"Here come the mighty Nimrod boysAnd pirates of the deep,And every one will make a noiseTo drive away your sleep."
"Here come the mighty Nimrod boysAnd pirates of the deep,And every one will make a noiseTo drive away your sleep."
"Here come the mighty Nimrod boys
And pirates of the deep,
And every one will make a noise
To drive away your sleep."
"That sounds like more trouble," said Bob, with a laugh.
"Pirates of the Bounding Deep," shrieked John Hackett.
"Of the bounding, bounding deep," echoed the others, in turn.
"And we're just as bad when off the sea,As real ones on the ocean be."
"And we're just as bad when off the sea,As real ones on the ocean be."
"And we're just as bad when off the sea,
As real ones on the ocean be."
It was Nat who uttered the last words, which he followed by a series of frightful discords through the megaphone.
Straight up to the camp-fire, in single file, they came, swinging their lanterns, as they ranged themselves around.
"I told you boys that this cheery blaze must mark the retreat of our friends, the little ancient mariners, who sail on land and try to catch dickey birds without the use of salt," laughed Nat.
"And we are overflowing with joy at this chance meeting," put in John Hackett.
"And likewise have come to inquire if the birds and beasts who once dwelt here have all been shot?" added Kirk Talbot. "I'll explain the idea:
"When hunters brave as theseGo to shooting 'midst the trees,Will the birdlets fly away,Or will they boldly laugh—and stay!"
"When hunters brave as theseGo to shooting 'midst the trees,Will the birdlets fly away,Or will they boldly laugh—and stay!"
"When hunters brave as these
Go to shooting 'midst the trees,
Will the birdlets fly away,
Or will they boldly laugh—and stay!"
"You all seem to be poet laureates," said Dave Brandon.
"What has been done for a camp?" broke in Nat. "Is it near here? Say, where did that strange looking pile of underbrush come from?"
The Nimrods had discovered the shelter.
"It's a fine one," said Ted Pollock, admiringly.
"That it is," assented Nat, suddenly reverting to a serious mood. A trace of sarcasm seemed to lurk in his tone, however, and the boys, at first, thought he was merely trying to deceive them. But in a moment he caught Bob Somers' eye, and, nodding to him in his most pleasant manner, continued: "We have come with the olive branch of peace. I hope you bear us no ill will, and if any damage has been caused, please accept our apologies."
"You must excuse our fun; a little joking never hurts any one," chimed in "Hatchet."
"We can stand almost any amount, provided it doesn't knock our boat in three or four pieces," returned Bob, who was far from being satisfied that the Nimrods were acting in good faith.
"The fact is," said Nat, presently, "this seems to be an ideal place for camping out. Why not cast our fortunes together for a week—what do you say?"
There was a strange sort of eagerness in his voice that did not escape Bob's attention.
"We don't intend to stay a week," he said.
"You surely don't mean that you are going to leave to-morrow?" inquired Nat, now all seriousness.
"Oh, no, only—"
"Then we can join the camp, eh—why not? We can have a grand time and forget any little differences. Besides," he added, after a short pause, "the arrangement will only last for a few days."
This started an open discussion, in which all present had more or less to say, but it finally became so evident that the Nimrods were anxious to make amends for the past, that their arguments proved effective. Bob and his companions were, also, quite satisfied that they could take care of themselves should an emergency arise, while they all felt more curiosity in regard to the possible course of the Nimrods than they would have been willing to admit.
The Trailers sat around the fire for about an hour, then, picking up their lanterns and promising to return on the morrow, they bade the Ramblers adieu, and retired in an orderly and quiet fashion.
Breakfast was eaten with the rising sun. Shortly after, the exhaust of the "Nimrod" sounded and almost immediately she came in view. The work of mooring her alongside the "Rambler" occupied but a short time, whereupon the Trailers, in high spirits, trooped ashore. Bob Somers had kept an eagle eye on their boat during the entire proceeding, in order to make sure that no trick was attempted.
The poet laureate looked at the thick tract of woods ahead, then toward a nice, grassy knoll close by.
"I'll mind the boats," he said, briefly.
"We'll bring our game bags back full to overflowing," volunteered Nat. "Be sure to have a fire big enough to roast an ox."
With long strides, tall and slim John Hackett led the way, causing little Tom Clifton to run occasionally in order to keep pace.
"The best plan is to go as far as possible into the interior," urged Nat; "then we may get a shot at something worth while."
"Yes, what's the use of popping at little two ounce squirrels, when there are bears and wolves around?" said John Hackett, slyly glancing at Tom.
"To say nothing of deer, and fierce wildcats," chimed in Bob, smilingly.
"A little army like we are would scare off anything that toddles on four legs," declared Sam; "we had better not make such a racket."
"It doesn't make any difference yet," said Kirk Talbot, picking himself up, a creeping vine having sent him headlong.
After making their way through a dense thicket, they reached the banks of a small but rapid stream. This was crossed by means of a few stones which rested in the swirling and bubbling water.
Just a few paces further along, John Hackett gave an illustration of how not to carry a gun. Swinging it carelessly over his shoulder, his hand grasping the barrel, he pushed ahead. A low-hanging branch in some manner caught the hammer, pulling it back and then releasing it. The unexpected explosion that followed made the boys fairly jump in alarm, while "Hatchet" turned white.
"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. "Shoot at a grasshopper, Hackett?"
"Hacky knows he can't hit anything more than three feet away," grinned Nat.
"I thought a gun's trigger was meant to be pulled by hand," said Dick, with a wink at Tom Clifton.
"Cut it out," growled John; "you fellows needn't think you're smart."
"Guns and hunting knives! Don't get in front of him," laughed Kirk.
"You're too fresh, Tadpole," warned Hackett. "Mind, now!"
His long arm swept around in a circle, but Dick, with a grin, jumped nimbly aside.
In the hope of striking big game, they pushed on, sometimes being compelled to fairly force their way through dense masses of underbrush or interlacing branches. The chattering red squirrels and rabbits which occasionally darted for cover were unmolested.
Wild flowers grew on grassy banks, bright bits of moss gleamed in the sunlight, while cool and grateful shadows afforded relief from Old Sol's rays.
"I only wish we could see a wildcat or a wolf," said John Hackett, boastfully. "My little friend, would you run?" he asked, turning to Tom Clifton.
"Not with a mighty hunter like you around," responded the lad, and even "Hatchet" joined in the laugh that followed.
On the crest of a hill, they saw a stretch of water in the valley below them, its mirror-like surface reflecting the mottled sky. It was a lake, apparently about a half mile long.
"We ought to be stirring up some game pretty soon now," observed Bob Somers; "but I suppose we shall have to satisfy ourselves with the next size smaller than a bear."
They partly plunged into the woods again, descending by slow degrees until they were near the water. To their chagrin, they found it surrounded by cliffs and huge boulders making progress so difficult that a long detour was necessary. After an hour's hard tramping, the party succeeded in rounding the nearest end of the sheet of water, where they were obliged to halt for rest and refreshment.
The way now became less difficult. There were numerous open spaces and many bits of marsh-land which promised game of some kind, but their explorations were not rewarded.
Disappointed, but not discouraged, the journey was continued, until the base of a high elevation was directly before them. The slope was beautifully wooded, and they lost no time in beginning what proved to be a very hard climb. Small game was plentiful, none, however, drawing forth a shot.
The boys were all thoroughly tired when they stood upon the summit of the ridge and gazed down upon another lake.
"Ducks!" cried John Hackett. "Just look at those spots on the water."
The eight young sportsmen feasted their eyes upon the alluring sight.
"Let us circle around and get on the leeward side," said Bob. "Don't make a sound."
"We ought to get a dozen," whispered Dick Travers, excitedly.
"A dozen," said John Hackett, "a dozen? Just wait until I draw a bead upon them; it's going to be a bad day in the duck family. Come on! What are we standing here for?"
It required fully half an hour before the young hunters reached the coveted position. Then, screened by a perfect bower of small trees which reached clear to the water's edge, they began manœuvering to get in range.
On the alert to acquit himself with glory, John Hackett could no longer resist the temptation to fire, especially as to his excited imagination the birds were about to rise in a body. Suddenly bringing the gun to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. A loud report sounded, instantly followed by a most deafening succession of shots that awakened echoes from far and wide. The members of the two clubs had observed Hackett's action just in time, and not intending to be deprived of their share in the sport, had instantly leveled their guns and fired.
A tremendous amount of white smoke began to slowly clear away, when it became apparent that the result of their shooting was both unexpected and extraordinary.
Two ducks were paddling leisurely toward the shore, as if they did not quite like what had happened, several others had turned upside down and were seen to be minus legs, while still another, with its head blown entirely off, bobbed serenely on the ripples.
"Hulloa, what's this?" cried Kirk. "Did we bag the whole lot?"
A furious barking sounded from a short distance to the right, heavy footsteps were heard crashing through the underbrush, then a pack of nondescript dogs, making the very air ring with their discordant snarls and howls, burst into view, quickly surrounding the astonished hunters.
An instant later, a surprisingly big man, followed by a tall lank youth, dashed at full speed toward them. Both were armed with guns, and their demeanor indicated extreme displeasure.
"There he is, pop," shouted the younger. "I saw that one shoot."
"I SAW THAT ONE SHOOT"
"I SAW THAT ONE SHOOT"
"I SAW THAT ONE SHOOT"
Before John Hackett could comprehend what was happening, an enormous hand gripped him by the collar.
"I'll learn you to be shooting my tame ducks and decoys," roared a deep voice, and the amazed "Hatchet" found himself in a position unfortunately like that of a rat caught by a terrier. The big hand moved rapidly back and forth, John going with it.
His furious struggles were of no avail.
"Don't stand around like a lot of noodles, fellows," screamed the unfortunate youth, at the top of his voice, during a lull in the proceeding; "wait till I get loose!"
A vigorous shove sent him sliding beside his gun, which lay in the tall grass.
The whole affair had taken place in a few brief moments. With a savage exclamation, accompanied by a threatening wave of his hand, the tall youth silenced the snarling and excited dogs.
"I'm a-going to have the whole gang of you took up," declared the big man, hoarsely. "I can stand being stole from, which more than one has tried to do, but I don't keer to have my property blowed into little bits fer nothin'."
"Ha, ha," laughed Nat Wingate; "I wish—"
"Now don't begin any sass, fer I'm that mad I could—"
He was, in turn, interrupted. "Have you got 'em, Stevy?" screamed a shrill voice, and a stout woman of not unprepossessing mien, panting and breathless, came hurrying up.
"Them's the scallywags," roared her husband.
"What, this crowd? Why they are nothing but boys, the poor dears."
"Maybe—but sich boys."
"He nearly dislocated that boy's shoulder," spoke up Nat Wingate, pointing to John as he edged slowly away.
"The idea—Steven Burr a-laying of violent hands on a boy—the idea, I say."
"Eh—what?" stammered the big man.
John Hackett, who was still lying on the grass for the purpose of effect, seized the opportunity to slowly and painfully arise.
"I may be a boy," he shouted, almost beside himself with anger, "but anybody who dares to touch me has got to fight. Come on, you great big overgrown farmer!"
Perfectly regardless of consequences in his passion, "Hatchet" danced around and around, swinging his fists with extraordinary rapidity.
"If it wasn't for your wife, you big coward, I'd fix you, and that in short order."
"We are sorry for what occurred," interposed Bob Somers, at this point, addressing Mr. Burr, "but you made a mistake in acting so hastily."
"Well, then, what d'ye mean by this piece of business?"
"Well, we took the birds for wild ducks, strange as it may appear," drawled Nat, who had witnessed his friend's discomfiture without much apparent evidence of pain. The speaker began to laugh. "Say," he exclaimed, "do you keep a duckery or a quackery?"
"Ha, ha, ha," roared the big man, slapping his knees, while his wife and son joined in. "Ha, ha, ha, wild ducks! 'Pon my word, wild ducks! Did you ever hear the beat of it?"
"The mistake was a natural one," said Bob, calmly. "We had no idea that anybody lived around here."
"But I never heard of decoy ducks being shot at."
"Probably not," volunteered Nat, glibly. "I tell you, Mr. Burr, the circumstances were unusual. Those two or three real quackers were so much like the wooden ones that you ought to have a 'don't shoot' sign put up."
"Think those decoys were pretty good, then?" inquired the slim youth.
"Bang up," said Nat, unable to repress a laugh at his own humor. "That's the reason we fired at them."
"I made 'em myself," continued the slim youth. "Pop says he never seen such good ones."
"Just so," added Mr. Burr, whose anger was greatly appeased. "They will certainly draw the birds."
"It seems, then, that we have paid them an unintentional compliment," said Bob.
"I'm willing to view the incident in that light," said Mr. Burr. "I hope the young gentleman who come so near to fixing me ain't got no ill will."
"Don't 'young gentleman' me," growled John. "If my shoulder doesn't turn black and blue, it will be a wonder."
"I always said you was rash, Steven Burr," said his wife; "and this proves it. Just think how lucky it was for me to come along and save you."
The humor of this was highly appreciated by all except John Hackett.
They found on acquaintance, however, that Steven Burr was not a bad sort of man. He insisted on the boys visiting his shack, as he termed it, and also gave them a great deal of useful information about the surrounding country. He and his son worked in a logging camp not far distant. The shack, which was made of logs and situated near the lake, proved to be a very interesting place, and even John Hackett forgot his ill humor before they took their departure.
The boys concluded to tramp along the shore of the lake, notwithstanding the fact that they encountered occasional bits of marsh-land and small brooks. They laughed and joked about their ludicrous mistake, resolving to profit by the experience.
The scenery was sufficiently varied to make their progress interesting. Dragon-flies in great numbers hovered over the water or darted about. Off in the distance, several cranes could be seen, while an ever-watchful hawk soared against the white patches of cloud overhead.
A flock of sandpipers flew in range, and circled around. Bang—bang—bang. The sharp reports of three guns broke the stillness, and several birds were seen to fall.
Nat Wingate brought his weapon to his shoulder and fired, although the flock was now speeding rapidly away.
A fearful report resounded, Nat staggering back with a howl of pain.
"It's broken my shoulder," he cried, dancing around wildly. "Wow—there must have been a ton of powder in that barrel."
"How did it happen?" inquired Bob, forced to smile, in spite of himself.
"I remember, now, it was loaded twice," said Nat, still rubbing his shoulder gingerly. "I put in a charge while we were roaring and grinning about the wooden ducks and then forgot about it. I guess I never did anything so mechanically in my life."
John Hackett, on this occasion, laughed with more vehemence than any of the others.
"That's a good one on Nat," he said. "It's a wonder the gun didn't explode."
"About as bad as shooting at grasshoppers," grinned Nat. "Christopher! What are those birds over there?"
"Sandpipers," said Dave.
"Some of 'em are goners," declared Hackett; "don't care what their name is."
"Wait until we get a little nearer," warned Bob. "Now!"
A succession of shots followed.
Four fat little sandpipers, or grass plover, were picked up, and as they are delicious eating, the addition to their larder was welcome.
About half an hour later, the boys discovered that a flock of wood-ducks had alighted in a copse near the lake.
The eyes of the Ramblers and Nimrods fairly sparkled, as they began to work their way carefully toward them. Some distance ahead, a stretch of high grass happily served to conceal their movements. They crept stealthily forward, foot by foot, fearful each moment that the flock would take alarm.
A short interval of suspense, and Bob cautiously raised his head above the waving fringe of grass.
"Ready!" he whispered. "Fire!"
Almost simultaneously eight reports echoed and reëchoed from the near-by hills.
The ducks instantly arose, flying swiftly in every direction.
John Hackett rushed forward, followed by the others, and they saw five birds outstretched upon the ground.
"Five of them!" cried Nat Wingate, exultingly. "This is what I call real sport."
"I knew I could do it," remarked John Hackett, with a self-satisfied smile. "I'll bet it was my shot that plunked the head off one of those miserable chunks of wood."
The silence was unbroken for several moments.
"It's too bad we didn't bring anything along to cook with," observed Tom Clifton, at length. "A bit of duck would go well with our lunch."
For an answer, Bob Somers drew out his hunting-knife and severed the head from one of the largest birds, then proceeded to dress it with a proficiency which showed that the operation was not a new one to him.
"I guess we can manage somehow, Tom," he said, with a smile. "But, of course, it means a couple of hours' stay."
The others crowded around him.
"How are you going to do it?" queried Sam Randall, curiously.
"You shall see, presently."
Bob went to the water's edge, scraped together a pile of soft clay and began to cover the duck evenly with it. "You fellows hustle for some dry wood," he said.
"Let's go back to the woods," proposed Dick.
His suggestion was immediately acted upon. Dividing their spoils, they marched briskly, eagerly anticipating the coming feast.
When they arrived at a small open space in the midst of a dense pine forest, Bob Somers proceeded to dig a good-sized hole. The clay-covered duck was deposited therein, close to the surface, the rest of the boys having in the meantime started a huge fire.
Bob filled most of the hole with earth, leaving just enough space for the duck to be surrounded with hot ashes. This took considerably longer than they anticipated, but the task was at length completed, after which the fire was raked over it.
"No one can tell us much, when it comes to camping out," said "Hatchet" sententiously; "before long, we'll be able to give old Agnew a few good points."
While the meal was in course of preparation, the boys wandered around on little exploring expeditions, one of them being fortunate enough to discover a fresh, bubbling spring.
Considerably more than two hours passed before Bob judged that the duck was cooked. It was found that the clay had become hard baked. Bob carefully broke it away and with it came the feathers.
Sitting around in a circle, the boys heartily enjoyed their meal and told stories, while Bob and Nat amused their hearers by several recitations.
"Let's take a short tramp through the woods," proposed the latter, when they decided that it was time to break camp.
As no objections were offered, the young hunters at once set off.
"Who has the hatchet?" asked Bob.
"I have," replied Tom Clifton.
"Then we'll blaze a trail. It's mighty easy to get mixed up in a big wood like this."
"Somers, the woodsman—Bill Agnew's star pupil," laughed Nat.
"Nothing like being on the safe side," said Bob. "Here goes number one."
"Crack! Smack! Hits it like a little man," grinned John Hackett. "Just look at the chips a-flying."
"We're the brigands of the woods," sang Nat.
"And live in a cave by the running brook."
Bob continued to cut the notches at intervals, then handed the hatchet to Nat. The latter certainly made noise enough in the execution of his task. Nearly always, he lagged back and came running after the other boys, with a broad grin on his face.
The afternoon passed quickly, and the sun was well over toward the west when Bob Somers, not wishing to alarm the poet laureate by a too prolonged absence, said:
"We had better go back, fellows."
"Not yet," protested Nat; "we have plenty of time."
"It's more than half-past four, and we have miles and miles to go—just think of the distance."
"Well, perhaps you may be right, Somers."
"Where is that last tree you spoiled, Nat?" asked Kirk, after they had started to retrace their steps.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Nat. "Oh, you lot of greenies. Do you suppose I kept up that foolish trick? I just banged away a bit. Now, if anybody can find a mark, he'll deserve a prize."
The Nimrods laughed loudly.
"My eye! That's a good one!" roared Hackett.
"I'll bet we don't get back to camp to-night, then," exclaimed Tom Clifton.
Bob smiled good-naturedly.
"Brigands know the woods too well for that, Tommy," he said.
"Every part of it looks alike to me," admitted Dick; "I'm fiercely mixed."
"Always seem to be," grinned Hackett.
Bob Somers, fortunately, had taken sufficient note of their route to enable him to say, with some confidence: "I think the right direction is about due west."
"What?" sniffed Nat. "The camp is off that way."
He waved his hand in a southerly direction.
Almost every one had a different idea, but the Ramblers agreed that Bob was apt to be right.
"Well, you'll see," said the Nimrod chief, with a grin. "We'll just have to pass the night away from camp."
An hour's walk did not solve the problem. The woods still extended on all sides, grim and sombre, relieved only by the slanting rays of the sun.
Now and then, they passed places which all agreed they had not seen before.
"I told you!" exclaimed Nat, at length. "Now we are lost completely."
"Yes, we are lost completely, little ones," echoed John Hackett, with a grin.
"Bears, wildcats and wolves—how like the babes in the woods," laughed Kirk Talbot.
Another hour passed. Several ridges were traversed, when Bob proposed climbing a tree.
"I'll do it," exclaimed Nat, promptly.
But Bob, springing up, had already grasped a low-hanging limb. Climbing from one branch to another, he at length reached a position of vantage, which enabled him to see, far off, the glistening water of a lake. He realized instantly that it was the one they had come across early in the day.
"Whew!" he muttered. "We must have walked a good deal further than I thought. All right!" he called, cheerily, in answer to a hail from below. "We are on the right track."
A few moments later, he rejoined his companions. Dusk finally settled over the scene. Then progress became more slow. Fireflies flitted about, from a pond came the hoarse croaking of frogs, while all around, the insects kept up a continual noise.
"Poor old Dave will certainly be worried," observed Bob.
"Well, his legs aren't almost walked off," grumbled Kirk Talbot.
"It's so dark a fellow can't see," chimed in Ted Pollock. "Wish the old moon would hurry up."
"Let's take a rest, and wait for the lazy thing to appear," suggested Nat. "Those vines have scratched me all up."
Accordingly the thoroughly tired boys came to a halt and sat down on a little mossy bank.
"That 'Oh ho' boy would be shaking in his shoes by this time, if he wasn't so lazy," declared Nat, with a laugh. "He'll have a grand chance to scribble a poem on the Terror of Darkness."
It seemed a very long time before the sky began to brighten with the rising moon. By its light they were again enabled to make good progress.
After skirting around the shore of the lake, they came across familiar landmarks and marched ahead in high spirits, notwithstanding their tired condition.
This part of the journey seemed much longer than they anticipated, but, at length, a glad shout came from Sam Randall. "We are all right, now, boys!" he exclaimed, gleefully. "There's the river."
Leading the way, Bob plunged through the last strip of woods. "Hello—hello, Dave!" he called, with all the force of his lungs.
"Hello!" echoed his companions, lustily.
No sound came from the direction of the camp.
"I'll wager he's asleep again," declared Dick Travers.
Again the boys gave a vigorous shout. But when the last throbbing echoes died away, dreary silence still reigned in the solitude.
"That's very strange," exclaimed Bob Somers, with a touch of alarm in his voice.
He broke into a run, the others following close at his heels. The outlines of the lean-to flashed into view, but the lone member of the Rambler Club was nowhere to be seen.
"What can it mean?" asked Bob Somers, in surprise.
Then a most astounding discovery was made. The boys raced at full speed to the river, where panting and almost breathless, they paused, to gaze excitedly up and down its banks. Both motor boats had disappeared.
A small object, revealed by the light of the moon, lay on the muddy bank. Bob Somers stooped, and picked up Dave Brandon's well-worn copy of Bryant's poems.
Torn with doubt and perplexity, they looked from one to another. At this moment, the sound of a shot, far off in the distance, was borne faintly to their ears.
"What was that?" cried John Hackett, excitedly. "Listen!"
They all stood in silence, straining their ears. Then, after an interval, another report came over the water.
Dave Brandon was not averse to being left alone. Nature, in its wildness and solitude, appealed to him forcibly, and he loved to contemplate it in silence and with naught to distract his attention.
When his friends disappeared in the woods, he lazily stretched himself on a grassy knoll, drew out his volume of Bryant, a note-book and pencil.
"Oh ho," he murmured, "what a glorious day it will be. Nothing but poetry, a composition on nature, and—yes,—first of all, a little nap on this delightful ridge."
The blue sky was flecked with whitish clouds, a slight breeze rustled the grass and leaves, while the river simmered in the early morning light.
It wasn't very long before the stout poet laureate, with his hat shielding his eyes, yielded to the pleasant feeling of sleepiness, dozing away, in that soft and delicious slumber which a care-free conscience and comfortable position are potent factors in bringing about.
An hour passed, then two, no doubt. The lad, in his world of bright-hued visions, dreamed of many things, but certainly not of that which was destined to happen before he saw his friends again.
The third hour had not yet ended, when two men appeared on the river bank making toward the motor boats with a stealth and precaution which showed conclusively that some object other than curiosity guided their actions.
The lean-to and sleeper close by did not escape their attention; in fact, the lad was no sooner perceived than they hastily withdrew into the friendly shelter of a line of bushes, from which point of observation they peered, as if undecided in their course of action.
But they did not attempt to come out in the open again, for Dave moved, stretched, then sat bolt upright.
"A fine nap," he murmured, half aloud; "a fine nap. It must be almost time for lunch."
He arose, gazed in the direction of the two boats, and began to saunter slowly toward them.
As he climbed on board the "Rambler," two pairs of eyes watched his movements with the keenest attention, their owners screening themselves carefully behind the bushes.
Dave got out the oil-stove, together with bacon, cheese, crackers, and carried them all ashore, but remained near the boats.
During his preparations for lunch, the two men, with the utmost caution, stole away.
After his repast, Dave cleaned up, replaced the articles he had used, and seated himself on the locker, to begin his composition.
When six o'clock arrived, Dave began to wonder about his friends.
"What can be keeping them so late?" he mused. "I thought they would be back long before this."
Another hour passed, the anxious watcher listening in vain for any signs which indicated their approach. The golden tinged clouds changed to purple. Then sombre gray stole on, darkening by degrees until night enveloped the scene.
"They must be lost," thought Dave, disconsolately; "it will be hard finding their way back through the woods, even by moonlight."
He paced up and down uneasily. When the moon appeared in view, it was impossible for him to stand the suspense any longer.
"I'll climb a tree and shout," he concluded. "Perhaps that may help them to find the camp. If not, I'll build a fire."
In spite of his stoutness and indolent ways, the poet laureate could be active and agile when the occasion demanded. Selecting a suitable tree near the edge of the woods, he shinnied up its trunk until the lowermost branch was reached. Then, amidst the thick foliage, he worked his way slowly aloft until a good position was secured.
Had Dave not been so worried, it is probable that the view alone would have repaid him for his labor. The long line of the river was broken at intervals by trees; ridges, hills and dense woods, in light and shadow, extended off in all directions, blending imperceptibly with the sky.
"Not a sign of a camp-fire," muttered the lad. "Goodness, gracious, what in the world is that? Why how—"
This disjointed exclamation was caused by a sound, which, without warning, broke the silence.
Clear and distinct, the rapid pulsation of a motor engine, working at full speed, came to his ears.
Dave Brandon had never been more astonished in his life. Peering through the branches, he looked eagerly in the direction of the river.
Almost immediately, between a break in the trees, the indistinct form of a boat could be seen gliding rapidly by.
"The 'Rambler,'" gasped Dave; "I'm sure it is the 'Rambler.' That sound could not be anything else. What does it mean?"
The lad forgot, for an instant, his belated friends, everything, in the excitement of the moment. With a haste that almost threatened disastrous consequences, he began to descend. Branches smote him in the face, leaves flapped in his eyes, but he paid no heed. His actions now would have been sufficient refutation of the charge of laziness.
In an astonishingly short time, he reached the ground, seized his gun and started on a run for the water.
"The 'Rambler' is gone," he cried, in his excitement speaking aloud.
A hundred conflicting thoughts flashed through his brain. Was it all a joke?
But he dismissed that idea in an instant. Bob Somers was not that kind of a boy.
Unable to decide what to do, Dave Brandon paced excitedly up and down. The volume of poems, already half out of his pocket, fell unnoticed to the ground.
"It's all my fault," he cried, self-accusingly. "But then, if the fellows had only come back in time. Who would have thought of this?—I know what I'll do!"
Dave Brandon, dismissing any thought of danger, suddenly rushed toward the "Nimrod."
"She's faster than the 'Rambler.' If I can catch them—" he breathed.
In his haste and excitement, the work of casting off the ropes took double time. When it was accomplished, he shouted long and earnestly in the hope his friends might hear him, but to no avail.
Dave Brandon, in spite of his seeming indifference, had watched Bob Somers manipulate the engine, and had grasped the principles involved without difficulty. The "Nimrod's" engine was almost like their own, consequently he did not hesitate.
As the boat slowly swung out into the stream, not a sound of the "Rambler" could be heard.
The possible perils of the trip did not daunt him, although he felt that any person with sufficient hardihood to steal a motor boat, if such was the case, must be a desperate character, ready to defend himself at all hazards.
Without having any very clear idea as to what his course would be, Dave, when the "Nimrod" was headed up-stream, turned on full power. The night air fanned his cheeks, as the motor boat fairly tore through the water, dashing the glistening spray on all sides.
In the grip of a strange exhilaration, he guided the flying craft in midstream, peering anxiously ahead for any signs of the "Rambler." The moon was high in the heavens now, occasionally obscured by flying clouds; the trees on one shore stood out black and lugubrious, on the other were bathed in that pale illumination which threw a veil of mystery over all. Here and there, a dead tree, gaunt and grim, showed its network of interlacing branches against the sky, while queer-shaped shadows and patches of light sprang into view as the "Nimrod" rushed on.
A flock of black objects flew swiftly by, then, screaming its way along, a night-hawk swooped diagonally across the heavens.
But Dave Brandon was too intent on the strange chase to experience those creepy feelings which are associated with the night. It seemed, to his intently listening ears, that a faint sound came from far ahead. The cool, refreshing breeze had helped to calm him, and, for the first time, he began to wonder if he had acted with wisdom.
"But it's too late now," he muttered. "I'll overhaul them, if it takes all night. What will the boys think? Ah, then I heard the sound of the motor distinctly."
Strive as he would, his eyes could not penetrate the gloom ahead, the moon, just at this time, being back of a heavy black cloud, but it soon became evident that the speedy "Nimrod" was fast gaining on the fleeing boat. Dave pushed the motor to its utmost, being rewarded at last by the positive certainty that the boat ahead was, indeed, the "Rambler." The moonlight suddenly burst forth, revealing its graceful lines distinctly.
Brandon had no idea of making any unnecessary trouble for himself. A moment more, and he hailed the occupants of the "Rambler" in a firm, but not threatening manner.
He heard the sound of a rough voice, but there was no direct answer to his query.
The difficulty and possible danger of the situation now dawned upon him with full force. Superior strength must be met by strategy and courage. His nerves tingled with excitement, but he kept resolutely on his course, determined to make a desperate effort to recover their property.
"Hold on, there! What are you doing with that boat?" he shouted, putting into the words all the force at his command.
Still, there was no reply. The "Nimrod," fairly rushing along, was now within seventy-five feet of the "Rambler," and he could clearly distinguish the figures of two men upon it.
Fearing that they might resort to firearms, he reduced speed, at the same time shielding himself as much as possible.
"Turn that boat in shore!" he cried, fearlessly. "You might as well give up."
"If you don't want to stop a whole lot of buckshot, you'll clear out," returned an angry voice.
"Yes, and do it mighty quick," added the other. "We won't stand no fooling."
"Unless you want to spend the next year in jail, stop!" commanded Dave, surprised at his own boldness.
"How do we know this boat is yours? If you'll come on shore and prove property, we'll let you have it."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," exclaimed Dave, angrily. "That trick is a little too transparent. For the last time, will you turn in shore?"
"What will you do if we say no, you sassy young whelp?"
"I'm going to get that boat if we have to fight it out with shotguns."
"That's a pretty dangerous game for a boy."
Dave Brandon crouched down low.
"One—two," he cried, slowly; "are you going to stop?"
"No!"
The young hunter instantly raised his gun and fired over their heads.
One of the men gave a low laugh.
"Do that again, and we'll blow your old skiff out of the water," howled his companion, angrily.
"I don't think you will," retorted Dave, sturdily.
"It wouldn't be safe for you to try it, boy. We mean business, and somebody is going to get hurt if you don't keep out of the way."
"I'll chase you till daylight, if I don't do anything more," said Dave. "I have the faster boat, and you can't get away from me."
The pursuit continued for a few minutes in silence, until the young hunter realized that his words were not going to have any effect.
"I'll give you one more chance," he called, finally. "Will you take it?"
No response came from the "Rambler." Dave's face wore a look of sternness and determination. Again the gun rose to his shoulder. He had no intention of hitting the men, but they needed a lesson. Dave took careful aim and fired. The charge struck the water not far from the side of the "Rambler," causing a shower of spray to dance in the moonlight.
"Hold on, hold on!" shouted one of the men. "Don't fire again. We'll go ashore."
From the sound of his voice, the speaker was evidently not a little frightened.
Dave Brandon laid aside his gun. Such a sudden backdown came as a total surprise to him, and he rightly guessed that the two men were without weapons. Presently, he had the satisfaction of seeing the "Rambler's" nose turned toward the bank. The "Nimrod" followed.
The two men ran their boat diagonally across the river, shut off the power and allowed it to come to a stop where the limb of a great tree jutted out. By the aid of this, they quickly managed to reach the shore and disappear amidst the foliage.
The poet laureate, left alone, experienced a feeling of great triumph.
"Oh ho," he murmured; "Dave Brandon, you're a real little hero, aren't you?"
The Ramblers, as well as their companions, were thoroughly dismayed at the startling turn in affairs.
"Some one must have stolen the boats," declared Sam Randall; "but what has become of Dave?"
"Perhaps the thieves kidnapped him," suggested Tom Clifton, brilliantly.
"Why should they do such a thing as that?" returned Kirk Talbot. "I don't believe it. What do you think, Nat?"
"I never was so completely mystified in my life," returned the leader of the Nimrods, who accepted the situation with a coolness that greatly surprised his followers. "It looks as though our grand expedition has come to an end."
"What is going to be done?" asked John Hackett.
"We had better start out for Kingswood in the morning," said Nat, in tones of decided conviction.
"And make no effort to recover the boats?" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.
Nat shrugged his shoulders. "We are out in the wilderness. I don't see any police around, do you?"
"And what about Dave Brandon?"
"We couldn't do him any good by staying here. Ten to one he has simply rushed off to tell the authorities at Kingswood."
But Nat Wingate's ideas did not meet with approval. The thoroughly disgusted and anxious boys walked up and down, excitedly discussing the matter, advancing many possible solutions of the mystery, and entirely forgetful of their fatigue and hunger.
The unaccountable disappearance of Dave Brandon alarmed them not a little. Some of the boys now proceeded to skirmish around in the immediate vicinity, swinging their lanterns in many a dark nook and corner, others shouted at the top of their voices, but, of course, all these efforts were without avail.
"Boys," said Bob Somers, at length, "I feel sure that Dave Brandon knows how to take care of himself. If he doesn't bring us any news of the boat, I'll find it, if the job takes a year. You seem to take your loss very coolly, Nat."
"What would you expect me to do? Stand on my head, or tear my hair?" returned Wingate. "If I never have to bear anything worse than a robbery I guess you'll find me smiling. I'm going to get the 'Nimrod,' and in a hurry, too, you can bet on that. I believe that whoever took the boat went off in the direction of Kingswood. There is a town at the head of the lake, where the police might get 'em."
"We can't do anything to-night, that's certain, fellows," said Dick Travers, disconsolately. "But boats or no boats, unless I get something to eat soon—"
"Yes, I'm almost starved," interrupted Ted Pollock. "I move that we build a fire and start a meal."
The wisdom of this was apparent to all. In spite of their anxiety, the whole party managed to eat with a hearty appetite.
It was unanimously decided to keep up the fire, which had been built near the water's edge, so that in case Dave Brandon might be lost in the woods, its flaring light would point the way back to camp.
"I'll bet the 'Oh ho' boy ran for his life," declared Nat, with a laugh.
"Dave is no coward," protested Sam Randall, warmly. "Besides if he had stayed around here, we would have seen him before this."
Night wore on and the boys became more and more anxious. No one felt like sleeping, so wood was piled on the fire, until leaping, fantastic tongues of flame threw weird shadows about, while showers of embers sparkled against the background of trees and sky.
Gradually conversation ceased. They seated themselves, one by one, in moody silence, yawning and blinking, sleepy, yet unable to sleep.
Another hour passed, when a faint sound made Bob Somers listen with the keenest attention. Jumping to his feet, he placed his hand to his ear.
"Listen!"
Instantly the lads were all attention.
"What is it?" they cried, in unison.
"My eye! I think I hear a motor boat," exclaimed John Hackett, after several moments had passed.
"Bears, wildcats and wolves! I believe that's just what it is," chimed in Kirk Talbot, excitedly.
Nat Wingate seemed strangely agitated, as the sound gradually increased in volume. He walked nervously up and down, with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
"If it is only the 'Rambler,'" cried Bob Somers, hopefully. He brought out his field-glass, sweeping the surface of the river.
"Do you see anything?" inquired Nat, eagerly.
"No! not a thing, yet."
Great masses of vapor, through which the moon shone faintly, were slowly passing across the sky, but Bob kept his glass leveled toward the horizon.
"I'll bet it's not either the 'Nimrod' or 'Rambler,'" observed Nat, a moment later.
"Oh, don't have such dreadful thoughts. You make me nervous," expostulated young Talbot.
"It seems an awful long time since we first heard the sound," complained Ted Pollock. "If it's the 'Ram—'"
"I see the boat, boys," broke in Bob, energetically.
Dick Travers seized the glass, which Somers extended toward him, quickly raised it to his eyes and took a long, earnest look.
"Both boats," he announced, joyfully. "One is towing the other."
Greatly excited, the Ramblers and Nimrods crowded to the very edge of the water, where they awaited, with much impatience, the approach of the two craft.
"Ahoy, ahoy!" shouted a familiar voice, through a megaphone. "Ahoy, pirates and brigands, is that you?"
"Dave Brandon," cried Bob Somers, joyously. "Hurrah! Three cheers for Chubby!"
Their lusty shouts were borne toward the distant boatman.
How slowly the two craft seemed to swing in! It actually was but a short time, however, before the boys began a steady fire of questions.
"Hold on! Wait until I get these canal-boats safely in shore, and I'll tell you all about it," cried the poet laureate, hugely enjoying the sensation caused by his reappearance.
With another chorus of shouts, his friends surrounded him, as he leaped ashore.
"Give me a chance," pleaded the lad. "I can't answer fifty questions at once."
When quiet was restored, Dave told what had happened, interrupted by many exclamations from the deeply interested boys.
The poet laureate found himself raised to the rank of a hero, the praises showered upon him causing a blush to suffuse his features.
"Bully for you, Chubby!" said Bob Somers, grasping his hand, warmly. "Our trip would have come to a fine finish. Three more cheers for Dave Brandon," he called, with a will, and every one joined in.
"If it hadn't been for the 'Nimrod,' you would have lost your boat, anyway," declared Nat, who, through the entire proceeding, had acted in a restrained manner.
"It's a good thing that the 'Rambler' is a slow tub, fellows," put in John Hackett. "If the thieves had had brains enough to take the 'Nimrod,' it would have meant—"
"That we started away from here this very day," finished Nat, glibly; "but having been so lucky, we must stay a while to celebrate, that's no joke."
Excitement having come to an end, fatigue and sleep were fast getting the better of all.
"I'll sleep on board the 'Rambler,'" declared Bob. "It won't do to take any more chances, eh, Chubby?"
Dave nodded his head.
It was quite late in the morning before the camp was astir. In spite of the protests of Nat and his fellow Nimrods, Bob Somers decided to continue their journey.
"By this afternoon, we ought to reach Lake Minnewago," he said. "After going its whole length, we still have a trip through Wolf River, then a whopping long journey on Clair Bay."
"Well," said Nat, "if you fellows are going on so are we."
No time was lost in getting off, the boys contenting themselves with a light breakfast.
Toward eleven o'clock, a few houses were seen here and there, along the river. Others, appearing at intervals, showed that they were approaching the town at the head of the lake. Boats were numerous, and signs of life rapidly began to multiply on all sides.
"What do you say to taking lunch in town, boys?" suggested Bob. "You know we have to get a supply of gasoline and some more grub."
"Fine idea," agreed Tom Clifton. "Then we can send a few postal cards home, telling the folks that the Rambler Club hasn't furnished food for bears or wildcats."
Half an hour later, a church spire was seen rising high above the surrounding houses, while straight ahead a long iron bridge crossed the river.
The arrival of a strange boat naturally attracted a great deal of attention from the idlers lounging around the wharves, and numerous questions were hurled at them.
A party of small boys in a clumsy rowboat obligingly pointed out the best place for them to land. It was an old, tumble-down wharf, with an incline leading down to the water.
Bob swung the "Rambler" in at moderate speed, making a landing in excellent style. Then the boys drew lots to decide who should be the first to go on shore. Perhaps there was no actual necessity for this, but their recent experience had made them careful.
Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton presently sprang upon the landing and made their way up to a narrow street fronting the river. It was lined with small warehouses, stores, and a few manufacturing establishments. The clash and rattle of machinery assailed their ears as they walked along, smoke from numerous chimneys obscured the air, while now and then the odor of tar and hemp was perceptible.
River boats, barges and sailing craft were drawn up at the wharves, and the street was crowded with drays and trucks.
A short walk brought them to the iron bridge, which crossed overhead. They saw that it was used by a railroad; in fact, a train approached just at this time and they could tell by the sound that it soon stopped at a station.
The boys found a store where provisions and gasoline were sold. Accordingly Bob made a bargain to have a supply of both delivered to the "Rambler."
They had now reached a wide street running directly back from the river, and turning into this, a very few minutes sufficed to bring them to the principal business section of the town. It was a larger and much more important place than Kingswood, possessing an opera house, several large hotels and many handsome stores. The streets were crowded with vehicles and pedestrians, making them lively and interesting.
The three boys entered a restaurant, ate a substantial meal, and then continued their tour of inspection. A building with an arched entrance, painted in white and gold, attracted their attention. It was a moving picture show, and, having plenty of time, they concluded to go in.
The mishaps of a bicycle rider, the moving throngs at a seaside resort, and several other scenes from actual life were interestingly displayed, all of which the boys heartily enjoyed.
By a roundabout course, the three proceeded from street to street until they again found themselves approaching the waterfront, after which, they immediately returned to the wharf where the "Rambler" was tied.
Sam Randall and Dick Travers were anxiously awaiting their arrival. Both had made good use of the time, cleaning their guns and arranging various odds and ends in suitable places. The pair immediately went on shore.
During their absence, the groceries and gasoline arrived, and when the latter had been safely placed in the tank, Bob and his companions devoted their attention to sending off cards and letters.
As soon as Dick and Tom returned, the trip was resumed. They had scarcely passed under the railroad bridge when the "Nimrod" came dashing furiously along, Nat and his megaphone helping to attract attention to it.
"Those 'Ramrods' don't seem able to stick by themselves, do they?" remarked Bob, dryly.
"I should say not," grinned Sam. "But I bet they won't try any more funny tricks on us."
Bob did not hurry the "Rambler," mainly on account of numerous boats which were passing and repassing, but the Trailers swerved first one way and then the other, tore at full speed around any craft that happened to be in the way, and never even deigned to answer the remarks which came from all quarters.
"Hello, there in the tub!" cried Nat, as the "Nimrod" drew up alongside of them and reduced speed.
"Hello, boys," replied Bob, good-naturedly.
"I say," remarked John Hackett, loudly, "we have everybody on the river scared. Even the old canal-boats are hugging the shore."
A burst of merriment came from the Nimrods at this sally.
When it had subsided, Dick Travers inquired: "We heard a while ago that you nearly ran into a sailboat—what was the matter—wouldn't it get out of the way?"
Nat Wingate began to laugh.
"It was this way," he explained; "we just ran up a little bit close to tell him he had no business to sail a boat, when he burst out into a perfect roar, and called us a parcel of young rascals. We never knew what was the matter with him."
Nat was disposed to be in a hilarious mood. No sooner had he uttered the foregoing remark than he put the megaphone to his lips and began making long, continuous blasts like a whistle.
John Hackett waved his arms wildly and a rowboat ahead was seen to suddenly veer around and head for the shore.
"Did you ever see such crazy antics in your life?" remarked Ted Pollock, with a loud laugh. "We're getting a clear track to-day, that's sure."
"Full speed, Kirk," cried Nat, at this juncture.
The "Nimrod," with its noisy crew, almost instantly began to draw away from them, the proceeding being accompanied by a wave of the hand from Nat.
The line of wharves had already given place to a few straggling houses at the outskirts of the town. These were soon passed, when the Ramblers saw a wide sheet of water opening out before them.
Its broad, placid surface presented a beautiful picture. The sultry sky was tinged with a warm hue at the horizon, while to the right and left the bordering hills, rapidly separating, melted away into the afternoon haze. High up in the heavens hung great piles of cumulus clouds of dazzling whiteness.
The entire scene, notwithstanding its beauty, wore a threatening aspect, which Bob Somers quickly noticed.
"There is going to be a big storm on Lake Minnewago, boys," he said; "might be a good plan to hug the shore, eh, Dave?"
"Much safer," approved Dave Brandon, with a critical look at the sky.
Bob glanced at a map which was spread out upon a locker, and announced that they would have plenty of time to reach a small harbor which lay off to the northeast. The gently heaving water gave the boat a delightful motion, which proved so fascinating to the boys that they were just a little tardy in following their own advice. They saw the "Nimrod" headed directly toward the centre of the lake, and, for the time being, adopted a course about midway between that and the shore.
Within half an hour they began to realize that they were on a pretty wide sheet of water. The mouth of the river was no longer to be seen, and a vague impression of being half out of the world began to steal over them.
"The lightning has begun already, fellows," volunteered Tom Clifton, at length.
A copper-colored gleam, low down in the sky, flashed for an instant, followed quickly by another, but no sound of thunder reached their ears.
"Pretty far off yet," observed Dick. "But it is coming this way fast."
"I wonder what those foolish Trailers are going to do?" put in Tom Clifton. "They are running a pretty big risk to stay away out there."
A glance through the field-glass showed that the other boat was still headed away from the shore.
"We can't go off and leave them," said Bob Somers, soberly. "Their boat is not as safe as ours, and they seem bound to get into trouble."
In the hope of attracting the Nimrods' attention, Bob and the rest of the boys brought out their guns and fired several shots.
The reports must have been heard, but there was no visible result.
A cool, steady current of air was now blowing in their faces, and the appearance of the scene began to rapidly change. The advance-guard of big white clouds passed slowly across the sun, shutting off its cheerful rays completely. The flashes in the distance became more frequent, while a low rumble of thunder borne on the breeze reached their ears.
"The storm will soon be in full blast," exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Those clouds are a great sight. Whew, what a flash that was!"
A streak of dazzling brilliancy divided the heavens, followed in a few moments by a heavy peal of thunder.
"Do you think we had better try to make the shore?" ventured Tom Clifton, nervously.
"Hardly be safe now, Tommy," returned Bob. "If we could only get those miserable Trailers to follow us, there might still be time, though, to get to a safer place than this."
Off to the right, at no great distance, a point of land could clearly be seen, and just beyond that, according to the map, was a small enclosed bay. Had the boys chosen to think only of themselves, they would have been, even then, within reach of it.
But they were not that kind. Through the field-glass, the Nimrods were seen calmly drawing down awnings, and preparing to weather the approaching gale. They were headed almost broadside to the wind.
"What can they be thinking of?" cried Bob, in alarm. "When a storm sweeps over ten or fifteen miles of water, it isn't safe to take any chances with it."
The prow of the "Rambler" was turned toward them, the boys having decided that they must make an effort to give them assistance, if necessary.
By this time, the vast, rising body of cloud had assumed a strangely black and ominous appearance. Streaks of electric fire darted across the changing, billow-like forms, or shot downward to the earth, while rain blotted out the middle distance, apparently sweeping onward with the greatest fury.
Gusts of wind forced the boys to hold tightly to their caps. In a short time, the surface of the lake had completely changed. Spiteful little waves with foaming crests began to hurl themselves against the side of the motor boat.
"Now for the oilskins," shouted Bob, lustily, and the Ramblers, who had been eagerly watching the storm, hastily donned these garments.
"Here comes the rain!" cried Sam.
A few heavy drops sprinkled around them, then came a lull, which, however, lasted but a few seconds. Straight ahead, a line, rapidly advancing, stretched across the lake, a series of furious gusts heralding its approach.
"Hold on tight, boys," shouted Bob, as he headed the boat squarely into the wind.
With a roar, the storm struck the little craft. She staggered and shook under its blast, then plunged her prow into the choppy water, while clouds of spray dashed over the boys.
A blinding flash of lightning seemed to start directly overhead, accompanied almost instantly by a crash that fairly dazed them. Crouching under the awning, the Ramblers screened themselves as best they could. The rain, however, beat in torrents under it, splashing in their faces, while the "Rambler," like a toy, bobbed up and down.
It was an anxious time to the little crew. Each passing minute found the waves growing higher and higher, until they broke over the bow with a force that made the little boat tremble.
The "Nimrod" could not be seen amidst such a flood of rain, but Bob courageously held the "Rambler" upon a steady course, and as the boat had successfully withstood the storm's first onset, he rapidly began to gain confidence.
"Help, help!"
A series of cries but faintly heard above the roar of the tempest suddenly reached their ears.
Bob's heart beat wildly. He knew only too well what it meant.
"Help, help!"
Then came the report of a gun.
"There they are!" yelled an excited voice at Bob's elbow.
It was Sam Randall, who had pushed his way forward.
Off to the right and seen but dimly through the driving rain, a barely perceptible shadow was visible on the foaming surface.
"Trim boat, boys," Bob called. "Get over to windward, all of you! I'm going to swing her around."
The boys clustered on the weather rail, but exposed to the full force of the howling blast, the "Rambler" nevertheless keeled far over, every wave and blast of wind threatening to send her occupants into the angry waters of the lake.