The captain raised his field-glass.
"It's the 'Rambler,' that's certain," he cried, with a groan.
Dense columns of brownish smoke poured from the motor boat, while the spurts of flame which darted upward rapidly increased in volume.
"Oh, the wicked scoundrels!"
"Doesn't that beat anything you ever heard of?"
"And nothing can be done to save her!"
"Great Scott, she's a goner, as sure as fate!"
A great burst of flame, capped by a mass of heavy smoke, shot violently upward at this moment, followed by the report of an explosion. A thousand particles scattered in all directions, then, with a convulsive lurch, the "Rambler" settled down and disappeared beneath the surface of the river.
"Gone!" said Bob, with a tremor in his voice.
"Oh, why did we ever leave it?" burst in Sam, almost with tears in his eyes.
"Who in the world could have done that? and we thought there wasn't anybody around for miles."
"Come on, fellows; what are we standing here for, when there may be a chance to get hold of the rascal?" cried Dick, hotly.
The Ramblers raced pell-mell toward the place where they had left the boat.
"Of course, not a sign of any one," groaned Bob. "This is an awful state of affairs."
Their hearts beating painfully, they stood around the spot where the "Rambler" had been moored.
"Look, the rope has all been burned away," cried Tom Clifton.
"And here is a branch that wasn't broken before," chimed in Dick; "see, the ends are fresh. You know, fellows, we didn't do that."
"I wonder if they came here by boat?" cried Bob. "Follow me, boys," he added.
He ran toward the mouth of the tributary, jumping over bushes and underbrush and darting between the trees, with his companions close at his heels.
In the course of a few minutes, they reached Wolf River. Far off, but a mere speck on the wide expanse, they saw a small steamboat.
Bob drew out his field-glass and gazed earnestly toward it.
"I believe it's the boat we saw in the canal lock," he exclaimed eagerly. "See what you can make out, Dave."
"As sure as you live, that's the very one," agreed the other, after a brief inspection; "but what—which—"
"Then I'll bet they are the ones who did it, eh, Bob?" cried Tom, excitedly.
"But we have seen several other boats," said Bob; "and, besides that, who ever—"
"I'll bet I know what it is," interrupted Dick Travers. "Somebody has had a mix-up with the Trailers, and taken revenge on us by mistake."
"I don't think so," returned Bob. "First the 'Rambler' was stolen, then the engine damaged, and now—whew! but it makes me wild to think about it. I'll wager the same people were responsible each time. Say, boys, if we could lay hands on those fellows, wouldn't there be a lively time?"
He made several threatening movements, while the rest of the Ramblers angrily clenched their fists.
"Boat gone, blankets, provisions, everything but what we stand upright in, and the truck Tom threw on shore. What do you suppose my dad will say?"
"That we are a lot of duffers, if there ever were any," cried Sam, angrily. "There are just three questions I would like to have answered. Who did it, why was it done, and how did anybody manage to follow us, find the boat, and yet keep out of sight so well?"
"And all three are stumpers," said Bob.
"Talk about it a week, puzzle your brains out, and you wouldn't know a thing more than we do at this minute," declared Dick, gloomily.
"Guess your dad will be mad, eh, Bob? A cool—don't know how many dollars."
"What's going to be done now—go home?" asked Tom.
"Not a bit of it, sonny. I'm going to keep right on, and tell the police in the next town. I say, won't Nat Wingate enjoy this?"
"And 'Hatchet,' too," added Dick.
"We are in an awful mess, that's certain," observed Dave, ruefully. "Still, there's no use in staying here all day and crying about it. Are you fellows going to eat anything?"
"Don't feel much like it," admitted Bob; "but, still, I suppose we had better, especially with a twenty mile walk in front of us."
"Twenty miles?" gasped Dave, in horrified tones. "My gracious, Bob Somers, don't you say anything like that! Why can't we take a train somewhere?"
The captain brought out his map, spreading it carefully on the ground.
"It's eight miles, at least, to the railroad," he said; "a good three hours' tramp. But, boys, I can't get over this. To think our trip on the water is ended, and that the 'Rambler' lies at the bottom of the river."
"I pretty near felt like crying when I saw it first," admitted Tom Clifton; "and it isn't near so bad on us as it is on you, Bob. Crickets, I am sorry, and no mistake."
"Sorry is no name for it," cried Sam Randall, hotly. "If that mysterious fellow was a giant, I believe I'd tackle him single-handed. All our fun gone, vacation busted—whoop—I don't believe I ever felt so mad in my life. Makes us look like a lot of kids, too. It's a good thing Nat Wingate isn't around here looking for trouble."
The boys had been slowly walking back to the camping-ground.
"Jolly good thing you chucked that hatchet ashore, Tom Clifton," observed Bob. "Let's get something to eat in a jiffy, and leave this place."
The boys looked like anything but the usually merry party of Ramblers, as they sat around dejectedly. None had any appetite, and it was a relief when the meal was over.
"We'll divide the stuff up," proposed Bob; "it won't be much of a load, and it may come in handy."
"Twenty miles!" groaned Dave; "almost as long as the Marathon course. Don't believe my legs will ever stand it."
"Can't you get that off your mind, Chubby?" asked Tom.
"I don't mind the walk, but—oh, say, come on. Haven't I got the blues, though?"
"If my dad doesn't raise the biggest row, I'll be surprised," observed Bob; "he'll have the police hot after them, just as soon as he hears about it."
Dishes were hastily washed. Then the boys gathered up their belongings, and sadly began the long march. How different were their feelings now from those they had in the early morning. Even nature seemed to have lost half its charm.
An hour passed. They toiled on, through pine woods, along the course of a joyous brook, over ridges and hills, while the hot sun poured down, making them hug the shade as closely as possible.
"Hottest day we've had," grumbled Dave, wiping his perspiring face.
"Weary already, Chubby?" inquired Tom. "That's because you're too fat."
"If I was only a human bean pole, like John Hackett," sighed Dave. "Have to rest a bit, boys."
He sank down on a fallen tree trunk with an expression of relief.
"There's a logging camp close by," burst out Bob; "listen, boys!"
"Sure enough!" echoed Dick. "Come on, fellows; let's see what it looks like."
"Yes, I hear them at work. Get up, Dave," called out Sam; "I'll race you."
But the poet laureate shook his head. "Don't bother me. I'll follow you," he grumbled. "Pshaw! I wonder why—"
The others, however, were already some distance away, and the sentence was left unfinished.
The sound of the woodsman's axe rang through the forest, and, guided by it, Bob and his companions quickly reached the scene of their work.
The loggers seemed greatly surprised when a "parcel of youngsters," as they termed the boys, put in appearance.
"So yer have come out fur a spell in the woods, eh?" said a big, raw-boned individual, resting on his labors. "Never see a camp like this afore, eh? Take a look around, then, but don't shoot nobody with them guns."
"Tarnation dangerous things they be, in the hands of a young un," put in another; "know'd a feller, once, what had his hand clean blowed off by a small chap."
"A regular Zeke Tipson," whispered Sam.
"Tote yourselves around, youngsters," said the first logger, kindly; "and, if you hev a mind, stay and grub with us."
The boys thanked him heartily, but explained that they were anxious to reach town as soon as possible.
"Railroad, 'tain't but two miles," volunteered the logger; "if yer hustle, yer kin git a train at Spiker's Hamlet. Logging road goes right toward it."
The boys passed through a clearing, in the centre of which stood a log hut, while, close at hand, were several sheds used for storing lumber. By this time Dave joined them, dragging himself wearily along.
"Come on, come on!" cried Sam Randall. "We don't want to miss that train."
"Another dose of this will surely finish me," groaned Dave; "I'll eat two suppers to-night and sleep all day to-morrow."
The logging road made progress easy, and a half hour later, Tom Clifton gave a joyous shout. "The railroad!" he cried. "Now for Spiker's Hamlet."
The steel rails stretched in a long straight line before them, affording a glimpse, in the distance, of a few houses. This was Spiker's Hamlet, a dull, lifeless little community.
The only occupant of the small station proved to be an old, gray-headed ticket agent, who hobbled forth on one leg and gazed at them in apparent astonishment.
"Hev ter wait thirty-five minutes," he snapped, in answer to their questions. "Last train?—sure. Do yew calculate they run 'em all night? Stick them 'ere guns in the corner."
"Guess he must have know'd a feller once what shot somebody in the neck," laughed Dick Travers.
With a clang, rush and roar, the train finally thundered up to the station, and the boys clambered on board.
Half an hour later, they arrived at the town of Clair Bay.
"A lumbering place, sure enough," observed Bob; "no end of yards stacked high with wood and sawmills, too."
"Don't the people stare at us?" put in Dick. "Probably they never saw a crowd like this before."
"Let 'em stare," answered Dave, wearily.
"I see the bay!" exclaimed Tom Clifton. "Boys, let me introduce you to the place where we might have had some fun. Isn't it fine? Look, there is one of the steamers."
They turned into a street which skirted the bay. Before them, a great sheet of water stretched off until lost to view in the hazy distance. But, too tired and dispirited to continue their exploration further, the Ramblers entered the rather unpretentious Badger State Hotel, and secured accommodations for the night.
"Well, I declare—where did you fellows drop from? Where's old sleepy-head?"
"Street-cars and trucks, so we meet again, eh?"
Nat Wingate and Kirk Talbot uttered these exclamations, as the two encountered Bob Somers, accompanied by Sam Randall, on the following morning.
"Having any further trouble with your old tub?" asked Nat.
"Not much," answered Bob, dryly; "don't expect to, either. It's at the bottom of Wolf River."
"What?—Say, where does the joke come in, Somers? I don't catch on."
"The 'Rambler' was set on fire and blown into bits yesterday by some mean scoundrel."
"Come now, what are you trying to give us?" protested Nat, incredulously, while Kirk Talbot fairly gasped with astonishment.
"You don't expect me to believe a fishy yarn like that, do you?"
For an answer, Bob told the two Nimrods all about the destruction of the "Rambler," and their long tramp to the railroad station.
"Little and big fishes, if that isn't the worst I ever heard!" cried Kirk, with wide-open eyes. "Haven't you any idea who could have worked such a game on you?"
"Not the slightest."
"Christopher! Mighty tough luck, I must say," admitted Nat. "I can hardly believe it yet. Save anything, Somers?"
"Not enough to notice."
"Wow, won't your father be mad, though? Didn't you know any better than to leave the tub? Thought after we got out there was no danger, eh?"
Nat exhibited a trace of the sneering, unpleasant manner which had largely served to keep him out of the Rambler Club.
"Never was more surprised in my life," declared Kirk Talbot; "can't imagine why any one should have done it. Didn't you have a scrap with anybody, or raise a shindy in that town back there?"
"No!"
"Maybe 'pa' touched off the fuse," began Nat, laughing uproariously. "Say, Somers, didn't that yellow head take a dandy slide in the water? Oh, my, I guess he was wild, eh? My stars, the funniest sight I ever saw. Ha, ha!" Then suddenly becoming serious, he added: "Suppose you'll go back home now?"
"No, we are going to keep right on."
"What for?"
"You know my father has some land—"
"Come in with our crowd, Somers. Can't you see enough mud and rocks without going off to the edge of the earth?"
"We can have a dandy time, hunting and fishing. Have the use of our boat, too. She'll hold ten, easily. What do you say?"
"That your offer is very kind, but—"
"Oh, say," interrupted Kirk, "what's the matter with you fellows, anyway? Thought you were going to have some fun. More sport when there's a big crowd. I'm awfully sorry your boat is gone, but that's only a good reason why you should join us."
"Which way are you going?"
"To where John 'Hatchet' clubbed that tame old wildcat," laughed Nat. "My eye, Hacky's a wonder when there's no one looking on."
"All had your backs turned, and running like mad?" inquired Sam, innocently.
"You guessed it, my little salt," returned Nat, with a grin. "Are you going with us, or not?"
"If you keep on Clair Bay, we will."
"And if we don't, you won't, that's it, hey? You've given us an ul-ti-ma-tum, as they say, when big words are sprung on us. All right, Somers, we'll think it over, and let you know. Come on, Kirky; Ted may need these pills."
"What's the matter with Pollock?"
"Oh, he got sick yesterday. Ate some of Hackett's cooking. Must say it was a narrow escape. We'll see you later." And with a wave of his hand, Nat and his companion moved off.
"Wingate's a queer fellow," declared Bob; "we wouldn't have him in our club, yet he turns around and wants us to come in with his. It's funny; I never thought Nat was that kind of a fellow."
"Oh, I'll bet Wingate is up to something," said Sam; "thinks, maybe, that he is smart enough to play some trick on us. Nat will bear watching. Smooth, just like his uncle."
Clair Bay, while not a large town, possessed several handsome buildings, but the boys found that the police station was not among the number. It stood just off a main thoroughfare. A flight of steps led up to a rather wide, but dingy-looking entrance.
"Glad we don't have to stay here long," observed Sam, with a grimace.
They pushed open the door and entered. Before them was a square room, lighted by two large windows. Three benches occupied as many sides, while in one corner stood a railing and desk.
Within the enclosure sat an elderly, gray-haired official. He looked up as the boys entered.
"What can I do for you, young men?" he asked.
Bob Somers related his story.
"Humph!" muttered the official. He glanced over the rim of his eye-glasses at the boys, then began to question them.
The Ramblers had no intention of mentioning Nat Wingate and his crowd, but, under the fire of persistent queries, even the fact that the Nimrods' leader had threatened them came out. Bob, however, assured the official that no suspicion could be attached to their rivals.
"I don't know that we can give you much hope," said the official, at the conclusion of their interview; "but we will do the best we can."
"Now for the post-office!" exclaimed Bob. "I'll break the news to my dad as gently as I can. I wouldn't like to see his face when he gets the letter."
"There's the post-office across the street," said Sam.
In the meantime, the two Trailers had rejoined their companions. The "Nimrod," decked with several flags, the largest of which bore the club's name in gilt letters, was tied up at a wharf near the far end of the town.
"Hi, there!" cried Nat, as they approached, and unmindful of the fact that several spectators were engaged in talking to his friends. "Great news—bing, bang, bust, air full of little pieces—old canal-boat of Somers under fifty feet of the worst drinking water in Wisconsin."
"What's that?" asked Hackett.
"Bing, bang, bust! I told you; the 'Rambler' blew up. Couldn't stand the crowd that was on it any longer."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Hackett, impatiently.
"For goodness' sake, Kirk, explain. I thought I was speaking English."
"Their old tub was blown into the middle of next week," said Talbot, bluntly. "Some fellow who had a grudge against 'em—"
"Say, is that true—blown up—sunk?" burst forth Hackett, exhibiting the greatest astonishment.
"Sunk?" echoed Ted Pollock, aghast.
"That's just what happened," said Nat; "I feel sorry for the poor duffers.—What say, Bill?"
This remark was addressed to a respectable-looking gentleman of about forty, who, standing close by, had heard the various remarks, and ventured to make an inquiry.
"I asked," said the gentleman, "about the explosion on a boat, but, if you will permit me, I would like to say that your manner of addressing people might be considerably improved."
"That isn't my fault," returned Nat, who was not in the least abashed; "somebody stole the club's book on manners."
A howl of merriment sent the dignified gentleman away in disgust.
"That was a piece of nerve, wasn't it?" said John Hackett.
"Frightful!" returned Nat. "Let me see, what was I saying? Oh, yes, ha, ha! I feel sorry for those chaps, but I can't help laughing. This is the way it happened."
Nat then related the particulars, frequently interrupted by exclamations and questions. Several loungers who crowded up also seemed to be interested in the story.
For some time, the Nimrods discussed the extraordinary event.
Suddenly Nat Wingate remarked: "Feeling any better, Ted? I got some stuff for you."
Young Pollock's pale face and listless manner showed that he felt far from his usual self.
The day before, while rambling through the woods, the lad had come across a plant that he supposed to be an artichoke. Only Nat's fortunate arrival at that moment prevented him from eating more of the poisonous wild parsnip. As it was, Ted had been sick all day, and he vowed never to touch any of the wild plants growing in the woods.
"What have you got, Nat—pills with an awful taste?" questioned Ted.
"There's a policeman making a bee-line this way," broke in Hackett. "Say, do you suppose that fellow who fell out of his tub back there made any kick?"
"Guess 'Brass buttons' is just coming to take a look at the 'Nimrod.' Don't let a blue uniform get you scared."
But the policeman only glanced at the trim little motor boat.
"What's your name?" he demanded, addressing the leader of the Nimrods.
"Nat Wingate—why?"
"Is that your boat?"
"Sure, it is."
"Then you fellows will have to come with me," said the officer.
"What for?" protested Nat.
"Never mind, Johnny. The captain will tell you all about it. Step lively now."
"This is an outrage!" cried Hackett, loudly.
"There's some mistake," faltered Nat.
"Well, I can't chin here all day," said the officer, gruffly; "I was given orders to take you in hand, and in you go."
"Somebody is going to pay for this," blustered Hackett, angrily. "My stars, what can you want with us? We only got here this morning."
The officer reached forward, and grasped the slim youth's arm. "Come right along, Johnny," he commanded; "march."
He pushed him forward, while Hackett fairly boiled with anger. To add to the Nimrods' discomfiture, a large crowd had gathered.
"Just wait until my uncle hears about this," fumed Nat; "somebody is going to catch it, I can tell you."
"The whole bunch pulled in," said Kirk, disconsolately. "This will be pleasant news to the folks at home."
The walk to the police station was decidedly unpleasant, and the Nimrods were glad when the station-house door shut them from the view of the curious crowd.
They soon found themselves facing the man who had received Bob Somers' complaint.
Names were placed on the police blotter. Then the official, resting his elbows on the desk, leaned forward, gazing sternly into Nat Wingate's face.
"Tell me what you know about the destruction of the 'Rambler,'" he said, sharply.
During the afternoon, Bob Somers and his companions strolled around town. They paid the "Nimrod" a visit, in the expectation of seeing the Trailers, but, of course, the latter failed to put in appearance. The evening was spent at a small theatre.
The Ramblers had scarcely finished breakfast on the following morning, when a tall, slightly built gentleman walked briskly up to the Badger State Hotel. He was neatly attired in black, and had a generally prosperous appearance.
"Mr. Wingate!" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.
"I'm glad to see you, Robert," said Mr. Parsons Wingate, holding out his hand, and nodding to the others. "No doubt my visit is unexpected," he continued, with a smile, as he accepted the proffered chair.
"It seems that both the Rambler and Nimrod Clubs have been experiencing some lively times," he went on. "I'm sure you will understand how much I sympathize with you in the loss of your boat. It must have been a dreadful shock."
The Ramblers were intensely curious to know what object could have brought Mr. Parsons Wingate not only to town, but to see them.
"I don't suppose you have heard the news?" inquired their visitor, in his suave, pleasant voice.
"What news?" asked Bob.
"Ah, I thought not. You don't know where Nat and his friends passed the night?"
"No, sir."
"In the police station."
"In the police station?" echoed the astonished Ramblers, almost in one breath.
"Exactly."
Mr. Parsons Wingate even smiled at their surprise.
"Imagine my astonishment, last evening, when I received a telegram from my poor Nat, telling me of their plight."
"But why were they arrested?" broke in Sam Randall, unable to restrain his curiosity longer.
"If I should say that the police actually tried to make it appear that Nat knew something about the destruction of your motor boat, what would you think?"
"By George!" exclaimed Bob, in amazement. "Surely, Mr. Wingate, they were not arrested for that?"
"Not altogether. An ignorant boatman got in their way, somewhere, then, stupidly, had to fall overboard. The fellow makes a ridiculous claim, but, of course, a few dollars will settle that."
"I told the officer at the police station, yesterday, that Nat couldn't possibly know anything about the blowing up of the 'Rambler.'"
"Sure you did," chimed in Sam.
"There is no reason why Nat and his friends should not be discharged from custody at once," went on Mr. Wingate; "but, to clear away every shadow of doubt from the minds of these blundering police, I should be glad to have you go with me to the police station."
"Of course we will," chorused the Ramblers.
"And now," continued Mr. Wingate, with a smile, "I'm glad to hear that you have accepted Nat's offer. A couple of weeks' fun with the boys, will, I hope, make you partially forget your loss. You have agreed to join Nat, haven't you?"
"No, sir, we are going to visit my father's land."
"Your father's land?" questioned Mr. Wingate. "Your trip was undertaken with that object in view?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, a few weeks with Nat, before you start out, won't come amiss. A lot of lively youngsters ought to have a fine time together. In my boyhood days we never dreamed of the privileges that the youth of the twentieth century would enjoy. Motor boats, motor cycles, and a lot of other things. You are living in a great era, boys, and should appreciate it."
"It's too bad about Nat," ventured Tom Clifton.
"'All's well that ends well.' I hope that we shall dine together this evening."
Mr. Parsons Wingate smiled affably, and looked from one to the other. Then he added: "I mean, of course, that the Ramblers and Nimrods, alike, are to be my guests.
"Very good!" he exclaimed, when all had politely accepted. "Now, if I can trouble you, we will go to the station."
The Ramblers, with Bob and Mr. Parsons Wingate leading the way, were soon walking briskly toward the police station. When they arrived, which was shortly before ten o'clock, they found the towheaded young man conversing with an elderly gentleman and two others.
"That's the one," whispered Dave.
Nat's uncle walked toward the group and bowed politely. "My name is Parsons Wingate," he began; "very sorry that you should have any misunderstanding with my nephew. Of course, if you suffered any loss, I am willing to make a reasonable settlement."
Mr. Wingate's respectable appearance and pleasant manner seemed to make a favorable impression, but the young man, who evidently considered that he had been intentionally upset, was not disposed to let the matter drop. He introduced himself as Douglass Brown.
"I can tell you that the whole crowd acted in a most outrageous manner," he declared; "I have witnesses to prove it. Really, it was frightfully mortifying."
"Boys will be boys," observed Mr. Wingate, pleasantly. "Ah, here they come now."
The Nimrods, looking none the worse for their experience, trooped into the room. Backed by Mr. Wingate, they seemed to feel entirely easy in mind.
"Hello, Somers, hello!" said Nat, with a grin.
"My nephew," began Mr. Wingate, pompously; "this gentleman whom you unintentionally upset is Mr. Douglass Brown."
"How are you, Douglass?" said Nat, with his usual familiarity. "You made a big mistake in having us all run in. That little affair was all an accident."
"Of course it was," put in John Hackett; "if Nat's foot hadn't slipped, Mr. Brown, you wouldn't have hit the river with such a splash. Hope you didn't swallow much of it."
"We didn't do it on purpose, that's sure," chimed in Kirk Talbot.
"Of course not," laughed the gentleman from Kingswood. "You can see yourself, Mr. Brown, that the whole affair was brought about by a too sudden starting of the boat. My nephew explained to me this morning how it happened."
"Was the boat pointed toward you when we started?" interrupted Nat.
Mr. Brown was obliged to admit that it was not.
"And you, Kirk, don't you think you started the boat off in a little more lively fashion than usual?"
"Yes, sir," returned Talbot, glibly.
"Therefore my nephew got an unexpected lurch, and the mishap followed as a natural consequence. The boys may have been a trifle too exuberant, but they meant no harm."
"I think so, myself, now," exclaimed the elder Brown, a short, stocky man, with red hair and moustache. "I reckon, Douglass, they have told the truth. What do you think, Ben, and you, Sam?" he added, addressing the witnesses.
"I can't say for certain," replied Ben; "all I know is that this young chap," pointing at Nat, "was yelling like mad, when that 'ere boat of his'n suddenly went bang into the canoe. The next thing I see was Douglass a-swimming. 'Tain't in my nature to say a man done a thing like that a-purpose."
Ben, a tall, thin man, with angular features, reflected a moment before adding: "I don't know but what that idea may be right, only sich things ought never to happen. My darter was with Douglass, and she was nigh scared into fits."
"We all, of course, deeply regret what has occurred," put in Mr. Wingate, with an affable smile. "Your clothes, Mr. Brown, no doubt suffered to some extent. If you will kindly name—"
He paused, the justice of the peace having entered.
The latter was an elderly, gray-bearded man, who seemed to feel the importance of his position.
As there was, apparently, no other case on the calendar that morning, Mr. Wingate and the others were immediately given an opportunity to make their respective statements. The proceedings were of an informal nature. The justice listened attentively to all that was said, and nodded his head approvingly when Douglass Brown signified his willingness to withdraw the charge.
"In a matter of this sort," said the justice, "my duty is to decide whether the case is serious enough to warrant the accused being sent back to the local court for trial. It is clear that these boys did not act with the deliberate intent of doing harm. I will not hold on this charge. But I hope this will prove a warning to be more careful in future. A motor boat is a dangerous thing, unless handled with considerable judgment."
Mr. Wingate bowed. "If I may take the liberty," he said, "there is another matter which I would like to call your attention to. Chief," he proceeded, turning to that official, who was sitting close by, "yesterday you practically charged my nephew with having had some connection with the blowing up of a motor boat."
"In our business," returned the officer, "we cannot always respect people's feelings. A complaint was made, and I soon discovered that the young man, to say the least, has acted in such a manner as to lay himself open to suspicion."
"Nat is a good-hearted boy," went on Mr. Wingate; "he feels very badly over this matter, and neither of us is disposed to leave town until he is absolved from all suspicion."
"There are no charges against him," said the chief. "My questions were necessarily abrupt, and, happily, served to convince me of his innocence."
"I trust you may soon discover the author of that piece of work. It was certainly a most serious affair."
"It was. And, as yet, there is not a clue."
After a few minutes' further conversation, the party left the station.
"Do you mean to say that one of the motor boats was blown up?" questioned Douglass Brown, in surprise.
"Into five thousand little pieces," grinned Nat.
Young Brown listened in open-mouthed amazement, as Bob related the story of the tragic end of the "Rambler."
"I'm awfully sorry, boys," he said. "Only a mean snake would do a thing like that."
His father and their two friends expressed a like opinion.
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Wingate, "I hope you will accept an invitation to dine with the boys and myself this evening."
"I'd like to well enough," said Mr. Brown, Sr., "but I got to get back home. Douglass can stay, if he has a mind to."
"And I think I'll have to leave, too," said Ben.
"At any rate, we shall have the pleasure of Douglass' company," said Mr. Wingate, with his usual smile, as he bade the others good-bye.
When the Badger State Hotel was reached, Nat's uncle took his leave, on the plea of business, having arranged to meet them all again early in the evening.
"Fine man, that," observed Mr. Douglass Brown; "a very fine man. I never thought we should become friends like this."
"Let's hurry up, fellows," observed Nat. "I want to see if the 'Nimrod' is all right.
"Safe and sound!" he exclaimed, with satisfaction, when they finally came in view of the graceful motor boat lying at her moorings.
It was a beautiful day, and the bay was dotted with many kinds of craft.
"Somers, does your ultimatum still hold good?" asked Nat.
"We don't want you to keep on Clair Bay unless you feel like it," returned Bob.
"Then come back to the place where Hacky lammed the pussy cat."
"What's the use of that?" spoke up Dick. "I think we could have more fun by keeping on the bay."
"So do I," added Ted Pollock.
"Wish I could go on the trip," ventured Douglass, wistfully; "it must be fine."
"There's one thing we have to do," interrupted John Hackett; "that is, get some grub. Nine fellows can eat a sight of stuff; isn't that so, you sleepy 'pirate'?"
"Depends upon the cook," answered Dave, smilingly.
"Let's get the fodder now," proposed Nat. "We ought to leave this little Punktown first thing in the morning. Ted," he continued, "make up a list; that's a good fellow, and we'll have a grocer attend to it at once."
"Oh ho! I can't help thinking about that great supper to-night," observed Dave; "I'm going back to the hotel, and write a few letters."
About six o'clock that evening, the members of the two clubs, Douglass Brown and Mr. Parsons Wingate met at the Badger State Hotel.
"Now, Nat," remarked the latter, as they took their places at the supper table, "it isn't necessary for you to act in such a fashion as to attract crowds around the hotel. This is to be just a quiet little dinner."
"The mist is coming up worse than ever, boys," observed Bob Somers, as he sat on the forward part of the "Nimrod"; "think you had better hug the shore, Nat."
"Getting scared, Bobby?"
"Hardly," laughed Bob; "but we can't see a sign of land."
"Never met a fellow who was so set on looking at mud, rocks and trees before. I'm not a bit sorry to vary the program."
"My eye, Somers thinks he's on an automobile again," laughed Hackett.
"That's it!" exclaimed Nat, with a grin. "Hi, Dave, are you wide awake enough to wrestle with this wheel a minute?"
"I guess so," said Dave, good-naturedly, as he made his way toward the bow.
When the "Nimrod" had left the wharf, early that morning, a mist hung over the bay. The sun shone like a great, yellowish ball through the masses of vapor. Not the slightest breeze was stirring, and as the morning wore on, the mist became thicker and thicker until now it was scarcely possible to see more than fifty feet in any direction.
Hoarse blasts of fog-horns, shriller whistles from small steam craft, rendered faint by distance, came over the air, while the "Nimrod" slowly ploughed through the colorless water.
"Seems as if we were out of the world," declared Tommy Clifton; "it's almost spooky."
"Just like an air-ship in the clouds," said Pollock.
"Where do you suppose we are?" inquired Dave, straining his eyes to pierce the gloom.
"On top of the water, Dave," laughed Nat.
"Big and little fishes! I don't care for this," grumbled Kirk. "There are some whopping big steamers on this bay. Did you hear that?"
A blast from a fog-horn sounded far ahead.
"Better turn in shore," suggested Dick.
"Who's doing this, Travers?" demanded Nat. "Never saw such scared cats, eh, Hacky?"
Pulling out his megaphone, the leader of the Nimrods continued: "Each fellow take a whoop through this. Here goes number one!"
An astonishingly discordant series of blasts rolled over the water. "Sounds like a wildcat getting hit by John Hackett," laughed Nat. "Here, Somers, let's see what kind of a yell you have. Pass it along. I'll take that wheel.
"Christopher!" he added, a few moments later; "Somers, that screech of yours reminds me of a circular saw cutting a board."
"He means when it hits a nail," explained John Hackett.
Bob laughed, and handed the megaphone to Tommy Clifton.
"That ought to keep 'em away," chuckled Nat. "A little more, and we'll have the bay to ourselves. We're the Pirates of the Bounding Deep, and can fight, awake or asleep."
"Oh, lollipops, whatever that means," groaned Dick. "That floating tub is getting nearer and nearer."
The increasing loudness of the hoarse blasts which sounded at intervals across the water began to have an effect on Nat.
"Got a pocket compass, Somers?" he asked, hurriedly. "Guess we'll have to hike in toward the shore. Wonder how far away it is?"
No one seemed able to offer any information on the subject.
"Great Cæsar!" cried Ted Pollock; "listen to that screech. We can't see a yard. Hi, hi!" he yelled at the top of his voice; "hi, hi, hi!"
The others joined in, while Kirk, with the megaphone, shouted lustily.
The Clair Bay steamers were large and powerful boats, and the peril of their situation began to dawn upon the boys with full force. Whether the oncoming craft was on the starboard or port side could not be determined, as the gray blanket of fog hid everything from view.
"We'll have to get out of this!" cried Nat. "Dave, exercise your lungs on that howl-increaser."
"I'll bet we are steering right for it," exclaimed Kirk.
"We are, that's what we are doing!" shouted Tom, in the greatest alarm. "Mind your eye there, Nat!"
A loud blast of the fog-horn threw the lads into a state of panic.
"Look, look! There it is!" shouted Nat, excitedly.
Through the dense fog, an indistinct form, gradually taking shape, could be seen approaching. The boys were presently able to distinguish a confused blurr, as passengers crowded to the rails. They heard shouts and calls, the clanging of a bell, then the siren blast of a fog-horn drowned all other sounds.
"My eye, a close call that!" exclaimed Hackett, in excited tones; "not more than fifty feet to spare."
"Isn't it going slowly?" said Sam Randall.
"Hi there!" called out Nat, perceiving that they were not in any danger; "why don't you keep your old tub tied up a day like this?"
"Haven't you any more sense than to be out in the middle of the bay in a little cockle-shell like that?" came an answering voice.
Then the gloom again swallowed up the steamer, while Nat, through the megaphone, sent a long string of compliments after it.
"Great Cæsar, I was scared—that's a fact," admitted Tom Clifton.
"A little more, and they would have plunked us," remarked Ted Pollock, with a great sigh of relief. "Going ashore, now, Nat?"
"Not before the boat reaches it," returned Wingate, who, judging from his actions, seemed to have profited but little by the recent experience. "Let her out a bit, Hacky. Legs feel weak, Somers? I'll bet they do—never saw such a scared crowd in my life."
The leader of the Nimrods glanced quickly at a map, replaced it in his pocket, then gave the wheel a turn.
"Going further out?" asked Bob, in surprise.
"Who said I was going further out?"
"You changed your course just then."
Nat laughed. "I'm afraid you're beginning to dream," he said.
"We are an awful way out," ventured Ted; "and my dad says the water in the middle of this bay is five hundred feet deep."
"Fog getting thicker and thicker," observed John Hackett. "Keep your eyes open, fellows, for any more boats."
There was no need of this admonition, but time slipped away, without bringing any further incident. Nat Wingate remained at the wheel, keeping the "Nimrod" on a perfectly straight course, at the same time talking and laughing in his liveliest fashion.
Suddenly Sam Randall uttered an exclamation. "Land! As I live, land ho!" he cried.
"Land?" echoed the others, in chorus.
"Your peepers must be pretty good," exclaimed Hackett; "where? I don't see anything."
"That's because you're not looking in the right direction."
"I see it!" cried Bob.
"So do I."
"And I," repeated each, in turn.
Barely perceptible, to the left, through the fog, rose a rounded, tree-covered hill.
"I knew you changed your course, Wingate," said Bob, dryly. "Where have you been heading for?"
Turning, Nat held up the compass, then passed it back to its owner, remarking: "You fellows certainly are green. I've piloted the 'Nimrod' clear across the bay."
"A brilliant piece of navigation," observed John Hackett.
"Shut off power a bit, Kirk," said Nat; "I don't want to run on any shoals."
Talbot obeyed, and the motor boat progressed slowly toward the shore. Finally the boys saw that a sort of flat expanse extended back from the water, but the fog prevented them from gaining a definite idea as to the formation of the land.
"There seems to be a pretty good channel here," observed Dave.
"That's the reason I'm cruising along a bit," returned Nat, quickly.
The "Nimrod" skirted the shore for fully half a mile, then rounded a jutting point.
"No use, fellows, we'll have to anchor and wade ashore," said Nat finally; "I can't take the boat in any further."
Accordingly, the boys took off their shoes and stockings and rolled up their trousers. Nat cast the anchor overboard, then, each taking some needful article, they waded ashore.
"We'll have a swim here this afternoon," proclaimed Nat; "bet I can beat any fellow in the crowd."
"I'll take you up on that," said Hackett. "My eye, this fog is a nuisance."
By making several trips, the boys carried ashore all that was necessary. The tent canvas and poles required the combined effort of both clubs.
"I guess you fellows will have to do the 'Bill Agnew' act," said Nat. "Little oil-stove's good enough for me."
"You're only parlor campers," drawled Dave; "we go in for the real thing."
By this time the fog had begun to lighten. Clumps of vegetation were scattered around, while several pools could be dimly seen, close at hand.
"Gee willikins, regular Robinson Crusoe life, this," exclaimed Nat. "Eh, Chubby?"
Dave smiled, then slapped his hand to his face. "Skeeters," he announced; "and plenty of 'em."
"Aren't they fierce?" said John Hackett. "Here's the sun coming out nicely, and we have to fall into a regular bug metropolis."
"Darning-needles and butterflies!" exclaimed Kirk Talbot. "Look at this one! It's nearly as big as the bird that 'Hatchet' shot."
Bob, Sam and Dick soon went off in search of wood, while Tom Clifton and the poet laureate got everything in readiness to cook. The Nimrods pitched their tents, and also began preparations for lunch. In the course of an hour the meals were ready.
"What's on the bill of fare?" asked Bob.
"Sardines, baked beans, crackers and cheese, sir," sang out Dave. "Have tea or coffee, sir?"
"Quit your fooling, and trot out the stuff," put in Dick; "I haven't had a bite for three solid hours."
"Cricky! a nice place, this," observed Tom Clifton, with his mouth full, a few minutes later. "Let's explore those hills back there after lunch, fellows."
"Hello, how are you getting on, 'pirates'?" shouted Bob.
"Great!" answered Nat. "Got any skeeters over your way?"
"Any number," grumbled Dave; "had forty-seven bites already."
The afternoon was spent in roaming around. The Ramblers found a tumble-down shanty, evidently built by gunners, and they determined to take possession of it. The fog had entirely cleared away and the sun occasionally peeped forth between gaps in the masses of whitish clouds. Shadows chased each other over the landscape in rapid succession, trees, now bright with color and light suddenly changed to dark green masses, then all became gray and sombre until another rift in the clouds let through the flood of light.
Along the bay, a flat, marshy expanse seemed to extend for miles, its surface being dotted with ponds.
"That's where those six-legged little pests come from," declared Dave; "they breed in the swampy tracts. Fellows, it's a good thing we are going to camp in the hills to-night."
"We'd be eaten alive down there by the shore," agreed Bob; then he added: "Let's go and get our stuff now."
As they approached the Trailers' tents, loud voices were heard.
"Fifteen feet, you say? That's the biggest I ever listened to. It wasn't an inch more than five," came from Nat.
"I said fifteen, and I'll bet it was nearer twenty," shouted John Hackett; "ain't that so, Kirk?"
"You'll have to grow some, to beat me any day in the week," yelled the leader; "you didn't give me a fair start."
"Playing the baby act. Very well, I'll swim you again to-morrow," sneered Hackett.
"I'll do it," cried Nat. "Crickets, but you're going to get beaten. Hello, Somers, got back already?"
"We are going to take our stuff up on the hill," explained Bob.
"You won't sleep a wink down here," added Dave; "the mosquitoes are fearful."
"That's so," agreed Nat; "I've killed about two million already. Will you fellows help us take up the canvas?"
"Sure thing," answered Bob. "Aren't you afraid to leave your boat, though?"
Nat glanced at the trim little "Nimrod," then answered: "Don't think there's any danger. The fellow who blew up the 'Rambler' most likely thought it was ours."
"That's right, we had everybody scared," added John Hackett, and the recollection made the ill-natured expression leave his face.
Nat burst out laughing. "Pull up stakes!" he cried, loudly. "Here we go."
"Whew, ouch! Never saw such biters," exclaimed Ted Pollock, slapping frantically at the little buzzing pests around his face. "Come on, fellows, let's vamoose."
"Big rocks and pine trees! Right you are," observed Kirk scratching his wrist. "Say, Nat, why can't we sleep on the 'Nimrod' to-night?"
"It's up in the hills for us. Don't you get enough boat all day long?"
"But these tents?" objected Kirk.
"Got to go up, too," replied Nat, laconically. "Get a gait on. Found a good place, Somers?"
"Yes! on the top of that hill."
"All right. Grab some of the stuff, fellows. We'll leave the tents until last."
It was nearly six o'clock before the new camp was finally put in order. The boys found the mosquitoes much fewer in number, and their surroundings in every way better than on the shore below.
"It's a pretty wide bay," observed the poet laureate; "can't see a sign of land. How small the 'Nimrod' looks."
"It ain't as big as the 'Lusitania,' that's sure," commented Nat. "Fall to, fellows. It's grub time."
When night came on, Bob added a few logs to the smouldering fire, while the Nimrods hung a number of lanterns upon convenient branches. The Ramblers merely spread their blankets upon the floor of the shanty, and turned in.
It was a quiet summer night, not unpleasantly warm, but with no wind stirring. The boys, however, did not fall asleep with the readiness that their tired feelings led them to expect. The fire crackled and hissed, sending a fitful glare around, but its smoke seemed to have no effect in driving away the ever-increasing army of mosquitoes. A dancing host encircled each swinging lantern, and the old shanty was invaded by a perfect swarm.
"Buzz, buzz—smack, smack!" laughed Bob, as his companions slapped and hit. "Just imagine what it must be down there by the beach."
"Millions and millions of 'em," groaned Dave. Smack! "I hit that great brute. Hi! Awake there, Tom?"
"Think a fellow could sleep in such a place as this? Of course I'm awake."
"I'm nearly stifled, trying to sleep with my head under the blanket," declared Sam, gaping to an alarming degree.
"Asleep, 'pirates'?" called Dick Travers, in a loud voice.
"Yes, and having an awful nightmare," answered Nat. "Make a noise, can't you, and wake me up."
"I feel like calling for help," broke in Hackett.
"Knew a feller once what was bit so bad he couldn't see straight for a month," said Dick, mimicking Zeke Tipson. "This is nothing."
"Well, I can't stand it any longer," groaned Bob.
He arose, stretched, then walked out and began piling wood on the fire. One by one, wrapped Indian fashion in blankets, his companions gathered around, slapping vigorously at their tiny foes.
"I didn't know there were so many skeeters in the world," said Pollock, ruefully.
"Oh ho, but I am weary," yawned Dave.
"Isn't it frightful?" added Tommy Clifton. "I'm going to lie down close to the fire, and go to sleep anyway."
He threw himself upon the ground, followed by the disgusted Dave Brandon, and the two were fast asleep in a moment. The rest, however, after several vain attempts, gave it up. Now and then one arose, threw on a stick, and then resumed his seat by the fire-side to gaze through half-closed eyelids at the tongues of flame and dancing sparks.
The night was overcast, and outside of the circle of light nature was wrapped in impenetrable blackness.
"We certainly were stung in this place," remarked Bob, with a sorry attempt at humor. He frantically slapped his wrists and face, then, unable to endure the onslaught in quietness, rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth.
Nodding and blinking, the boys presented a queer picture in the glare of the fire-light.
Finally Kirk Talbot joined Bob.
"Bears and wildcats!" exclaimed the latter, suddenly clutching his companion's arm. "Hear that? Steamboat down there, sure as guns."
"Great Scott! Wonder who can be nosing around at this time of night. Nat, hello Nat, do you hear that?" cried Bob, excitedly.
"Eh?" muttered the chief "pirate," drowsily. "What?"
"Wake up, wake up! A boat's close in shore. You can hear the engine puffing."
"Can't help it—we don't own—"
"Let's light some pine-knots and see what it is," cried Bob. "After our experience with the 'Rambler,' we don't want to take any chances. I say, Nat—"
"He's asleep. Don't waste any time," urged Kirk, excitedly. "Come on, get up, John 'Hatchet.'"
"What's the matter—what's all this? Of course I won—and by fifteen feet, too."
Several pine-knots were lying around. Bob and Kirk each eagerly seized a stick and held it over the fire. As flames began to hiss and sizzle from the end of his torch, Kirk leaped forward and picked up the megaphone.
A series of blood-curdling whoops instantly brought the campers to their feet in alarm. They tumbled over each other, half frightened out of their senses.
"Somebody fooling around the 'Nimrod'!" yelled Kirk, throwing the tube to the ground. "Quick, grab your guns, and come with us."
The two boys dashed pell-mell down the hill. The light of the blazing pine-knots, raised high above their heads, flitted from tree to tree, danced and wavered on the ground, fantastic shadows lengthened and shortened, while the torches sizzled and flared, as the boys rushed on.
"It may be nothing," panted Kirk.
"Better be on the safe side," cried Bob. "That boat must be close to the 'Nimrod,' or I miss my guess. The rest of the fellows are coming."
"What's that?"
"Pine-knots and puzzles!" gasped Kirk. "The 'Nimrod,' sure as fate."
The rapid pulsation of a motor boat suddenly started up.
"Come on!" yelled Bob. "The rascals are stealing that boat."
Thoroughly angry and alarmed, the boys dashed on. Kirk tripped over a trailing vine and fell headlong in a mass of underbrush. His torch landed amidst the twigs and set them ablaze, but the lad, though badly shaken up, was on his feet in an instant, stamped out the fire and dashed on.
Lights moving in a fantastic fashion and many shouts showed that the rest of the boys were following. Bob Somers reached the site of their first camp. The water lapped at his feet, while the flaring torch sent a circle of light over the bay.
The "Nimrod" had disappeared.
"It's gone!" gasped Bob Somers.
"Stolen!" cried Kirk Talbot, in dismay.
"Great Cæsar! There must be a gang of motor boat thieves around these diggings."
"Gee willikins, what's this, Somers—all our grub chucked ashore—what does it mean?"
"The boat has gone," puffed John Hackett, coming up at this instant.
It was an excited group that crowded to the very edge of the water. Torches and lanterns were held aloft, but they revealed nothing.
"Well, this is a pretty mess!" cried Hackett, furiously. "Listen to that sound, growing faint in the distance. Somebody has sized us up for a fine lot of ninnies."
"What will my uncle say?" wailed Nat.
He paced up and down and shook his fist in the air.
"The finest motor boat in Wisconsin, too," he groaned.
"Both crowds have been followed," declared Sam Randall.
"There is a mystery about this whole thing," cried Bob. "Why did the thieves pile our stuff on shore, instead of taking it with them?"
"Can't imagine," muttered the poet laureate, scratching his head in a vain endeavor to get an idea; "it's a puzzle."
"Cricky, maybe a note." Ted's eye had caught a glimpse of a piece of white paper projecting from under a case of canned goods.