"Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the rocksAnd disturb not a goat that so actively hops,"
"Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the rocksAnd disturb not a goat that so actively hops,"
"Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the rocks
And disturb not a goat that so actively hops,"
and having changed the lines to suit the situation, a broad smile played over his face.
"Stoop down, everybody," commanded Jim, sharply. "A herd of goats on the ledge, as sure as you're a foot high—the wind in our favor, too. By George! They're running to beat the band."
"Must be something chasing them," murmured Dick.
Havens gripped his rifle, and lay low.
A savage growl reached their ears; then a lithe, gray mountain lion appeared in view. With lashing tail, he crept steadily forward.
An old buck courageously planted himself between it and the retreating flock.
"We're going to see something now," whispered Havens, excitedly.
"Brave old codger," murmured Bob, "but he doesn't stand any show."
"Of course not," breathed Dick. "Look—the scrap begins."
With a savage snarl, the panther leaped in the air. Had the buck remained still, the cat would have landed squarely upon his back. But the grizzled old warrior sprang quickly to one side; then, with lowered head, dashed furiously at his foe.
The force was so great that the mountain lion, partly off its balance, fell back. A horrid screech rang out—then another, as the buck landed its hoofs viciously on the prostrate form.
But the tawny beast recovered himself quickly, crouched with flattened ears, and fiercely attacked its prey.
Bravely the buck met the advance, but the powerful paws of the panther soon brought him to his knees.
"That's the end of him," whispered Bob. "Christopher! No, he's up again. Look at that!"
"Wish he'd send the old monster over the cliff," said Dick, breathlessly. "He's doing wonders."
With a desperate effort, the goat rose on its hind legs, and shook off his antagonist. Backing away, the animal approached the edge of the precipice.
"Wow!" gasped Dick, "he'll be over in a minute."
"The brave old buck deserves to live, after putting up such a game fight," declared Dave. "Come on, fellows—to the rescue!"
The four began scrambling hastily down over the rocks toward the combatants.
"Hey! Don't fire until I get a chance with my camera," panted Dick, excitedly.
"All right, photographer—quick," said Havens.
The cat sprang again, and landed on the back of its antagonist; the buck partly rose, the weight of the panther pulled him sideways, and both goat and cat, struggling madly, fell in a heap upon the very edge of the precipice.
The battle was no longer against each other—it was now to regain their footing on the brink.
Breathlessly the boys watched; Dick Travers pointed his camera.
For an instant, the outcome was in doubt; then the buck, with wildly waving legs, plunged backward into the abyss, dragging his snarling foe with him.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Dave; "what a finish!"
"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. "They'll be knocked into a thousand bits."
"By Jingo—both done for," added Havens.
Then something else happened.
Dick Travers, in his eagerness to get a photo, failed to notice a projecting rock; he tripped, and found himself going forward.
It was a very sudden lurch, and the involuntary motion to recover his balance resumed in the camera slipping from his grasp. Bumping and sliding, it shot swiftly down the incline.
Bob Somers sprang forward to Dick's assistance, while Dave tried to catch the instrument. The former was successful, but the stout boy had no chance to intercept the camera.
With wild, staring eyes, Dick Travers watched the precious instrument headed straight for the precipice. Nothing could save it.
"It's gone," he said, in a hollow voice.
An instant later, the official photographer's official instrument sailed grandly over the brink, and followed goat and panther to the rocks below.
Dick Travers was inconsolable.
"Never mind, old man," said Bob, soothingly. "My dad will send you out another—honest, he will. You've got all your negatives safe."
"Fellows, look," remarked Havens, in a few minutes. He pointed to several large birds circling above the chasm. "Vultures," he said, briefly.
"After the goat and panther already?" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.
"Of course. I'd like to put a ball through the ugly rascals."
As soon as the great birds were hidden behind the precipice, the Ramblers continued on.
"Here's a place where we can get up," observed Bob, at length.
He began scrambling over a pile of rocks, and the others followed.
After many difficulties, and assisting each other over places which at first glance seemed impassable, the boys reached the snow.
"It's jolly fun to do this in summer, eh?" cried Bob, as he playfully shied a lump at Dave.
"I should say so," laughed the stout boy, returning the compliment.
"I can't forget that camera," sighed Dick, gloomily. "Excuse me, Havens, I didn't mean to soak you so hard."
Jim brushed a large quantity of snowflakes from around his neck.
"Oh, ho," said Dave, "this is a wonderful sight. A bit too cold to suit me, though. Our friends, the goats, have been here, all right—see the tracks?"
"And that's about all we will see of 'em," put in Havens. "They're scary critters. Big horns the same way."
Cautiously, the four climbed on. A magnificent panorama was before them—of valley and rugged mountains, of dark timber and rocks, all in sunshine save where the shadow of some floating cloud dotted the landscape.
The sun was now hanging just above a high peak, and within a short time the shade would creep through the valley, the rosy glow fade from the opposite mountains and the dense forests become sombre and gloomy.
Dave Brandon thought of this, and proposed returning, but the others were anxious to reach the highest point.
"Come on, Chubby," protested Bob. "Don't talk that way until we have balanced ourselves on the peak."
"Clouds coming up again, fellows," broke in Dick. "Gee, but aren't they far below us?"
"Wish they would spread all around," said Bob.
"By jingo, it looks as if a fellow could walk on them without falling through, doesn't it, Chub?" remarked Dick.
"Yes—makes it feel safe up here. Sort of holds us in."
"Funny to be looking down upon a pile of clouds," observed Bob, reflectively.
In ten minutes, the slowly-moving clouds had again cleared almost entirely away, and the boys, as they slipped and scrambled around a huge snow-bank, came across a view which brought them to a sudden halt.
"Jiminy crickets!" cried Bob, with arm outstretched; "look—Mountain Lake!"
"That's just what it is," said Dick, wonderingly. "Isn't it great, though? Can see just the shape and everything. The two islands look like a tiny little speck."
"Wish we had the Lick telescope," was Dave Brandon's remark. "Might see Sam and Tom on the porch or fishing in the lake. And think," he added, in tones which spoke of a troubled soul, "of all the weary tramping we've got to do before we see it again."
"Freezing snowbirds, I can't do the standing act," chattered Dick.
Their way, however, was soon barred by a narrow ledge which sloped abruptly downward on either hand.
"Never had any practice on tight ropes, and don't care to negotiate it," announced Dave, firmly.
"If you please, Chubby, we know you are right up in big words, but you'd better save 'em for Professor Hopkins," said Bob, with a smile.
"Very good," returned Dave; "but I am unalterably opposed to a continuance of——"
A series of groans stopped him.
For a few moments they contemplated in silence the dazzling depths below. Then Havens spoke up.
"Better be moving, fellows," he said. "There are some pretty tough places to get down, and we want to spend the night in the cave again."
"That's so," said Bob, "and often it's worse than climbing."
"Makes me tired to think of coming all this way, and then find that you just can't reach the top," exclaimed Dick Travers.
He looked longingly toward the summit, whereupon the other boys faced about and began the homeward march.
"Wouldn't do you any good to plead for it," said Dave. "I'm satisfied with being this far out of the world."
The descent, across sloping fields of snow, over slippery hillocks and declivities, proved to be more difficult than they had anticipated. Many anxious moments were spent at places where a slip or misstep might have meant a terrible fall.
When the timber line was reached, Havens' trail was soon found, and the four plunged into the thick pine forest.
"It's going to be blacker than pitch," remarked Dave, cheerily.
"Who cares?" said Bob. "We won't get lost—that's sure."
"And I wouldn't mind if we did," put in Dick, gloomily. "I can't get over that camera."
"Brighten up, old man—the worst is always ahead of us," laughed Dave.
"Don't even whisper, fellows," said Bob, a moment later. "Our supper is over there."
"Where—where?" came a low chorus.
"Don't you see a flock of birds in the open space beyond that old oak?"
"Sure," said Dick, in a stage whisper. "We mustn't miss anything like that."
"And won't, either," asserted Havens. "Be careful now."
Cautiously, the hunters spread out, and began to creep along, avoiding obstructions almost as well as Hank Merwin could have done. Not a word was spoken.
Through every opening they eagerly peered, and saw the flock still feeding, unconscious of danger. A little further, and four guns were raised toward the glade. Then four reports echoed, almost in unison, and almost instantly afterward the guns spoke in a more scattered fashion, while a flock of ducks, with loud quacking, took wing and disappeared amid the thick foliage.
"Hurrah!" yelled Bob Somers. "I told you so. We'll have a dandy supper."
Quickly they covered the ground which separated them from the glade, to find three plump birds.
"That's bully," cried Havens.
"Um—um," said the "poet." He picked up a bird by the legs and held it aloft. "Isn't that a daisy wood-duck?" he cried, admiringly. "Look at the lovely color—it's the prettiest of all ducks."
"Right you are, Chubby, but it will look even prettier when it gets over the fire. Come ahead—it's growing dark fast."
Already the light was beginning to fade from the sky, and before long it would be difficult to find the trees which Havens had marked.
"It means a torchlight procession pretty soon," remarked Dave, and this prediction was soon verified. When night came, four flaring pine-knots flashed a pathway through the forest, and caused many of its inhabitants to dash madly for the nearest thickets.
Strange sounds met their ears, the plaintive note of the whippoorwill, the weird hooting of owls, and sometimes the cries of animals in the distance.
Every one of the group kept his eyes and ears open for signs of any dangerous beasts which might be lurking in their path.
Owing to Havens' forethought in "blazing" the trees at short intervals, the trail was easily found, and the cave at last reached.
"Oh, how glad I am to get here," said Dave. "Nice late supper we'll have, though I'm 'most too tired to eat."
"Isn't possible," said Dick. He lighted a fresh pine-knot, and continued, "Let's take a look inside the hotel."
"See if my bearskin's safe," drawled Dave.
He propped his flaring torch between two stones and sank wearily down, while Bob and Dick entered the cave.
A moment later, Dick Travers poked his head outside the opening, and, in a voice that trembled with excitement, made this startling announcement:
"Hello, Dave Brandon—it's gone!"
"Gone? It can't be!" gasped Dave. He rose slowly to his feet. "You're joking, Dick."
"Not a bit of it. Sure as you're bigger than a grasshopper, somebody's swiped it, eh, Bob?"
Bob nodded.
"It's gone, Chubby—and who could have taken it?"
"I told you, Dick Travers, that the worst is always ahead of us," grumbled Dave. "I had a place selected for that rug—wouldn't have sold it for any money."
"Gee! Mighty hard luck, old man," commented Havens, sympathetically. "I must take a look into this."
He hastily entered the cave.
The flaring pine torch revealed the fact that Old Ephraim's valuable pelt had actually disappeared.
"Not a blessed thing to give us a clue," said Dave, gloomily. "No handkerchief, no bit of paper, conveniently torn, so as to fit another piece later found on the culprit, no bit of cloth hanging to a bush, no footprints, because it's all rock. That's the way it is in real life." He heaved a sigh, and extended his hand toward Dick Travers. "Partners in misfortune," he said, and the two shook hands.
After one of the ducks had been dressed, Jim Havens took charge of it and proceeded to make a record for speedy broiling.
Appetites having been sharpened by the long tramp and bracing air, the meal was thoroughly enjoyed.
It was late before they turned in, and the sun had risen far above the mountains when a breakfast of cold duck and coffee was disposed of.
"Our time is about over," said Bob Somers, regretfully, as they prepared to leave. "Sam and Tommy must have their chance."
"We've had a bully trip," said Dick. "Glad that we're going to see old Hank Merwin again."
"And if we could only run across the fellow who took that bearskin, I'd feel better," murmured Dave.
"Don't think you'll ever lay eyes on it again," put in Havens, frankly.
The hunters kept a sharp lookout for game, and encountered plenty of the smaller variety. A pair of gray wolves, skulking among the pines, hastily left for other parts when Dick Travers sent a load of buckshot rattling over their heads.
After lunch, beautiful Lake Cloud was sighted. About the same instant, the four discovered several large white birds with long, graceful necks swimming close in shore.
"Sh—sh!" said Havens.
"Sh—sh!" said all the rest in unison.
"Swans," whispered Jim.
"One of 'em might look well stuffed—a nice souvenir of our trip," put in Bob.
Bob, Dick and Jim crept cautiously ahead. Afraid that the birds might take wing, they decided to risk a long-distance shot, although Dick felt sure that his would be wasted.
"Too far for buckshot," he whispered, "but never mind—here goes."
He fired, and then Jim followed suit. Bob Somers, whose foot had caught in a trailing vine, looked up in time to see three white forms rising against the background of greenish mountains. Neither shot had taken effect.
"Well, well," muttered Havens, chagrined. "Hello!"
Bob Somers had raised his gun instantly, and fired. Scarcely believing his eyes, he saw the flight of the nearest bird checked. With fluttering wings, it dropped in shallow water, close to an ancient cypress tree.
"Bully shot, Bob," cried Dick. "Simply stunning—well, what do you think of that?"
As they started to run forward, a yellowish-gray animal suddenly appeared in view from behind a thicket, and, with a growl, sprang boldly out and grappled the still struggling swan by the neck.
"That's nerve for you," yelled Bob. "We'll teach the old robber a lesson."
"Be quick," panted Dick; "he'll get away."
The wildcat speedily dragged the swan out of the water into the thicket, and when the three boys arrived both were out of sight.
"Doesn't that beat all?" cried Bob, disgustedly.
"Hard luck, after making such a dandy shot," said Dick. "The rascal is close by—we'll chase him out of the bushes. What are you going to do, Bob?"
"Climb the old cypress; I'll find out where he is."
The thick trunk was gnarled, and, by the aid of a low branch, Bob managed to reach a stout limb, bare of foliage. Sitting astride, he worked his way carefully out over the thicket.
A harsh, rasping cry broke the stillness. Almost directly beneath, in a tiny clearing, was the robber, with one paw on the swan. His ears were thrown back, while the yellow eyes glared savagely and his tail switched back and forth.
"I'll make short work of you, old chap," muttered Bob.
He unslung his rifle.
"Just one minute—all right, Dick, he's here. I'll——"
An ominous sound suddenly rang out, the limb shivered and shook, while Bob Somers glanced wildly around. A cry came from his lips.
A crack in the limb had escaped his attention, and it was giving way beneath his weight. His companions' startled exclamations joined in with his own.
"Get over—quick," yelled Dick Travers, in dismay.
But, with another sharp crack, the limb broke in twain, and Bob Somers shot downward.
An awful screech came from the wildcat.
"He'll be torn to pieces," cried Havens.
"Jehoshaphat! This is terrible," gasped Dave Brandon.
In an instant Bob landed in the midst of a mass of underbrush and tangled vines. His fall was broken by these, and he managed to hold on to his rifle.
The wildcat crouched and emitted another blood-curdling screech; Bob strove to regain his feet. Then, as he got on one knee, a lithe form launched itself in the air.
It was a critical moment. Bob's arms trembled; he had no time to bring the rifle to his shoulder, but managed to blindly point it upward and pull the trigger. The cat dropped heavily in the bushes and lay quite still.
The bullet had pierced its brain.
For an instant, Bob Somers could scarcely realize his good fortune. Then, as his excited companions pushed their way toward him, he uttered a cry of triumph.
"I've got him, Chubby," he cried, "and with one shot, too. And never aimed, either—what do you think of that?"
"Hurt?" came a chorus of excited voices.
"Not a bit of it. Scratched up a bit by these plagued vines—that's all. And the swan's most as good as ever. Hurrah! Got two souvenirs, instead of one."
"Gee whitaker, but I was scared," said Dick Travers. "Thought sure you'd be nearly chewed to pieces."
"You hold the record now, Somers—two bully shots," broke in Havens. "But say—as you don't need any help, excuse me from pushing any further into this mess."
"You're a lucky chap," came from Dave. "Mighty good your first shot settled him."
Bob found it very hard to extricate himself from the thick mass of underbrush and creepers. He touched the wildcat gingerly with his toe, then stooped over and examined the wicked-looking head.
"You're an awful monster," he exclaimed. "Here, Chubby—catch a few pounds of wildcat."
He picked up the animal, and with a hard effort managed to land it near the edge of the thicket; then the swan followed.
By the time Bob got out of his unpleasant position, he was badly scratched up.
The swan was not seriously damaged, although the marks of the wildcat's teeth showed plainly on its neck.
"Fellows," said Bob, proudly, "I'll have both of these stuffed—make a group of 'em—see if I don't."
"Good," approved Dave. "This counts as another little adventure which is going to cause Sam and Tommy to open their eyes."
Hank Merwin was not at his cabin when the four arrived. But about sundown his lanky form appeared in view. Over his shoulder he carried a well-filled game-bag.
"Hello, Hank!" called Jim.
"Arternoon, lads," responded the trapper, quietly. "Back ag'in, eh?" He glanced at the wildcat and swan. "Not bad, lads. The horns is fixed fine; I'll show ye."
He opened the door, and the boys followed him into the cabin.
In one corner stood the great moose antlers, nicely cleaned and prepared. Dick Travers' eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"I'm ever so much obliged, Hank," he cried, seizing the trapper's brawny hand. "Isn't it great to have things like that to show the fellows at Kingswood, eh, Chubby?"
"Got a lot of pelts, Hank?" questioned Jim.
"Not a bad haul, lad. Mink, an' otter, an' beaver, an' a fox. But I reckon you lads 'ud like a bit of grub."
"We'll give you a hand, Hank," said Bob. "Come on, Dick—help get a fire started."
Hank had a treat, in shape of several trout, and these, cooked between hot stones, were declared delicious.
The boys had a great deal to talk about. Hank listened gravely, making but little comment, until Dave spoke about the bearskin.
"Stole, eh?" he exclaimed, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air. "Tough luck, lad. Only a pesky snake 'ud do a thing like that."
The firelight brought out the wrinkles and seams on his rugged face, and for an instant his kindly eye flashed sternly.
"A bad business, lads," he continued. "A bad business." Then he gazed at the smoke rings again, apparently in deep thought.
Early next morning, Hank prepared the wildcat's skin, as well as that of the swan, and, loaded with these and the moose antlers, the boys bade him good-bye.
"Look out fur yerselves, lads," he said. "Perhaps I may run acrost ye ag'in."
"Certainly hope so, Hank," declared Dick. "I'll never forget you or that jacklight trip. Three cheers for Hank Merwin!"
And the lusty shouts that followed made a faint smile play across the impassive face of the trapper.
The moose antlers had been firmly attached to stout poles, each carried by two boys. With such a heavy load, progress was slow.
That night they camped on the mountainside, and at noon the following day reached the dugout.
An unpleasant surprise awaited them—the honey was gone.
"A bear's been here," declared Havens. "The old brute busted in the door to get it."
"And I've been thinking about that honey for the last three days," said Dave, dolefully.
The Ramblers had been back two days. Bob and his companions were deeply shocked to hear about Howard Fenton, and went immediately to the Resort House, to express their sympathy to his father, but Mr. Fenton had left the village.
The boys found plenty to talk about. Sam Randall and Tommy Clifton listened eagerly to the story of their chums' experiences in the mountains, while Bob and his companions were interested to hear about mysterious Neil Prescott and the strange bonfire which often burned on the heights of Promontory Island.
"Nobody knows a thing about him, either," remarked Sam, as they sat around the porch, early one morning. "When Tom and I take our trip to the mountains, you chaps ought to do a bit of detective work."
"Guess he's only some old crank," said Bob, "not worth bothering about."
"He's sharp enough, eh, Tommy?"
Clifton nodded.
"You bet," he said. "Whenever we start to quizzing, he always says, 'Now, youngsters, I'll spin a little yarn.' He's great at it, too."
"Couldn't beat Hank Merwin," said Dick.
"Huh—you haven't heard Neil Prescott."
"And you haven't heard Hank."
"Fellows," interrupted Bob, "let's get away from this porch. Suppose we take a jaunt somewhere?"
The captain arose, and picked up his gun. "Saw some ducks yesterday," he went on. "Might get a crack at 'em."
"And I'm going to make a sketch," declared Dave.
Dick Travers accompanied him inside and walked to the drawing-room, while the other went up-stairs for his painting materials.
The "official photographer's" eyes glowed with pride, as his gaze rested upon a pair of moose antlers.
"And to think I brought him down," he muttered, for about the fiftieth time. "Gee!" and he straightened himself up with a thrill of pride.
"Say, what are you doing in there?" called Tommy Clifton, suddenly appearing in the doorway.
"Did you see my handkerchief laying around anywhere?" stammered Dick.
"No! But I see those horns," gurgled Tommy, with a sly wink.
"That will do, Tommy. If you practice a bit, maybe you'll bring down something, too. Hello—I hear Tom Sanders' sweet voice outside."
Dave Brandon came down-stairs at this moment, with his paint box, easel, canvas and a huge white umbrella.
"Look at the fat peddler," snickered Clifton, as they walked out on the porch.
Tom Sanders was greatly interested.
"What a rig!" he said, loudly. "Say, are you goin' to make a paintin'?"
"Yep."
"Bartlett's pond is awful purty."
"Then let's make a bee-line for it."
"That your dog, Sanders?" asked Dave, presently.
He pointed to a large, scrawny animal which was squatting on the ground close by. Its color was a dull yellow; of all the dogs they had seen in Mountain Village this was quite the ugliest.
"Ain't you never seen Tige afore?" asked Sanders, in surprise. "He's a bully dorg, he is—say! I'll lay me cap down, an' if any of you fellers kin git away with it, it's yours."
This liberal offer was politely declined.
"He ain't afear'd of nuthin'," went on Sanders. "That dorg couldn't be bought fur five dollars. Oncet a feller offered me fifty cents, but I says 'no.'"
"Well, we won't tempt you to part with him," laughed Bob.
As he approached, the animal raised his head slightly, and showed a row of gleaming teeth.
"He's got a disposition like 'Surly Joe's,'" said Dick, with a grin.
A few minutes later, the six boys crossed the baseball diamond, and were soon on the road.
Bartlett's pond was about two miles from Rickham House, on the edge of a fringe of woods, charmingly framed in by the distant mountains.
"Ah, this is great," murmured Dave, presently. "Ought to make a dandy sketch."
To the left, a clump of trees overhung the pond, while in the foreground an ancient flat-bottomed boat lay partly submerged, with reeds and tall grass growing all around.
A canvas was placed on the easel, and then Dave began to set his palette, surrounded by an interested group.
"Ain't them purty colors fur ye?" said Sanders.
"It's the mixing that would bother me," put in Tom Clifton, confidentially.
At last Dave was ready.
"What's yer a-puttin' on that awful mug fur?" demanded Sanders. "D'ye feel sick?"
"Sick?" echoed the artist.
"Sure! Mebbe the smell of paint ain't good. There was Phil Levins' dad—started ter paint his barn, an' was took somphin' awful."
Sanders looked mildly astonished when his hearers roared with laughter.
"Bang—there it goes," said Sam, as Dave started to sketch in the general lines with charcoal.
"Ah!" said Bob, when the first dab of color struck the canvas.
And Dave squinted his eyes and sighed, and contracted his brows, as the surface was gradually covered.
"Don't look like nothin' ter me," said Sanders, frankly, his face within two feet of the canvas. "'Tain't smooth."
"If," said Dave, calmly, "that paint gets on your nose, Sanders, don't blame me."
Half an hour later, Bob Somers observed, "Looks great—doesn't it, boys?"
"Dave, you're a wonder," added Sam.
"Don't look like nothin' ter me," repeated Sanders. "What's the use of doin' it?"
"Thus is genius always unappreciated," smiled Dave. "Some day, Sanders, when you hear a big noise, rolling like distant thunder, you'll know it's my fame reaching Mountain Village."
A low growl came from Tige at this moment. A boy and a large dog were approaching. The dog soon led. It was larger than Tige, shaggy, and wore an expression which indicated that timidity was not a part of its nature.
Trouble was brewing, and it came sooner than expected.
The newcomer wasted no time in preliminaries. The moment he saw Tige he sprang for him.
All but Dave Brandon retreated—he didn't have time.
Smack! The animals backed up against the easel, sending it flying.
Bang! The canvas smote Dave Brandon on the nose, his stool tilted, and over he went backward, while his palette dropped squarely on Tige's back. The big umbrella, after gracefully sailing through the air, landed a few feet away.
As Dave picked himself up, he was not pleased to find that operations continued with great activity close around him. Each dog let out a series of howls, barks, whines and grunts; each got knocked down, and each knocked the other down, while eight legs waved wildly in all directions.
"Whee!" cried Dave, as one after the other bumped into him. "It's time they had a lesson in manners."
He seized his rest stick, and raised it aloft, aiming toward the spot where the mixture of dog seemed thickest.
About one second later, a howl such as rarely issued from a canine throat disturbed the atmosphere, and one dog was seen rapidly backing away. Then the rest stick hit the other dog in the back, and the noise in that immediate vicinity was considerably augmented.
"Don't hit my poor dorg ag'in!" screamed Sanders, rushing forward.
But Dave had not intended his blows to land. They served, however, to keep the two howling canines from renewing their fights, and by that time the owner of the visiting dog had come running up, hatless, and out of breath.
"W-w-what d-d-do you m-ean?" he stammered, taking a position between Dave's stick and his own pet.
"What does the dog mean?" demanded Dave, facetiously, again.
"I guess he was just sparring for points," laughed the newcomer, perceiving that Dave was disposed to view the situation in a humorous light.
At this moment several hearty peals of laughter rang out.
"Awful sorry, old man," snickered Bob, "but I can't help it. Maybe Tige isn't a beautiful sight, and your face—wow!"
"Funniest thing I ever saw," gasped Dick.
The artist was calmly wiping his forehead and cheeks, thereby spreading the color.
As for the owner of the dog which had caused all the trouble, he now seized the animal by the collar, and bending forward looked at Dave with a scared expression.
"I'm awful sorry," he said. "I——"
"Might have known your old brute would raise the mischief, Ben Henderson," growled Sanders, aiming a kick at Tige which sent the sadly bedaubed animal scurrying away.
"Honest—it wasn't my fault," pleaded the boy. "I'm awful sorry."
"It's all right, son," put in Dave.
"Nip's kind of out of humor to-day, and——"
"'Nip'? That's a mighty queer name."
"Yes, sir! We have another dog named Tuck, so it's Nip and Tuck."
"Thank goodness Tuck didn't come along," said Dave, as he picked up the easel and set his sketch in place.
"Awful glad your paintin' wasn't spoiled," said the boy. "It's bully. You're a regular artist, ain't you?"
At this remark a very wide smile played over the stout boy's features.
"I draw pictures, too," stammered Ben.
"You do?" said Dave, with interest. "See here, Ben, do you tend sheep?"
"Sure," answered the boy, in surprise. "Why?"
"Well, well," continued Dave, laughingly; "fellows, maybe we've discovered another Giotto."
"Giotto?" echoed Ben. "Who's he?"
"Oh, an Italian artist who lived several hundred years ago," explained Dave. "While tending sheep, he used to draw, and afterward he became famous."
"I've drawn pictures, too, while the sheep were grazing," said Ben, eagerly.
"Suffering catfish, how like the other Gee Otto," put in Tommy Clifton.
"I'll draw you a picture now. Oh, you needn't laugh, Tom Sanders."
Ben seized the sketch-book which Dave held out, and began to work.
"Good boy! You've got the stuff all right," exclaimed the stout boy.
Young Henderson looked pleased.
"Isn't this like my father's house, Sanders?" he asked, holding up the sketch, and Tom admitted that it was.
"Wish Professor Mead could see it," murmured Dave. "If you want me to give you a few pointers, come over to Rickham."
Ben was delighted.
"You bet I'll come over," he said, with sparkling eyes.
"Then I must order a pair of spectacles," said Dave, solemnly, "and cultivate a severe frown and deep voice, and if you don't become a second Giotto, it won't be my fault."
Ben Henderson lost no time in taking advantage of Dave Brandon's kind offer; in fact, the very next morning he appeared at the Rickham House, happy and expectant.
Ben proved an apt pupil, and Dave enjoyed his new rôle as a professor.
One morning, just after breakfast, Dick Travers poked his head out-of-doors.
"May have to stick inside all day," he grumbled. "Clouds are dark and the wind is pretty brisk—it's going to rain."
"Well, it isn't raining now," called out Dave from the dining-room. "Let's ramble around for an hour or two, anyway."
"Right you are, Chubby," agreed Bob. "I'm going to take my gun. Might knock over a couple of hares."
In a few minutes, the boys were crossing the field, headed for a fringe of woods.
As they were about to enter, Dick Travers happened to turn his head. He stopped abruptly, and uttered an exclamation.
"What's the matter, Dick?" asked Bob.
"Some fellows going out on our wharf," was the answer.
"I'll bet it's 'Little Bill' after the 'Spray' again," cried Tom, excitedly.
"Let's watch 'em a bit," counseled Bob.
"Now's the time to put a stop to their funny business," said Bob. "Come ahead, fellows. Guess Mr. Bill Dugan won't take the boat out to-day."
"He has awful nerve," said Dick, angrily.
"Perhaps he won't have so much when the Ramblers get through with him."
The boys, fully aroused, broke into a run, and presently recognized "Little Bill." But Dugan and his companion, busily engaged in casting off the ropes, did not look around until the indignant boys were almost upon the wharf.
"Hey there, Bill Dugan," yelled Bob; "get away from that boat!"
"Well, I declare—if that isn't 'Surly Joe' with him," panted Dick. "Crickets, but this is a surprise!"
Both the trapper and "Little Bill" wheeled sharply around at Bob's command. Dugan's face flushed; he was evidently disconcerted and no doubt felt like taking to his heels, but "Surly Joe's" unamiable countenance glared defiance.
"Don't pay no attention to 'em, Bill," snarled the latter. "They hain't got no more sense than ter skeer away a hull flock of the finest ducks you ever see. Jump in, an'——"
"Don't do anything of the sort, Dugan," commanded Bob, firmly. "You have no right to touch that boat!"
"What's the reason I hain't?" cried "Little Bill," with a show of courage. "Old Barton says ter me—he says, 'Bill, if ever——'"
"Don't chin with 'em all day, but jump in," interrupted "Surly Joe," angrily. "Didn't you say that you an' me could have a little sail? You ain't skeered of them young kids, I hope, Bill Dugan?"
"You don't know how to sail a boat, anyway," cried Bob. "We won't stand any nonsense now."
"Jist listen at him—wal, did I ever hear the beat of it? If that ain't impertinence fur ye," growled Joe Tomlin. "He's insulted, ye, Bill Dugan—that's what he's done. Do you stand fur sich talk as that?"
"No, I don't!" yelled Dugan, fiercely.
His right hand shot out; he seized Bob Somers' rifle, and wrested it from his grasp.
"Jump in, Joe," he cried. "Here goes!"
He leaped aboard the "Spray," and "Surly Joe" instantly followed. The boat had been straining and tugging, with but one rope left to hold her, and this Joe Tomlin instantly cast off.
The boys were entirely unprepared for such sudden action, and their indignation was thoroughly aroused as the "Spray" slowly drifted away from the wharf, and "Surly Joe" was seen hauling up the sail.
"I'll teach yer not ter be gittin' gay with me," cried Dugan. "When yer apologizes, ye gits back yer old shootin' iron, an' not before. I'll show you—an' that fat elephant, too."
"After them in the 'Speedy,' fellows," cried Bob.
"That's the idea!" yelled Dick.
But the boys, in their excitement and hurry, proceeded to prove the truth of the old saying, "The more haste, the less speed." Nothing went right. Tommy Clifton fell down and bumped his nose; the ropes were stubborn—one of them got wedged in a crack on the wharf, and Bob, impatient at the delay, cut it loose.
"Pile aboard, fellows!" he cried.
A strong wind was blowing, and the "Spray," headed for Promontory Island, had a good start.
"Crickets! We'll have to go some to catch up with 'em," cried Bob. "Give me a hand with the sail, Dick—that's it. Keep her steady, Sam."
"What's the program?" asked Dave, calmly.
"Board the 'Spray,' if necessary. When Dugan and 'Surly Joe' find we mean business, they'll back down."
"Maybe they won't, Bob," put in Tommy Clifton, nervously.
"You might as well give it up," came floating over the air. "Little Bill," in the stern, was waving Bob Somers' rifle tauntingly.
"If you know what's best for yourself you'll come about," shouted Bob.
"Is that elephant holding yer back?" sneered Dugan, and "Surly Joe's" harsh laugh reached their ears.
"Jiminy, the wind's kicking up awful big waves," said Tommy Clifton a few minutes later. "Might be better to get back."
"No siree, Tommy. It's now or never. We're not so easy as all that."
"We must get that gun, even if they lead us a chase around the two islands," put in Sam, emphatically.
Heavy, rolling clouds shut from view the surrounding mountains; drops of rain began to fall, and every moment the "Speedy" buried her nose in the white-capped waves, while flying spray soaked the occupants.
The quantity of water pouring over the gunwale assumed such proportions that Dick and Bob Somers began bailing.
Hemlock and Promontory Islands soon loomed up clearly, the latter grim and majestic in the gray light.
"Great sport, this," cried Dave. "We're gaining fast, Bob. Mind yourself, Sam. This boat's a bit too narrow for stormy weather. There goes the 'Spray' into the passageway."
As the wind blew stronger and the angry, hissing water broke against the boat with great force, Tom Clifton's fears increased. He kept looking at the shore, and each time the "Speedy" heeled far over felt a shiver run through him.
"Look out, Sam," he shouted, as a particularly violent gust bore down upon them. "Look out! Jiminy, we'll be over in a minute."
But the "Speedy" bravely righted herself, and struggled ahead.
This was repeated so many times that the boys began to think they were experiencing the worst that was in store for them, and that after all there was no real danger.
"Fine sport—fine," said Dave Brandon, at length. "Just fierce enough to be enjoyable."
"Right you are," added Sam, emphatically.
As the steersman was about to change his course, a sudden and unexpected lurch tore the tiller from his grasp and sent him crashing against the gunwale. The sail began to thrash and bang violently in the wind, and cries of alarm instantly arose.
"Drop the sail!" yelled Bob, struggling to Sam's assistance.
The "Speedy" careened far over; before Dave Brandon and Dick Travers could master the flapping canvas, the boom swung swiftly across. Tommy Clifton tried to duck, but too late. His horrified chums saw him swept backward into the choppy water.
It had happened so quickly that not a move could be made to aid him.
But Tommy's yell of terror had scarcely ceased, when Dick Travers threw off his coat and shoes, and, without an instant's hesitation, dived overboard.
As he rose to the surface, bravely battling against wind and foam-crested waves, he clearly felt the grip of the treacherous current.
Tommy Clifton's head bobbed up close by, and, swimming hand over hand, Dick made straight for him.
"Keep up, Tommy, old boy," he managed to gasp.
But the terror-stricken lad did not seem to hear. He grasped wildly at his rescuer, who, however, knew enough to keep clear.
At a favorable moment he seized Tommy by the hair and by a quick move turned him on his back. So far, he had been buoyed up by the hope that the "Speedy" would immediately tack to their assistance, and, hampered by his clothes, he strove merely to keep afloat.
The force of the wind and waves dashing in his face almost took his breath away; his muscles ached, but he held on to white-faced Tommy Clifton with a grip which could not be broken.
"Why don't they come?" he murmured. Then he managed to turn, and, with a great effort, glance over the crests of the gray, storm-swept waves.
"Great Scott!"
An icy chill swept through him. Instead of the "Speedy" being close at hand and coming to their assistance, the instantaneous glance showed him a boat bottom up, with several figures clinging to it.
The accident had thrown the Ramblers into such consternation that for an instant all seemed incapable of action.
But the seriousness of their situation demanded immediate attention. The "Speedy" had already passed the passageway, and each moment the current of Canyon River and the wind were dragging it nearer the dreaded gorge.
Bob Somers was the first to arouse himself. The yell of Tommy Clifton seemed to be still ringing in his ears. He grasped the tiller.
"Ease over the sheet, Dave," he shouted. "We're coming about on the starboard tack—quick!"
But the instant's delay had been fatal. Before the boat could respond to her helm, another furious blast sent her heeling over. This time, the tapering mast met the water; the boys shot out in all directions; then the "Speedy" turned bottom up, and, as if rejoicing at another victim, the current raced her swiftly along.
When they rose to the surface, the Ramblers, with one accord, struck out for the boat; each felt that to stem the force of wind and water was impossible. Numerous rocks studded the channel a bit further down, and their only hope seemed to lie in reaching one of these. At any rate, they had already gone so far that no effort at swimming could have saved them from the turbulent water below.
Clinging to the hull, they could only glance at each other with white faces—faces which reflected the terror that gripped their hearts.
By this time, dark, rolling clouds had blotted out the mountain tops, and seemed to be on the point of pouring earthward a flood of rain. Nature was, indeed, in a wild and threatening mood.
And now an ominous roar rose above the sound of wind and waves. Already the upturned boat was sweeping past the lower end of Promontory Island.
The cliffs lashed with perpetual foam were near at hand.
Like one in a dream, Sam Randall saw flashing into view the white rocks upon which he had stood only a short time before. Then, almost instantly, torn like the others from their hold on the "Speedy," he was battling for life in a seething vortex.
Exhausted by the pounding and almost blinded, he struggled desperately to keep his head above water and reach one of the rocks. But a short distance separated him from a haven of safety. He kept his eye fixed on a form over which the water pounded and lashed. A few feet more, and his hand would reach it.
At last, with the agony of despair, Sam Randall grasped hold of the projecting point. His fingers closed tightly around it, and for an instant it looked as if success would crown his effort.
Then he was torn away.
A deafening roar rang in his ears; he seemed to be fairly lifted above the madly swirling water, then forced beneath, and when, gasping and choking, he rose to the surface, it was within the gloomy gorge, with nothing but rocky walls on either hand.
Yes, Bob and Dave were there, too.
The current was now smooth and even, and the three, notwithstanding their exhausted condition, found little difficulty in keeping to the surface. The "Speedy" could be seen not far ahead.
Bob Somers felt a strange calmness steal over him; the first crushing shock had gone, and even when, a few minutes later, a steady murmur rose above the gurgle of the lapping water, it did not seem to increase his agitation.
The cataract was not far ahead.
The sound rapidly increased in volume, a steady droning, musical and solemn.
The swimmers shot around a jutting crag; then Bob Somers felt like uttering a shout. Hope swept away the unnatural calmness, and renewed his strength.
The river widened out; on the left side a green field, dotted with trees, sloped gently to the water's edge.
"Let's try to land there," cried Bob, and the boys struck out in that direction. The current was swift, and they realized that an instant's delay would result in their being swept down to the falls. Already more than half the green shore was behind them, when Bob Somers won his battle. He grasped an overhanging tree and pulled himself up on the bank. Then, a bit further along, Dave Brandon crawled up on a shelving rock, and lastly, Sam Randall.
Exhausted, the three lay perfectly still, their hearts filled with thankfulness at their wonderful escape. Bob Somers was the first to rise, and, in a moment, the others joined him. They were three strange-looking boys, pale-faced, with wet, bedraggled clothing that stuck tightly to their forms.
"We had a narrow escape, fellows," exclaimed Sam Randall, with a shiver. "I never expected to get out of it."
"One adventure like this would last a fellow a lifetime," murmured Dave. "We ought to thank our stars. I'll never forget how I felt when we were in that gorge," and Dave shuddered.
"Nor I," said Bob. "If we only knew what happened to poor Tommy and Dick."
"Travers is a good swimmer; the current doesn't run very strong there, and they were close to Hemlock Island."
Dave's cheering words brightened the others considerably.
"Listen to the roar of that cataract," put in Sam. "It can't be far off—sounds like a whopper."
"Suppose this valley had been on the other side of the falls, instead of this," said Dave, reflectively.
"Don't, Chubby," and Bob shivered. "Poor old 'Speedy,' she's smashed to bits, now—nice news for Uncle Barton. Maybe he won't have a few things to say to Dugan."
"Fellows," said Sam, suddenly, "how are we going to get out of this place? We may be in a fine pickle after all—let's explore a bit."
The valley seemed circular, and less than a quarter of a mile across. Trees and all sorts of vegetation grew in the richest profusion. Above, the cliffs were enveloped in the low, scudding clouds, and occasionally big drops of rain spattered about them.
The three came to a halt at the end of the valley. The rocky walls rose sheer from the water again, and all hope of escape in that direction was cut off. A little below them, on the other side of the river, they could see another green shore, but its extent could not be determined on account of the cliff which jutted in front.
"Might have been better if we'd landed there," said Dave, reflectively. "Look at that spur extending out into the stream."
"Maybe," admitted Bob. "Suppose we explore the rest of the valley."
At the end of half an hour, the boys looked at each other in dismay. Every nook and corner of the border line had been inspected, and a disheartening fact was forced upon them—the valley had no outlet.
"Bob, we're bottled up," said Sam, gloomily.
"An awful fix," murmured the captain, with sinking heart.
Dave glanced upward.
"Might as well think of trying to climb the sides of a house, Chubby," said Sam, despairingly. "Hang it—what's to be done?"
"Have lunch," answered the "poet." He pointed toward a mass of blackberry bushes. "Better than nothing," he added.
The others thought so, too, and began an onslaught which lasted until their hunger was considerably appeased. Then, despite a drizzly rain, they wandered back to the river, and ran up and down the banks to keep warm. The top of Promontory Island could be faintly seen between the canyon walls.
"If we only had some matches, it might be worth while to build a fire," remarked Sam. "Old Neil Prescott would be sure to see it."
"But Bill Dugan said that no one could ascend the river from below," declared Bob.
"And no one's coming the way we did. What can be done, Dave?"
"Eat blackberries, and hope," counseled the "poet," and, as Sam made an impatient gesture, he added, "Until to-morrow, at least."
"And to-morrow?" said Sam.
But his question remained unanswered.
Soon they sought shelter under a thick clump of trees.
"Seems a pity that such a beautiful little place should be hidden," remarked the "poet," thoughtfully. "Remember the poem,