began to bend, carrying the dangling boy in a graceful curve downward. Presently it snapped, with a resounding crack, and Dick found himself crashing through the twigs and branches of the prostrate tree.
The fall was but short, and being thus broken resulted in no harm. Dick immediately extricated himself.
"All right, Dick?" called Bob, anxiously.
"Sound as a dollar. That tree must have lain there for ages—it's nothing but punk."
The bank was too steep to admit of climbing it, so Dick, after a moment's consideration, picked up his gun and began walking slowly along the bottom of the gully.
It was a most unpleasant necessity. Huge snow-drifts barred his way, and occasionally he floundered along almost waist-deep. However, the gully soon widened out and its sides became less steep.
A short distance further found the boys at a place where all were able to reach the far side of the ravine. They were then obliged to go back for Dick Travers' snow-shoes. After a brief halt for lunch, the three young hunters continued their march.
"Guess we won't get a shot at any deer to-day," remarked Bob.
"We haven't seen any of those wolves that Piper spoke about either," said Dick.
"No—and I'm too hungry to care anything about them now," observed Sam. "How many miles do you suppose we have come, anyway?"
"More than I care to think about. We'll have to turn back pretty soon, or it may mean a nice, cold night out in the woods."
In a short time they emerged from amidst the timber and stood on the brink of a steep hill, which rounded somewhat like the sides of a huge amphitheatre.
"Hello, here's a lake!" exclaimed Bob, as he saw an expanse of ice far below.
"Don't I wish it was Lake Wolverine?" sighed Sam.
"Perhaps we have made a big circle," said Dick, hopefully.
"It might be," admitted Bob. "But there are a good many lakes in this part of the country. Anyway, let's take a look at it."
They began to descend the slope of the hill, when an object to the left and some distance off attracted Bob's attention.
He drew forth his field-glass and took a long look.
"By jingo, if that doesn't look like a sign-board, I'm mistaken," he exclaimed.
"A sign-board out in this wilderness?" said Sam, incredulously.
"That's what I said, Sam; see for yourself."
"If it isn't one, it's the nearest thing to it I ever saw," admitted Sam, after a moment's survey. "It won't take long to find out."
"As sure as I live, it's a sign," exclaimed Dick, as they approached the object.
Upon the top of a stout upright, a crosspiece had been nailed. On the latter, in rude, black letters, was painted this surprising notice:
LAKE WOLVERINE
Coasting, skating or falling down this hill more than forty miles an hour prohibited.
Picnic parties must keep off the grass.
No dogs allowed to run at large—wolves take notice.
"By all that's wonderful, we're right at our lake," cried Bob, joyously. "Isn't that great?"
"Hurrah!" added Sam. "We did circle around, after all."
"Think of that tramp we're saved," put in Dick, with shining eyes.
The strange wording of the sign-post was, for a moment, forgotten in the joy of their discovery. Then Bob began to laugh.
"This must be jokers' paradise," he exclaimed. "Nice country for a picnic, eh?"
"The man who wrote that is certainly a backwoods wit," grinned Sam. "Say," he continued, abruptly, "I wonder if he's the fellow who has been playing all those jokes on us."
The boys skirted along the edge of the hill until a favorable place for descending was found. Light-hearted at their unexpected good fortune, rapid progress was made and within a few minutes the lake was reached.
"We never saw this spot before, fellows," observed Bob, with a glance around.
"That's another 'undeniable fact,'" replied Sam, as he started off, with long, swinging strides.
In half an hour, the scenery again became familiar, and the sight of the cabin across the lake cheered them on.
"Splendid luck, I call it," panted Dick. "Thought we had miles and miles to go, and here's the camp—just back of that ridge."
"Hope the fellows have got something started," said Bob. "Hurrah," he cried, as the point was rounded, "the whole gang seems to be on deck, and there's a jolly big fire to warm a fellow up."
"Hello—hello!" hailed the others, when they caught a glimpse of the returning hunters.
"Christopher—a fox!" exclaimed Nat Wingate, as they came up.
"Bully for you, fellows," said Hackett, approvingly. "We got a few things, too," and he pointed to several rabbits and a brace of squirrels which lay on the snow.
"Another funny thing has happened, Bob," put in Tom Clifton.
"What is that?"
For an answer, Tom walked over and picked up a sheet of common brown paper which rested near the huts. On it was a rude drawing.
"When we got back, this was standing alongside of Hackett's owl."