"Hey, there, come back with that boat!" yelled Howard Fenton.
"Oh, of course we won't!" came from "Little Bill."
"Swim out, Willie, and we'll throw you a line!" shouted Sanders, with a derisive laugh.
"Make a hundred yards' dash for it. I'll bet on the fat boy!"
"Give Fenton ten feet start, an' he wouldn't lose by more'n a hundred!"
"Dive off the cliff! Don't go in Havens' boat—it has a hole in it!"
These words, floating over the air, grew fainter, as the "Dauntless" drew away from the island, her sail, a shining patch of white in the sunlight, and her hull scarcely seen against the rippling water.
"Well, this is a pretty how-de-do, isn't it?" growled Dick. "Talk about cheek, eh? Looks as if they're going to take their time in coming back, too."
"Oh, never mind," said Fenton, resignedly. "As long as the boat isn't hurt, I don't care. Anyway, we can't help ourselves."
Jim Havens looked disturbed.
"Honest, fellows, I didn't know a thing about it," he exclaimed, earnestly. "Didn't think that Sanders would play such a mean trick."
"Fenton ought to punch him good and plenty," said hot-headed Dick Travers.
"Rather out of my line," laughed the New York boy. "It's only a bit of fun on their part. Let's be philosophical, like our friend," and he pointed toward Dave Brandon asleep on the mossy bank.
"Guess you're right," assented Bob. "Perhaps they won't be long. Awful nerve, though."
Jim Havens brightened up when he saw that the visitors were disposed to take it good-naturedly.
"They're not going to hurt the boat," he said; "but I'm afraid that Dugan will keep right on to the village. He's been wanting for some time to get a gun that he left with his uncle."
"Why didn't he take your boat, then?"
"Well, the 'Dart' ain't much for speed," admitted Jim, with a faint smile.
"Oh, that's it. But say, I've heard that 'Little Bill' is rather reckless with boats."
"Maybe, but Sanders ain't. Whenever you fellers are ready, I'll take you to the shore—that is, if the two don't get back before that time."
"How about that hole in the boat?" asked Tom Clifton.
"It isn't much. We ran into a rock yesterday and dented a couple of boards. It's all fixed now."
"And strong enough to hold a ton or so?" laughed Travers, pointing toward Dave Brandon.
The object of his remarks sat up and yawned.
"Had a fine nap—say, what's up?" he asked.
"You haven't been, for one thing," replied Dick. "Pirates have run off with the 'Dauntless.'"
"Is that all?" said the poet, calmly, rubbing his eyes. "Thought, from the way you looked, that something had happened. Tell me about it."
Dave smiled at the recital.
"Real saucy chaps," he said. "That bank makes a capital place for a nap. When the 'Dauntless' hoves in sight, let me know."
But when several hours had passed, and there was no sign of the boat, all concluded that Havens' surmise must be correct.
The boys sat around, talked about baseball and hunting, and stood up and talked about the same things. Then they strolled up and down the pebbly beach, and cast many an anxious look over the choppy water, for the wind was blowing much more strongly, and only Dave Brandon was content.
Finally they lounged around a cheerful blaze, while supper was being prepared.
THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE.
THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE.
THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE.
Being accustomed to roughing it, none would have cared if they had been compelled to spend the night on the island, but Howard Fenton did not wish to worry his father by an unexpected absence. Therefore, when darkness began to approach, he asked Jim Havens to get the "Dart" ready.
They stayed, however, to finish their scanty meal, and then cleaned up, still hoping that the "Dauntless" would put in an appearance.
When Howard Fenton finally walked down to the water's edge, the tree tops were sighing noisily, and black, wild-looking clouds had risen above the top of the cliff. A sudden and rapidly growing darkness fell over the scene. It was apparent that the twilight would be very quickly blotted out.
"Guess we'll have a rough night of it," observed Bob.
"A downright stormy one," grumbled Dick. "Why don't those duffers come back?"
"We're in for a good ducking—that's what," put in Tom Clifton.
"I really have to get over to the shore, fellows," spoke up Fenton, earnestly. "My pater would imagine all sorts of terrible things."
"Well, here we go," said Havens, briefly.
"Pile in," added Bob, as he sprang on board the "Dart."
"By Jove, it certainly looks wild out there," declared Sam Randall, indicating the sombre expanse of lake.
"Enough to make a fellow feel kind of creepy, eh?" chimed in Tom. "The wind is freshening, too."
"Don't get scared," said Havens, calmly. "Let me run up a couple of these 'electric lights,' and we'll get under way with a rush."
Several lanterns were fastened in position, then the skipper, aided by Howard Fenton, started to shove off. Clumsy and heavily laden, the boat resisted their efforts for a moment, then swung out suddenly into the gurgling water, at the same instant giving a lurch which was far from reassuring.
The sail was hoisted and the "Dart" instantly responded by plunging her nose deeply in the water, white showers of spray were sent flying in all directions.
Dave Brandon was presently heard to murmur, "H'm—that last one hit the only dry spot left."
In the dim light, the crags of Promontory Island looked gigantic and the dark line of firs on Hemlock blended mysteriously into the distance.
"I 'most wish we hadn't come," declared Tom Clifton, nervously. "Wow! I thought she was going over that time sure."
"Wind enough to blow a fellow's head off," grumbled Dick. "It's worse than I thought."
"And listen to that water gurgling," observed Fenton. "Keep your eyes open for the 'Dauntless.'"
"Likely to meet her in the passageway," said Havens, grimly. "Hold on tight, fellows, and mind your heads!"
The sail rattled and banged as the boom swung around, while a sheet of water foamed over the sides. Already they were drawing near the space which separated the islands.
"Oh, we'll get smashed to bits," groaned Tom Clifton.
"Not on your life, sonny," laughed the skipper. "I could go through here with my eyes shut."
A moment more, and the "Dart" glided into comparatively smooth water.
"Oh, ho! This is better," remarked the "poet," cheerfully, "but I guess the next stretch will be worse than ever, eh, Bob?"
"We're going to be tossed about a bit, that's sure," commented the captain. "How wet are you, Chub, anyway?"
"Just a little more than if I'd been soused in the lake," laughed Dave. "Hello, here comes the finishing touch—rain, by Jove! Might as well get out and swim."
When the "Dart" reached the end of the passageway, the lights of the village could be seen, apparently so distant that Tom uttered an exclamation.
"Crickets, think of all that water to be crossed!" he groaned.
"Seems a lot because it's dark," put in Havens. "The 'Dart' isn't so fast, but she'll make it in no time, with this breeze."
As they rounded the shore of Hemlock Island, a pouring rain began to beat in their faces, and almost every instant hissing, foaming water dashed over the gunwale. Once outside its friendly shelter, the "Dart" began to pitch and toss in an alarming manner.
Suddenly, a furious blast heeled her far over and she shivered from stem to stern.
A chorus of excited exclamations rose above the whistling wind.
"Get the bucket, somebody!" yelled Havens. "Bale her out, quick!"
Bob Somers, reaching forward, was tumbled to his knees in the water that swished forth and back with every movement of the boat.
But he got the bucket. Dick seized another, and both set vigorously to work.
"Don't let up, fellows," commanded Havens. "Here's another big one. Hold on tight!"
Again the "Dart" staggered and shook. For an instant, the boys fairly held their breath. Then Sam Randall made an alarming discovery.
"Great Cæsar!" he cried. "The piece of wood which plugged up that hole in the side is gone!"
"And the water is just pouring in," added Havens, in a voice which betrayed both surprise and agitation.
"Oh, why did we ever come!" wailed little Tom Clifton.
"Everybody look around for that piece of board," went on the skipper, earnestly. "Hurry up—hole isn't much above the water line."
A quick search proved without result.
"Fill it up with any old thing," commanded Dave. "Don't get scared, fellows. Shore isn't very far now."
The boy's calm tones inspired the others, and an instant later Bob Somers was stuffing an old coat through the opening. Even Tom Clifton forgot his fright for the moment.
The downpour increased, however, until the village lights were entirely blotted out. Nothing could now be seen through the impenetrable blackness, and all sense of direction was speedily lost. The lanterns threw weird splashes of light around the storm-tossed boat and upon its water-soaked occupants. All strained their eyes to pierce the gloom, hoping that each moment the veil might lift, but the minutes flew by with nothing to cheer their sight.
"We're in an awful fix," groaned Tom Clifton, his teeth almost chattering. "Where in the dickens are we, Havens?"
"It would take a smarter chap than I am to tell you, Tom."
"And we're just racing along, too."
"Going like sixty—that's a fact."
"Jim, you're a reckless skipper," said Howard Fenton. "It's a good thing you know more than we do about the lake."
The light revealed an anxious expression upon Havens' face, but he held the tiller with a firm grip and remained perfectly cool.
"Here, Sam, take hold of this bucket for a moment and bail!" cried Dick Travers. "Whew! we owe Sanders and Dugan something for this;" and, as he was relieved, Dick groped his way forward.
The violent motion began to have its effect upon Tom Clifton. "I feel awful funny, fellows," he gasped. "Christopher, I do!"
"I say, Havens," yelled Bob, "we must be getting pretty well in, now. Hadn't you better come about on another tack?"
"Wouldn't be surprised. The wind has shifted two or three times and there's no telling which way we may be headed." The skipper smiled grimly. "The rain is letting up a bit," he added. "Look out for the lights ahead and keep on bailing."
"Feeling better now, Tommy?" asked Dave Brandon. "You'll be——"
"Great Cæsar!" An exclamation interrupted him. Then a series of wild shouts arose on the night air, as a crunching and grinding suddenly sounded.
"What's up—what's the——" But Dave did not finish the sentence.
A violent shock tumbled the boys in a confused heap. Then came a terrific pounding. The "Dart" gave a convulsive shiver, turned sharply over on its side, and seven boys, wildly grabbing at empty space, were sent heels over head into the black water of Mountain Lake.
As he felt the chilling water encircle his neck, Tom Clifton gave a frantic shout for help. Then his cries were instantly stifled.
Choking, gripped by a terror which nerved him to fight with all the energy he possessed, Tom struggled to reach the surface. Unable, like the others, to swim, he could only kick and thresh out with his arms in a blind and desperate effort. He had a confused idea of touching bottom—then, gasping and choking, his head rose clear of the swirling water.
Vainly he tried to keep afloat. Down he went again, until his ears began to sing and the water poured down his throat. Then, as he gave up hope, something touched his collar with a firm, strong grip, and he felt himself rising. His head came above the surface for the second time, and a voice shouted in his ear, "Put your legs down and stand straight up!"
Dave Brandon's strong arms held him, and, mechanically obeying his friend's command, Tom found to his astonishment that by so doing he could touch bottom.
The wave of thankfulness which swept through him could not quite blot out the few awful moments through which he had just passed, and, for the time being, all he could do was to stand erect and hold on tight.
"Feel all right, Tommy?" asked the "poet," kindly.
It was difficult to talk, with the water bubbling and splashing around them. And the wind was cold. Even Dave's teeth were chattering and his words came out in a series of jerks.
"Sure—fine," whispered Tom.
His hand closed with a tighter grip on that of Dave's. Then his eyes fell on a curious spectacle.
Close by, partly submerged, was the "Dart." A lone lantern illuminated with a feeble, yellow glow the heads of his companions, all staring at him anxiously.
"You make me think of a lot of pumpkins."
That is what Tom meant to say, but the cold and a strange weakness prevented such a lengthy effort.
Presently he heard Jim Havens remark, "Tommy's all right, fellows. Let's skip before we get stuck in the mud." Then, almost before he realized it, they had left the treacherous water and were climbing up a bank.
"I feel like a beautiful mess," groaned Havens, when they came to a halt.
"I'd like to have a good, square look at you," returned Bob, grimly. "I want to laugh, but can't. It isn't any island for you to-night, eh, Havens?"
"Not unless I swim back," was the reply. "Something is holding the 'Dart' fast. Awful lucky we weren't spilled out in the middle of the lake. Come along, fellows," he added. "Let's get our blood in circulation;" and he started off on a trot.
Bedraggled and miserable, his companions followed through the rain. The exercise began to warm their chilled bodies and the prospect of reaching shelter spurred them on.
When the lights of the Resort House were seen burning against the blackness, the group slowed down.
They declined Fenton's invitation to stop at the hotel.
"We'd like to, old man," grinned Bob, "but it's the Rickham for us to-night."
Sam Bins was amazed when the five boys arrived.
"Fo' de land ob goodness, is you de same gemmen what left dis mornin'?" he asked. "Whar', fo' goodness' sake, has yo' been?"
"In the lake, paying a visit to the fishes," replied Bob, as he made a break for his room.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the Ramblers, in dry clothes, were enjoying a hearty meal, and Sam Bins' curiosity was satisfied.
Dugan and Sanders had intended to return the "Dauntless" that night. They sailed to the end of the lake, where "Big Bill's" cottage was situated, and tied up. But the storm coming up prevented them from carrying out their plans.
At daybreak the following morning, they set out, and were startled to see the "Dart" lying in shoal water. Badly frightened, the boys immediately headed for the hotel wharf, and lost no time in mooring the "Dauntless" to her accustomed place.
When Havens was encountered, later in the morning, the members of the Idleman's Club had a falling out. It was a lively affair, and proved very amusing to a group of loungers on the Resort House porch. Mr. Fenton, hearing the rumpus, also took a hand in the proceedings, to the great discomfiture of the two bold pirates.
Of course the encampment on Promontory Island came to an abrupt close. Dugan and Sanders, disgusted at the outcome, also quarreled and went their separate ways.
One morning, just before breakfast, Bob Somers and Dick Travers were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool air.
"So the ball game's coming off to-morrow, eh, Bob?" remarked the latter, in a tone of satisfaction. "Who's on our team besides Fenton?"
"Phil Levins, Havens, and that little fellow from Boston."
"Old duck, with a bald head, eh?" said Dick, flippantly.
"Plays ball like a streak, though, they say. Fairly eats up hot liners and all that sort of thing. He played short-stop for Harvard, I'm told."
"Just the kind we need. These chaps out here may know a thing or two about the game. No telling but what Mr. Barton has done a lot of coaching. Hello, Chub!"
The stout boy ambled slowly out on the porch. "You fellows still talking baseball?" he asked. "Why don't you look at that great effect over there? See that hazy light across the mountains?"
"Oh, the dickens with that," grumbled Dick. "The game's coming off to-morrow, and you've got to hold down first base."
"By Jove, that's a hard thing to do, though. Still, I'd like to try it."
"What—painting or first base?"
"Why—weren't we talking about painting, Dick Travers?"
"I'll begin on 'camera' pretty soon, unless you quit, Dave Brandon."
"Oh, well, who do we play against, then?" sighed Dave.
"A lot of village chaps, and if we get beaten they'll have a jolly good laugh on us, too."
"I always did like ham and eggs, boys," observed Dave, reflectively. "Hope Sam Bins is cooking enough. Yesterday I only had three eggs and——"
But, with a despairing gesture, Dick Travers arose and walked inside.
That afternoon the boys spent in practicing. Havens was on hand, and Phil Levins, a village lad, also took an active part. The visitor from Boston proved to be Mr. George Kimball, a small man, with a fringe of sandy hair around a dome-shaped head, watery blue eyes and insignificant yellow moustache.
"I see you chaps can play some," he said, in a high-pitched voice; "but several, I won't say who, take a bit too much time in getting set before throwing the ball. Shoot it right over. Here, Somers, let me show you. Bat out a liner."
Mr. Kimball smiled complacently and trotted out in the field. Then a sharp crack of the bat sounded.
"By Jove, he's a hummer, and no mistake," remarked Sam. "Look how he took that bounder and sent it back."
"Yes! But Dave is what bothers me," whispered Dick. "He reminds me of a freight car, and side-tracked at that."
"Well, boys," said Bob, as, perspiring and happy, they walked toward the house, "we ought to put up a pretty good game."
"And I suppose I'll have to hop around like a sparrow again to-morrow," said Dave, with a quizzical look at the others, and a wide, very wide smile played for a moment on the face of Mr. George Kimball, of Boston.
The day for the game proved ideal. The sky was flecked with a few white clouds and a slight breeze tempered the rays of the sun.
No one would have dreamed that so many people could be found in the small mountain village and its immediate surroundings. They came by twos, threes, and in groups, flocking under the shade of a few big trees, and cheered when the town boys began to practice.
"Little Bill" Dugan was among the players. He glanced coldly toward the Ramblers and their friends, and sniffed scornfully at a white board which Dick Travers had nailed to an apple tree. Painted on it in big letters was the following:
Mr. Fenton accepted the position of official scorer, while a man from Chicago, Mr. Perkins, was agreed upon as umpire.
The Ramblers won the toss and took their positions upon the field.
"Play ball!"
The spectators sat up, and the game was on.
"Speed 'em over, Bob," yelled Dick. "Make him hit it. Put the lap dazzle shoot on it—yi, yi!"
Bob smiled, and sent in a wide out-curve.
"One ball!" yelled Mr. Perkins.
"H'm," muttered the pitcher.
Crack. Grimshaw, of the mountain team, swung, smashing the ball squarely, and sped for first.
Then came a loud shout, when Kimball in left field jumped in the air and pulled down the fly.
The next man also solved Bob's delivery, but Havens managed to get the ball over to Dave an instant ahead of the runner.
"It wasn't out!" yelled Dugan.
"You keep quiet," counseled one of the others, and "Little Bill," scowling fiercely, turned away.
The next man struck out, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Bob walked in and picked up a bat.
"Take it easy, Somers," advised Dave. "Don't slam at the first. There—that's the way."
"Ball!" cried Mr. Perkins.
"Two balls!"
"Three!"
"One strike!"
Crack. A hot liner burned the short-stop's hand. He let it drop, and Bob, smiling good-naturedly, was safe on first.
Dave Brandon slowly ambled up to the plate.
"Chuck me an easy one, Grimshaw," he said.
The pitcher grinned. One strike—two strikes—the smile broadened, but the stout boy did not seem in the least disturbed.
Dick Travers groaned. "Mind yourself, Dave. Get Bob off that bag."
Hurrah! Dave's sturdy arms swung the bat with telling force. Gleefully the Ramblers saw the ball flying far beyond the right-fielder's reach, and the "freight car" getting over the ground at astonishing speed.
Bob, with a desperate slide, managed to reach home, while Dave, puffing and blowing, stopped on third.
But the boys' high hopes, at this auspicious beginning, were dashed when Randall and Travers were thrown out at first and Clifton fanned the air three times.
"Never mind," laughed Bob, as the shrill yells of the mountain adherents were still echoing; "keep up your good work, Dave. We have them beaten by a mile."
But the next inning proved disastrous. Their rivals earned three runs, and the shouting redoubled.
"Hi, hi! Did they ever see a ball before?" yelled "Little Bill."
"Ah—ah! Look at that hit—yi, yi, yi!" came from others.
Mr. Kimball looked worried. "Not working quite enough together, boys," he said. "Take it easy—don't let the noise rattle you. Who's up? You, Havens? Now give us a line drive like Dave's, and we won't find any fault with you."
Havens prided himself upon being a heavy hitter. He swung his bat far around and after missing two good balls landed on the third. Grimshaw dodged. Dugan, at second base, made a wild grab for the sphere, tripped and tumbled head foremost into the grass. Then, as it neared the limits of the grounds, two fielders came together with a crash. Havens ran for all he was worth, did not stop to look around and was home long before the ball had been recovered.
"Good work, old man," cried the delighted Sam Randall. "Only one more, and the score is tied."
Fenton hit safely. Levins was out on a foul tip and Kimball walked to first on balls.
The head of the batting order was again up. Bob had his eye on the ball and another line drive resulted from his efforts, but it went straight into the hands of the waiting second baseman, who easily threw him out.
"How's that for style?" called "Little Bill," a moment after the first baseman's gloves closed on his throw.
"Worst play I ever saw," returned Dave Brandon, who was already at the plate; "you had lots of time to touch second and make a double play."
Dave swung fiercely at the first ball pitched, only to miss it by a very scant margin, and the fielders all played out as far as possible. A tantalizing slow one he failed to aim at, and strike two was called on him.
The instant Grimshaw received the return throw, he whipped in the speediest inshoot of which he was capable. Brandon was not caught napping. He met it by the merest tip, and a little pop fly dropped safely in the territory usually covered by short-stop.
Fenton raced home, and the score was tied.
"Hi, hi! Did we ever see a ball before!" cried Dick. "Oh—wow! It'll be about ten to three."
But the end of the seventh told a different story. Mr. Fenton's card showed the score to be seven to six in favor of the Ramblers.
Bob stepped up, determined to make a mighty effort. Grimshaw was weakening.
"Put it over, Grimmy," yelled Dugan. "He can't hit anything—never could."
The captain smiled, then bunted, and the ball rolled slowly toward the pitcher. Grimshaw made a frantic dash, fumbled it, and Bob, on a close decision, was declared safe at first.
"Oh, yi, yi, he calls that safe!" yelled Dugan. "The feller was out by a mile. We won't stand for anything like that."
He came in from second, followed by several of the others, and the home plate was immediately surrounded. Then the crowd began to shout.
"Get back to your places," commanded the umpire, briefly.
"Yes, skip back, Dugan," added Dave. "That hit was easily safe."
"I ain't a-talkin' to you," cried "Little Bill," angrily. "I say it wasn't safe."
"Come now, Dugan, trot out in the field," went on Brandon, quietly.
"I will not! An'——"
"The man was safe, and my decision stands," exclaimed Mr. Perkins in an authoritative tone.
"You don't know the game, then," blustered Dugan, excitedly. "Look out! Don't you bump into me, fat feller."
Dave laughed good-naturedly.
"You make an awful lot of noise for a little chap," he said.
"A little chap, eh?" Bill clenched his fists, his eyes blazed with passion. Dave had touched him on a tender point.
"I'll show you how little I am," he yelled. "Here's where trouble begins."
His right fist shot out in the direction of Dave's nose.
But the "poet" jumped nimbly aside, then his sturdy arms encircled "Little Bill's" waist, and, in an instant, the latter found himself on the ground.
"Let go—lemme be!" he cried.
But Dave was calmly sitting on his shoulder.
"Look out—help! You'll mash me ter nuthin'!" yelled Bill, frantically.
"Keep quiet," admonished Dave. "Lie still! A little conversation might be all right, but we don't want any shouting."
"Push that elephant off, somebody. I'm mashed to a pulp a'ready. Oh, now, Grimshaw, don't stand there like an idjit."
"We were talking," said Dave, pleasantly, "about keeping quiet. Now, if you promise to do what I say, an awful lot of trouble will be saved."
There was no help for it. Dave Brandon's hundred and seventy-two pounds held the belligerent ball player helpless, and Bill, furious and chagrined, was obliged to surrender.
"You ain't heard the last of this, you clumsy elephant!" he shouted, as he arose and edged away. "Don't you forget it!"
Dave's face wore a very broad grin.
But Mr. Perkins was speaking—"No, Dugan, you cannot continue to play," he said, firmly. "How is it, boys?—good—we don't want any rowdyism on this field."
There was a few minutes of silence. Grimshaw held a brief conference with his fellow players, then walked forward and called out in a loud voice, "Hello, Sanders, get down there to second and play the base."
It was a very willing boy that hurried forward to obey this summons, and Bill Dugan, thoroughly discomfited, almost immediately saw the game going on without him.
And the score still stood seven to six when the villagers came to bat in the ninth. It was their last chance, and they were determined to at least tie the score.
"My arm's getting kind of played out, Dave," whispered Bob. "I'll do what I can."
"You can't do any more," said the other, soothingly. "Make them hit it—we'll do the rest," and the stout boy grinned.
Clayton was the name of their opponents' first batsman. He came within one of striking out, then drove the ball over Havens' head and sprinted to second.
Loud cheers came from the spectators, and Bob looked worried.
"Don't let them get your nerve, old man," called Sam.
The loud coaching of Mills and continuous cries from the field, intended to disconcert the Ramblers, only served to spur pitcher Somers to greater efforts. Putting forth every ounce of strength he possessed, the captain sent in an inshoot.
The batter knocked a fly, which Fenton on third easily caught. Clayton, who had been playing off second, just got back in the nick of time.
Mills fanned the air three times, and threw down his bat in disgust. Their chances seemed about to go glimmering, yet one good hit might save the day.
Dalton, a big, strong chap, older than any of his team mates, faced the pitcher. Clayton played away off second. It was a moment of intense interest to the spectators and anxiety to the Ramblers.
Bob forced the runner back to the base by a throw, then pitched the ball quickly. Clayton anticipated this, risked everything and was instantly off on a wild dash for third.
Sam handled the sphere nicely, making a perfect throw.
There was an expectant hush, as ball and runner neared the bag. A cloud of dust arose. Clayton had thrown himself flat, and touched the base with his hand.
The silence, intensified until not a sound could be heard, continued for a moment longer. Then Mr. Perkins' voice rang out clearly. "Safe," he said.
A storm of cheers broke forth, while the cries which it was hoped would disconcert the pitcher redoubled.
"One strike!"
"Two strikes!"
Bob grinned and gripped the ball more firmly. Then came Mr. Perkins' voice again, "One ball—two balls!"
All eyes were upon the stalwart form of Dalton. One more strike, and the game would be over.
But as the next ball shot above the plate, a solid smack sounded. An awkward bounder was ripping toward first base at such a speed that the eye could scarcely follow it.
Another great shout arose as Clayton sped home. No one expected that the ball would be fielded until the batter was safe on second.
Then the spectators witnessed an astonishing sight. Dave Brandon darted off the bag with lightning agility. Breathlessly they watched him. The stout boy reached far out.
"Look at that elephant," remarked "Little Bill" to the boy sitting next to him. "What does he think he's going to do?"
Smack! The ball had bounded, striking squarely in the centre of Brandon's mitt. Dave instantly recovered himself and made for first base.
Then a series of wild yells and whoops from the Ramblers broke forth, for Mr. Perkins was heard to say, "Runner out on first." By a fraction of a second, Dave had beaten Dalton in the race and won the game.
Even the villagers were good-natured enough to cheer his play, and the "poet" almost blushed when his enthusiastic friends surrounded him.
"Bully boy," said Mr. Kimball, patting him on the shoulder. "Biggest surprise out. Thought, from the way you moved yesterday, that—oh, well, what's the use of saying it?"
"And I called him a 'side-tracked freight car,'" mused Dick, with a smile.
"When Chub gets waked up, he's like a streak o' lightning," declared Bob. "Now, I'm satisfied. We've had a good game, and, what's more, won it. Let's skip off on our hunting trip next week——Say, but wasn't 'Little Bill' wild, though," and Bob smiled at the recollection.
"An' don't you think he's goin' ter forgit what that elephant done, neither," growled a voice.
Unobserved, Dugan had approached. But he stopped at a respectful distance, and pointed his finger threateningly toward Dave Brandon.
"You'll wish yer hadn't, fat feller!" he cried. "Remember what I says," and he stalked slowly off the field.
"He's wearing his number one sour expression," laughed Dick. "Most as bad as the mountaineer we saw at the hotel."
"Bill's a pretty mean fellow at times," put in Jim Havens, "but I wouldn't pay any attention to him. Let's fix it up about that trip to the mountains."
The boys, accordingly, made their way to the porch of the Rickham House, Mr. Kimball and Phil Levins accompanying them.
Before supper time, all arrangements had been made. It was decided that Bob, Dave Brandon and Dick Travers would take the first jaunt, and on their return Sam and Tom could go off on theirs.
"That way, we'll all have a fling at it during the summer," said Bob; "not once, but a couple of times, and the Rickham will never be left without an occupant."
"You fellows ought to have a daisy time," observed Phil Levins.
"It makes me feel real envious, boys," said Mr. Kimball of Boston, "but—well, I never handled a gun or fishing pole in my life—I'm more at home running over a column of figures in a ledger than I would be facing a grizzly—but, seriously, don't you think it's rather a risky undertaking?"
"Huh! I guess the Rambler Club can take care of itself," and Mr. Kimball laughed at the scorn which Dick Travers put into his tones.
Four panting and tired boys came to a halt in the midst of a dense forest on the sloping sides of a mountain. Early that morning, Sam Bins had driven them as far as he could toward their destination.
Besides weapons and fishing-tackle, each hunter had a pair of blankets—rubber and woolen—and a water-proof canvas bag which contained tin dishes, a pair of moccasins, a compass, match-safe, and plenty of rope and twine, besides nails. Havens carried a lantern and small saw. All were provided with hatchets and hunting knives, and provisions were divided up among them.
Dave Brandon, in addition, carried a brand new paint box, and the official photographer his camera. Everything unnecessary had been omitted, yet the outfits strapped to their backs were not light ones.
Dave Brandon threw himself wearily upon a flat rock.
"Oh, but I am tired," he exclaimed. "This truck weighs a ton. Where are we going to stop, Jim?"
"I know a dugout that's just the thing for us," responded Havens. "Sanders and I used it for a while last year. A long time ago, 'Surly Joe' hung out there."
"'Surly Joe', that's a nice name," laughed Bob. "A good disposition, I suppose, eh?"
"Such a nice one that I hope we don't meet him. But there isn't a better hunter around these parts than Joe Tomlin."
"Why, that's the old chap we saw at the hotel," put in Dick Travers. "Remember, Bob?"
"Sure thing. Don't wonder they call him 'Surly Joe.' He certainly looked sour enough."
"He's a good friend of 'Big Bill's,'" explained Havens. "Every once in a while Joe gets to the village, but he and I don't gee together a bit."
"This climbing is tough work," drawled Dave. "I ache all over. How far is that dugout, Havens?"
"We ought to reach it before nightfall."
Dave, who had arisen, sank back on the rock, with a gesture of dismay.
"And this is what we get for going after fur, fin and feather," he groaned.
In a short time, the march was resumed. The region about them was wild and rugged. The forest contained a great variety of trees; shrubbery, underbrush and tangled vines were so dense in places as to make progress difficult. Boulders and rocks lay strewn about in profusion, and the boys found it necessary to rest frequently.
"Should think there would be a lot of caves around here," panted Bob.
"There are," replied Havens, "and if you run across any, knock on the door before you stick your head inside."
"Oh, we know," laughed Dick; "bears and other beasts."
"That's right. If you keep your eyes open, you can see their tracks all around."
"Just listen to the birds," observed Dave. "Doesn't their singing and chattering sound fine? Hear that woodpecker tapping."
"Working for his living, eh?" grinned Dick.
"Look—a Jack rabbit," cried Bob, suddenly. "I'll bet I could have knocked him over easy. See him? He jumped over that log, running like sixty."
"I see something prettier," said Dave.
A bird, singing cheerily, had just darted across, a flaming spot of orange against the rich green hemlocks beyond.
"An oriole," announced the "poet." "A beautiful little bird, and a noisy one, too. Listen to his chatter."
"If you fellows don't want to sleep out in the open to-night, you'd better be coming along," said Havens, and Dave, with a sigh, again struggled to his feet.
"Listen!" Dick stopped and held up his hand. "What's that noise?" he asked.
"The rapids," replied Havens. "I thought we must be pretty close to them."
"When we get there, let's stop and have some grub," said Dick. "Wow! My back's 'most broken. Always did hate to lug things."
"I'll sleep all day to-morrow," declared Dave.
"If you do, I'll set a bear on you," laughed Dick.
The noise of rushing water grew louder, and finally, after scrambling over a pile of rocks and forcing their way through a tangled thicket, they reached the bank.
Before them was a dashing, tumbling stream, eddying and foaming past the grim-looking rocks, which for countless ages had disputed its passage in vain. Dancing drops sparkled like silver in the sunshine, currents swirled and bubbled, as the ever-rushing torrent gurgled forth its musical lament.
"Oh, ho, what a lovely sight," exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Look at those trees bending over, the reflection in the water and that mass of pink dogwood."
"Pretty enough, Chubby," admitted Dick, "but I'm thirsty as thunder."
"You can get a drink a bit further along," said Havens. "We have to get across, anyway."
"Get across?" echoed Dick.
"Sure thing. The dugout's on the other side."
"Then I suppose I'll have the joy of helping to fish somebody out of the stream," said Dave. "Hello, did I hear anything?"
A low growl seemed to come from the opposite bank.
"What in the world is that?" cried Dick, in a startled tone.
"I see it," exclaimed Bob Somers, excitedly. "Some kind of an animal. Look! It's on that limb. Great Cæsar! What a whopper!"
Partially screened behind a mass of leaves, a long, tawny animal was crouching, with ears thrown back and glaring eyes. Its long tail lashed from side to side, and its powerful, muscular body seemed to quiver with anger.
As if fascinated, the boys gazed at it for some instants without speaking. Their nerves tingled.
"What is it?" asked Bob, in a suppressed voice. "A panther?"
"Yes, though most people out here call the beast a mountain lion, or painter," replied Jim Havens. "That is one of the biggest I ever saw."
"Awful glad he's on the other side of the street," murmured Dave. "Not so sure, now, that I'm fond of hunting. Say—doesn't he look fierce?"
"They won't bother you much if they're let alone, but corner 'em, and I'd 'most as soon have a grizzly in front of me. It's a quiet beast—doesn't screech much, though once in a while he'll let out a yell that makes you sit up and take notice."
"Shall we risk a shot?" asked Dick, eagerly.
"No, I think not," replied Havens. "You might only wound him, and in case he managed to get across—well, Sanders and I had a scrap with one last year, and I ain't anxious for another."
"Look—he's off!" cried Bob.
With a low growl, the panther dropped lightly to the ground and disappeared in a dense thicket.
"They're great fellows for staying in trees," went on Havens, "and for springing down upon any animal that happens to pass. Hard to see, too—the color is so much like the bark."
"Well, I'm glad it's skipped," said Dick. "Hang it, if I'd only thought, I might have made a snap-shot."
"The trip is just begun," laughed Havens. "Get out your grub, fellows. Cat or no cat, James is going to eat."
"Maybe that ferocious beast is waiting for us on the other side of the creek," said Dave.
"And possibly is ready for lunch, too," added Bob.
The boys looked at the swirling water and slippery rocks, the dark, overhanging banks with here and there gnarled roots exposed by crumbling away of the earth, then paused to consider.
"I think it will not be necessary for us to cross just now," said Dave, facetiously.
No one offered an objection, and the quartet thereupon found seats.
Sandwiches, washed down with clear, cold water, refreshed them all.
On resuming the march, they kept as close as possible to the rapids. Presently Havens led the way out on a bank.
"What a magnificent view," exclaimed Dave, pointing toward the opposite range of mountains.
"Couldn't be finer, Chubby," declared Bob.
"This is where we cross the stream, fellows," put in Havens. "Get ready for your bath."
"I'm going first—here's a scheme," he added. "I'll tie a rope around my waist. You fellows hang on to the end, and if I slip I won't go ten miles without stopping."
"Right you are, old man," said Bob. "That water is pretty deep in places."
The necessary precaution having been attended to, Havens carefully stepped upon a large, flat rock.
"Slippery as the dickens," he said.
"Why shouldn't it be?" observed the "poet." "It's been here for a million years, perhaps."
"Don't get to dreaming, Dave," laughed Bob.
"Chubby's the clumsiest chap I ever saw, yet he does everything right," observed Dick, thoughtfully. "At times, I feel like splashing him."
Dave laughed good-naturedly.
Havens made his way carefully from rock to rock. Out in the midst of the stream, with eddying currents and masses of foam on all sides, it looked bigger and more dangerous than when viewed from the bank. The main channel was too wide to jump, and the only means of crossing it was a series of small round boulders so smooth as to scarcely afford a footing.
His companions, who had followed part way, held the rope tightly and waited for him to fall in. It was a matter of some surprise when they found that this was not going to happen.
"Hope that we are just as lucky," said Dick, as he grasped the rope which Havens had tied to a tree, and prepared to follow.
By the time that Travers stood on the opposite bank Bob and Dave were well on their way across. These two worthies did not meet with any mishap, though the stout boy gracefully accepted all the aid that was proffered when it came to the final climb.
"I wonder if his catship is anywhere around," remarked Dick Travers.
"Maybe," answered Havens. "They have a way of skulking about. Keep your eyes peeled."
The boys were soon winded again, but even weariness did not prevent them from enjoying the forest. Gloomy and grand, it surrounded them on all sides. With heads bared to the whispering breeze, the boys lolled on the ground and looked at the patches of clear blue sky between the interlacing branches, and forgot, for the moment, whatever dangers might exist. Each breath of air brought with it some woodland odor—of fragrant pine or dogwood and many other plants.
"Grand," sighed Dave, peering dreamily through half-closed eyelids.
"Worth all our trouble," said Bob. "But say, Jim, will you be able to find that dugout?"
"I'd be a silly chump if I couldn't," answered Havens. "Tramped these mountains too many times to lose my bearings."
"But suppose some one is living there?"
"Build a lean-to; or I know a cave where we might put up for a few days."
"Rent high?" asked Dick.
"No, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had a bear for a landlord."
Fifteen minutes later, just as Dave was about to declare his inability to go a step further, Jim announced that the dugout was close at hand.
"Thank goodness!" exclaimed the "poet," wearily.
But it was still some time before Havens uttered a grunt of satisfaction, then said, "It's right over there, fellows—back of that clump of trees."
"Hurrah!" shouted Dick.
"Me, too," sighed Dave. "I'd holler like that if I wasn't so tired."
In a few moments, they saw a log structure built against a wall of rock.
"Never was so glad to see anything in my life," declared Bob Somers. "It doesn't look big enough for the whole bunch, though, Jim."
Havens smiled. "Don't you know that a dugout is a log cabin or some kind of a shack built in front of a cave?" he asked.
"Good! This is a dandy place, eh, Dave?" cried Bob, enthusiastically. "Imagine sitting out here, after a good day's sport, with a venison steak broiling over the fire!"
"I'll get indigestion, if you talk that way, Bob Somers," said Dave, severely, as he threw his burden down on the turf.
"Don't go rushing in, fellows," warned Jim. "Sometimes a varmint takes it into his ugly head to use it for a stopping place."
But impatient Dick Travers was already at the door, uttering a series of wild whoops.
"All right!" he sang out, as his form disappeared from view.
The dugout, though solidly built, showed the ravages of time. The door was missing and a tree, dislodged by some gale, had fallen across the roof, leaving a gaping hole.
But, in spite of these defects, the boys were delighted.
"We can fix it up in short order," declared Bob.
"Not to-day, thank you," said Dave.
The light from a single window illuminated the interior of a spacious cave. Several reminders of its former occupants, a rude table and chairs, were scattered around.
"Don't see any piano," murmured Dave Brandon.
"Fell over a precipice as they were bringing it up," laughed Havens.
After a short rest, Jim, who seemed to be the least tired, set about collecting fuel, and soon had a fire started. Then outfits were unpacked, and dishes and provisions brought forth.
Bob suddenly straightened up. "Jim," he said, solemnly, "how about water?"
"Just beyond that big cedar," Havens indicated the direction, "you'll find a rivulet. Don't go without your gun."
"Oh, no," laughed the other; "I've been out in the woods before."
Bob had no trouble in finding water, and when he returned preparations for supper were under way. Havens and Brandon attended to this duty, while Dick Travers and Bob Somers went off in search of cedar boughs.
Armed with hatchets, they kept steadily at work, and although very tired, did not desist until a large quantity of the fragrant leaves had been collected. Then Dave helped drag them to the dugout. Four beds were made in the cave, after which the hunters, well satisfied with the result of their labor, sat down to supper.
"What's on the bill of fare?" asked Bob.
"Sardines, bacon, crackers, cheese and coffee," said Dave.
"Not bad, for a starter. Guess I can get away with my share all right."
"Nothing like outdoor life to give a fellow an appetite," commented Dick.
Dusk soon gathered. The forest looked grim and sombre, and when night came it was pleasant to watch the twinkling stars overhead and to listen to the weird sounds which often filled the air.
Havens piled a couple of logs on the fire and the dancing flames sent forth a cheerful glow.
Finally Dave Brandon picked up a lantern and led the way into the dugout. When all were inside, he stretched a blanket across the door, then, following the example of the others, spread his rubber blanket over the fir brush. Bob hung the lantern upon a board projecting near the hole in the roof.
"Good-night, fellows," said Jim.
"Good-night," responded the others. Then silence reigned.
Dick Travers' slumber was not refreshing. Occasionally, he half opened his eyes. The interior of the cave, in the dim light, looked very strange. Deep black shadows stretched up to the jagged roof, and, in places, some mineral sparkled brightly.
But it was something else that finally caught his attention, and caused him to sit bolt upright. A strange sound seemed to come from the roof of the log house.
Dick slowly rose to his feet, and listened intently. He hesitated to awaken his soundly sleeping companions.
As the boy was about to steal forward, a sharp crash echoed throughout the cave with startling clearness. Then followed a series of sounds which fairly made his hair stand on end.
The sleepers awoke on the instant, and scrambled to their feet.
"Great Scott! What was that?" cried Bob Somers.
"Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Dave.
"Grab your guns!" yelled Havens.
Several timbers fell with a loud clatter, and the lantern, dashed to the floor, promptly went out. Then a dark form crashed through the roof, flopping heavily on its back, while a series of savage growls and whines made the boys cower back in the darkest part of the cave.
"A bear!" shouted Jim Havens, "and a whopper."
Dick Travers, who had left his gun in front, was panic-stricken at the idea of being bottled up. Out in the open, he would at least have a chance in flight.
The pale moonlight, streaming through the window, revealed the animal pinioned beneath heavy timbers. Now was his chance. With a yell, Dick darted forward, and just as he did so, bruin rolled over on his feet.
Dick Travers' terror lent him strength. Bounding forward, he grazed the animal's back, brought up against the blanket, tore it from its fastenings, then stumbled at full length outside the door.
Bruin, no doubt astonished and alarmed at his own mishap and the commotion which followed, uttered another roar and turned tail.
Just as Dick Travers scrambled to his feet, a huge black body dashing by knocked him flat, and the boy let out a yell which could have been heard a mile.
The moon had risen above a belt of timber, throwing a silvery light over the landscape, and it showed the bear getting away at surprising speed.
The three boys who remained in the cave quickly recovered their wits.
"After him!" cried Havens, loudly.
Bob was first at the entrance. Raising his rifle, he sent a bullet speeding toward the retreating form. Then Havens' gun echoed sharply, but it was evident that neither shot took effect.
"Well, well," panted the poet. "A nice little surprise, eh? Hurt, Dick?"
"Not a bit of it, Dave." Dick's tones spoke of a troubled spirit. His companions were looking at him slyly.
"Ever take a prize in jumping?" asked Havens. "I'd bet on you, all right."
"I might as well admit it—he got my nerve," said Dick, frankly.
"Don't let it worry you, old man," said the "poet," laughingly.
"What do you suppose the old duffer was up to?" asked Bob.
"Guess he thought things looked kinder funny 'round here, so he walked up the tree and stepped on the roof. It's a beautiful mess, now isn't it?"
"A good day's work to fix it," commented Bob.
"Think the bear is likely to come back?" queried Dick.
"Not after the scare you gave him," grinned Havens. "Still, to be on the safe side, we'll take turns on guard."
This arrangement was agreed to, but the rest of the night passed without incident.
After breakfast, the boys decided to work on the hut. Bob Somers and Dick Travers climbed to the roof and began to remove the loose boards.
"Work, you fellows, work," said Dave, as he lay indolently on a bit of turf. "I'll help with advice."
"All right, Chub," laughed Bob.
"Don't think I will, either—I'll paint a sketch."
"Good," cried Dick. "Good."
Havens, axe and saw in hand, had gone off to the woods to get material, and the sounds which came from the timber indicated that he must be hard at work.
Dave got out his paint box and, seated Turk fashion before a canvas, began to squint dreadfully.
"Hey there, who are you making faces at?" asked Dick.
"Oh, of course you don't understand," said Dave Brandon, loftily. "That's to shut out the detail. All artists do it. You ought to see Professor Mead when he paints."
"Glad I don't have to, if he puts on such a face as that."
"It's worse."
"It couldn't be. Hello, what's up?"
Havens was heard to shout—then a second cry came from the woods.
"More bears, I wonder?" exclaimed Bob.
"Sounds as if he was running like sixty," cried Dick. "Here he comes. What in thunder's the matter? Did you catch what he said?"
"No."
Bob hastily lowered himself to the ground, and the three boys started toward the rapidly advancing figure.
Then it was seen that Jim Havens' head was surrounded by a dancing cloud of insects.
"Get some pine-knots," yelled the fugitive, slapping wildly at his tormentors. "Ouch! Stir yourselves—beat 'em off—help!"
"Bees!" cried Dave. "Bugville to the front."
All signs of laziness instantly disappeared. He jumped nimbly to his feet, and rushed, with the others, to the fire, where several half-consumed sticks were smouldering.
Havens arrived in their midst. So did the bees. They acted with charming impartiality.
Dick Travers slapped his cheek. "I'm stung first!" he yelled. "Ouch—wow—great Cæsar!"
"Welcome to the honor," said Dave. "Thunderation! Oh—oh! By the flying partridge, that hurts!"
Smoking sticks began to describe half circles and other curves in the air. The boys danced wildly, and hit right and left, up and down, all the while uttering exclamations, as numerous sharp stings were received from the angry insects.
"Take that—and that!" panted Dave. "You will tackle my painting hand, eh?"
"Give it to them!" yelled Bob.
The battle raged furiously, but at length, unable to withstand the onslaught, the insects suddenly buzzed away, leaving not a few of their number slain on the field.
"Oh, my—look at Bob's nose," snickered Dick.
"You ought to feel it."
"I'm satisfied with getting it in the neck;" and Travers tenderly placed his hand on a huge bump behind the ear.
"Three stings on one cheek is about enough, isn't it?" asked Dave.
"What did we ever do to you, Jim?" asked Bob, reproachfully. "It'll take a lot of explaining."
"Oh, I say," whispered Dick, "who's got that book—'First Aid to the Injured'? Trot it out, somebody."
"It's missing," said Dave.
"How's that?"
"Because nobody brought it."
Dick groaned. "Nice way to make a book useful," he said. "What'll we do?"
"Pooh—you fellows haven't got any stings," broke in Havens. He held out his hands ruefully. "Must have been about a thousand buzzing 'round me. Honest—I couldn't handle them alone. Lucky I brought something to——"
"Oh, say that again," cried Dick, hopefully. "You brought something along, eh?—Quick!"
Jim dived for his canvas bag, and took out a bottle.
"Smells like a drug store," said Bob, "but dish it out."
In a few minutes the smarting was somewhat allayed.
"Jim, you have a head," said Dick, admiringly. "Did you expect this to happen?"
"Sure! Anything's liable to happen in the woods."
"What else have you?"
"Something for snake bites and poison ivy."
"Great head! Anything for panther bites and bear hugs?"
"And now, Havens," interrupted Bob, "we want to know how this happened."
"Well, I came across an old hollow tree back there—bees hang out in such places, you know."
"Do they?" said Dick, with tremendous sarcasm.
"As luck would have it, my hatchet fell plumb in the hole—then I strolled over to tell you about it."
"Next time, Jim," said Dave, "you have our permission to do all your strolling in the opposite direction. But," he added, brightening up, "maybe there's some honey over there."
"Light some pine-knots, and we'll soon find out," said Havens.
His directions were put into effect, and in a few minutes they reached the hollow tree.
Havens began operations by hurling a stone.
"Watch 'em," he said.
The angry insects buzzed forth, but were easily put to flight by the blazing torches. Then vigorous blows from Jim Havens' hatchet sent the chips flying.
A cheer broke forth, when a great quantity of honey was disposed to view.
"Bet there's fifty pounds in there," said Dick, gleefully.
"Um—um," exclaimed Dave. "For breakfast, dinner and supper."
"You'll be um—umming more when you taste it," said Bob, slyly.
Back to the dugout for pans and dishes they tramped. These were soon filled to the brim with the most delicious honey. The four proceeded to enjoy some at once, and it was quite a while before work was resumed.
The slender maples which Havens had cut were then dragged to camp. These were nailed about six inches apart over the hole in the roof and a quantity of fir brush interwoven. A rough door was next fashioned out of the remaining saplings, and their work was done.
Late in the afternoon, the four, guns in hand, started off after game. In the course of an hour, they were a considerable distance from the dugout, skirting along the edge of a precipice.
Dick Travers, in advance of the others, caught a glimpse of some animal skulking through the underbrush straight ahead. With visions of securing a pelt worth while, he stole steadily forward.
"As I live, it's a fox," he murmured, excitedly. "Gee, I must get a crack at that."
Flinging caution to the winds, Dick leaped rapidly forward. Suddenly a cry of alarm escaped his lips.
Rushing full tilt through a mass of vegetation, he saw a yawning crevice, a sort of crack extending backward from the face of the cliff, before him. His impetus was too great to be checked, and Dick gave a gasp of horror, as he felt himself sliding over the edge.