Mr. Somers' wisdom in selecting a boat with breadth of beam was now apparent. Had the "Rambler" been a narrow craft, the task which confronted the members of the club would have been attended with the gravest danger.
Several of the boys, clutching for support, felt a thrill of apprehension run through them, as the storm-tossed motor boat, which shipped water at every lurch, ploughed its way toward the Trailers.
Voices could scarcely be heard above the roaring wind. Dick Travers and Sam Randall bailed energetically, though they were thrown down with considerable force more than once. Little Tom Clifton, prey to a terror he could scarcely control, held on for dear life, while Dick Brandon, surprisingly calm and collected, stood by the engine, foreseeing that his services would be required.
The outline of the "Nimrod" became more distinct. She was tossing about like a chip, and her crew seemed to have become totally panic-stricken.
"Help!" again roared Nat, holding on with one hand, while with the other he grasped the megaphone. "We're almost full of water, and haven't a thing to bail with."
The "Pirates" looked anything but a brave lot, as they huddled together. Their faces were blanched, and, drenched to the skin, they presented a sorry spectacle. The "Nimrod" seemed helpless, and at the mercy of every wave.
Bob Somers saw at a glance that they were, indeed, in a serious position, rendered far more so by their inability to act with any degree of calmness.
"Give us some buckets, if you have any, quick!" yelled Nat; "or our boat will be at the bottom of the lake in no time."
The thunder and lightning still continued with unabated force, while the deluge showed no signs of stopping. Wind and waves made the task of approaching the "Nimrod" an extremely difficult one. All of Bob's resourcefulness was needed, but he managed the "Rambler" skilfully. Randall and Travers stood at the rail with a couple of buckets when, at imminent peril of crashing into the "Nimrod," the other boat passed close to windward.
John Hackett managed to seize one bucket, the other being successfully tossed on board.
"Start your motor and then go ahead, facing the storm!" shouted Bob, at the top of his voice.
"Don't go away!" yelled Kirk Talbot.
"All right, we'll stand by you."
A moment later, Nat Wingate was seen crouching down at the wheel. Amidst clouds of spray that dashed over him, he tugged first one way and then the other, but it did not appear that any move had been made to start the engine.
"Throw them a line," ordered Bob, quickly.
The boats, however, were drifting apart, and Sam Randall's first attempt was not successful. Again and again he tried. Bob Somers, in spite of the risk, came to his aid by stopping the "Rambler," and within a few minutes Nat Wingate was able to seize the rope that came flying through the air.
It was made fast, the motor again started, and the "Nimrod" gradually drawn around until its bow was pointed directly toward the oncoming waves.
The frantic energy with which its crew was working with the buckets would have been amusing under other circumstances. It soon became apparent that the situation was not going to grow any worse, but the boats were still plunging violently, and, at intervals, large waves poured over the rails.
For fully fifteen minutes the storm continued in all its fury. Just as the rain began to slacken, and there was a lull in the heavy gusts, John Hackett threw down his bucket and shouted to the Ramblers.
"Hello!" he cried. "If this old boat didn't swallow nearly half the lake, I'm wrong in my calculations."
The speaker looked as if his attempt at humor had caused him a pretty hard effort.
"It was all on account of the wheel getting jammed," added Nat, ruefully. "But for that, we wouldn't have been in such a mess."
The storm ended as suddenly as it began. Before the rain had entirely ceased, a patch of blue was seen in the west. Half an hour later, the sun was shining on a far-off bank of clouds, while the two boats were gently rising and falling on the rounded swells.
The Ramblers suffered no ill effects from their wetting, thanks to the oilskin coats, but the others presented a sadly bedraggled spectacle.
"Did you ever hear of such mean luck?" growled Nat. "I wish I could interview the man who got up this steering gear."
"Little fishes, but I am wet!" exclaimed Kirk Talbot, with a doleful smile.
"We ought not to kick about that," protested Ted Pollock. "If Bob Somers hadn't come along you might be at the bottom of the lake and wetter than you are now. The way we got thrown around was about the worst that ever happened."
The two boats lay to. Bob and his companions set about putting things to rights. Swabs were brought out and before long the "Rambler" resumed its former spick and span appearance.
The members of the Nimrod Club were fully aware of the fact that a great service had been rendered them, and they all expressed their appreciation of it, Nat, however, sandwiching his remarks between numerous growls and complaints, while tinkering at his wheel with an enormous wrench.
From odd scraps of conversation, the Ramblers managed to learn that their rivals had bought a box of canned goods in town, and that Nat, carrying it from one place to another, just as the storm broke, had slipped and let it drop. Nat tried to get his companions to stop talking, but they did not seem to realize the necessity for keeping the facts secret.
"Bump-bang!" exclaimed John Hackett, at length. "Maybe if it hadn't been for the wheel, Nat, that box would have gone clean through the bottom of the boat."
Nat Wingate, with a very red face, arose, holding a spoke, which the wrench, instead of straightening, had broken off. Without a word, he started the motor, and it was presently seen that the "Nimrod" had been restored to a serviceable condition.
"Our friends don't seem to be in a pleasant humor, Chubby," remarked Bob, with a smile, as Nat was heard angrily explaining to Hackett that any more funny remarks would result in trouble.
"Those chaps are only good-natured when they have everything their own way," said Sam Randall, with a laugh.
The "Rambler," having been put in motion, was soon skirting the point of land. Upon rounding it, the entrance to a bay was disclosed, there being a fine stretch of beach along one side and a strip of woods beyond.
"Bob, don't you think that looks like a good place to camp?" suggested Sam Randall.
"Yes! We might as well tie up for the night," replied Bob.
A gentle hill began a short distance back from the water, and, after landing, the boys lost no time in climbing it. They found that a dense forest extended, with but few breaks, in all directions.
It seemed that the Trailers had kept a careful eye on their movements, for, upon returning to the boat, a familiar voice was heard.
"My little salts!" yelled Nat, as the "Nimrod" lazily slipped through the water of the bay. "Are you fellows going to stay in this place for the night?"
Bob answered in the affirmative, and the others, without having anything further to say, continued on their course.
"Guess they will camp close by. We can't lose 'em," observed Dave Brandon, when, after a short interval, the "Nimrod" was seen turning in toward the shore about a quarter of a mile away.
The boys soon saw that in many respects the site was the best they had yet found. The top of the bank was comparatively free from underbrush, while a good deal of fallen timber was strewn around, showing the ravages that various storms had caused.
The ground was still wet in many places, but a spot which the warm afternoon sun had almost dried was finally discovered.
"This is the wildest region we have seen, fellows," observed Dave Brandon, with great satisfaction.
"It would look perfectly natural to see a bear or wildcat stalking through the woods," added Dick Travers, with a grin.
"Well, I hope none of them poke their ugly noses in our camp," ventured Tom Clifton, little apprehensively.
"Say, fellows, let's pitch the tents to-night, for a change," suggested Bob Somers.
"Sure! Let us have the tents," broke in Dick, enthusiastically. "It's going to be a job making a fire all right; can't find a stick of dry wood," he announced a moment later.
"Find a cedar," said Bob, "or get some pieces of bark from the sheltered side of a tree. But first of all, boys, help me with the tents."
The two huge rolls of canvas were thereupon lugged ashore, one of them being spread out on the spot selected for a camp. Bob and Dick, armed with hatchets, then betook themselves to the woods in search of long poles. Of course they were not found without some difficulty. At length, ten, all neatly trimmed, were carried back to the shore.
"How are you going to do it, Bob?" asked Sam Randall, with interest.
"To find out, lend a hand," laughed the captain.
First, one of the poles, together with a long piece of rope, was laid upon the ground, and the canvas unrolled on top. While this was being done, Dick and Tom began to join a number of the stripped saplings in pairs, so that when spread apart, the upper portion of each formed a crutch.
"Now," said Bob, "we will stick one at each end of the tent, then set the ridge pole in the fork."
"All right, Master of Ceremonies," returned Sam, smilingly; "up she goes."
When this had been done, the rope was tied to stakes at the front and rear of the tent.
"Now, just as soon as the canvas is pegged down along the sides, we'll have a shelter that would make old Bill Agnew open his eyes," declared Bob, with satisfaction.
"I should say so. It's great," agreed Dave, who paused a moment from his labor of building a fire; "going to pitch the other tent now?"
"Yes. But it is smaller, and won't take much time," responded Bob.
In the course of another half hour, the two tents stood side by side.
"Now we'll fix up the interior," said Bob.
Tom Clifton was dispatched to the woods for more material, returning in due course with a quantity of neatly trimmed branches, most of them rather short. Two were driven into the ground in the corner of each tent and cross pieces nailed on top.
"These will do to hang our things upon," said Bob.
Having had considerable practice, the boys soon had the beds in position.
By this time Dave Brandon, spurred on by a prodigious appetite, had dressed one of the ducks, pared a surprising number of potatoes, and thrown all into their biggest pot.
"Was I ever so hungry before?" sighed the poet laureate, as he looked longingly at the simmering pot.
The boys had worked hard, and all felt glad when preparations were completed.
"I only hope that nothing disturbs me to-night," observed Sam Randall, with a yawn.
"So do I," drawled Dave; "a lot of things have certainly happened in the last twenty-four hours. Oh ho, look at that dandy sunset."
The sinking sun, resting just above a line of purplish clouds, suffused a glow across the entire sky and lighted the tree tops with a mellow warmth. A broad band of color glistened and sparkled in the lake.
"Isn't that a fine sight, boys?" went on the poet; "wish I could paint it."
"Just at the present moment, the stuff in that pot interests me more," declared Dick Travers, with a laugh.
"Hello—that must be the Trailers."
The latter remark, which came from Tom Clifton, was caused by the report of a gun, then several others, at a point not far distant.
"Well, supper is ready, boys," announced Dave.
"And we for it, I can tell you that, Chubby," returned Bob, promptly.
Sitting in front of the tents, the Ramblers enjoyed their meal as they rarely had, even under similar circumstances.
"If my appetite keeps up like this, I'm afraid my father will soon be ruined," observed young Travers, with comical gravity.
"If there is enough salt left, I'll cook a special stew for you. Want it?" asked Tom Clifton, kindly.
But the Ramblers with singular unanimity declared that they could not think of putting him to so much trouble.
"Dave Brandon," began Sam Randall, suddenly, "as a self-appointed committee of one, I want to know if your great American poem is nearly finished."
"Yes, yes, read us a line or two; go ahead, Chubby," pleaded Dick.
The poet laureate gave a negative gesture. "Oh, no! Not yet, boys," he laughed. "Don't forget, too, that in becoming cook, I was fired from my proud position as chief poet."
"But now you are put back again," insisted Sam.
Dave, however, could not be persuaded, so Bob Somers, who had a good voice, came to his rescue by starting a song they all knew. Then stories were told until bedtime.
Before turning in, the one remaining duck was hung on a pole outside the tents.
The Ramblers were soon sleeping soundly. It was a typical summer night. The moon finally rose, but the sky was considerably overcast. On the western horizon, an occasional gleam of lightning shone with a deep copper hue.
Little Tommy Clifton, who occupied the smaller tent in company with Dave Brandon, was disturbed by a curious dream. He thought that a dragon, uttering a weird cry, had attempted to enter the tent. This caused him to awake with a start, cold chills creeping along his spine.
The tent was partially open, and Tom stared at the view outside, mechanically taking in the shore and gray expanse of lake extending off to meet the sky.
A curious crackling of twigs drove all thoughts of sleep from the boy's mind, while a strange, vague terror took possession of him. Sitting bolt upright, he listened, undecided whether to awaken his companion or not.
With startling abruptness, a low, rasping cry almost froze the blood in his veins. Then a pair of blazing green eyes, but a few paces from the tent, brought his terror to a climax. Tom Clifton gave a loud cry of alarm and struggled to his feet.
In his haste, the lad slipped, falling directly over the sleeping form of the poet laureate. Dave awoke with an exclamation. At the same instant, a wild, unearthly screech aroused every member of the club.
In the bright moonlight, a long, powerful-looking animal, with ears thrown back and tail slowly swinging from side to side, was seen crouching as if ready to spring.
The sight of the shadowy figures, however, sent it slinking back a few feet, where, with another scream, it paused.
"A wildcat!" whispered Bob Somers; "the guns—"
He quickly shook off the lethargy which the sudden realization of their peril had thrown over him, and seized his weapon. But before a move could be made, the beast made a lightning-like spring, tore down the duck from the pole where Bob had hung it, and dashed off in the direction of the woods.
Bob Somers hastily fired at its retreating form.
"Christopher, but that was a narrow escape!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, with a shudder. "We might have been chewed all to pieces."
"The scent of that duck must have brought the ugly beast skulking around," said Bob.
"Do you think it will come back?"
"If it does, we'll give it a warmer welcome than it ever got before."
"A wildcat is a pretty ugly creature outside of a cage," observed Dick Travers. "I didn't know that they let out such awful yells."
With considerable apprehension, they gazed at the dark line of forest, half expecting that the savage animal would reappear.
"We must build a big fire," declared Bob; "that may keep the brute away."
Tired as the boys were, they set to work with a will. Fortunately, a plentiful supply of wood was near at hand, and, as all hands took part, a roaring fire was soon sending a great circle of light over the surroundings.
"Boys, we will have to take turns on guard," said Bob. "It would never do to let his lordship come back and find us all asleep."
"Never!" echoed Tom, with a shudder.
"If Hackett was only here to protect us," observed Dave Brandon.
All joined in the laugh that followed.
At every sound, and the woods in the stillness of the night furnished a surprising number, the young hunters gripped their guns more tightly. Bob piled several huge logs on the fire, which crackled and roared in a most cheerful fashion.
"No beast would dare to come around with a blaze like that," declared Bob. "Old Bill Agnew told me once that—"
"Listen!"
It was Dick Travers who uttered this exclamation.
The sound of voices, coming from the direction of the woods, suddenly reached their ears with astonishing clearness, then came the loud report of guns, mingling together in a blast of sound, while, a moment later, a single shot reverberated. More confused cries followed.
"As I live, the Trailers!" exclaimed Sam Randall.
"The wildcat must have been nosing around their camp," said Bob.
"And judging by the sound, it is close here," added Dave Brandon.
"But we haven't seen the light of any camp-fire," objected Sam.
"Those great hunters most likely use an oil-stove," put in another. "Listen! Aren't they coming this way, fellows?"
Such, indeed, seemed to be the case. Various sounds indicated that a party was approaching through the woods.
"The 'Ramrods' in retreat, I'll bet," said Bob, with a chuckle.
His words were scarcely spoken before several dark forms emerged into view, coming directly toward them.
"Halloa, there!" bawled Nat's familiar voice. "Are you all alive?"
When the Nimrods gathered around the fire, it was noticed that they all looked decidedly pale and frightened.
"See anything of a funny-looking cat, boys?" asked Dave Brandon.
"Did we see it?" exclaimed John Hackett and Nat, in chorus.
"Well, say—I had the fight of my life," declared "Hatchet," boastfully. "We didn't turn in until late; I hadn't gone to sleep, when, all of a sudden, the varmint appeared in an open space, fighting like mad with a whopping big eagle."
"An eagle?" chorused the Ramblers, winking slyly at one another.
"Certainly, an eagle; that's what I told you," pursued Hackett. "Then I said to myself—"
"You mean that you let out a screech which awakened the whole bunch," put in Nat, laughingly.
"Well, I thought I'd give everybody a chance to get a shot at it, that was all," went on John. "Well, we jumped up in a hurry, and sallied forth—say—did you hear any shots?"
"Rather!" laughed Bob.
"Well, if my foot hadn't slipped, there would have been one wildcat less."
"Ha, ha!" roared Nat. "Over there, you'll see a tree that looks to be dead. But it isn't. 'Hatchet' shot off almost every leaf."
"Just as I got a bead on him," explained John, "my left foot went down in a hole—"
"And your gun up in the air," finished Nat. "I thought you were aiming at the moon."
"Then," said Hackett, "the beast was right upon me. I grabbed my gun by the barrel, and gave it a fearful clip on the head. Wow, such a screech as went up! I'll wager it nearly killed the beast."
"Do you mean that the screech nearly killed it, or what?" asked Nat, with another boisterous laugh. "I'll bet you only hit a tree trunk."
"Never mind about any funny remarks," returned John. "It's a good thing for the whole gang that I clubbed it."
"What happened after that?" inquired Bob, with a smile.
"The boys all fired, and away it went, like a streak."
"Funny that none of you hit the beast—it was so close," observed Dick Travers, slyly.
"We hit it all right," said Nat; "guess it will never do any more screeching. How did you fellows happen to see it?"
Bob Somers briefly told about their experience.
Notwithstanding their apparent belief that the animal's career was ended, the Nimrods did not seem inclined to leave the friendly glare of the camp-fire.
It was now noticed that John Hackett wore upon the lapel of his coat the wing of a bird. Its estimated length was about three inches.
In answer to an inquiry from Tom Clifton, the Ramblers were treated to the following explanation.
"Last evening," said Hackett, "I saw a small speck on the top of a tall tree about a hundred feet away, so I drew a bead on it, and fired. Well, boys, it came tumbling down. I ate all there was for supper. And the bird was so small," he continued, "that it hardly made a good-sized sandwich."
"Must have been a pretty hard shot," said Brandon, dryly.
"You bet it was, Chub. There was a lot of 'em around; in the trees, and chirping away among the bushes, but I was the only one of the bunch that could shoot straight. Nat missed a bird so close to him that he couldn't keep his face from turning red."
After this complimentary remark, the speaker proposed that they all turn in.
"Good idea," said Nat; "you make me awfully tired, Hatchet."
One by one, the Nimrods stretched themselves out upon the ground. Then the Ramblers, yawning and stretching to an alarming degree, went back to their comfortable bough beds, leaving Dick Travers to stand the first watch.
The lad, with his gun where it could be seized at a moment's notice, seated himself on a log, to begin his lonely vigil. "Looks like another storm," he muttered.
The bank of clouds in the west seemed to be rapidly approaching. The lightning was of a vivid white and the thunder occasionally rumbled ominously.
It was soon evident that all the boys were asleep, tired nature having overcome their fears.
Dick Travers found it almost impossible to shake off the drowsiness that came over him. Twice he nearly fell from the log.
"This will never do," he murmured. "Goodness, how I wish that old beast had stayed away."
He arose, walked up and down, then tried a shuffle, but, in spite of all, his eyes would close. Taking his gun, he made a trip to the brink of the lake, and dashed some of the clear, cool water in his face.
"That feels a sight better," he soliloquized, as he slowly retraced his steps and took a seat on the ground near the fire.
This proved to be a mistake. The effect of the water was but momentary. Dick closed his eyes for an instant, as he supposed. Then the wildcat, his surroundings, everything, faded from mind and view. He was as sound asleep as any of the others.
The light of early morning was spreading over a gray waste of cloud when he awoke. Several logs still flickered feebly. The dawn wore a cheerless aspect.
Dick Travers rubbed his eyes. A strong wind was blowing, in that peculiar manner which presages heavier blasts yet to come. The surface of the lake was a mass of rippling lines.
"My goodness!" exclaimed Dick, half aloud, and rubbing his eyes, "I've been asleep. Hello! We are going to have another blow sure enough. It's almost on top of us, too, and still the fellows are asleep."
Already, the trees in the forest were bending back and forth. Then, with a force that almost took Dick Travers' breath away, the wind squall advanced, coming almost parallel with the shore. The whole air seemed to fill with branches, leaves and flying particles. In a twinkling, the fire was scattered in all directions.
Dick saw the tents swaying in a most alarming fashion. He tried to shout, but the words were choked in his throat. It was almost impossible to stand up before the blast. The frightened Nimrods struggled to their feet, and just at this instant, the larger of the tents, unable to resist the tempest, went down, followed by the other.
THE RAMBLERS WERE COMPLETELY BURIED
THE RAMBLERS WERE COMPLETELY BURIED
THE RAMBLERS WERE COMPLETELY BURIED
The Ramblers were completely buried under a blanket of canvas. Dick Travers had never seen a squall of equal severity. Bravely he struggled toward the forms which were caught beneath the spread of canvas, at times forced to turn his back to the storm.
Ted Pollock and Kirk Talbot, with Nat and John Hackett in the rear, were also pushing forward. The tents had fallen in such a manner that the imprisoned boys were able to make but little progress toward releasing themselves, although the movements of the canvas showed how hard they were struggling.
"Catch hold of this end!" yelled Dick to Ted Pollock.
Struggling against the violent gusts of wind, the boys all tugged and pulled at the heavy canvas until Dave Brandon's arm came into view. Then the stout poet, red-faced and puffing from his exertions, managed to crawl out from his uncomfortable quarters.
At length the other members of the club were rescued. Sam Randall, who had received a severe crack on the head from one of the poles, was the only boy who had suffered any ill effects from the accident.
Gradually the wind squall spent itself, although a canopy of gray still shut out the blue sky.
"Wonder what else is going to happen on this trip," remarked Sam Randall, after the Trailers had taken their leave. "Gaze at that wreck. Wow! it's a pretty sight, ain't it?"
"And the tents looked so fine last night," sighed Dave.
"Can't help it, boys," put in Bob, cheerfully; "maybe before we get through the trip we'll think this was only a slight breeze."
After breakfast, tents, pots and dishes were put back upon the motor boat. Dick cast off the lines, then Dave turned the wheel. But, to their great surprise, the engine did not respond. With a puzzled expression, he repeated the operation. Still there was no result.
"What on earth has struck the thing, Bob?" he asked.
For an answer, the captain gave a whistle of astonishment. Then his eyes kindled with excitement and anger.
"Some mean duffer has cut the battery wires," he burst forth, as he showed the astonished Ramblers the broken ends.
A chorus of exclamations arose.
"Well," said Sam, with a long breath, "I call that a pretty mean trick."
"The duffer who did it ought to be ducked in the river," said little Tommy Clifton.
"I'll bet there is some more mystery back of this," declared Bob, angrily. "Wish I could get my hands on that fellow."
"Can't be that—that—" began Dave Brandon, hesitatingly.
"That Nat Wingate had anything to do with it?" interrupted Bob, understanding his meaning. "No! He may be pretty fresh—still, I don't believe he's the one."
"Perhaps he won't be so much surprised, though, when he hears about it," broke in Sam Randall, who seemed to have a different opinion.
"Well, there's no use in yelling our heads off," declared Dave Brandon; "it certainly was a mean trick, but the damage can be repaired in short order."
"That isn't the point, Chubby—why should any one want to play such a trick on us?"
Dave laughed.
"You've got me there, Bob," he said. "If the Trailers didn't do it, it means that some one was prowling around the camp last night."
Tom Clifton, at the thought, felt an uncanny feeling run through him.
"We didn't think that anybody except the Trailers was within miles of us," he faltered.
"Let us get at the facts in order," proposed Dave Brandon. "First: nobody could have touched the engine before we turned in, that's certain."
"Then it must have been done before that wildcat struck the camp."
A hot flush began to color Dick Travers' cheek.
"Or perhaps just after," he spoke up, manfully. "Sorry to say, boys, I was so tired I went to sleep."
"I can't blame you, Dick," said Bob; "it wasn't on account of the boat that you stayed up."
"Had all the Trailers turned in when you last took a look at them?" inquired Sam Randall.
"Yes—the whole crowd, and sleeping like logs, too."
"Let's look for footprints, fellows," suggested Dave.
A close examination of the mass of impressions at the water's edge proved fruitless. The Ramblers had tramped about so much that nothing could be made out.
"Well, there's no use in wasting any more time, fellows," protested Dick Travers; "let's get to work. Hello—the Trailers are coming."
"Say! What are you little Ancient Mariners looking for?" began Nat, as he came up. "Has anybody dropped a penny?"
"We're in the detective business now," replied Bob.
"Why—has anything happened?"
"Well!—Some fellow played a mean trick on us."
"A mean trick on you?" echoed John Hackett, in surprise.
Bob stepped on board the "Rambler," and held up the severed wires.
John Hackett whistled.
"That's funny!" he exclaimed. "I wonder who could have done that."
"Did you see any one skulking around here last night, Nat Wingate?" asked Sam Randall, bluntly.
"Of course I didn't!" returned Nat, in an offended tone.
"Nor at any time during the afternoon?"
"See here, Randall, what do you mean by asking me such fool questions?" fumed Nat, who seemed to be unduly sensitive.
"Well, why shouldn't I ask 'em?"
"Don't you think that if I had seen any one I would have said something about it?"
"How do I know? You might—"
"Might what? If you think I know who did it, say so right out," snapped Nat, his brown eyes flashing.
"Sam didn't say anything like that," interposed Bob.
"He'd better not," blustered Nat, in war-like tones; "nobody can insult me!"
"Bears, wildcats—"
"And," continued Nat, resuming all his old-time aggressive and sarcastic manner, "I want to know if you fellows think for an instant that I—"
"We think that you are getting worked up over nothing," interrupted Travers.
"And I'll get more worked up. If your old wash-tub was put out of commission, you can't blame it on us. You're a nice lot, I must say."
Doubling his fists, and otherwise exhibiting symptoms of increasing rage, Nat Wingate proceeded: "What do you think of this, anyway, Hacky?"
John, hoping that a first-class row would result, decided to aid in its development as much as possible.
"It looks as if they wanted to insult us," he growled, in his most aggressive manner.
"Maybe the wildcat cut the wires," exclaimed Kirk Talbot. But this piece of pleasantry passed unheeded.
"Did you ever hear of such a thing?" howled Nat, encouraged by his chief lieutenant's attitude. "If you want to stir up the biggest scrap you ever heard of, Sam Randall, just say right out that we did it. Going to say it? I dare you to!"
"That's the way to talk, that's it!" chimed in Hackett, greatly delighted. "Nothing like coming out like a man. I don't want any racket, but we ain't going to stand mean insinuations—and don't you forget it!"
"Remember what they did for us yesterday," spoke up Ted Pollock.
"We do!" said Nat, a little taken aback. "We do! But that doesn't give 'em the right to insult us, does it?"
"Nobody has tried to," said Bob; "quit your row."
"And it's a good thing they haven't," blustered Nat. "All the same, I was never so mad in my life. Do you think I can't see what 'Skinny' was driving at?"
"Yes, it was simply written all over his face," added Hackett, who, however, winked a half dozen times at the Ramblers, and appeared to have some difficulty in repressing a laugh.
"Come on, Nimrods," said Nat, a moment later. "This nice gang doesn't want our company."
With these words, the angry "chief pirate" turned away, Hackett and the others reluctantly following.
"Certainly fine chaps, all of 'em," observed Sam Randall, in disgusted tones. "Think that Nat would have flared up so quickly unless he knew something about it? I don't."
"Looks very queer! Everything happens to us, and nothing to them," asserted the captain. Then he added: "Don't let us fool any more time away. That engine has to be fixed. Good thing we brought an extra supply of wire along."
It was not a hard task to replace the ones which had been cut, and Bob succeeded in making a very quick job of it.
"As good as ever, fellows," he declared at length, with a smile. "Turn that wheel, Chubby."
"Good boy!" exclaimed Dave. "That duffer didn't do us as much harm as we thought."
"One—two—three! We are off—Why! what's the matter?"
To their dismay, the "Rambler" lay as motionless on the placid water of the bay as if it had never moved.
"What is the trouble now?" faltered Tom Clifton.
"I am sure I don't know," answered Bob. "These wires were fixed all right."
"Are the batteries in good shape?" queried Dave.
Bob made a careful examination. "They are all O. K. The trouble must be somewhere else. Perhaps the spark plugs were tampered with," he continued, anxiously.
At this unlooked-for turn in affairs, all crowded around the motor, and began examining it with great misgivings.
"It does look as if the cylinders are scratched up a bit, eh?" exclaimed Dick, excitedly.
"They are," said Bob, bending over them. "I can see it clearly. What do you think of that? The rascal made a good job of it after all."
It is quite certain that had the individual in question been within reach of the highly indignant Ramblers at this moment, he would have passed, as the French say, "A very bad quarter of an hour."
Bob unscrewed one of the spark plugs.
"Well, this has been put out of business," he exclaimed, hotly; "and I'll bet the other has, too."
An examination proved his surmise to be correct.
"No wonder the engine wouldn't work!" exclaimed the captain angrily. "Wouldn't I give a lot to know why this was done? Maybe it's busted so badly we can't fix it."
The boys were now satisfied that the Trailers had had nothing to do with it, but this only served to make the mystery deeper.
About this time the "Nimrod" was seen rapidly approaching. Nat and his companions raised a frightful chorus of groans as they passed.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Tom Clifton, blankly, while the other Ramblers stood disconsolately around.
"These spark plugs are certainly done for," said Bob. Then, to the astonishment of the boys, he began to smile.
"I don't see anything to grin at," remarked Dick Travers; "here we are, miles from home, and stranded. Makes us look like a lot of chumps."
"Cheer up, Dick," said Bob; "I was smiling to think how some fellow wasted his time."
"What do you mean?" queried Sam.
"Do you think I would come on a trip like this without bringing along a few extra spark plugs? No siree!"
"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "You're all right, Bob Somers. Trot 'em out quick, and let us get away before anything else happens."
Bob produced his bunch of keys and opened a small locker near the motor, which contained a tool-box and various supplies.
"Guess the fellow who was kind enough to do all this work didn't think we kept a regular stock on hand, eh, Chubby?"
The stout boy laughed. "I'd give a lot to know who did it," he observed.
Bob, who was something of a mechanic, soon had the new spark plugs in place and the wires attached.
"Turn the wheel, Dave," he cried, at length; "let's see how it works."
Again the cheery chug-chug sounded.
The "Rambler" darted forward, and a mighty cheer rolled over the water. Then the boys joined in a merry song.
By the time the motor boat, with full power turned on, was riding the gentle swells of the lake, the "Nimrod" had disappeared from view.
Far off in the distance the smoke of a lake steamer rested like a blur against the sky. The shore presented an ever-changing panorama of wooded hills and flat, marshy expanses, rather desolate in appearance.
The afternoon on the lake passed without any special event. Toward five o'clock the gray expanse of cloud had become considerably broken, a cheerful glow of sunshine flooding the scene.
"We must be getting near the end of the lake, boys," observed Bob; "I begin to see houses."
He smiled as his eyes rested upon Dave Brandon, peacefully curled up on the locker.
About three-quarters of an hour later, the poet laureate was rudely shaken by Sam Randall.
"Wake up!" cried the latter. "Wake up, old sleepy-head—see what's here!"
Dave Brandon raised himself to a sitting posture. Instead of being out on the lake, as he expected, he saw, straight ahead, a bridge connecting two towns, an island dividing a river and many signs of life. Strains of music floated over the air.
"Good gracious! Also, by ginger!" he exclaimed. Whereupon the others laughed.
As the Ramblers drew near the island, a picturesque and lively sight met their gaze. Merry-go-rounds, switchback railways, buildings decorated with gilt and splashes of bright color were scattered around, while a Babel of noise attested to the merriment that was going on. Groups of people moved to and fro, many crowding to the edge of the water as the "Rambler" moved slowly by.
"I didn't know there was anything like this around here," said Bob. "Hello, the island is divided by channels."
A rather wide waterway opened out before them.
"Shall we go through?" he asked.
"Of course," replied Sam, quickly.
Accordingly, the motor boat was turned into the winding reach of water. At intervals, picturesque little rustic bridges crossed the stream.
They soon learned, from the numerous questions and remarks, that the Nimrods could not be far off. One stout man, with a very red face and choleric manner, at the risk of breaking the rail, leaned far over, and emphasizing his remarks by vigorous shakes of a large cane, roared:
"You young rascals! You irresponsible set of young Indians! you'll be arrested before—"
The rest of the sentence was lost, as the "Rambler" passed on.
"He must have seen the Trailers," chuckled Bob; "and their monkey-shines set his nerves on edge."
At the next bridge, upon which quite a crowd was congregated, the boys heard enough to convince them that the Trailers had been enjoying a high lark, dashing about at full speed, with their usual recklessness.
"Big park, this," drawled Dave. "Just look at all the shows. I'll bet a fellow could have some fun in there."
"I see a picture of a fat man and a thin lady," said Dick; "ten cents, I guess, to see 'em both. I say, if you're not careful, Dave Brandon, your phiz will be painted like that some day."
"Just so," laughed Dave; "that's what I have been training for. It's the easiest way to make a living I know of."
During this time, numerous boats, some shaped like Venetian gondolas, were passing and repassing, their occupants being careful to give the "Rambler" a wide berth.
"Funny how the scene has changed," observed Brandon, languidly; "only the other night a wildcat tried to interview us, and now look at all this crowd."
"Twenty miles makes a big difference in this part of the country," said Sam Randall.
"So far, we have had some pretty lively times," put in Bob. "Perhaps nothing will happen for the rest of the trip."
He reduced speed as they were approaching a bend. Loud laughter and voices reached their ears.
"The Trailers again," sniffed Sam Randall.
"Having lots of fun, eh?" observed Bob. "This is a pretty risky place to do any cutting-up in. It's a wonder they haven't sunk five or six boats already."
Almost immediately the point was rounded. Just ahead, the "Nimrod" rested motionless, facing a small canoe. The occupant of the latter, a light-haired young fellow, seemed to be considerably annoyed.
"If you had bumped into me," he was shouting, "I would have had you taken up."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Nat. "It would have been worse than a pumpkin falling on a frog. Christopher!" he cried, in wondering accents, as the "Rambler" approached. "So you got the old tub fixed up. I didn't expect to see you again for—"
"A week," chimed in Hackett. "Have a blacksmith at the next corner hammer the old thing in shape, eh? Look out there, Jack, in the duck boat. Give 'em plenty of room. They have everybody on the bounding deep afraid of their lives. Navigation all tied up."
"Be careful," admonished the young man, darting an angry glance at Hackett; "my father will—"
"Your pa can't scare us, Jacky. Hurry up there, Somers, get that old floating log out of the way."
"Going to stay in town?" inquired Bob.
"No, can't. Pa's going to get after us. Give the spinning-wheel a turn, Kirk—full speed. Don't block up the channel, Jack."
Having uttered these words, Nat Wingate raised the megaphone to his lips and uttered a long, loud screech. Standing erect, he put all the force of his lungs into it, and just at that moment, the motor boat began to glide ahead.
Instantly it was seen that the reckless boy had made a miscalculation. A sudden lurch caused him to clutch the steering-wheel for support, and it was given a sharp turn in the wrong direction.
"My stars—Christopher!" screamed Nat. "Stop! Shut down the engine!"
Kirk, who had failed to notice the incident, obeyed, but not with his usual degree of promptness. The bow of the "Nimrod" was seen to swing around and bump squarely against the frail canoe.
Taken altogether by surprise, the light-haired young man lost his balance and tipped over sideways. A great splash followed, as he plunged into the water, while the canoe turned over and floated bottom upward.
Screams and shouts came from the hundreds who had witnessed the incident. It looked as if the act had been done on purpose.
Nat and his companions only waited long enough to see that the victim of their recklessness was able to swim.
"Don't let anything more happen to him, Bob Somers," yelled Nat; "but look out for his pa. Full speed, Kirk, or we may not be a mile away before the cops get here."
The motor of the "Nimrod" began to work furiously, and it drew rapidly ahead.
The young man did not reply to the Ramblers' proffers of assistance, but swam after his canoe and began pushing it toward the shore.
"Whew, isn't he mad, though? I don't blame him a bit either," whispered Tom Clifton.
"The Trailers may get into trouble for this," said Sam Randall. "Let's stay here until we see what mister towhead does."
A few moments later, the involuntary bather stood on a landing, surrounded by a crowd of sympathetic spectators.
"I tell you, this gang is a regular pack of outlaws," the Ramblers heard him say, as he began to wring out his dripping clothes.
"Going to have 'em took up?" inquired some one.
"Well, I guess so. If the whole crowd isn't up before Squire Peterson this very night, I'm badly mistaken."
"It would serve them just right," observed Sam Randall.
"But we don't care to be mixed up in any scrap," added Bob. "Start the motor, Dave, and let us get ahead."
"Yes, they might want us to see the squire, too," laughed Brandon. "Don't pay any attention to them," he added, as shouts came from the shore.
The "Rambler" slowly wended its way through the channel until the amusement park was passed, after which full power was switched on and the islands rapidly passed.
When the Ramblers emerged into the main river they saw the "Nimrod" far ahead.
"The Trailers are certainly getting out of the way," observed Bob, with a laugh.
The boys now saw that they were in the midst of an industrial community. From high chimneys columns of smoke poured forth, while clumsy barges, stacked high with lumber, seemed to indicate the flourishing condition of that industry. Evidences of business activity were on all sides.
The continuation of Wolf River which connected Lake Minnewago and Clair Bay proved to be a much wider stream than the other branch.
"Aren't there rapids near here, Bob?" questioned Dave.
"About five miles further on. We have to go through a canal."
"But it's getting pretty late," objected Tom Clifton; "don't you think it would be better to tie up for the night?"
"Of course not, sonny; we can sleep on board the 'Rambler' for once," returned Bob.
"Yes, we don't want to do the same thing all the time," said Sam Randall, and Dave, likewise, heartily endorsed the idea.
Numerous craft, of many descriptions, were seen. A wheezing, puffing steam tug, drawing a line of heavily laden barges, passed close by, while an old-fashioned side wheeler, which Dave laughingly declared must have belonged to "the vintage of 1860," sent a rippling line of swells to rock the "Rambler" from stem to stern.
There were so many picturesque features connected with this part of the river that they were almost sorry when the canal was reached. Already, the ruddy glow had left the clouds and a few far-off lights began to twinkle.
Bob turned the "Rambler" into the artificial waterway without stopping. The boat was soon gliding along at the base of a steep hill, with about a quarter of a mile separating them from the river.
At length a roaring sound, which they knew to be the rapids, reached their ears, and soon after the canal lock loomed ahead of them.
"We'll have to wait here some time, I'll bet," observed Bob. "Look at those clumsy tubs ahead of us."
"Rub up against some of 'em, and there'll be a job for a painter," declared Dick.
"To say nothing of a boat builder, if we get crowded between two of them," added Sam. "Try to get in with that little steamer," he advised, indicating one manned by two men.
"Oh ho, but this waiting is tiresome," drawled Dave; "hope we won't be here all night. If I only had a duck's leg to help keep down my appetite."
"You wouldn't have it without a good scrap, I can tell you that," laughed Sam. "Ah, our turn next. Look lively, Bob."
The gates of the lock slowly opened. A barge entered first, then the small steamer mentioned, and a number of other boats, not, however, without some confusion and a great deal of unnecessary shouting.
When the gates closed upon them, the Ramblers lay back to enjoy the sensation as the boat slowly sank to the lower level. In due course, they passed slowly out between stone walls which towered a dozen or more feet above them.
"Might as well get out the oil-stove, and get things going," spoke up Bob; "and light a couple of lanterns, somebody. We don't want to do any Nat Wingating on this trip."
"No, because the other boat might be the stronger," chuckled Dick.
"Let the motor out a bit, Dave, and we'll run by some of these old hulks."
Dusk was now upon them. Lights, in long, tremulous lines, reflected in the dark waters of the canal. From the cabins of several indistinct craft a cheerful glow appeared, and, as the "Rambler" passed them, they heard the rattle of knives and forks.
"I declare, I'm glad to see the river again," said Bob, as they came out into the stream. "How is supper progressing, cooks? Hungry—well, I should say so."
"It's a good thing we brought plenty of stuff along," commented the poet laureate. "Tom Clifton, keep away from that pot. Put the salt out of sight, boys."
"You needn't be afraid, Chubby. I wanted to see what kind of a mess they're getting up. I say, this is a dismal-looking place, isn't it?"
"Wouldn't care to be out here alone," Dick chimed in. "Think of getting tangled up in that marsh. Don't run in too close, Bob; you'll get the propeller all choked up with weeds. Listen to those dogs barking. How far away do you suppose they are?"
"Two miles from nowhere, and that's here," yawned Dave. "I can tell you, nothing will disturb my rest to-night."
"Switch off the power, and heave your anchor," commanded Bob. "The current is swinging us around, but it doesn't make any difference. Now for supper."
The boiled ham, bacon, and canned corn, with coffee and preserves, rapidly disappeared.
"Don't like this place a little bit," growled Tom; "wish we were on shore. Say, doesn't that water look black?"
"What color would you expect it to be—blue?" asked Dave. "You can hear it gurgling and swishing against the sides of the boat, but there isn't even a sparkle to be seen."
"I'm glad there isn't," said Bob; "for in that case it would seem like being in some enchanted region, and we all might have bad dreams. It certainly is black, though."
The "Rambler" had been moored about twenty-five feet from the shore, in a place which was about as desolate as could well be imagined. The stars were partially obscured, and not a light twinkled on either shore. A barely perceptible patch of light, low down in the sky, indicated the position of the town and the amusement park.
"I think I'll turn in," said Dave, finally; "I certainly do feel tired."
"Sleep on one side of the boat, then," said Sam. "All the rest on the other ought to keep the 'tub' from sinking."
Dave laughed good-naturedly as he spread out a blanket.
"Going to be close quarters," exclaimed Bob. "Never mind; choose your places, fellows."
This was soon done, but either the novelty of the situation or the restriction of their quarters prevented most of them from passing a comfortable night. The principal exception was, of course, Dave Brandon.
All were astir when the morning mists hung in long streamers over the river and shore, and the distance was blotted out by yellow haze.
Bob Somers and Sam Randall went ashore with their rods and fishing-lines and made their way to a partly submerged log.
"Ought to be a good place," observed the former. "Let's see what we can catch for breakfast."
The young anglers knew from experience that fish often haunt tree roots and hollows. They moved with the greatest caution, casting their lines with skill and success.
The excitement and uncertainty of landing the catch made time pass so quickly that loud calls began to come from the others while they were in the height of their enjoyment.
But Bob and Sam did not deign to answer. The rippling water, occasionally broken by eddies and swirls, quiet pools, framed by reeds, and humming insects all possessed a charm which made them loth to leave.
Finally, a string of four glistening white fish were gathered up, the boys then making their way back to the boat.
"Splendid!" exclaimed Dick Travers, viewing the catch with great favor. "We thought you were going to stay there all day."
"I declare, it would suit me to do just that thing," asserted Sam. "Look out, Dave Brandon, don't put salt in my cup!"
"Oh ho, beg pardon," yawned the poet; "thought it was sugar. I don't believe I'm getting enough rest."
"The only time you are not lazy is at meal-times."
"I know it," replied the stout boy, mildly; "and when those fish are ready—oh ho!"
He did not conclude the sentence, but his comical expression made the others laugh heartily.
Breakfast over, the "Rambler" got under way. The boys found plenty to interest them on both shores. Several tumble-down shacks, apparently in the last stages of dilapidation, and probably the homes of squatters, brought forth various comments.
"You can see what laziness will bring people to," remarked Dave, humorously. "Boys, take warning."
About noon, they saw a picturesque tributary entering the river on the right hand shore. It was such a cool, pleasant-looking retreat, shaded by overhanging trees, that all thought it best to make an exploration.
"It may be a long time before we come to such a dandy place again," said Bob.
They had proceeded but a short distance up the tributary, when a spot was discovered which Dick Travers declared was "simply grand."
An arching bower of leaves afforded an ideal shelter for the motor boat. Through the thick masses of foliage, splashes of sunlight mingled with deep shadows, and bright bits of blue sky shone here and there, all reflected as a confused blur, in the eddying current of the stream. The chattering of birds, now mild, then loud and imperious, filled the air.
Dave Brandon, whose eyes had been roving around, touched Bob Somers. "Let's have your field-glass," he said. "I'll bet that's a bald eagle."
He pointed toward the top of a fine old sycamore. Upon one of the highest branches was what appeared to be, at first glance, only a patch of bark, but on a second resolved itself into the form of a great bird. He gave no indication that their presence was known, but slowly moved his head from side to side.
"Look, he's going!" cried Sam. "Phew, what a whopper! Never saw one so close before. Don't I wish we could get a shot at it?"
"Jehoshaphat, those wings, aren't they great?" put in Dick.
The eagle soared majestically away over the tree tops, and was soon lost to view.
"There must be plenty of game around here. What do you fellows say to taking a little jaunt?" asked Sam.
"Good plan," agreed Bob. "Get out that oar, Sam, and ease her over a bit. You, too, Dick. See if we can't get right under that spreading branch. Better pitch all the stuff we'll need for lunch on shore now, eh, Tom?" he added.
A few moments more, and the "Rambler" was snugly drawn up.
To get on land without wetting their feet proved rather difficult, but, at length, all save Tom stood on shore.
"Catch, Dave," he called, and one by one the necessary provisions were tossed into the poet laureate's waiting arms.
Tommy Clifton's legs were a trifle shorter than those of the others, therefore he looked rather blankly at the marshy stretch between himself and the shore.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Dick. "And that branch over your head isn't strong enough to hold."
"Here goes—look out!" cried Tom.
He made a flying leap, falling on his hands and knees, but the ground was soft, and no harm resulted.
"The boat is pretty well hidden," observed Bob, with satisfaction. "Guess there is no danger in leaving her."
"Of course not. Come along," urged Sam; "I'm all cramped up. Feel like an old salt."
"No sign of the Trailers," said Tom; "and whoever damaged the engine must be miles away."
They wandered around, through a heavily timbered tract, then into a pleasant little valley, enclosed by gently rounded, wooded hills.
"Oh, I see a place over there," began Dave.
"We know what you mean," broke in Sam; "it's a fine place for a nap, lazybones, but we came out to hunt. Wish something would be kind enough to trot forth and be shot at."
"Too much noise," said Bob, laconically. "Let's go back and cook what we have. Then the Ramblers can ramble afterward."
The day was pleasant. A slight haze tempered the heat, so they sauntered slowly along, having decided to return by a different route. In about an hour's time, the party reached Wolf River at a point some distance below their camp.
A group of scrubby willows fringed the bank, the cool shade of which proved so inviting that Dave Brandon threw himself down in the midst of some tall grass beneath them.
"Won't budge for five minutes," he announced, firmly.
Plenty of small stones were scattered around. Stooping over, Sam picked up a number.
"I'll bet I can throw further than any fellow in the crowd," he challenged. "See that point over there, Chubby? here goes!"
"Great Cæsar!"
"My eye!"
"Thunderation!"
Sam quickly turned on his heel, as a series of wild exclamations came without warning from the others.
"What's up—what—?" But the rest of the sentence died away on his lips.
A most astonishing sight met his gaze, and one which sent a thrill through every fibre of his being.
A motor boat, enveloped in sheets of flame, drifting slowly on the current, had appeared beyond a jutting point of land.
For a moment all stood speechless with dismay. Then they found their voices.
"Is it the 'Rambler'?" cried Bob, in accents of the wildest dismay.
"It can't be."
"I don't believe it."