"So it does," affirmed Tom Clifton, in surprise. "I don't believe I ever saw him down here before."
"Nat has evidently told him about the 'Rambler,' and he wants to find out if it is really true," suggested Dave. "Strange that he should have so much curiosity."
"Your boat is already becoming quite famous," observed Professor Hopkins. "Doubtless Mr. Wingate and his nephew would appreciate a little trip on board of her as much as I have."
"Very likely," answered Bob, with some hesitation; "and I think, if it is Mr. Wingate, that he has been favoring us with an inspection through a field-glass."
The object of their attention did not linger on the wharf. Before they could make sure of his identity, he began to walk rapidly away, and was almost immediately lost to view in the woods.
The thought of stepping ashore upon a wharf that was much too high for convenience caused Professor Hopkins quite a good deal of apprehension, and the excellent teacher did not breathe freely until he stood once more on solid ground.
"It's certain that you fellers ain't no sailors," exclaimed a hoarse voice close by, and Zeke Tipson came lazily forward.
"Sir! Did you address me?" asked the startled professor, glancing in surprise at the uncouth figure before him.
"That's just what I done; and I says again, if your ears ain't good, and things has to be said twice, which is sometimes the case,—that you ain't no sailor."
"Why, sir, I may say—er—that your observation seems to me uncalled for," said Professor Hopkins.
"When I sees a thing, and knows a thing, I says it right out in meeting. This here country guarantees the right of free speech, and I'm inclined to like it. I don't know who you be, but I says, for a third time, you ain't no sailor."
"Who is this—this gentleman?" inquired the professor.
"A man what's just as good as the next one, even if he can't wear no fancy trimmin's. Do you know what I says to the pop, or uncle, of that there little spindle legs that went in bathing yesterday? I says—"
But Professor Hopkins, with his head held erect, passed on, the boys trooping at his heels, leaving the "Major" to gaze after them in a state of profound indignation.
"It was Mr. Wingate, as we thought," whispered Sam to Dave Brandon. "Perhaps he came over to complain about that little incident which proved so disastrous to Nat."
This seemed to be the general opinion among the boys, but Bob Somers, whose curiosity had been thoroughly aroused, felt an irresistible temptation to remain in the vicinity, and, after excusing himself, left the party.
He cautiously made his way back through the woods to a thick clump of bushes by the edge of the clearing, where, completely hidden from view, he was enabled to keep an eye on the "Rambler" and its surroundings.
Five minutes elapsed, when a tall figure came into sight and walked with an elastic step to the wharf.
"Good gracious, I'm glad I returned—there is Mr. Wingate now," muttered Bob, in some excitement. "He just waited long enough for us to get safely out of the way. What in the world is he doing?"
The slim form of Nat's uncle could presently be seen, with note-book in hand, leaning over and apparently examining the motor boat in a most earnest manner.
For a moment, a wild suspicion entered Bob's head that some trickery was being planned, but he instantly dismissed it as unworthy of consideration. Whatever Mr. Wingate might be in his business actions, it could scarcely be possible that he would be led by a piece of boyish misunderstanding to help his nephew in any underhanded work.
The proceeding, however, was highly mysterious, and Bob, screening himself by the trees and bushes, watched his every move with the greatest curiosity.
Mr. Wingate made frequent entries in his note-book, now and then turning and glancing in all directions, as if fearful that his actions might be observed.
Finally his mission seemed to be accomplished. He slipped the book in his pocket and began walking rapidly in the direction of the lonely watcher.
Bob gave vent to a slight exclamation, threw himself behind a mass of underbrush and anxiously awaited the other's approach. Fortunately for the lad's peace of mind, Mr. Parsons Wingate passed quickly by, totally unaware of his presence.
"Whew! a mighty close shave," soliloquized Bob, scrambling to his feet when he felt that the course was clear. "I'll wager it was something more than curiosity that brought him here, though I'd like to know why he fears being seen."
Of course, all conjecture on the subject was useless. At the first opportunity, Bob told his fellow members about the incident and various explanations were offered.
But Mr. Wingate, and, indeed, almost everything else was lost sight of in the whirl of preparation for departure.
The "Rambler" had yet to be stored with the necessities for the voyage, and lists were gone over very carefully to see that nothing was omitted. As it was their desire to camp out on shore whenever practicable, two tents were included in the outfit.
When lockers and all available spaces were stored to their utmost capacity, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton proposed that they should sleep on board the "Rambler."
"It won't do to take any risks," they argued, and to this all agreed.
Though time seemed to move so slowly for the eager boys, Monday morning at length arrived. The sun had scarcely risen over the eastern hills, sweeping away the mists in the valleys, and awakening with its cheerful beams the life of the woods and fields, when five Kingswood boys, from whose faces all signs of sleepiness had been chased away by eager anticipation, were swallowing breakfasts as hastily as possible in their respective homes.
Good-byes were said; then, like the boys of '76, they "shouldered their guns and marched away."
When "Captain Bob" appeared at the wharf, he was greeted by Tom Clifton and Dick Travers. Sam Randall soon after came hastening along, and last of all, as everybody expected, the stout form of the "Oh ho" boy was seen moving across the clearing. Bob slipped away his watch, which was only one minute and twenty seconds beyond the appointed time, and Dave Brandon, having made one of his best records for promptness, strode up with a beaming face.
There was no delay in getting on board. The lines were cast off, Bob gave two vigorous turns to the engine wheel, and with its familiar chug-chug the motor immediately responded.
As the "Rambler," with a bright-colored pennant floating at the stern, swung out and headed for midstream, a chorus of enthusiastic shouts floated off on the breeze.
A slight haze suffused the landscape, and the aspect of all nature had that indefinable charm and freshness of early morning. The sunlight bathed hills, fields and woods with a mellow glow, while off in the distance a steeple glistened brightly against the sky. A flock of noisy crows passed close overhead and disappeared beyond the crest of a hill.
Sam Randall and Dick Travers got out their shotguns, eager to try their skill should any unwary bird venture to fly too near, while Dave Brandon, the picture of contentment, stretched himself out on top of a locker.
The "Rambler" had proceeded some distance beyond Fir Island, when Tom Clifton uttered an exclamation, and began scanning the surface of the water.
"Seems to me that I hear an echo," he observed.
Sure enough, a chug-chug was borne faintly over the air, and yet it seemed impossible that it could have any connection with the "Rambler."
"It's very strange, indeed," ventured Sam Randall, in a puzzled tone. "The sound is exactly like another boat. Stop the engine, Bob, and see."
In a moment the "Rambler" was forging ahead by its own momentum, and to their eager, listening ears came a rapid, monotonous pulsating sound, the meaning of which could not be misunderstood.
"Well, that surprises me," declared Bob Somers. "I thought we had a monopoly, and yet, just as we start out—"
"There it is!" cried Sam Randall, eagerly, and he waved his arm astern, in the direction of Fir Island, whose richly verdured expanse loomed forth clear and distinct against its surroundings.
"You're right," chimed in Bob. "Dave, I say, Dave Brandon, look at that."
But an unmistakable snore came from the direction of the locker. The easy, gliding motion had lulled the poet laureate to sleep. An energetic shake thoroughly aroused the devotee at the shrine of Art and Poetry. He sat up and stared long and earnestly at the far-off speck—then stared with equal intensity at his companions.
"What did you stop the boat for when there was a chance to run into something?" he inquired, with a laugh. "I hope the trip is going to be lively enough to keep me awake."
The captain made no response. He was gazing earnestly at the mysterious motor boat through a powerful field-glass.
"What is it, Bob? What do you see?" asked his companions, eagerly.
"Fellows, this is most astonishing. I believe Nat Wingate and his crowd are in that boat."
"Nat Wingate? Impossible!" cried the others, incredulously, and even Dave Brandon uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"I can scarcely believe it. How in the world could Nat get a motor boat?" queried Sam.
For an answer, Bob handed him the glass. Sam looked long and earnestly, while the others crowded around.
"By George! Bob, I believe you are right," he burst out, at length. "If this isn't the biggest surprise. Perhaps Nat's threat wasn't an idle one, after all."
Successively, the field-glass was passed from one to another, and the amazing fact now became apparent to all, that the rapidly approaching motor boat did contain the rejected applicant, as well as three of his particular chums, John Hackett, Kirk Talbot and Ted Pollock.
"H'm," said Dave, "he's got a fine lot of scrappers with him, that's sure."
By the way Nat's craft cut through the water, it could be seen at a glance that it was a much speedier boat than the "Rambler."
"I'll wager that Mr. Wingate examined our boat so that he could get a better one," said Bob, earnestly.
"But it scarcely seems possible that he would make Nat such a handsome present," declared Dave.
"And Wingate was always protesting about his uncle's stinginess, too," put in Tom. Then he added: "Are you going to let them pass us?"
"By the look of things, it can't be helped," responded Bob, grimly.
Just then the sound of Nat's familiar voice reached their ears. He was standing at the bow, holding a huge megaphone, while one of his chums frantically waved a gaudily colored flag.
"Halloa there!" shouted Nat, using his funnel-shaped instrument to good effect. "Get out of the way! Don't block up the stream—this is the lightning express, and nothing can stop it. Hurrah for the Nimrod Club!"
This shout was echoed lustily by his companions.
"So this is the Nimrod Club," commented Bob. "They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves."
Of this there could be no doubt. The exuberance of Nat and his chums, judging from their language and actions, was on the point of overflowing.
The rival boat, headed toward them, its graceful lines sparkling where the water had splashed upon it, was soon close at hand.
Suddenly, the chug-chug ceased, and the "Nimrod" glided gracefully across the bow of the "Rambler."
"The Nimrod Club of Kingswood greets the Ramblers!" shouted Nat, with unnecessary force; and he bowed mockingly. His brown eyes danced with excitement and triumph.
"And the Rambler Club salutes the Nimrods!" laughed Bob, although he was not a little apprehensive that the arrival of Nat and his followers boded them no good.
"Do you want a tow-line?" spoke up their leader.
"Say, is your old tub fast enough for you to know which way it's going?" added John Hackett.
The Nimrods all thought this very funny, and laughed uproariously.
"Safety before speed," said Dave Brandon, blithely. "When you get swamped, boys, just call for us."
"Look out, look out, here we go!" cried Nat, although there was not the slightest use for such a remark. "Say, be careful about canal-boats; there are some fast ones on this line."
The "Nimrod" was put in motion, and swept speedily forward. Bob started the "Rambler."
"Nat has a fine boat," he declared; "but ours is better."
"I wish they hadn't come along," commented Sam Randall. "I'll wager we are in for some lively times."
"Well, I, for one, propose that we don't stand any nonsense," exclaimed Dick Travers. "Give that crowd a chance, and—"
"Hey there, old slow-pokes, are you moving or standing still?" shouted Nat. "You need help."
"So will you, if you keep that up," retorted Dick, who was not so disposed to be good-natured as his companions.
The motor boats were dashing along at full speed in midstream, when the "Nimrod," which was easily distancing its competitor, slowed down and allowed the other to approach.
"Shut off your power, back there in the tub!" shouted Nat, authoritatively. "Now mind what I say, or there's going to be trouble."
Deliberately, he swung his boat around, so that the hull was presented broadside to the rapidly approaching "Rambler."
"Look out! What are you trying to do?" came in a chorus from the latter boat.
It seemed as though the Nimrods were absolutely regardless of consequences. Quick as a flash, Bob shut off the power and jammed the wheel far around.
Thus suddenly swerved from its course, the motor boat careened far over, and just grazed the side of the "Nimrod," which was now scarcely moving.
Before any of the Ramblers could divine his intention, Nat Wingate quickly passed a stout rope through an iron ring at the bow of their boat. "Go ahead, Kirk—full speed!" he shouted.
Darting forward, the "Nimrod" suddenly pulled the line taut with a force that jarred the "Rambler" from stem to stern.
"We've turned pirates!" yelled Nat. "Whoop la, oh ho, this is our first catch." And his companions joined in a hearty laugh.
It was not until the "Rambler" had swung around and was actually being headed for Kingswood that the astonished boys decided to remedy the matter in a summary fashion. Sam Randall pulled out his jack-knife and proceeded to sever the rope.
"We've had enough of this," he shouted, as his eyes flashed with indignation. "Why can't they let us alone?"
"Patience ceases to be a virtue," drawled Dave Brandon. "What a pity we haven't the faster boat."
Bob Somers kept perfectly cool, but he began to feel that his good nature was being taken for weakness, and that unless some decisive action was taken in the beginning, the Nimrods would give them no peace.
"You'll be walking the plank next!" cried Wingate, in a terrible voice, through his megaphone. "We're the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."
"Of the bounding, bounding deep!" echoed Hackett, hilariously.
"How long do you suppose this interesting crowd is going to follow us?" asked Tom Clifton, in disgust.
"Dear only knows," returned Sam; "I guess Nat Wingate's threats had more truth in them than we suspected."
Both boats were again on their course, with the "Nimrod" leading.
"Little boys, I say, little boys!" cried the irrepressible leader of the Nimrods; "we're going down the river a bit, and will come back to see you later."
"Don't hurry; we can wait," called out Dick Travers.
"The question of the length of time, my young friend, will be determined by the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."
Nat waved his hand and smiled.
"Thank goodness, they are off," cried Sam, with a sigh of relief, as the "Nimrod" began slowly drawing away.
Now, for the first time, the boys were able to enjoy the scenery, and talk about their plans for the day. Already, the fresh air had given them a decided appetite, and Tom Clifton agreed that at the proper time he would officiate at the oil-stove.
This decision had hardly been reached, and they were engaged in preparing a menu, when Bob, who was at the wheel, called out: "They are coming back, fellows."
This was quite true. The "Nimrod" was seen to describe a wide circle and head directly for them. On it came, at full speed, the engine making a loud and continuous roar.
Bob altered the course of the "Rambler" slightly. The helmsman of the other boat did the same, and they continued to near each other, both headed directly for the same spot.
It was at once evident that the reckless Nimrods had determined to annoy them by compelling Bob to change his course. Now the "Rambler," in spite of the fact that the "Nimrod" had beaten it, was, nevertheless, a speedy boat, and it thus happened that almost before they knew it the two craft were dangerously near each other.
"Stop, stop!" commanded Nat. "Don't you see where we are going?"
The sound of both engines ceased. Bob reversed his an instant later.
"Look out!" continued the commander of the Nimrods, frantically. "What is the matter with you? You're running us down!"
But the crash could not be averted. The side of the "Rambler" swung against the "Nimrod" with such force that Nat Wingate was almost pitched to the deck.
"What do you mean by running into us like that?" called Nat, angrily, as the boats drifted apart.
The Pirate of the Bounding Deep did not seem to appreciate the humor of the situation.
"What do you mean by running in front of us?"
"Why didn't you stop?"
"How long is it since you owned this river?" demanded Dick Travers.
"Children should be seen and not heard," returned Nat, witheringly.
"Then stop talking, and keep your boat out of other people's way."
"See here, Dick Travers, I won't stand any impudence," stormed Nat. "You fellows don't know how to run a boat. Just look at that yard of paint your old tub scraped off!"
"Such a careless lot shouldn't be trusted alone on the mighty deep," chuckled thin John Hackett, or "Hatchet," as he was sometimes called by the boys.
"I think you will admit, Nat, that you took a big risk in running right in front of us," expostulated Bob.
"Admit nothing," snapped Nat. "Next time, you'd better be more careful, or an awful lot of trouble will suddenly spring up. If this river isn't wide enough, you'd better put out a danger flag for the benefit of the canal-boats."
The Pirates of the Bounding Deep began to laugh again. Their boat suddenly started off, described a circle around the stern of the "Rambler" and then proceeded at full speed in the direction from whence it had come.
"Perhaps it will teach them a lesson," said Dave Brandon. "I wonder if they are going to trail us continually."
"It looks very much that way," admitted Bob. "But we must try to avoid them as much as possible."
The incident had taken place upon a very beautiful reach of the river. The sun was glancing over the tops of an extensive pine forest, through the cool and pleasant depths of which shone arrow-like streaks of light, touching, here and there, the tall, straight trunks and thick masses of underbrush.
"A regular sylvan retreat," vouchsafed Dave, the nature-lover. "Look at those inviting shadows, and that rock, peeping between the tree trunks and glistening like silver. It only needs a little singing brook to make it an ideal haunt for painter or poet."
He took out his well-thumbed copy of Bryant, and read:
"Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,Whose branching pines rise dark and high,And hear the breezes of the WestAmong the thread-like foliage sigh."
"Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,Whose branching pines rise dark and high,And hear the breezes of the WestAmong the thread-like foliage sigh."
"Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the thread-like foliage sigh."
"I'm hungry as a bear," interrupted the more practical Dick Travers.
Dave closed the book. "Always the material pleasures," he said, with comical severity. "But since the Pirates favor us by their absence, it might be a good plan to lunch."
Accordingly, the prow of the "Rambler" was turned shoreward, and the boat was soon snugly ensconced by the side of a little bank, and in the midst of a profusion of aquatic leaves and tall grasses.
Dick Travers and Sam Randall, guns in hand, scrambled on shore, while Tom lighted the stove and began his culinary duties.
The tin dishes were soon in place on an improvised table of boards, and nothing remained but to await the pleasure of the cook.
It was remarked that Tom did not set about his self-imposed task with any degree of assurance. In a short time, a couple of pots were steaming merrily away, and a rather strange odor began to pervade the air.
"Lunch will soon be ready, boys," volunteered Tom. "I only hope Sam and Dick will get back in time to enjoy the feast. Hark!"
The sound of a shot reverberated with startling clearness—then another.
"That means disaster to some poor, inoffensive animal," declared Dave, and this proved to be true. When the young hunters returned, each was laden with a good-sized rabbit.
Tom dished out a liberal portion of something that had a general resemblance to stew, and then poured the coffee.
"Hope you'll enjoy it, boys," he said. "It's the first time I ever cooked."
A strange silence suddenly fell over the assemblage as they began to eat.
"It seems just a little—err—I might say burnt," suggested Bob.
"And has perhaps too much salt, just a trifle," murmured Sam.
"Is the coffee solid?" inquired Dick, innocently, as he looked at a cup of astonishing blackness.
"Not more so than mud," replied Tom, who was considerably surprised at his own attempt; "it might be improved by a little hot water."
Every one seemed to have lost his appetite. Dave Brandon presently arose, holding his plate. He was seen to make an awkward lurch. The tin did not escape from his fingers, but its contents described a curve through the air and splashed heavily into the water to become food for the fishes.
"My goodness, how awkward," he sighed, with a solemn expression.
The others envied his skill, but did not try to follow his example. Dick, Bob and Sam, martyrs to the cause, munched slowly and sadly away, trying to figure out how long it would be before the taste of the food would compel them to stop.
Tom sat down last, and had hardly started when an exclamation escaped his lips: "Frightful!" he sputtered. "I didn't suppose that anything in the shape of cooking could be so bad. I'd like to know what could have happened to it, anyway."
"You forgot to put in water, perhaps," laughed Bob.
"And in order to make up for it, used a whole bag of salt, eh?" suggested Dave, slyly.
"And tried to dispose of all our coffee at one shot. There surely can't be much left, after this."
"Never mind," returned Tom, good-naturedly; "perhaps the fish are hungry, and there's enough water in the river to dissolve out the salt. I move that we act in a liberal manner toward them, and begin all over again."
Without a word, his companions arose. Numerous splashes resounded, tin plates were washed, and a considerable amount of burnt substance scraped from the inside of the pots.
When every vestige of Tom's first attempt at cooking had been disposed of, a rabbit stew was decided on, and the Ramblers brightened up.
By general consent, the former "chef" was excused from further duty.
Bob skinned and dressed one of the rabbits, and it was soon stewing over the fire. Leaving Dave Brandon to keep an eye on it, the boys marched ashore, each, of course, armed with his gun.
The pine woods proved to be a most alluring spot. The Ramblers breathed the fresh scent of the trees with pure delight. They caught a glimpse of a few chattering squirrels, and stirred up a covey of partridges, but none of their shots took effect. The thought of the rabbit stew caused them to turn back in a very short time.
On catching a glimpse of the "Rambler," they gave a merry shout, but no answering hail greeted their ears.
"That's funny," commented Bob. "I didn't think Dave would leave the boat."
"He is probably asleep," said Travers, without hesitation.
Of course this proved to be the case. The poet laureate was stretched out upon the locker, wholly oblivious of his surroundings, while the stew bubbled and sizzled, sending a most savory odor through the air.
"Wake up!" cried Bob Somers, in a heavy voice.
The stout boy, with a confused idea that he was back in school, slowly arose, rubbed his eyes, and blinked drowsily.
"Goodness, it was awful," he mumbled, with a comical grimace. "It seemed so natural—I could even see Professor Hopkins."
"Hurrah! Taste this," broke in Sam Randall. "Here is something fit for a king. Quick, boys, get out the bread and other stuff, while I season this stew."
In a few minutes, five hungry boys were eating ravenously, and soon not a morsel of food remained. The ex-cook was kindly allowed to assist in the clearing-up process, then the sharp prow of the "Rambler" began pushing its way out into the stream. Not a sign of the Trailers, as they dubbed the Nimrods, could be seen, and their feelings were like those expressed by the poet when he said, "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
"Perhaps they won't bother us any more," observed Tom Clifton; "that little collision this morning seems to have had a salutary effect."
"Better wait until we get around the next bend," laughed Dave.
The "Rambler," with all power turned on, churned the water into foam, and the young travelers were treated to a succession of enchanting views, hills, dales and patches of woods. The sun's rays, tempered by a gentle breeze, were most pleasant, and, altogether, the boys were in high spirits.
Several hours passed, and it became a question as to where they were to camp for the night.
Finally Bob held up his hand. "Stop her," he said. "Here's a sort of a clearing looks good to me." The bow was turned in shore, and the boys decided to land. They found some difficulty in tying up the boat for the night. Care was also necessary in order that the propeller should not become entangled with the reeds and thick growth which extended along the shore. But at length the "Rambler" was drawn up in safety, whereupon the boys, delighted at the prospect of spending the night under the great canopy of stars, leaped ashore.
Bob Somers, besides some experience in camping out, had learned many points from "Old Bill" Agnew, a former lumberman who lived at Kingswood. He was therefore not altogether a novice.
The first thing they did was to carry every needful article ashore. In camp life system is of the greatest value.
Although they had no intention of remaining more than one night, each boy was allotted a special task, in order to avoid confusion.
The site chosen was on a slight elevation, and in the open, as mosquitoes and other insects were less likely to trouble them.
"Dick, you get some fire-wood," directed Bob. "Chubby and I will cook. Don't be scared, fellows," he added, with a laugh.
"What shall Sam and I do?" asked Tom Clifton.
"Get a lot of spruce boughs for beds. We'll need a pile of it, too. Stir yourselves."
They trooped off to the woods, and the sound of chopping began. Dick Travers, with his arms full of sticks, was the first to rejoin them.
"Get all the stuff out, Chubby."
"Yes! Dump your wood down here. Better get some small twigs. Funny thing we didn't forget to bring matches. That's right, Dick. Nothing like having a lot of fuel."
A brisk fire was soon burning.
"Now we'll fix things up in great shape."
Bob trimmed three sticks.
"I'll drive one on each side of the fire, nail another across the top, then hang the kettles with a piece of wire. Want anything better than that, fellows? Fall to—peel some potatoes and onions. What's that, Dick? Yes, go ahead and help Sam and Tom."
Bob Somers placed two logs upon a mass of hot, glowing embers, sufficiently far apart to hold a frying-pan. Then some pieces of bacon began to sizzle.
In due course, the delicious odor of rabbit stew filled the air, and, as dusk began creeping on, the club gathered around the camp-fire.
Each helped himself to a plate of hot, savory stew and a cup of steaming coffee.
"This is all right," chuckled Dick.
"Never tasted anything better," said Bob, with his mouth full.
"Look at Tom. He eats like a primitive savage."
"Huh! You'd better not talk. You're eating with your fingers yourself. This isn't the place to put on any style, is it, Dick?"
"Of course not. Another plate for mine."
"Me, too," chimed in Dave.
"Same here."
Another onslaught on the kettle, and its contents were emptied.
"I feel better," said Dave. "Oh ho, what comes next?"
"Home-made preserves," replied Bob; "open that box, Dick, and take out what you want."
Silence ensued for a few minutes. The Ramblers were busy.
At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Dave pushed his plate away.
"Feel just like taking a doze, fellows," he said. "Don't wake me up."
"No, you're not going to turn in just yet," laughed Bob.
"What! Anything else on the programme?"
"Yes, the tin-pan brigade. Grab your plates and stuff. We clean up right after every meal."
"Isn't he the bossy thing?" drawled Dave. "Pitch in, fellows, I've got an inspiration for a poem, and—"
Four hands seized the poet laureate, four sturdy arms hustled him to a standing position.
"Going to join in the housekeeping?"
"Yes, yes," laughed Dave. "Let up, Sam Randall and Dick Travers, or I'll souse you both in the river."
Cleaning up was finished in short order.
The boys decided to turn in early, for they knew that they had a long day before them.
Beds required some time to make, on account of the inexperience of the young woodsmen. A log was placed at the head of each and over this fragrant twigs of hemlock and other firs. The stems were kept as much to the bottom of the layer as possible, the boys continuing their work until the beds were thick enough to insure comfort. The finishing touches consisted in spreading rubber blankets, which being finally accomplished, the Ramblers were supplied with beds that one and all declared to be the best they had ever used.
When night enveloped the scene and the cheery light of the fire had died away, the fringe of woods looked very black and mysterious. An old oak, with gaunt, spreading arms, assumed in the dim light a weird and fantastic appearance, while stumps and bushes, which, before, they had scarcely noticed, seemed like so many motionless figures of threatening mien. Nor were the nocturnal noises reassuring. The dismal hoot of an owl came from the woods, the strange cry of a loon sounded faintly from afar, twigs snapped sharply, and faint rustlings, almost like footsteps, now coming, now going, mingled with the musical soughing of the trees, as they bent their branches to the will of the capricious breeze.
It must be confessed that decidedly creepy feelings stole over the Ramblers, which were not lessened when the rising moon appeared over the tops of the trees. It had never looked quite so grim to them before, nor did the pale, ghostly beams straggling over the ground impress them in just the same way as those they had seen in town.
But in spite of all this, one by one, they dropped into a refreshing slumber.
At early dawn, they were astir, and after breakfast, which was prepared on the oil-stove, hastily embarked.
Upon reaching a bend in the river, they looked for signs of the Trailers.
"Don't even hear a sound of their boat," remarked Bob.
"They may be miles ahead by this time," suggested Sam.
"I only hope so," said Dick. "The experience of yesterday proves that a few more meetings might lead to considerable trouble."
The river narrowed a bit at this point and the banks presented a more wild and rugged appearance the further they went. A bold, rocky cliff jutted out straight ahead; the current, accelerated by its more restricted confines, eddied and swirled around its base.
The "Rambler," at half speed, had almost reached the edge of the promontory when they heard a familiar sound.
"The Nimrods!" exclaimed Bob.
His words were hardly spoken before they realized that the rival motor boat had been ensconced behind the bluff. At that instant, it shot diagonally toward the middle of the river, a roar from the engine indicating that every particle of power had been turned on.
"Here they are!" shouted Nat, with the utmost abandon. "Look sharp ahead there, in the tub! We're going to see how close we can come without hitting you!"
The astonished Ramblers saw a sharp bow rushing toward them. Then there was a terrific impact which seemed to fairly lift their boat from the water, while its occupants were sent sprawling in all directions.
It looked as though Nat Wingate's deliberate disregard of consequences was going to bear serious fruit.
Before the "Rambler" had righted herself, Bob Somers shut off the power, and the thoroughly angry boys, who instantly scrambled to their feet, crowded aft.
"We've had enough of this kind of business!" shouted Bob Somers, with flashing eyes. "Whatever damage has been done to this boat, Nat Wingate, you'll have to pay for!"
"He ought to be arrested," chimed in Travers, indignantly. His fists, tightly clenched, he shook toward the captain of the Nimrods, who was standing at the wheel with a peculiar look on his face. He did not seem to comprehend what had happened.
"The rudder is bent all out of shape and the rail badly dented," said Sam Randall, presently. "Lucky the propeller isn't damaged."
"I'm awful sorry, boys!" called young Wingate, but there was something in his tone which belied the words "I thought we would just clear you. It was all a joke."
"Joke!" exclaimed Bob, hotly. "We've had enough of such jokes. If there are any more of them you'll get into trouble."
"I only meant to have a little fun, I tell you," pleaded Nat.
"Your ideas on that subject must be peculiar."
"I'll tow you back to Kingswood, and pay for all damages," continued Nat. "What more can you ask? I leave it to everybody—isn't that a fair offer?"
"But we don't want to return to Kingswood," answered Bob, coldly, although he was surprised at Wingate's offer.
"You can't continue the trip with a rudder bent out of shape like that," argued Nat. "Your boat is helpless, I'm afraid. Let us fix this thing up right."
"Why not tow them to the next town?" proposed John Hackett.
Nat shook his head. "No, no!" he said, earnestly; "Kingswood is nearer. It was my fault that their boat was damaged, and I want to do the right thing."
Bob did not answer.
"Come now, is it agreed?" added Nat, persuasively. All the sarcastic, half-sneering expression had left his face, and he evidently meant what he said.
"No, it is not agreed to," returned Bob, decidedly. "All this could have been prevented, if you had only acted with a little bit of common sense."
"Then you won't accept my offer?"
A chorus of negative responses came from the Ramblers, Bob Somers adding, in a voice which betrayed his indignant feelings, as he glanced at the damaged rudder: "I believe we can get along without assistance—at least, we don't wish any from the Nimrods."
"Oh, very well," returned Nat, with a slight change of tone; "you can't say that I wasn't willing to do all I could to make amends. I'll tow you ashore, now, if you say the word."
"Of course, we'll have to," spoke up Ted Pollock.
John Hackett picked up a line and prepared to heave it.
But "Captain" Bob was too much disgusted to parley with them further. He turned away, and started the engine at half speed.
The "Rambler," however, acted, as Sam put it, "like a drunken man." At the mercy of every conflicting current, she wabbled, then slowly began to swing around until the prow was headed for the opposite shore.
"Get out the oars, boys," said Bob. "We'll have to rig up a temporary rudder."
"Perhaps we had better let them tow us ashore," ventured Tom Clifton, who was disposed to be more timid than his companions.
"Not on your life," said Bob, firmly. "We'll manage it."
The crew of the "Nimrod" watched their movements with interest, and although quite a wide stretch of water now separated them, the Ramblers could hear their voices and catch an occasional word. It sounded very much as if they were wrangling among themselves.
After many trials, Bob and his companions were able to handle the oars in such a fashion as to steer the "Rambler" on a comparatively straight course. No suitable landing-place could be seen on either shore, and, accordingly, they continued slowly down the river.
"It means several hours' work to get the rudder back in shape," declared Bob, at length.
"And it never will be a 'thing of beauty and a joy forever,'" observed Brandon.
"Nat Wingate and 'Hatchet' are the most reckless fellows in Kingswood," asserted Sam; "I can't understand how Mr. Parsons Wingate would ever trust either of them with a boat. See, here they come now."
The "Nimrod" was approaching rapidly.
"Ho—ho—oh ho!" roared Nat, lustily, through his megaphone. "Cap'n Somers, of the boatlet 'Rambler,' are you going back to Kingswood with us?"
"No, we are not!" snapped Dick Travers, with all the force at his command.
"Let the Cap speak for himself, sonny."
"I've nothing more to say on the subject," replied Bob.
"Well, you are making a mistake," shouted the chief Pirate of the Bounding Deep, as the "Nimrod" scudded by.
No further attention was paid to them, the boys having all they could do to keep the "Rambler" on its course. They came at last to what looked like a favorable spot, and it was decided to go ashore.
This was not accomplished without a great deal of trouble, all hands feeling greatly relieved when they at length stood upon the bank.
While Bob assisted in unshipping the rudder, Sam Randall went off in search of a flat stone. Hammers were then brought out of the tool-chest and all stood around, ready to give assistance and advice.
"Sounds like the Anvil Chorus from Trovatore," remarked Dave, as the work began.
They found the task more difficult than any of them had anticipated, the force of the blow having twisted the rudder almost out of resemblance to its proper shape.
It was at least two hours before the Ramblers, taking turns with the hammer, were sufficiently well satisfied to replace the rudder. It was then decided to lunch on shore, whereupon Dave, with great promptness, stretched himself out under the shade of a tree and went to sleep.
The others brought out smoked tongue, cheese and preserves. Bob declared that it would be unkind to wake the poet laureate the moment he began to slumber, but much more unkind to deprive him of a meal, and they therefore had no alternative but to arouse him.
"Been in school, composing the great American poem?" queried Sam, jocularly.
"Neither; I dreamed that the 'Rambler' had turned into a rowboat," responded Dave, his eyes blinking drowsily. "I must say, I was always dead against using a pair of oars. It's no sport for a white man."
"Or a lazy one," said Sam, and even Dave laughed in spite of aching arms.
The spot was very charming. Off to the east lay a low line of hills, covered with verdure, while rolling fields and picturesque clumps of trees added to the charm of the landscape.
As much time had been lost, however, they concluded not to linger. The rudder worked as well as usual, and the "Rambler" was pushed to its fullest capacity.
"This is the kind of sport I like," said Dave, allowing his hand to drag in the cool water. "My, but I'm glad the oars are out of sight."
"When are we going to do any fishing?" asked Tom Clifton, suddenly.
"Plenty of time for that when we get to Lake Minnewago," responded Bob; "I've heard that the fishing there is fine."
Occasionally boats were passed, and the swiftly flying "Rambler" attracted considerable attention.
"There's another of them crazy toy boats ahead," shouted the occupant of a clumsy sloop, so far away that his words scarcely reached their ears. "She nearly run me down, and I was going to—"
But what the gentleman's intentions were could not be learned, for they immediately passed out of hearing, but judging from his manner they concluded that he was much wrought up over something.
"Nat will get his boat broken into little bits, if he keeps up his funny tricks," observed Bob.
The Ramblers could not help being curious to know what had happened.
Several hours glided by, during which the boys were treated to a succession of views which Dave declared were so charming as to give him an inspiration for a grand poem.
"The question before the Rambler Club is this," observed Sam: "When are we going to read one of these mysterious effusions?"
"Going to put Bryant in his proper place, Chubby?" asked Dick.
An expressive grin crossed Dave's face.
"His poems sometimes remind me of mine," he admitted.
"Let us know the worst," groaned Sam. "Can't you give us a small dose now?"
"Suspense is awful," chimed in Bob. "Fellows, we want to get at the bottom of this. What kind of stuff are you scribbling, Dave?"
"You may find out some time," smiled the stout boy.
"Turn a little loose on us, now."
"Not yet," drawled Dave; "it wouldn't be nice for me to spoil this part of the trip."
"You're a lazy duffer, anyway," observed Sam.
Dave laughed, leaned over the side of the boat and let his hand trail in the cool water.
"Got her going at full speed, Bob?" asked Dick.
"Up to the top notch," replied the captain.
The boys moved about, sometimes in the bow, then in the stern, enjoying the pretty views which constantly opened out before them.
"Is that little speck ahead the Trailers, or do my eyes deceive me?" asked Sam Randall, at length.
"No! You are quite right," answered Bob, after a glance through his field-glass. "They have come to a stop, with the 'Nimrod' turned broadside to the stream."
They were now approaching a place where the river widened slightly. Several long, flat islands, covered with reeds, divided it into channels, but all except the main one appeared to be quite narrow. The country to the left was flat and extended off in the distance as far as the eye could reach.
In about fifteen minutes, the "Rambler" drew near to the other boat, which was being kept in the same position by a little manœuvering.
Nat turned his inseparable megaphone toward them. He seemed to have recovered all his old-time sarcastic manner.
"Come on! Come right in front of us!" he bawled. "We didn't hit you quite right last time."
A loud sound, not capable of being described in a few words, issued from the megaphone, then a clear voice: "Don't you dare to forget that we are the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."
"Of the bounding deep!" echoed John Hackett and the others.
"Do you think he would have the audacity to run into us again?" asked Dick Travers. "I wouldn't mind giving them a chance, just to find out."
It seemed so apparent that the Trailers were getting ready for hasty action, that no one thought it worth while to answer this remark.
Bob, however, turned sharply to the left, having decided to take no chances, and pass astern.
"Good-bye, Nat!" he cried, waving his hand, as the "Rambler," tearing at full speed, darted past, well astern.
With absolutely no warning, a peculiar grating sound came to the ears of Bob and his companions, while the motor boat began to wabble in a most alarming fashion. As the boys looked at each other in dismay, a severe shock jarred the craft from stem to stern, then it gave a convulsive shiver, and with a suddenness that pitched the Ramblers in a confused heap, turned partly on its side, and came to an abrupt stop. The propeller, raised to the surface, churned and splashed the muddy water in all directions. They had run hard aground on a treacherous sand-bank.
To add to the unpleasantness of their situation, peal after peal of laughter came from the occupants of the other boat.
"Oh ho! Something has happened to our little ancient mariners," shouted Nat, between bursts of merriment.
"What brilliant seamanship," cried John Hackett. "Oh, my stars, do they take their boat for an automobile?"
The Ramblers could not help but realize that there was a humorous side to the situation, but it failed to appeal to them. Of course the motor was instantly stopped, and they proceeded, for the second time that day, to take stock of damages.
"Why didn't you have the bottom of the river removed?" called Nat. "It's in the way, anyhow, and you might have known what would happen."
A fresh outburst of mirth came from the "Nimrod."
Bob and his followers were not disposed to accept the new turn in events philosophically.
The irrepressible Nat was rattling off a string of comments, accompanied by blasts on the megaphone and shouts from his comrades.
Presently he brought forth a Roman candle, and, lighting the fuse, cried, as its sharp popping sounded: "Whoop la! Signal of distress. Serious accident to a barklet. Captain mistakes bottom of river for surface."
"Did you know that this sand-bank was here?" demanded Sam Randall, angrily.
"We told you to pass in front," laughed John Hackett, "and you wouldn't do it, so the catastrophe is on your own head."
"Yes, and you said—"
"Were you green enough to suppose that we would run you down on purpose?" interposed Nat. "Why that would have been an awful thing to do, even for pirates."
"You try any more funny business on us, and you'll get in the biggest scrap you ever had, Nat Wingate," cried Bob, angrily.
"What's that?" said Nat.
"You heard what I said. You've been too gay, altogether, and we won't stand for it."
"Christopher! If you were silly enough to run on a sand-bank, I can't help it."
"You stopped here on purpose, and—"
"Don't get too fresh, Somers. It's not healthy," bawled John Hackett.
"How can a little 'salt' be so fresh?" cried Nat.
"You don't want to forget what I said," warned Bob. "This is the last mean job you are going to work on us."
"That's so!" added Sam Randall. "We'll spill the whole bunch of you in the river next time."
"Listen to skinny," sneered Nat. "Ha, ha! Why don't you get out and blow the old scow off?"
"Come on, fellows, let's get to work," said Bob.
He pulled out a couple of oars, handing one to Dave.
These were stuck in the sand at the bow. They were placed diagonally, forming a sort of figure X, the centre of which rested against the cutwater.
This gave them a good leverage, but it was difficult to get a firm hold on the sandy bottom. Even the engine, reversed at full speed, accomplished nothing. The Ramblers, however, tugged away, until the perspiration streamed over their faces, compelled, all the while, to listen to a multitude of suggestions from the Nimrods.
Slow progress was made. With a tenacity that was most discouraging, the sand-bar held its captive, and every inch gained was at the expense of great effort.
"Mariners!" bellowed Nat, at length. "I say, brave sailor boys, we're off. Good-bye. Look out for pirates and other perils of the deep."
Bob could hardly repress a laugh, his manner was so comical.
"A mean lot," grumbled Dick, as he wiped his face and looked after the fast departing Nimrods; "I never heard of such a contemptible trick."
"It's a great pity that they should put their wits to such a use," said Bob. "We might as well admit that it was nicely calculated. Next time, if they try anything further, we must be prepared for them."
"We certainly fell easy victims," added Tom Clifton. "And I suppose Nat will tell the story to everybody he knows."
"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "The 'Rambler' moved at least six inches that time. Now, Dave Brandon, another tug!"
The poet laureate was endowed with considerable strength. Spurred on by their success, he gave a prodigious pull, with the startling result that the oar promptly slipped out of the mud, while the would-be author of the great American poem tumbled unceremoniously backward.
Of course he was not hurt. Dave never seemed to suffer much from a mishap. He laughingly arose, and resumed his work.
At the end of another quarter of an hour's work, the "Rambler" slid off the bar into deep water.
The afternoon was drawing to a close, and all thought it best to land at the nearest suitable place. This was found a short distance further on, in a sheltered and picturesque little cove.
The situation of their camp, in a fertile little valley, was found to have so many attractions that the Ramblers, by a unanimous vote, decided to spend all of the following day right there.
"Let that other crowd get as far ahead of us as possible," proposed Dick Travers. "It may take them longer to get back, for I'm sure they don't intend to give us any more peace than they can help."
"I think we can afford to forget them for a while," said Bob. "And now, boys, what do you think of building a brush camp, or lean-to?"
"Just the thing," exclaimed Sam Randall, enthusiastically.
A dense wood surrounded the valley. Through its cool and shady recesses, the dark, rich greens of firs and cedars could be seen.
"Why not build a lean-to right in the midst of them?" asked Tom Clifton.
"Old Bill Agnew said it was better to camp in the open whenever possible."
"Why so?"
"On account of insects and because it is generally safer. That ridge over there looks like a good place. It has a gentle slope, which will be just the thing for our bough beds."
"Oh ho, it seems to me there is nothing but work," groaned Dave, with a yawn. "Why not sleep on the ground?"
"You lazy duffer!" exclaimed Dick. "Come on; think what fun you'll have making all these things."
"I feel in a generous mood," laughed Dave. "I'm perfectly willing to give you all my share."
The ridge lay some distance inland, but from its elevated position, the motor boat could be kept in view.
Lots were drawn. To Tom and Dick fell the task of cutting poles and collecting brush for the lean-to, while Dave, with a terrible grimace, set about chopping sufficient fire-wood for their present needs. Bob Somers and Sam Randall took their guns and started to look for game.
"Let's skirt along the river, if possible," suggested Bob; "perhaps we may get a shot at some ducks."
"Agreed," said Sam; "but that underbrush looks a little thick right here; I guess we'll have to go around."
The boys found that it was not an easy matter to push their way along in any given direction. Growth of all kinds was luxuriant. Tangled vines, provided by nature with very sharp little thorns, continually impeded their progress, besides causing much discomfort, as it was hard to entirely avoid them.
They were careful to keep their guns pointed away from each other, and to keep the triggers free from low-hanging branches or underbrush.
At length, after a detour, the greenish expanse of river flashed in view between the tree trunks.
Suddenly a low whirring sound, directly in front, startled both hunters. A flock of ruffed grouse rose and flew with lightning-like rapidity among the trees.
"Too late," sighed Bob, lowering his gun. "Next time we must be better prepared."
"Yes, and what a supper we missed," said Sam, regretfully.
They had now come to an open space. Beyond it, along the shore of the river, was a thick clump of trees.
"Do I see anything over there?" asked Sam.
"Looks like a lot of birds," answered Bob.
"Hope we'll surprise the fellows with a fine brace of something."
"So do I. Look out, Sam. Don't make so much noise."
"My foot slipped on a stone," said young Randall, apologetically.
The boys worked their way forward with the greatest care.
"Just a little further," said Sam, in scarcely audible tones; "then, oh my, what a supper we may have."
"Don't talk," admonished Bob.
He took a long survey through his field-glass.
"Wood-ducks," he whispered, in a scarcely audible voice.
Sam's eyes sparkled. With the utmost care, he followed in Bob's footsteps.
The two finally concealed themselves in the midst of a patch of tall, rank grass and reeds. Not daring to even whisper, they slowly crawled forward, never, for an instant, exposing any part of their bodies to view.
Both being good shots, it looked as if their patience would be rewarded.
But, to their consternation, just at the critical moment, when they were well within range, a shot rang out loudly, followed by a perfect fusillade of others.
The ducks, with cries of alarm, arose en masse, flying swiftly away, while Bob and Sam jumped to their feet, in the greatest disappointment.
"Those miserable fellows again!" exclaimed the former, angrily.
The "Nimrod" had rounded a point.
"Fine hunters, to shoot at such long range as that," grumbled Sam. "What a nuisance they are."
"They spoil everything," declared Bob, in disgusted tones.
Disconsolately, the return trip was begun.
A series of harsh, rasping cries, issuing from the dim recesses of the woods, betokened the presence of a blue jay, while at intervals sounded the tap-tap of that busy workman of the forest—the woodpecker.
They concluded to return by the same route, in the hope of stirring up some other game. Fortune favored them this time, a couple of squirrels being bagged, which partly reconciled them to their previous disappointment.
They found, upon returning to camp, that the three other Ramblers had not been idle. Dave pointed with pride to a large pile of wood, while Tom and Dick showed equal satisfaction in exhibiting a mass of pine boughs, besides a number of poles. Nor was this all. Reposing on a flat stone were three good-sized fish.
"Where did you get them?" queried Bob, in pleased surprise.
"Just a little way up the river," responded Dick Travers, proudly.
"We can now have a meal fit for a king," exclaimed Sam.
"How are you going to cook the fish?" asked Tom.
"Oh, I know," said Bob. "Let's find a couple of flat stones, fellows."
"I saw some down near the river," put in Dick.
He sped off, with Tom at his heels.
"That's the idea," said Bob, as each returned, lugging a good-sized stone. "Now for a fire!"
When it was burning brightly, the stones were placed in the middle of it.
"What is that for?" asked Tom.
"When they get hot as blazes," explained Bob, with a smile, "I'm going to put the fish between 'em, cover the whole business with hot coals, and let our supper bake."
"Another Bill Agnew act," laughed Dave.
"You've guessed it."
Preparations continued, and after an interval, Bob sang out: "Those stones must be hot enough by this time."
"Red hot, except that you can't see it," laughed Sam. "Hey there, be careful not to roll 'em out on my feet."
Bob laughed.
"Keep out of the way of the cook, then."
The fish were placed between the stones, then covered with hot embers.
"Smells good, fellows, doesn't it?" observed Dave. "I can hardly wait."
The feast was even more delicious than they had been led to expect from the appetizing odor, and Dave voiced the sentiments of all when he declared that nothing could beat a meal out in the open.
The lean-to had to be made quickly, as night was settling over the scene. The boys, therefore, started work with a will. A lean-to might be described as a shelter, having one sloping side, which also acts as the roof, and two vertical, the front being left open. By driving two stout poles into the ground, about a dozen feet apart and securing a cross piece at the top, they readily provided the principal framework. Numerous saplings were next placed at short intervals against it. Dick Travers busied himself forcing the ends into the ground, while the other boys began placing spruce and hemlock boughs, in thick layers, upon the sloping top thus formed. The sides were then attended to in the same manner.
By the glare of the camp-fire, the lean-to was completed. Bob and his companions surveyed its cozy appearance with much pride, but did not desist from their labors until bough beds had been arranged upon the ground within.
"Old Bill couldn't have done better himself," declared Bob. And the others agreed with him.
The fire was replenished, the dancing tongues of flame lighting up the surroundings with a fantastic glare. The Ramblers felt those peculiar sensations which come to nearly all amateur woodsmen, especially at night. Never before had the mysteries of nature, as well as the immensity of the star-studded heavens, appealed to their imaginations so vividly. Insects kept up an incessant chant, while from the woods issued numerous familiar voices.
They were far from any human habitation, in a wild region, seldom frequented by any one except an occasional sportsman. It seemed as if they were alone in the midst of a great solitude.
But suddenly a starlike point of light appeared in the distance, then another and another, until four, all moving in the most erratic fashion, advanced slowly toward them.
"What does that mean?" asked Tom Clifton.
The sound of voices reached their ears.
"The Trailers, as I live!" exclaimed Sam Randall. "Just listen to them."
There was no need of this advice. The Nimrods possessed lusty voices, and began using them to their fullest capacity. The result, while not harmonious, proved effective.