The Rambler Club Afloat
Date: 2022-05-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure stories; Boats and boating -- Juvenile fiction; Mystery fiction; Boys -- Societies and clubs -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Rambler Club Afloat

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release date: May 4, 2022 [eBook #67989]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Penn Publishing Company, 1909

Credits: David Edwards, D A Alexander, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT ***

The Rambler Club Afloat

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF
"A KNIGHT OF THE WEST SIDE"

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMIX

COPYRIGHT 1909 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

THE BOYS CROWDED AROUND THE BOAT

Introduction

The author's purpose is a very unassuming one. He aims simply to present to the host of bright American boys a clean, wholesome story of sport and adventure. The Ramblers are a group of five jolly young fellows, who form a club for the purpose of hunting and fishing, but find their plans changed by circumstances.

In the course of their travels, the Nimrod Club, a rival organization, is often encountered. The boys are able to accept the unexpected and often trying situations in which they are placed with a reasonable degree of philosophy. They are disposed to be forbearing, yet are spirited enough to stand up for their rights when patience ceases to be a virtue. This story tells how, in spite of trials and discouragement, they are undaunted, bravely push on, and are finally rewarded by solving the mystery of the many strange happenings that have befallen them.

"The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," and "The Rambler Club in the Mountains," show the members of the club in outdoor experiences that any real live boy will envy them.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

I. | The New Club
II. | The Boat
III. | Nat is Angry
IV. | A Trial Trip
V. | The Nimrods
VI. | Tom's Cooking
VII. | Repairing Damages
VIII. | Camping Out
IX. | Hackett's Shooting
X. | A Real Hero
XI. | Dave Comes Back
XII. | In Danger
XIII. | A Squall
XIV. | Mischief
XV. | Man Overboard
XVI. | Disaster
XVII. | Arrested
XVIII. | The Nimrods in Trouble
XIX. | On the Bay
XX. | Another Boat Gone
XXI. | "I Hate to Give Up"
XXII. | Detective Work
XXIII. | What Bob Saw
XXIV. | Another Mystery
XXV. | Mr. Somers' Land

Illustrations

The Boys Crowded Around the Boat
"I Saw That One Shoot"
The Ramblers Were Completely Buried
A Piece of White Paper
The Big Sycamore

The Rambler Club Afloat

CHAPTER I

THE NEW CLUB

A stout boy of pleasing appearance lay indolently in the shade of a group of willows which fringed the bank of a small brook. It was one of those early summer days when nature is all aglow and the sweet scent of the woods and fields is in the air. On this particular day, the sky was flecked with a few white clouds, which remained almost motionless in the great expanse of blue. A faint line of hills, hazy in the distance, lay to the east, and the undulating country between was dotted by occasional farmhouses.

The stout boy basking in the shade looked to be the picture of ease and contentment. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the chatter of the birds and the musical murmur of the brook, as it joyously babbled along in its course.

"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "How glorious to think of—no more school for two months; no dry books to make one's head ache, or lectures on the sins of idleness. I call this fine!"

A particularly large and inquisitive bee, buzzing unpleasantly near his head, caused him to shift his position slightly.

"Summer before us," he continued; "boating, fishing and all kinds of sport—it's the best time of the year."

He had closed his eyes, as if in contemplation of the glorious prospect before him, when the sound of a step arrested his attention.

"Hello, Dave Brandon!" exclaimed a cheery voice. "I thought I should find you here."

It was a boy of about sixteen who had stepped into view. He eyed the recumbent figure quizzically.

There was a striking difference between the appearance of the two boys, as the new-comer was lithe and his every movement denoted an active temperament.

"I say, Dave, were you born lazy, or did you acquire it by practice?" he inquired, good-naturedly.

David Brandon yawned prodigiously and stretched. "I don't know, Sam," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye; "but, at the present moment, I do feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"I don't doubt it," laughed the other; "but perhaps I have some news that will wake you up."

"Some news, eh?" echoed Dave, with provoking indifference. "Some news—perhaps that Professor Hopkins is going to have a summer school, and wants us to join."

He put on such a comical look of pretended dismay that Sam Randall burst out laughing.

"No, Dave, nothing like that, it's the finest thing. Why I—"

"Must be," yawned Dave. "Say, can't you chase that bee away? It keeps buzzing around my head and wakes me up."

"Yes, it's the best scheme that was ever thought of," continued Sam, without heeding the interruption. "What do you think—"

"That the afternoon will be over before you tell me," said Dave, lazily.

He once more moved a very short distance, this time because the rays of the sun were beginning to creep around the willows.

"Well, listen, Dave," persisted the other, and his voice was earnest; "I'm almost bubbling over with enthusiasm; Bob Somers is going to form—"

"Wish he was here, trying to catch that bee."

"Well, I must say—"

"Must say what?" repeated Dave, with provoking slowness. "It is an awful nuisance to have a great big insect buzzing close to your ear. Aren't you going to chase it away for me?"

"I declare! You seem to take an intense interest in what I am going to say; here I've been waiting all afternoon to find you, and can't get in a word edgewise."

Dave rubbed his eyes, and looked as if he didn't hear a word. "Do you know, Sam," he drawled, "this brook always makes me think of Bryant's poem, 'The Green River.'

"'Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light
And clear the depths where its eddies play
And dimples deepen and whirl away.'

Ever read it, Sam? I'd advise you to; then it goes on like this:

"'And the plane tree's speckled arms o'ershoot—'"

"Well, Dave Brandon, I've a good mind not to tell you."

"Then don't," said the stout boy, in pretended anger.

"'The swifter current that mines its root.'"

"This is the last attempt I'm going to make," was Sam Randall's rejoinder. "You are certainly not lazy when it comes to interrupting a fellow—now listen; Bob Somers—mind you, Bob Somers, is going to form a club, a hunting and fishing club. I'm in it; so is Dick Travers and Tom Clifton—and you're going to join, of course!"

"A hunting and fishing club!"

Dave forsook his recumbent position and sat up with an alacrity that showed how fast he could move if the occasion demanded. "Am I going to join? Well, I guess so." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, as he again settled languidly on the greensward: "Provided there isn't any hard work connected with it. A fellow can't keep going like a steam engine both winter and summer. Sam, I feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"Well, it is just what you are not going to do," declared his friend, emphatically. "I told Bob Somers that we would both be on hand at three o'clock this afternoon to talk the matter over."

"It seems I can never get any rest," grumbled Dave. "I could just lie here all day and listen to the birds. They make me think of the line—"

"Dave Brandon," said Sam, hastily, as he seized his friend's coat sleeve, "get right up! The club is about to be organized, officers elected and—"

"Leave it till to-morrow," said Dave, coaxingly.

"No, sir!"

"Very well, I suppose I'll have to go. It was the bee that made me sleepy, by spoiling a nice little nap."

The stout boy sighed, yawned twice, and then, with exasperating slowness, arose to his feet. "Listen to that brook," he said. "What better music could you want than that? I certainly do like to just ramble around."

"That's it! Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Sam.

"That's what?" demanded Dave, staring at his companion in surprise.

"Hurrah! To ramble around—that's good—we'll call it the Rambler Club!" and Sam gave vent to his enthusiasm by another shout.

"Oh, yes, it's a capital name," admitted Dave. "Come on; what did you make us lose such a lot of time for?"

Sam smiled at this attempt at humor, and the two started off. By means of a rustic footbridge they crossed the stream, stopping to gaze for a moment into its crystal depths. The vegetation along the banks was rich and luxuriant, and, at this point, a low-hanging branch, with its myriad leaves of bright fresh green, was reflected in the running water.

Across fields covered with buttercups and daisies the boys took their way, until a road was reached.

The town of Kingswood, situated in the state of Wisconsin, included among its population some very wealthy gentlemen, and none were more respected than Mr. George Somers, the father of Bob. His residence, a handsome colonial mansion, known as Pembroke Hall, lay well toward the southern end, where most of the fine estates were situated.

The surrounding country formed a charming combination of wildness and cultivation, rugged hills, heavily timbered tracts and long stretches of undulating fields.

As the two boys approached the town, a youth of about their own age, who was seated on the flat top of a boulder just off the road, caught sight of them and stopped idly drumming his heels against the side of the rock. His appearance was rather striking. He had a dark complexion, rich, wavy brown hair and eyes of the same color. A lurking smile played around the corners of his mouth, giving to his face a peculiar, sarcastic expression.

"There's that 'Oh ho' fellow," he muttered; "always reading and reciting poetry when he isn't asleep." He put his hand to his mouth and shouted, "Oh ho!" several times. Then his smile deepened, as he saw the two turn.

"Oh ho! Birdie," he continued, putting all the sarcastic emphasis of which he was capable into the call: "Oh ho, oh ho." If he sought to vex the good-natured Dave Brandon, his effort was in vain.

"Hello, Nat Wingate," greeted the latter, cheerily; "I suppose you wish you were back in school?"

Nat slowly climbed down from his elevated perch, and sauntered forward. "Where have you been?" he asked, rather bluntly. Then, as his eye fell upon a book in Brandon's pocket, he added: "Over by the creek, I'll wager, reading poetry."

"Quite correct," laughed Dave.

"And I'd like to know what good it does you," observed the other. "Laziness is a frightful thing to encourage. Where are you going now?"

"To a meeting."

Nat showed signs of becoming interested, and did not hesitate to declare that he would like to know all about it.

"A club is going to be organized," said Sam Randall, with some hesitation.

Nat Wingate stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaned against an electric light pole and put on a quizzical expression.

"What's the club going to do when it's formed?" he asked.

"Oh, have a good time, hunting, fishing—"

"Well," said Nat slowly, "I wouldn't mind joining myself." His sarcastic expression gave place to an eager look.

Dave and Sam exchanged swift glances. "Bob Somers is managing the whole affair," said the latter; "it was his idea."

A rather curious twinkle shone in Nat Wingate's brown eyes, and for a moment he hesitated. Then he said with apparent frankness: "Well, I guess the club could stand the two of us."

"We don't know yet just what is going to be done," replied Sam, evasively, for, to tell the truth, he was not anxious that Nat Wingate should join.

At this juncture, the two, realizing that they had barely time to reach the meeting place, bade Nat good-bye and started off.

The latter slowly made his way back to the boulder, and resumed his former position.

"They don't want me, eh?" he said, half aloud. "Well, I think I'll have some fun with them yet. It's a soft crowd, and they need to be stirred up."

The thought seemed to give him satisfaction, and he laughed quietly to himself.

Within twenty minutes, Dave and Sam reached their destination. Passing between two ornamental gate-posts, they passed along the broad, graveled road past Pembroke Hall and toward a large barn in the rear. There they found three boys awaiting them.

Bob Somers was a sturdy, brown-haired lad of about sixteen, with pleasant blue eyes and a frank manner. His companions, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton, were lively, keen American boys, the latter being the younger and smaller.

"Boys," said Bob Somers, with mock gravity, as he mounted a bale of hay, "we have assembled here to form an organization, the object of which is to pass the vacation months in as pleasant a manner as possible. Hunting, fishing and camping out will form a part of our enjoyments, which I feel that we deserve, after a hard season of study."

"If only those who have passed a hard season of study may join, I'd better leave," remarked Dave Brandon, comically.

"No, we'll let you in because your natural attainments are such that hard study isn't necessary," declared Bob, with a smile. Then he continued: "And, boys, I propose that this shall be an organization without officers."

"No—no!" came in chorus. "Bob Somers is president."

"Now don't protest, for it won't do any good," said Tom.

"And I elect myself unanimously poet laureate," laughed Dave Brandon.

"I propose that the name of the organization shall be the Rambler Club," shouted Sam, and everybody agreed to this with enthusiasm.

They had scarcely begun to talk in an animated fashion about their plans, when a figure suddenly appeared at the barn door. It was Nat Wingate. He sauntered forward, and his usual rather sarcastic smile broke into a broad grin, when he observed that his presence had created something of a sensation.

"Sam said that you were going to form a club," he began, by way of explanation; "so I thought I'd drop in,—all proceedings over?"

"Yes," replied Bob, pleasantly. But he did not evince any desire to supply his visitor with information.

"From what Sam said, I wouldn't mind joining, myself," pursued Nat, coolly, and evidently enjoying the embarrassed looks of the boys. "It's a good idea."

There was an interval of silence. Then Bob spoke up. "I'm sorry, Nat," he said, quietly, "but it's just a little club that the five of us have formed among ourselves."

"Would one more do any harm?"

"No, only that—"

"Only that you don't want me, eh?"

Nat Wingate's eyes flashed, but his voice betrayed no feeling of anger. He seated himself on an empty box, and continued, with extraordinary coolness: "I shouldn't think that it would make any difference whether there were five or six members in the club."

The others understood Nat's nature well enough to know that he was really amusing himself at their expense. When thwarted in anything, he had a way of making it so unpleasant for those who were responsible that his wishes were often regarded in order to avoid trouble.

But the members of the Rambler Club did not wish to have among them a strife-making spirit, and they firmly but politely declined all overtures.

"Very well," said Nat, carelessly, as he arose; "just as you fellows say—'Oh ho.'"

He stretched, glanced slyly at Dave Brandon and moved toward the door. Then, in a mocking manner, just as he had seen a comedian on the stage do, he bowed and took his departure.

"I suppose Nat will find some way to show us what he thinks of our outrageous conduct," observed Tom Clifton, resignedly.

"Better have him making trouble outside the club than in it," said Bob Somers. "That seems a philosophical way to look at the question. Now, boys, let's talk over our plans."

The afternoon passed quickly, but before Bob was left to himself the Ramblers had decided upon a plan of action, and even selected a site for their first camp.

CHAPTER II

THE BOAT

The idea of forming a club had long been uppermost in Bob Somers' mind. During the preceding year, he and his four chums had spent much of their time together, and the experience proved so agreeable that Bob determined to speak to his father and tell him what he proposed to do.

Mr. George Somers was, fortunately, one of those men who, in spite of a few gray hairs and increasing girth, still remember what it is to be young. He therefore was in full sympathy with his son's plans, and encouraged them whenever he could. In the present instance, the idea of the club and its object pleased him, particularly as he knew that Bob's associates were of the right character. More than once, he had suggested that it would be just as well for him to have little to do with Nat Wingate, though Bob was left entirely to his own discretion in the matter.

The residence of Mr. Parsons Wingate was situated in the northern end of Kingswood. Nat, his nephew, being an orphan, had dwelt with him for many years, and perhaps, just for that reason, the boy's character and actions should be viewed in a charitable light. Mr. Parsons Wingate was a man of perhaps fifty, tall and slender, with a smooth, suave manner and agreeable voice. Many of those who had dealings with him were given cause to regret it, for Mr. Wingate was sharp and not unduly particular as to his business methods. Some years before, he had interested Mr. Somers in a certain venture, and since that time the gentlemen, whenever they met, acknowledged each other's salutations in a cold and formal manner.

Nat Wingate and Bob Somers were classmates in the Kingswood High School, and generally divided the honors between them. For some unknown reason, the former seemed to harbor a most unreasonable animosity toward his rival, and frequently took pains to give vent to it by both words and actions. As is usually the case, he had his adherents, who were glad to stir up trouble, and it was only due to Bob's good nature and coolness that many clashes were averted. Altogether, Nat and his followers managed to make more trouble in the school and town than all the rest of the boys put together.

During the latter part of the school term just closed, Nat, for some reason, had been quite friendly, and Bob Somers was more than willing to forget their differences. But in view of Nat's past conduct and hasty temper, he thought it best that the latter should not be included among the members of the Rambler Club. Several nights after their first meeting, Bob Somers' father received a letter which interested him greatly. Some three hundred miles away, in a desolate region, far from any centre of population, lay a tract of land in the northern part of Michigan, which had come to him as an inheritance from a distant relative. Never having regarded the property as of special value, he had left all matters regarding it in the hands of an agent who resided in the city of Tocono, some fifty miles distant from the tract.

It was this man who had written him, and the contents of his letter had surprised Mr. Somers not a little.

"He writes," said the gentleman, "that he has received an offer which he considers very liberal."

"What is the land like, dad?" asked Bob.

"A rather desolate tract, partly wooded," answered his father. "When I went there, about a year ago, I found that the nearest town, a mere village, is miles away."

"Then why should any one wish to buy it?"

"That is just the question which is interesting me at present," said Mr. Somers, dryly. "Of course the timber may be of value."

"Did Mr. Jenkins state the name of the intending purchaser?" asked Mrs. Somers.

"No! He merely says that owing to the inaccessibility of the land, he might never again receive so good an offer."

"Well, George, I agree with him. Take my advice, and sell it."

But Mr. Somers shook his head.

"No!" he said, slowly. "If it is worth that much to some one else, it is worth the same amount and perhaps more, to me. I shall await further information. It is never well to act hastily in such matters."

But the incident had given Bob Somers an idea, and the more he considered it, the more alluring it seemed. He ventured to confide in Sam Randall, and the latter was so delighted that he turned a few somersaults in the roadway, much to the disapproval of Miss Maria Pringle, in front of whose house they had happened to pause.

That night Bob approached his father on the subject.

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Somers, in astonishment. "You boys take a trip of three hundred miles? Why, the land is situated far from any railroad, you know."

"So much the better," pleaded Bob. "We can have a bully time, and there isn't a particle of doubt about our being able to take care of ourselves. Then, besides, the trip will have an object."

Mr. Somers thought for a moment, and the look on his face inspired Bob with hope.

"It might not be a bad idea," he said, reflectively. "With five of you together, it ought to be safe."

"Of course!" exclaimed Bob, enthusiastically.

"But you know that you may encounter wild animals, and perhaps other dangers."

"We are all good shots," persisted Bob. "That is, all except Chubby, perhaps."

"Who is Chubby?" asked his father, with a smile.

"Oh, he's the 'Poet Laureate,'" laughed Bob.

"Is he to immortalize your trip in poetry?" asked Mr. Somers.

"He scribbles plenty of it. Has a volume of Bryant that scarcely ever gets out of his sight."

"Good for Chubby," said Bob's father. "How would you propose to make this trip—by rail?"

"I'll talk to the fellows about it, and see what they say," replied Bob.

"Let me know at once, then."

"Thanks, dad. I will. We'll certainly have a dandy time."

Mr. Somers smiled at his son's enthusiasm, then continued: "If your mother consents, I will give the Rambler Club its first commission. When I was there they were talking of a new road near the property. I'd like to know whether it has been built, what other improvements there are in the neighborhood, and what lumber is being cut near by. In fact, you'll make careful notes, and tell me all you see."

"First-rate, dad," exclaimed Bob; "I'll hunt up the boys first thing to-morrow, and tell them."

Bob rushed off to talk to his mother.

He found that it would be a difficult task to gain her consent. Naturally, she feared that they might encounter unforeseen dangers, besides being too venturesome.

Bob, however, with the confidence of youth, was so sure nothing could happen to them, that he at length managed to gain her consent.

Bubbling over with enthusiasm, he then called a meeting of the club, and laid the plan before them.

"Just the thing!" exclaimed Sam Randall, who had dreamed about the matter all night. "A great idea, eh, Chubby?"

"If there isn't any hard work to do," said Dave, smiling. "Can't help it, boys. I want to loaf this summer."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dave," said Bob, with mock severity.

"I would be, if my system didn't need rest," laughed Brandon. "What's the matter with you, Dick Travers, and Tom Clifton? What are you so solemn about?"

"Thinking," replied Dick.

"What about?"

"Well, you see, fellows," proceeded Dick, frankly, "a trip like that might take too long. I have to work a part of the vacation. My father isn't astonishingly rich, you know."

"That's my case, exactly," admitted little Tom Clifton.

"Never mind! We'll fix that up some way," said Bob, confidently. "Don't you worry."

Bob went to his father, explained the situation and asked his advice.

Mr. Somers thereupon consulted the two boys, told them that with all five members of the Rambler Club together, he would feel assured of their safety, and hinted, mysteriously, that the financial outlay might not be as heavy as they expected.

At any rate, Tom Clifton and Dick Travers managed to get their parents' consent, and it was, indeed, a happy day when the matter was finally arranged.

"I wish we could go on a flying machine," said Dave Brandon. "Just think of taking a nap on the deck of an aeroplane express; wouldn't that be grand?"

"If you didn't happen to fall off, Chubby," replied one of the others.

"Now the question is, how are we going to make this trip?" observed Sam Randall.

"By boat and train," said Bob.

"And we shall start out in my little sloop?" queried Dave Brandon. "It can carry five, easily."

The plan was unanimously endorsed.

"We can put ashore at night, pitch a tent, and live like regular nimrods," said Bob, gleefully. "Imagine sitting around a blazing camp-fire, and talking over our experiences."

"Or taking a noonday siesta in the shade of some fine old tree," suggested Dave, humorously.

"Yes—at long intervals," returned Sam Randall. "There's no doubt about our having a grand time. And won't Nat Wingate be sorry to miss all the fun?"

That evening, on his way home, Sam encountered Nat sitting on the steps of the post-office, and was immediately met with a volley of questions. Sam was too full of enthusiasm to conceal the plans of the Ramblers from the rejected applicant, but he did not fail to note that a very curious look came over Nat's face when he learned of their destination.

"What!" he almost stammered. "Are you going on a wild chase to such a place as that? Old Somers' land is no good, and I don't suppose you could find any hunting at all."

"Oh, yes, we shall," returned the other. "I guess you don't know where the land is."

"Maybe not," said Nat, slowly. "I heard it was pretty close to being off the map—that's all. Say, Sam, why don't you fellows let me in?"

Nat arose, flicked a few spots of dust from his coat, and continued, persuasively: "If you will only stand up for me, Bob Somers may change front at once. It isn't a nice way to treat a friend, I'm sure."

It seemed rather strange to Sam Randall that a high-spirited boy like Nat, who until recently had professed such a dislike for Bob, should now be so willing to ask a favor of him.

"When are you fellows going to meet?" persisted Nat.

"The day after to-morrow."

"Well, Sam, fix it up for me, that's a good fellow," urged Nat, in his most pleasant manner. "I'll see that you don't lose anything by it."

"He's a queer fellow," thought Sam, as he resumed his way. "He can be very pleasant, too, when he wants anything."

As the days slipped by, the members of the Rambler Club made all preparations for their voyage, always being polite to Nat Wingate, who on several occasions suggested his wish to be a member, but never received any encouragement. Guns were cleaned and polished, and rods and tackle brought out from the place where they had been stored the autumn before. Then a list of the articles required for the trip was made. It included blankets, corned beef, potted tongue, bacon, sardines, tea, coffee, flour, sugar, salt, pepper, canned goods and a varied assortment of tin plates, together with kitchen utensils, court plaster and a few simple remedies which Mr. Somers thought it might be well to take.

The Ramblers were eager to start, and they agreed that on the following Tuesday the sail of the "Lively," as Dave had humorously christened his boat, should be hauled aloft, and their journey to the wilderness begun.

But Mr. Somers, at this time, requested a delay. "You have all summer before you," he said, smilingly; "and there is a little matter which I think should be arranged before Bob leaves."

The gentleman vouchsafed no information, and the boys were obliged to submit with the best grace possible. But they chafed under the restraint.

"Such magnificent weather, too," grumbled Dave. "Just think of the woods, and the birds flitting from branch to branch, while we are still cooped up in town."

The speaker, accompanied by Sam Randall, was on his way to the post-office to get the morning mail.

"There's Bob Somers now," exclaimed the latter; "perhaps by this time he knows when we can start."

But Bob could give his fellow member no information, Mr. Somers having scarcely referred to the matter since.

At this, the two boys looked very disconsolate indeed.

"Well, I suppose it can't be helped," sighed Sam, as he led the way into the post-office, a frame building situated at the junction of two roads.

As was usually the case at mail time, the three boys found the small interior crowded, and it was some time before they were able to reach the delivery window.

Several letters were handed to Bob Somers. He was about to mechanically put them in his pocket when the inscription on one attracted his attention. "Hello, what's this?" he said, aloud.

"Love letter?" inquired Dave, pleasantly.

"Not yet," smiled Bob. Then he added, with some animation: "Look at that!"

His chums did as requested, and saw written in a clear, bold hand, "Robert Somers, Kingswood;—Personal."

"Something's up there," laughed Dave; "better see what it is."

Without hesitation, Bob tore open the envelope, glanced at the letter and gave a whistle of astonishment.

"Goodness!" he exclaimed. "What can this mean?"

"Robert Somers, President Rambler Club:

"Dear Sir:—If you will take the trouble to walk through the woods to the river, you will find, at Lloyd's Clearing, something that may interest you. Do not delay."

The communication was unsigned.

The three boys looked at each other in astonishment.

"I'm afraid it is some trick," declared Sam, at length; "perhaps Nat Wingate is trying to lead us on a wild goose chase."

"Can't you make out whose handwriting it is?" queried Dave.

The trio scrutinized the missive carefully, but none of them could recall having seen such a style of penmanship before.

"Well, I certainly call this mysterious," exclaimed Bob. "We must find Tom and Dick and start right away."

"And make ourselves a laughing-stock?" objected Sam.

"Even if it is a trick, a walk through the woods on a fine day like this won't do us any harm," commented Dave Brandon. "Besides we can see if the 'Lively' is all snug and safe."

"I have it," broke in Sam, suddenly.

"If you're not careful, we might get it, too," laughed Dave.

"Oh, pshaw, do be serious; I'll wager that some one has hidden the boat."

"You may be right," assented Bob; "and the only way to find out is by going to the clearing."

Thoroughly mystified, the trio started off, stopping at the homes of their fellow members, to tell them the latest news.

Both lads were as curious as their friends, and all indulged in a great deal of wild speculation, as they made their way in the direction of Lloyd's Clearing.

"I call this grand!" exclaimed Dave, drawing in a long breath of the pure air. "Just imagine what fun it will be, camping out."

"If we could only start right away," said Tom. "I'm longing for the time to come."

There was a well defined path leading off from the main road across several fields, through a little copse of giant pines, and then down a gradual decline between two hills until it came out on the bank of a creek.

Upon reaching it, the boys turned to the left, and were presently traversing an extensive tract of woods, through which the little watercourse wended its way.

Occasionally, rabbits darted across their track, and squirrels, disturbed by the strange visitation, climbed swiftly to their sheltered retreats. Everywhere the woodland occupants gave evidence of their presence, and the cheery song of birds enlivened the air.

At a little glen, Dave Brandon, who had quite a reputation as a naturalist among his classmates, pointed out a great bald eagle soaring in the sky.

But the other members of the Rambler Club, at this moment, had but one thought, and that was to reach Lloyd's Clearing as quickly as possible.

Soon a glimpse of the river was visible between the trees. Then the boys broke into a trot. Across the open space they raced pell-mell, and, panting and excited, reached the river's brink. There a sight met their eyes which caused them to utter many and varied exclamations of surprise.

Moored to a rude little wharf, resplendent in the sunlight, lay the finest motor boat they had ever seen.

Then their astonished gaze rested on the stern, upon which was painted in large Roman script this magic word, "Rambler."

CHAPTER III

NAT IS ANGRY

Scarcely believing their eyes the boys crowded around the boat.

"What does this mean?" gasped Bob Somers.

"Look, look! There's a note for somebody," shouted Tom; "quick, let us see what it says."

Bob leaped lightly into the boat, and picked up an envelope, which he hastily tore open.

"Hurrah, hurrah!" he shouted. "Fellows, what do you think of this?"

Scrambling excitedly back to the wharf, while the others crowded eagerly around, he read: "The 'Rambler,' presented to Robert Somers by his father."

It seemed as if the boys had suddenly taken leave of their senses. Joining hands, they danced around and around, and a succession of lusty shouts echoed over the surrounding hills.

At length the very violence of their exertions caused a cessation of the impromptu celebration, and they threw themselves on the ground, thoroughly exhausted.

"Well, of all things in the world," burst forth Sam Randall, "isn't this the grandest?"

"What a glorious surprise," panted Bob, enthusiastically.

"Three cheers for Mr. Somers!" cried Dick Travers, and again their shouts floated over the air.

The boys were entirely unaware of the fact that their excited actions had been observed by a pair of very sharp eyes, and consequently when a step sounded close at hand it startled them not a little.

Looking up, they saw a small, unkempt individual, with a grizzly iron-gray moustache and a nose that deviated considerably from any recognized standard of beauty. He was gazing toward them with a severe frown, and, indeed, presented a rather threatening aspect. In one hand he clutched a heavy, knotted stick, while the other held a sadly battered straw hat.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, in husky tones, as he arranged the first named article in such a manner as to assist in the task of standing erect. "Have you kids plumb lost your senses? What do you call such doings as them, anyway?" The frown deepened. "Who does this here new-fangled tub belong to?"

"To me, or, rather, the Rambler Club," answered Bob, proudly.

"I thought so, I thought so!" returned their visitor. "The way youth is pampered now, beats my comprehension. No son of mine would get any of it."

"Don't doubt that, 'Major,'" ventured Dick Travers, with a broad smile.

Zeke Tipson, or, as he was more generally called, the "Major," an appellation the source of which no one ever learned, lived in a tumble-down shack on the river's bank about a half mile distant. He cultivated a small garden, but, believing that hard work injured his constitution, managed to abstain from active employment the greater part of the time. To small boys he was an object of fear, to larger ones, the butt of their pranks, and to the older element, an eccentric character whose quaint ways furnished amusement.

"And what is going to be did with this here boat?" he went on, with cheerful disregard for grammar.

"We are going to have the grandest hunting and fishing cruise that was ever heard of, eh, Tom?" replied Sam Randall, his face shining with enthusiasm.

"Oh, don't wake me, anybody; it's a dream; it's too good to be true," said Tom, blissfully.

Zeke Tipson shook his head disapprovingly. "It ain't right—it ain't right that a parcel of boys should be allowed in a cockle-shell like that," he grumbled. "Then, like as not, you'll be taking each other for deers or bears, and a load of buckshot ain't any too healthy, I can tell you that. Why, I once know'd a—"

"We've hunted before this," put in Bob, hastily, for the "Major" had a habit of relating certain extraordinary remembrances, all noted for their length.

"Well, you might get took with some sickness," persisted Zeke, who seemed to be in a very pessimistic mood. "Now you needn't laugh. There was three fellers I know'd once, and—"

"Oh, look, here comes Nat Wingate!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, suddenly. "I believe he has been following us."

Nat, dressed with his usual care, approached jauntily across the clearing, and nodded to the boys. Then turning, he said: "Hello, 'Major,' how do you find yourself?"

"None the better for looking at you," growled Zeke, a strange light coming into his eyes.

But it is doubtful if Nat heard his remark, for he stopped short and gave a whistle of astonishment, as he took in the graceful lines of the motor boat.

"Gracious, what a beauty!" he exclaimed. "Where did it come from?"

As there was no immediate response, he continued: "Who in the world does it belong to? The 'Rambler,' why, it can't be that—"

"Yes, it's the boat that is going to carry the Rambler Club on its famous voyage," said Bob Somers, smilingly.

"But I thought you were going in the 'Lively,'" said Nat.

"So did we," returned Bob. And then he briefly explained how their good fortune had come about.

"Well, I must say that you are the luckiest fellows I ever heard of," declared Wingate, with a long breath. "It's a beautiful little craft." Then he added, glancing quickly toward Bob: "Are you really going to visit your father's land?"

"We certainly are," replied Somers.

"And leave me out, after all?"

It was an appealing question, and the silence that followed was due to the fact that the members of the club had almost exhausted their vocabulary of declinations.

Nat walked forward. "See here, fellows," he burst out, with all the earnestness at his command, "why can't you let me in? I'm willing to pay more than my share of expenses; come now, what's the use of having hard feelings?"

"We haven't any, I'm sure," responded Bob, who understood the quick, meaning glances of his companions; "and I hope you won't feel offended; but we got up this little club without ever intending to increase the membership."

"Don't let him in," growled the "Major," at this point. "He's bad enough on land, and you can't tell what he might be when he gets out on the water."

"But what harm could it do to have one more?" pleaded Nat, who allowed this remark to pass unheeded.

He spoke in such a quiet, contained tone that the Ramblers could scarcely realize that it was the usually hot-headed Nat Wingate who was talking.

"No harm, of course," responded Bob, slowly; "only, for the reasons I have so often given, the club is to be just an exclusive little affair among ourselves."

"Good!" observed the "Major," approvingly. "You kids ain't such a pack of ninnies as I first suspicioned."

Nat Wingate's manner began to change. "Don't pay any attention to him," he said, as his brown eyes flashed ominously. "For the last time, won't you vote me in, as member number six?"

Bob smiled, but shook his head slowly.

"So I'm finally refused, eh?" exclaimed Nat, his voice betraying the fact that pent-up indignation was fast getting the better of his calmness.

"Certainly," interposed Zeke.

"Your grand club is mighty exclusive, I'm sure," continued Wingate, perceiving that his last words had made no impression on the Ramblers. "You've treated me in the meanest fashion, and I'll make you regret it, mark my words. The whole thing has been just a piece of spite work."

Nat, as he spoke, walked up and down, darting angry glances from one to the other, and his tightly clenched fists showed to what extent his passions had been aroused. Evidently the sight of the motor boat had added not a little to his already intense desire to join the party.

"You're a fine one to talk about spite work," broke in Dick Travers, whose temper was hasty. "I think you had better try to remember some of the mean things you did at school."

Bob Somers gave his friend a look which effectually stopped him from continuing, but the "Major" added fuel to Wingate's passion both by action and words. He pointed his stick threateningly toward him, exclaiming emphatically: "I ain't the kind what likes to mix up in other people's affairs, but I say, boys, you did well to keep this young scamp out."

"And what is it to you?" retorted Nat, furiously. "You and your old shack are a disgrace to the neighborhood."

"Look here, boy, you'd better be a little careful," warned Zeke. "Only the other day, about five big rocks hit my door, and I know who done it, too."

"Elect him an honorary member of the club," sneered Nat. "Oh ho, I can tell you fellows one thing, you needn't think that you are the only boys who can get up a club. As sure as my name is Nat Wingate, I'll form another; and not only that," he continued, excitedly, "but we'll follow that old mud scow and make things hot wherever you go!"

"Oh, come, Nat," returned Bob, calmly; "you seem to have misunderstood the matter entirely. Look at it in a sensible fashion."

But Nat had worked himself up into a towering rage, and refused to be conciliated.

"You'll wish you had let me join," he shouted. "I never swallowed all those insults you gave me without making up my mind to pay the crowd back. And I'll remember you, too, old Zeke Tipson. Get out of here."

Had Nat looked at the "Major" he might have seen that his sharp eyes were glaring in a most peculiar fashion. The two had had several encounters, and whenever Zeke calculated the amount of damage resulting therefrom, it made him very angry indeed.

"Get out of here yourself," he cried. "I won't stand any impudence, mind you—go on, now."

Accompanying these words, he made several movements with his stick, which brought it dangerously close to Nat's ankles.

"Hold on!" protested Bob Somers. "We don't want any trouble here."

"No, no!" chimed in Brandon.

But Nat, thoroughly enraged, sprang forward with fist upraised. "I'll teach you some manners, you miserable beggar!" he shouted, with flashing eyes.

Zeke parried the blow. Then the angry man jumped forward while Nat, well aware of the fact that he was no match for him, leaped aside.

The Ramblers were about to rush between them to prevent further hostilities, when Nat himself saved them that trouble.

In his eagerness to escape, he had not taken sufficient heed of his surroundings. His spring away from Zeke landed him on the very brink of the river, where the bank was steep and slippery. His feet flew from under him, and as he began sliding down the declivity, he grasped frantically at the top of the bank. His fingers touched it, but he succeeded only in tearing out a handful of grass. "Grab me, somebody; I'm falling in!" he shouted wildly.

But it had happened so quickly that the Ramblers were powerless to render any assistance. The unfortunate Nat shot downward at an estimated speed of not less than ten feet per second and struck the water with a tremendous splash. The spray dashed in all directions, and over the placid surface wide circles moved one after another in undulating lines.

"My goodness, he has disappeared completely," exclaimed Bob.

Consternation reigned, but only for a moment. A hand was thrust above the surface, then a head, and Nat, puffing and blowing, rose to a standing posture, with the water up to his waist.

"Where's that old scarecrow?" he cried, as soon as he could get his breath. "I'll make him pay for this."

It was strange how a few moments had altered his appearance. With the water pouring off him in streams, his hair matted fantastically to his forehead and his face streaked with mud, he presented such a ludicrous spectacle that the Ramblers could hardly keep from bursting into roars of laughter.

Nat waded a few feet and seized his hat, which was just about to sink. "Don't let him get away," he cried. "If nobody ever saw an awful row before, they'd better wait until I get on that bank."

Disdainfully refusing any assistance, the speaker made his way to a place where he could climb up, and a few moments later, was standing on the greensward. His fists were tightly clenched and he presented a picture of the most uncontrollable rage. Apparently having formed an intimate acquaintance with the mud at the bottom of the river, his wet, clinging garments were decorated with generous patches of assorted shapes.

Nat's first act was to pick up a handful of loose earth, which he hurled spitefully at the "Major." "You—you," he began, his words almost choked by passion, "you old villain; you'll be in jail for this before night. My uncle will—"

But Zeke Tipson's face was stinging where some of the earth had landed with unwonted force, and he was in no humor to stand any of Nat Wingate's threats. The words were hardly out of the speaker's mouth when he once more sprang toward him, with uplifted stick.

Nat was far from being taken unawares, and this time he used commendably good judgment in his actions. He sprang nimbly to one side, and, despite the handicap of his wet clothing, began to travel over the ground at an astonishing rate. The incident was thus abruptly closed, for Zeke's clumsy movements were in striking contrast.

"He's fast as one of them new-fangled flying machines," observed the "Major," unable to repress a smile. "And I wager he won't care for no perlice to find out what he done."

At this instant, a figure was seen hastily approaching from the direction of the woods.

"My goodness, it's father!" exclaimed Bob.

CHAPTER IV

A TRIAL TRIP

The extraordinary appearance of Nat Wingate was, of course, observed by Mr. Somers, but the gentleman did not have his curiosity immediately gratified. He was surrounded by the members of the Rambler Club, and the hearty expressions, appreciative of his kindness, which poured from the boys' lips must have been very gratifying.

He explained that the mysterious letter had been written by his chief clerk, and further told them that for a long time he had contemplated the purchase of a motor boat.

"I thought, boys," he added, "that it might be well to hasten its acquirement, in order to afford you the opportunity for a safe and pleasant trip. And I am sure you will consent to allow me the occasional use of it."

Bob's answer was to seize his father's hand and wring it heartily.

Mr. Somers deplored the unfortunate result of Nat Wingate's hasty temper, and laughed when the boys told him about his threat to form a rival organization for the purpose of following and annoying them.

"I hardly think that his uncle would humor him to the extent of supplying a motor boat," he remarked, dryly. "It is scarcely worth while to pay any attention to his foolish language. And now let us take the 'Rambler' on a little trial trip."

"Hurrah! Come on, boys," shouted Bob. It is certain that each boy felt a thrill of delight when he stepped on board.

The "Rambler" was about twenty-five feet long, rather wide of beam, built more for safety and convenience than speed. It was covered for more than half its length, and provision made for drawing down awnings at the sides. In the forward part was a cuddy sufficiently large to accommodate whatever supplies might be needed for the trip, while beneath the shelter were several seats, which also served as lockers. The wheel was situated immediately back of the cuddy, from which point an unobstructed view was to be had. Conveniently near to it stood the motor. Few working parts were visible, pistons, crank shaft and other details of the mechanism being enclosed within the castings. Two vertical cylinders and a small, but heavy fly-wheel were the most prominent features.

It seemed hard for the boys to realize that such a small, compact apparatus could drive the boat at any speed.

Mr. Somers, however, assured them that it was of many horse-power.

"Of course," he said, "this is a gasoline motor. You all know that gasoline is highly inflammable, and consequently dangerous to handle. Its vapor mixed with air is explosive, so you must understand the necessity for extreme care in its use."

Continuing, Mr. Somers delivered a short lecture, which was eagerly listened to. He told the boys how the power was derived from the explosions of gasoline vapor mixed with air, the charges being fired by an electric spark. Their attention was drawn to the valves controlling the supply of gasoline, the batteries and connecting wires.

Continuing, Mr. Somers said: "An engine of this kind has no power to start itself. It is necessary that the fly-wheel should be given several turns. This forces the explosive mixture into the upper part of the cylinders and ignites it, which starts the engine. Here, Bob, is a book of instructions."

"Can't we start right away?" asked his son, eagerly.

"Certainly!—Tom, cast off the lines. Dave, your arms look pretty strong; give the wheel a couple of turns."

"All right, sir!" responded Brandon, as the two proceeded to carry out directions.

A sharp detonation came from the motor, followed by a steady and rapid succession.

The effect was immediate. With a gentle, rocking motion, the "Rambler" began to glide forward, while the water at its stern was churned into foam and the ripples lapped against its sides.

"Hurrah!" cried Bob, enthusiastically. "This is what I call great!"

"Nothing could be finer," chimed in Dick. "See how far we have come already."

When the boys looked around, they were surprised to see what a distance separated them from the wharf.

Bob, at the wheel, managed it skilfully. The "Rambler" described a wide curve and was headed down-stream.

Close at hand rose the dark, wooded slope of Fir Island, a low, rounded hill that divided the stream into two channels. They watched its form becoming clear and distinct, and compared the trip with others that were made in the "Lively."

To say that the performance of the "Rambler" was up to expectations is expressing it very mildly. The island was reached and passed in an astonishingly short space of time.

"A daisy trip ahead of us, that's sure," cried Bob. "Doesn't it skim along smoothly, eh, Chubby? No trouble at all to run it."

"You are pleased, then, boys?" queried Mr. Somers, with a smile.

"No words for it," drawled Dave.

"You must, as the poet laureate, include the 'Rambler' in one of your verses."

Dave smiled.

"Very likely I will," he said.

"Just see what a distance we've come already!" exclaimed Dick Travers.

"Never thought motor-boating was as fine as this," put in Tom Clifton. "Can't blame Nat Wingate for wanting to join the club. Maybe he isn't sore, fellows," and Tom laughed at the recollection.

"Pretty bad day for Nat," remarked Dick. "He'll get square with old Zeke Tipson."

"And with us, too, if he gets a chance," said Bob.

"I am just as well pleased that young Wingate is not going with you," declared Mr. Somers. "He seems to be a trouble maker."

The cheerful chug-chug of the engine was music to their ears, and Bob, at the wheel, could scarcely contain his delight, as the "Rambler" glided smoothly over the rippling surface of the river. Mr. Somers, too, seemed to enjoy the experience, and continued to give them bits of helpful advice.

The stream at this point was about a quarter of a mile wide, and they were afforded a series of ever-changing views. Wooded hills rose on either side, bathed in the white, sparkling light of an early summer morning, but the monotony was relieved by ravines, fields and areas of deep shadow. There were a few sailing craft about, while, upon the opposite shore, several clumsy canal-boats were slowly making their way up the river.

In a little over half an hour, the "Rambler" had traversed four miles.

"Well, boys, what do you think of it?" inquired Mr. Somers.

The chorus of enthusiastic replies more than convinced the gentleman that the five boys were thoroughly delighted, and he was almost sorry to give the order to turn back.

"I am not able to spare any more time from business," he said. "You may come out again to-morrow."

"And when shall we start on our trip, father?" asked Bob, anxiously, while the rest of the Ramblers listened in expectant silence.

"Well, let me see—to-day is Tuesday; I think that the first of next week would be soon enough. By that time, you should be so well acquainted with the boat that I need have no fears regarding your safety."

Notwithstanding the impatience of his hearers, they could only accede to this reasonable demand with good grace.

Landing at the little wharf was not accomplished as easily as Bob hoped, but Sam Randall stood by with the fenders, while Tom and Dick secured the lines.

Even when Mr. Somers took his departure, the Ramblers could not tear themselves away from the boat.

"And just think, we were going in the 'Lively,'" observed Dick Travers, in a tone of deep disgust.

"Don't you dare to slander that grand old hulk," laughed Dave. "I've written two poems about her already."

"When we are on this trip, you'll have to write poems, and read them, too," exclaimed Sam, "otherwise you shall be deposed from position of poet laureate and made to cook."

"In that event, the journey would come to a disastrous end," returned Dave, smilingly; "doctors are few and far between in the region where we are going."

Meanwhile, as they enjoyed themselves in conversation and planning, the time slipped rapidly away. It was now fast approaching one o'clock, so they took a final glance at the "Rambler," and began their journey homeward.

None of the five caught a sight of Nat Wingate that day. But it fell to the lot of Dave Brandon to encounter him early on the following morning. While on his way to meet the other members of the club, he found Nat reclining on the big boulder, which had become a sort of favorite haunt with him. He was engaged in earnest conversation with a chum named John Hackett.

To Dave Brandon's intense surprise, Nat greeted him without any show of ill feeling.

"Oh ho, Davy!" he exclaimed, with a peculiar glance at his companion. "Oh ho! So you are really going on that little trip to the wilds?"

"Certainly," responded Brandon.

"They'll have a great time, eh, John? Awful prospect ahead for the birds and beasts of the forest."

"Wish I could go, too," drawled John. "Not taking in any new members, are you?"

"No! It's an exclusive organization—only the élite admitted," laughed Nat. "And such luck, too, to have a beautiful little boat just thrown at them, eh?"

"Wonder if any other fellows around here could ever have a piece of good luck like it," grumbled John. "I say, those motor boats must be great—no sails to bother with, or oars to pull."

"That will just suit Dave," commented Nat. "Guess you'll lie on your back and read poetry all day?"

"Very likely," smiled Dave; "and perhaps write some, too."

"Worse and worse. Hope no one will be compelled to read it." Nat gave a comical grimace, while John Hackett burst into a loud laugh.

When Dave took his departure, he could not help wondering at Nat's cheerful demeanor, and mentally concluded that he must possess a much better disposition than the Ramblers had given him credit for.

On meeting his friends at their appointed rendezvous, he was surprised to find among them the dignified Professor Hopkins, glancing over the rims of his spectacles in his usual awe-inspiring manner.

"Well, David," he said, "you have kept us waiting just a fraction over five minutes." Then he added: "Mr. Somers kindly asked me to take a trip on the motor boat. That accounts for my presence here."

Professor Hopkins was principal of the Kingswood High School, and might be described as a typical pedagogue, having a very stately bearing and a scholarly manner.

He expressed his admiration for the "Rambler," which appeared to the boys handsomer than ever, but seemed rather fearful of venturing on board.

"Are you quite sure that it is safe, Robert?" he asked, nervously. "You know I can't swim. Be careful, it's tipping over."

With much assistance, the professor was finally led safely on board, and a trip up the river began.

Bob found no difficulty whatever in handling the engine, and the ten mile trip passed without incident.

Professor Hopkins took occasion to talk to them about their proposed long journey.

"Remember," he said, "that each boy cannot invariably have his own way. In matters where differences of opinion arise, there should be no disputes, but the quietest and most thoughtful judgment exercised. You must meet each other half way, and be prepared to follow the guidance of your recognized leader."

These words were spoken as the boat was being headed in shore on the return trip, and the speaker almost immediately afterward declared that they must be extremely careful in regard to their dealings with strangers. "Treat all people pleasantly," he said; "avoid rough-looking characters, and say little about your plans to any one."

The boys listened attentively, in spite of the professor's solemn manner and the fact that they felt perfectly able to take care of themselves.

"Who is that standing on the wharf?" spoke up Sam, at length, as he shaded his eyes to get a clearer view. "Looks like Mr. Wingate."

"So it does," affirmed Tom Clifton, in surprise. "I don't believe I ever saw him down here before."

"Nat has evidently told him about the 'Rambler,' and he wants to find out if it is really true," suggested Dave. "Strange that he should have so much curiosity."

"Your boat is already becoming quite famous," observed Professor Hopkins. "Doubtless Mr. Wingate and his nephew would appreciate a little trip on board of her as much as I have."

"Very likely," answered Bob, with some hesitation; "and I think, if it is Mr. Wingate, that he has been favoring us with an inspection through a field-glass."

The object of their attention did not linger on the wharf. Before they could make sure of his identity, he began to walk rapidly away, and was almost immediately lost to view in the woods.

The thought of stepping ashore upon a wharf that was much too high for convenience caused Professor Hopkins quite a good deal of apprehension, and the excellent teacher did not breathe freely until he stood once more on solid ground.

"It's certain that you fellers ain't no sailors," exclaimed a hoarse voice close by, and Zeke Tipson came lazily forward.

"Sir! Did you address me?" asked the startled professor, glancing in surprise at the uncouth figure before him.

"That's just what I done; and I says again, if your ears ain't good, and things has to be said twice, which is sometimes the case,—that you ain't no sailor."

"Why, sir, I may say—er—that your observation seems to me uncalled for," said Professor Hopkins.

"When I sees a thing, and knows a thing, I says it right out in meeting. This here country guarantees the right of free speech, and I'm inclined to like it. I don't know who you be, but I says, for a third time, you ain't no sailor."

"Who is this—this gentleman?" inquired the professor.

"A man what's just as good as the next one, even if he can't wear no fancy trimmin's. Do you know what I says to the pop, or uncle, of that there little spindle legs that went in bathing yesterday? I says—"

But Professor Hopkins, with his head held erect, passed on, the boys trooping at his heels, leaving the "Major" to gaze after them in a state of profound indignation.

"It was Mr. Wingate, as we thought," whispered Sam to Dave Brandon. "Perhaps he came over to complain about that little incident which proved so disastrous to Nat."

This seemed to be the general opinion among the boys, but Bob Somers, whose curiosity had been thoroughly aroused, felt an irresistible temptation to remain in the vicinity, and, after excusing himself, left the party.

He cautiously made his way back through the woods to a thick clump of bushes by the edge of the clearing, where, completely hidden from view, he was enabled to keep an eye on the "Rambler" and its surroundings.

Five minutes elapsed, when a tall figure came into sight and walked with an elastic step to the wharf.

"Good gracious, I'm glad I returned—there is Mr. Wingate now," muttered Bob, in some excitement. "He just waited long enough for us to get safely out of the way. What in the world is he doing?"

The slim form of Nat's uncle could presently be seen, with note-book in hand, leaning over and apparently examining the motor boat in a most earnest manner.

For a moment, a wild suspicion entered Bob's head that some trickery was being planned, but he instantly dismissed it as unworthy of consideration. Whatever Mr. Wingate might be in his business actions, it could scarcely be possible that he would be led by a piece of boyish misunderstanding to help his nephew in any underhanded work.

The proceeding, however, was highly mysterious, and Bob, screening himself by the trees and bushes, watched his every move with the greatest curiosity.

Mr. Wingate made frequent entries in his note-book, now and then turning and glancing in all directions, as if fearful that his actions might be observed.

Finally his mission seemed to be accomplished. He slipped the book in his pocket and began walking rapidly in the direction of the lonely watcher.

Bob gave vent to a slight exclamation, threw himself behind a mass of underbrush and anxiously awaited the other's approach. Fortunately for the lad's peace of mind, Mr. Parsons Wingate passed quickly by, totally unaware of his presence.

"Whew! a mighty close shave," soliloquized Bob, scrambling to his feet when he felt that the course was clear. "I'll wager it was something more than curiosity that brought him here, though I'd like to know why he fears being seen."

Of course, all conjecture on the subject was useless. At the first opportunity, Bob told his fellow members about the incident and various explanations were offered.

But Mr. Wingate, and, indeed, almost everything else was lost sight of in the whirl of preparation for departure.

The "Rambler" had yet to be stored with the necessities for the voyage, and lists were gone over very carefully to see that nothing was omitted. As it was their desire to camp out on shore whenever practicable, two tents were included in the outfit.

When lockers and all available spaces were stored to their utmost capacity, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton proposed that they should sleep on board the "Rambler."

"It won't do to take any risks," they argued, and to this all agreed.

Though time seemed to move so slowly for the eager boys, Monday morning at length arrived. The sun had scarcely risen over the eastern hills, sweeping away the mists in the valleys, and awakening with its cheerful beams the life of the woods and fields, when five Kingswood boys, from whose faces all signs of sleepiness had been chased away by eager anticipation, were swallowing breakfasts as hastily as possible in their respective homes.

Good-byes were said; then, like the boys of '76, they "shouldered their guns and marched away."

CHAPTER V

THE NIMRODS

When "Captain Bob" appeared at the wharf, he was greeted by Tom Clifton and Dick Travers. Sam Randall soon after came hastening along, and last of all, as everybody expected, the stout form of the "Oh ho" boy was seen moving across the clearing. Bob slipped away his watch, which was only one minute and twenty seconds beyond the appointed time, and Dave Brandon, having made one of his best records for promptness, strode up with a beaming face.

There was no delay in getting on board. The lines were cast off, Bob gave two vigorous turns to the engine wheel, and with its familiar chug-chug the motor immediately responded.

As the "Rambler," with a bright-colored pennant floating at the stern, swung out and headed for midstream, a chorus of enthusiastic shouts floated off on the breeze.

A slight haze suffused the landscape, and the aspect of all nature had that indefinable charm and freshness of early morning. The sunlight bathed hills, fields and woods with a mellow glow, while off in the distance a steeple glistened brightly against the sky. A flock of noisy crows passed close overhead and disappeared beyond the crest of a hill.

Sam Randall and Dick Travers got out their shotguns, eager to try their skill should any unwary bird venture to fly too near, while Dave Brandon, the picture of contentment, stretched himself out on top of a locker.

The "Rambler" had proceeded some distance beyond Fir Island, when Tom Clifton uttered an exclamation, and began scanning the surface of the water.

"Seems to me that I hear an echo," he observed.

Sure enough, a chug-chug was borne faintly over the air, and yet it seemed impossible that it could have any connection with the "Rambler."

"It's very strange, indeed," ventured Sam Randall, in a puzzled tone. "The sound is exactly like another boat. Stop the engine, Bob, and see."

In a moment the "Rambler" was forging ahead by its own momentum, and to their eager, listening ears came a rapid, monotonous pulsating sound, the meaning of which could not be misunderstood.

"Well, that surprises me," declared Bob Somers. "I thought we had a monopoly, and yet, just as we start out—"

"There it is!" cried Sam Randall, eagerly, and he waved his arm astern, in the direction of Fir Island, whose richly verdured expanse loomed forth clear and distinct against its surroundings.

"You're right," chimed in Bob. "Dave, I say, Dave Brandon, look at that."

But an unmistakable snore came from the direction of the locker. The easy, gliding motion had lulled the poet laureate to sleep. An energetic shake thoroughly aroused the devotee at the shrine of Art and Poetry. He sat up and stared long and earnestly at the far-off speck—then stared with equal intensity at his companions.

"What did you stop the boat for when there was a chance to run into something?" he inquired, with a laugh. "I hope the trip is going to be lively enough to keep me awake."

The captain made no response. He was gazing earnestly at the mysterious motor boat through a powerful field-glass.

"What is it, Bob? What do you see?" asked his companions, eagerly.

"Fellows, this is most astonishing. I believe Nat Wingate and his crowd are in that boat."

"Nat Wingate? Impossible!" cried the others, incredulously, and even Dave Brandon uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"I can scarcely believe it. How in the world could Nat get a motor boat?" queried Sam.

For an answer, Bob handed him the glass. Sam looked long and earnestly, while the others crowded around.

"By George! Bob, I believe you are right," he burst out, at length. "If this isn't the biggest surprise. Perhaps Nat's threat wasn't an idle one, after all."

Successively, the field-glass was passed from one to another, and the amazing fact now became apparent to all, that the rapidly approaching motor boat did contain the rejected applicant, as well as three of his particular chums, John Hackett, Kirk Talbot and Ted Pollock.

"H'm," said Dave, "he's got a fine lot of scrappers with him, that's sure."

By the way Nat's craft cut through the water, it could be seen at a glance that it was a much speedier boat than the "Rambler."

"I'll wager that Mr. Wingate examined our boat so that he could get a better one," said Bob, earnestly.

"But it scarcely seems possible that he would make Nat such a handsome present," declared Dave.

"And Wingate was always protesting about his uncle's stinginess, too," put in Tom. Then he added: "Are you going to let them pass us?"

"By the look of things, it can't be helped," responded Bob, grimly.

Just then the sound of Nat's familiar voice reached their ears. He was standing at the bow, holding a huge megaphone, while one of his chums frantically waved a gaudily colored flag.

"Halloa there!" shouted Nat, using his funnel-shaped instrument to good effect. "Get out of the way! Don't block up the stream—this is the lightning express, and nothing can stop it. Hurrah for the Nimrod Club!"

This shout was echoed lustily by his companions.

"So this is the Nimrod Club," commented Bob. "They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves."

Of this there could be no doubt. The exuberance of Nat and his chums, judging from their language and actions, was on the point of overflowing.

The rival boat, headed toward them, its graceful lines sparkling where the water had splashed upon it, was soon close at hand.

Suddenly, the chug-chug ceased, and the "Nimrod" glided gracefully across the bow of the "Rambler."

"The Nimrod Club of Kingswood greets the Ramblers!" shouted Nat, with unnecessary force; and he bowed mockingly. His brown eyes danced with excitement and triumph.

"And the Rambler Club salutes the Nimrods!" laughed Bob, although he was not a little apprehensive that the arrival of Nat and his followers boded them no good.

"Do you want a tow-line?" spoke up their leader.

"Say, is your old tub fast enough for you to know which way it's going?" added John Hackett.

The Nimrods all thought this very funny, and laughed uproariously.

"Safety before speed," said Dave Brandon, blithely. "When you get swamped, boys, just call for us."

"Look out, look out, here we go!" cried Nat, although there was not the slightest use for such a remark. "Say, be careful about canal-boats; there are some fast ones on this line."

The "Nimrod" was put in motion, and swept speedily forward. Bob started the "Rambler."

"Nat has a fine boat," he declared; "but ours is better."

"I wish they hadn't come along," commented Sam Randall. "I'll wager we are in for some lively times."

"Well, I, for one, propose that we don't stand any nonsense," exclaimed Dick Travers. "Give that crowd a chance, and—"

"Hey there, old slow-pokes, are you moving or standing still?" shouted Nat. "You need help."

"So will you, if you keep that up," retorted Dick, who was not so disposed to be good-natured as his companions.

The motor boats were dashing along at full speed in midstream, when the "Nimrod," which was easily distancing its competitor, slowed down and allowed the other to approach.

"Shut off your power, back there in the tub!" shouted Nat, authoritatively. "Now mind what I say, or there's going to be trouble."

Deliberately, he swung his boat around, so that the hull was presented broadside to the rapidly approaching "Rambler."

"Look out! What are you trying to do?" came in a chorus from the latter boat.

It seemed as though the Nimrods were absolutely regardless of consequences. Quick as a flash, Bob shut off the power and jammed the wheel far around.

Thus suddenly swerved from its course, the motor boat careened far over, and just grazed the side of the "Nimrod," which was now scarcely moving.

Before any of the Ramblers could divine his intention, Nat Wingate quickly passed a stout rope through an iron ring at the bow of their boat. "Go ahead, Kirk—full speed!" he shouted.

Darting forward, the "Nimrod" suddenly pulled the line taut with a force that jarred the "Rambler" from stem to stern.

"We've turned pirates!" yelled Nat. "Whoop la, oh ho, this is our first catch." And his companions joined in a hearty laugh.

It was not until the "Rambler" had swung around and was actually being headed for Kingswood that the astonished boys decided to remedy the matter in a summary fashion. Sam Randall pulled out his jack-knife and proceeded to sever the rope.

"We've had enough of this," he shouted, as his eyes flashed with indignation. "Why can't they let us alone?"

"Patience ceases to be a virtue," drawled Dave Brandon. "What a pity we haven't the faster boat."

Bob Somers kept perfectly cool, but he began to feel that his good nature was being taken for weakness, and that unless some decisive action was taken in the beginning, the Nimrods would give them no peace.

"You'll be walking the plank next!" cried Wingate, in a terrible voice, through his megaphone. "We're the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."

"Of the bounding, bounding deep!" echoed Hackett, hilariously.

"How long do you suppose this interesting crowd is going to follow us?" asked Tom Clifton, in disgust.

"Dear only knows," returned Sam; "I guess Nat Wingate's threats had more truth in them than we suspected."

Both boats were again on their course, with the "Nimrod" leading.

"Little boys, I say, little boys!" cried the irrepressible leader of the Nimrods; "we're going down the river a bit, and will come back to see you later."

"Don't hurry; we can wait," called out Dick Travers.

"The question of the length of time, my young friend, will be determined by the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."

Nat waved his hand and smiled.

"Thank goodness, they are off," cried Sam, with a sigh of relief, as the "Nimrod" began slowly drawing away.

Now, for the first time, the boys were able to enjoy the scenery, and talk about their plans for the day. Already, the fresh air had given them a decided appetite, and Tom Clifton agreed that at the proper time he would officiate at the oil-stove.

This decision had hardly been reached, and they were engaged in preparing a menu, when Bob, who was at the wheel, called out: "They are coming back, fellows."

This was quite true. The "Nimrod" was seen to describe a wide circle and head directly for them. On it came, at full speed, the engine making a loud and continuous roar.

Bob altered the course of the "Rambler" slightly. The helmsman of the other boat did the same, and they continued to near each other, both headed directly for the same spot.

It was at once evident that the reckless Nimrods had determined to annoy them by compelling Bob to change his course. Now the "Rambler," in spite of the fact that the "Nimrod" had beaten it, was, nevertheless, a speedy boat, and it thus happened that almost before they knew it the two craft were dangerously near each other.

"Stop, stop!" commanded Nat. "Don't you see where we are going?"

The sound of both engines ceased. Bob reversed his an instant later.

"Look out!" continued the commander of the Nimrods, frantically. "What is the matter with you? You're running us down!"

But the crash could not be averted. The side of the "Rambler" swung against the "Nimrod" with such force that Nat Wingate was almost pitched to the deck.

CHAPTER VI

TOM'S COOKING

"What do you mean by running into us like that?" called Nat, angrily, as the boats drifted apart.

The Pirate of the Bounding Deep did not seem to appreciate the humor of the situation.

"What do you mean by running in front of us?"

"Why didn't you stop?"

"How long is it since you owned this river?" demanded Dick Travers.

"Children should be seen and not heard," returned Nat, witheringly.

"Then stop talking, and keep your boat out of other people's way."

"See here, Dick Travers, I won't stand any impudence," stormed Nat. "You fellows don't know how to run a boat. Just look at that yard of paint your old tub scraped off!"

"Such a careless lot shouldn't be trusted alone on the mighty deep," chuckled thin John Hackett, or "Hatchet," as he was sometimes called by the boys.

"I think you will admit, Nat, that you took a big risk in running right in front of us," expostulated Bob.

"Admit nothing," snapped Nat. "Next time, you'd better be more careful, or an awful lot of trouble will suddenly spring up. If this river isn't wide enough, you'd better put out a danger flag for the benefit of the canal-boats."

The Pirates of the Bounding Deep began to laugh again. Their boat suddenly started off, described a circle around the stern of the "Rambler" and then proceeded at full speed in the direction from whence it had come.

"Perhaps it will teach them a lesson," said Dave Brandon. "I wonder if they are going to trail us continually."

"It looks very much that way," admitted Bob. "But we must try to avoid them as much as possible."

The incident had taken place upon a very beautiful reach of the river. The sun was glancing over the tops of an extensive pine forest, through the cool and pleasant depths of which shone arrow-like streaks of light, touching, here and there, the tall, straight trunks and thick masses of underbrush.

"A regular sylvan retreat," vouchsafed Dave, the nature-lover. "Look at those inviting shadows, and that rock, peeping between the tree trunks and glistening like silver. It only needs a little singing brook to make it an ideal haunt for painter or poet."

He took out his well-thumbed copy of Bryant, and read:

"Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the thread-like foliage sigh."

"I'm hungry as a bear," interrupted the more practical Dick Travers.

Dave closed the book. "Always the material pleasures," he said, with comical severity. "But since the Pirates favor us by their absence, it might be a good plan to lunch."

Accordingly, the prow of the "Rambler" was turned shoreward, and the boat was soon snugly ensconced by the side of a little bank, and in the midst of a profusion of aquatic leaves and tall grasses.

Dick Travers and Sam Randall, guns in hand, scrambled on shore, while Tom lighted the stove and began his culinary duties.

The tin dishes were soon in place on an improvised table of boards, and nothing remained but to await the pleasure of the cook.

It was remarked that Tom did not set about his self-imposed task with any degree of assurance. In a short time, a couple of pots were steaming merrily away, and a rather strange odor began to pervade the air.

"Lunch will soon be ready, boys," volunteered Tom. "I only hope Sam and Dick will get back in time to enjoy the feast. Hark!"

The sound of a shot reverberated with startling clearness—then another.

"That means disaster to some poor, inoffensive animal," declared Dave, and this proved to be true. When the young hunters returned, each was laden with a good-sized rabbit.

Tom dished out a liberal portion of something that had a general resemblance to stew, and then poured the coffee.

"Hope you'll enjoy it, boys," he said. "It's the first time I ever cooked."

A strange silence suddenly fell over the assemblage as they began to eat.

"It seems just a little—err—I might say burnt," suggested Bob.

"And has perhaps too much salt, just a trifle," murmured Sam.

"Is the coffee solid?" inquired Dick, innocently, as he looked at a cup of astonishing blackness.

"Not more so than mud," replied Tom, who was considerably surprised at his own attempt; "it might be improved by a little hot water."

Every one seemed to have lost his appetite. Dave Brandon presently arose, holding his plate. He was seen to make an awkward lurch. The tin did not escape from his fingers, but its contents described a curve through the air and splashed heavily into the water to become food for the fishes.

"My goodness, how awkward," he sighed, with a solemn expression.

The others envied his skill, but did not try to follow his example. Dick, Bob and Sam, martyrs to the cause, munched slowly and sadly away, trying to figure out how long it would be before the taste of the food would compel them to stop.

Tom sat down last, and had hardly started when an exclamation escaped his lips: "Frightful!" he sputtered. "I didn't suppose that anything in the shape of cooking could be so bad. I'd like to know what could have happened to it, anyway."

"You forgot to put in water, perhaps," laughed Bob.

"And in order to make up for it, used a whole bag of salt, eh?" suggested Dave, slyly.

"And tried to dispose of all our coffee at one shot. There surely can't be much left, after this."

"Never mind," returned Tom, good-naturedly; "perhaps the fish are hungry, and there's enough water in the river to dissolve out the salt. I move that we act in a liberal manner toward them, and begin all over again."

Without a word, his companions arose. Numerous splashes resounded, tin plates were washed, and a considerable amount of burnt substance scraped from the inside of the pots.

When every vestige of Tom's first attempt at cooking had been disposed of, a rabbit stew was decided on, and the Ramblers brightened up.

By general consent, the former "chef" was excused from further duty.

Bob skinned and dressed one of the rabbits, and it was soon stewing over the fire. Leaving Dave Brandon to keep an eye on it, the boys marched ashore, each, of course, armed with his gun.

The pine woods proved to be a most alluring spot. The Ramblers breathed the fresh scent of the trees with pure delight. They caught a glimpse of a few chattering squirrels, and stirred up a covey of partridges, but none of their shots took effect. The thought of the rabbit stew caused them to turn back in a very short time.

On catching a glimpse of the "Rambler," they gave a merry shout, but no answering hail greeted their ears.

"That's funny," commented Bob. "I didn't think Dave would leave the boat."

"He is probably asleep," said Travers, without hesitation.

Of course this proved to be the case. The poet laureate was stretched out upon the locker, wholly oblivious of his surroundings, while the stew bubbled and sizzled, sending a most savory odor through the air.

"Wake up!" cried Bob Somers, in a heavy voice.

The stout boy, with a confused idea that he was back in school, slowly arose, rubbed his eyes, and blinked drowsily.

"Goodness, it was awful," he mumbled, with a comical grimace. "It seemed so natural—I could even see Professor Hopkins."

"Hurrah! Taste this," broke in Sam Randall. "Here is something fit for a king. Quick, boys, get out the bread and other stuff, while I season this stew."

In a few minutes, five hungry boys were eating ravenously, and soon not a morsel of food remained. The ex-cook was kindly allowed to assist in the clearing-up process, then the sharp prow of the "Rambler" began pushing its way out into the stream. Not a sign of the Trailers, as they dubbed the Nimrods, could be seen, and their feelings were like those expressed by the poet when he said, "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

"Perhaps they won't bother us any more," observed Tom Clifton; "that little collision this morning seems to have had a salutary effect."

"Better wait until we get around the next bend," laughed Dave.

The "Rambler," with all power turned on, churned the water into foam, and the young travelers were treated to a succession of enchanting views, hills, dales and patches of woods. The sun's rays, tempered by a gentle breeze, were most pleasant, and, altogether, the boys were in high spirits.

Several hours passed, and it became a question as to where they were to camp for the night.

Finally Bob held up his hand. "Stop her," he said. "Here's a sort of a clearing looks good to me." The bow was turned in shore, and the boys decided to land. They found some difficulty in tying up the boat for the night. Care was also necessary in order that the propeller should not become entangled with the reeds and thick growth which extended along the shore. But at length the "Rambler" was drawn up in safety, whereupon the boys, delighted at the prospect of spending the night under the great canopy of stars, leaped ashore.

Bob Somers, besides some experience in camping out, had learned many points from "Old Bill" Agnew, a former lumberman who lived at Kingswood. He was therefore not altogether a novice.

The first thing they did was to carry every needful article ashore. In camp life system is of the greatest value.

Although they had no intention of remaining more than one night, each boy was allotted a special task, in order to avoid confusion.

The site chosen was on a slight elevation, and in the open, as mosquitoes and other insects were less likely to trouble them.

"Dick, you get some fire-wood," directed Bob. "Chubby and I will cook. Don't be scared, fellows," he added, with a laugh.

"What shall Sam and I do?" asked Tom Clifton.

"Get a lot of spruce boughs for beds. We'll need a pile of it, too. Stir yourselves."

They trooped off to the woods, and the sound of chopping began. Dick Travers, with his arms full of sticks, was the first to rejoin them.

"Get all the stuff out, Chubby."

"Yes! Dump your wood down here. Better get some small twigs. Funny thing we didn't forget to bring matches. That's right, Dick. Nothing like having a lot of fuel."

A brisk fire was soon burning.

"Now we'll fix things up in great shape."

Bob trimmed three sticks.

"I'll drive one on each side of the fire, nail another across the top, then hang the kettles with a piece of wire. Want anything better than that, fellows? Fall to—peel some potatoes and onions. What's that, Dick? Yes, go ahead and help Sam and Tom."

Bob Somers placed two logs upon a mass of hot, glowing embers, sufficiently far apart to hold a frying-pan. Then some pieces of bacon began to sizzle.

In due course, the delicious odor of rabbit stew filled the air, and, as dusk began creeping on, the club gathered around the camp-fire.

Each helped himself to a plate of hot, savory stew and a cup of steaming coffee.

"This is all right," chuckled Dick.

"Never tasted anything better," said Bob, with his mouth full.

"Look at Tom. He eats like a primitive savage."

"Huh! You'd better not talk. You're eating with your fingers yourself. This isn't the place to put on any style, is it, Dick?"

"Of course not. Another plate for mine."

"Me, too," chimed in Dave.

"Same here."

Another onslaught on the kettle, and its contents were emptied.

"I feel better," said Dave. "Oh ho, what comes next?"

"Home-made preserves," replied Bob; "open that box, Dick, and take out what you want."

Silence ensued for a few minutes. The Ramblers were busy.

At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Dave pushed his plate away.

"Feel just like taking a doze, fellows," he said. "Don't wake me up."

"No, you're not going to turn in just yet," laughed Bob.

"What! Anything else on the programme?"

"Yes, the tin-pan brigade. Grab your plates and stuff. We clean up right after every meal."

"Isn't he the bossy thing?" drawled Dave. "Pitch in, fellows, I've got an inspiration for a poem, and—"

Four hands seized the poet laureate, four sturdy arms hustled him to a standing position.

"Going to join in the housekeeping?"

"Yes, yes," laughed Dave. "Let up, Sam Randall and Dick Travers, or I'll souse you both in the river."

Cleaning up was finished in short order.

The boys decided to turn in early, for they knew that they had a long day before them.

Beds required some time to make, on account of the inexperience of the young woodsmen. A log was placed at the head of each and over this fragrant twigs of hemlock and other firs. The stems were kept as much to the bottom of the layer as possible, the boys continuing their work until the beds were thick enough to insure comfort. The finishing touches consisted in spreading rubber blankets, which being finally accomplished, the Ramblers were supplied with beds that one and all declared to be the best they had ever used.

When night enveloped the scene and the cheery light of the fire had died away, the fringe of woods looked very black and mysterious. An old oak, with gaunt, spreading arms, assumed in the dim light a weird and fantastic appearance, while stumps and bushes, which, before, they had scarcely noticed, seemed like so many motionless figures of threatening mien. Nor were the nocturnal noises reassuring. The dismal hoot of an owl came from the woods, the strange cry of a loon sounded faintly from afar, twigs snapped sharply, and faint rustlings, almost like footsteps, now coming, now going, mingled with the musical soughing of the trees, as they bent their branches to the will of the capricious breeze.

It must be confessed that decidedly creepy feelings stole over the Ramblers, which were not lessened when the rising moon appeared over the tops of the trees. It had never looked quite so grim to them before, nor did the pale, ghostly beams straggling over the ground impress them in just the same way as those they had seen in town.

But in spite of all this, one by one, they dropped into a refreshing slumber.

At early dawn, they were astir, and after breakfast, which was prepared on the oil-stove, hastily embarked.

Upon reaching a bend in the river, they looked for signs of the Trailers.

"Don't even hear a sound of their boat," remarked Bob.

"They may be miles ahead by this time," suggested Sam.

"I only hope so," said Dick. "The experience of yesterday proves that a few more meetings might lead to considerable trouble."

The river narrowed a bit at this point and the banks presented a more wild and rugged appearance the further they went. A bold, rocky cliff jutted out straight ahead; the current, accelerated by its more restricted confines, eddied and swirled around its base.

The "Rambler," at half speed, had almost reached the edge of the promontory when they heard a familiar sound.

"The Nimrods!" exclaimed Bob.

His words were hardly spoken before they realized that the rival motor boat had been ensconced behind the bluff. At that instant, it shot diagonally toward the middle of the river, a roar from the engine indicating that every particle of power had been turned on.

"Here they are!" shouted Nat, with the utmost abandon. "Look sharp ahead there, in the tub! We're going to see how close we can come without hitting you!"

The astonished Ramblers saw a sharp bow rushing toward them. Then there was a terrific impact which seemed to fairly lift their boat from the water, while its occupants were sent sprawling in all directions.

CHAPTER VII

REPAIRING DAMAGES

It looked as though Nat Wingate's deliberate disregard of consequences was going to bear serious fruit.

Before the "Rambler" had righted herself, Bob Somers shut off the power, and the thoroughly angry boys, who instantly scrambled to their feet, crowded aft.

"We've had enough of this kind of business!" shouted Bob Somers, with flashing eyes. "Whatever damage has been done to this boat, Nat Wingate, you'll have to pay for!"

"He ought to be arrested," chimed in Travers, indignantly. His fists, tightly clenched, he shook toward the captain of the Nimrods, who was standing at the wheel with a peculiar look on his face. He did not seem to comprehend what had happened.

"The rudder is bent all out of shape and the rail badly dented," said Sam Randall, presently. "Lucky the propeller isn't damaged."

"I'm awful sorry, boys!" called young Wingate, but there was something in his tone which belied the words "I thought we would just clear you. It was all a joke."

"Joke!" exclaimed Bob, hotly. "We've had enough of such jokes. If there are any more of them you'll get into trouble."

"I only meant to have a little fun, I tell you," pleaded Nat.

"Your ideas on that subject must be peculiar."

"I'll tow you back to Kingswood, and pay for all damages," continued Nat. "What more can you ask? I leave it to everybody—isn't that a fair offer?"

"But we don't want to return to Kingswood," answered Bob, coldly, although he was surprised at Wingate's offer.

"You can't continue the trip with a rudder bent out of shape like that," argued Nat. "Your boat is helpless, I'm afraid. Let us fix this thing up right."

"Why not tow them to the next town?" proposed John Hackett.

Nat shook his head. "No, no!" he said, earnestly; "Kingswood is nearer. It was my fault that their boat was damaged, and I want to do the right thing."

Bob did not answer.

"Come now, is it agreed?" added Nat, persuasively. All the sarcastic, half-sneering expression had left his face, and he evidently meant what he said.

"No, it is not agreed to," returned Bob, decidedly. "All this could have been prevented, if you had only acted with a little bit of common sense."

"Then you won't accept my offer?"

A chorus of negative responses came from the Ramblers, Bob Somers adding, in a voice which betrayed his indignant feelings, as he glanced at the damaged rudder: "I believe we can get along without assistance—at least, we don't wish any from the Nimrods."

"Oh, very well," returned Nat, with a slight change of tone; "you can't say that I wasn't willing to do all I could to make amends. I'll tow you ashore, now, if you say the word."

"Of course, we'll have to," spoke up Ted Pollock.

John Hackett picked up a line and prepared to heave it.

But "Captain" Bob was too much disgusted to parley with them further. He turned away, and started the engine at half speed.

The "Rambler," however, acted, as Sam put it, "like a drunken man." At the mercy of every conflicting current, she wabbled, then slowly began to swing around until the prow was headed for the opposite shore.

"Get out the oars, boys," said Bob. "We'll have to rig up a temporary rudder."

"Perhaps we had better let them tow us ashore," ventured Tom Clifton, who was disposed to be more timid than his companions.

"Not on your life," said Bob, firmly. "We'll manage it."

The crew of the "Nimrod" watched their movements with interest, and although quite a wide stretch of water now separated them, the Ramblers could hear their voices and catch an occasional word. It sounded very much as if they were wrangling among themselves.

After many trials, Bob and his companions were able to handle the oars in such a fashion as to steer the "Rambler" on a comparatively straight course. No suitable landing-place could be seen on either shore, and, accordingly, they continued slowly down the river.

"It means several hours' work to get the rudder back in shape," declared Bob, at length.

"And it never will be a 'thing of beauty and a joy forever,'" observed Brandon.

"Nat Wingate and 'Hatchet' are the most reckless fellows in Kingswood," asserted Sam; "I can't understand how Mr. Parsons Wingate would ever trust either of them with a boat. See, here they come now."

The "Nimrod" was approaching rapidly.

"Ho—ho—oh ho!" roared Nat, lustily, through his megaphone. "Cap'n Somers, of the boatlet 'Rambler,' are you going back to Kingswood with us?"

"No, we are not!" snapped Dick Travers, with all the force at his command.

"Let the Cap speak for himself, sonny."

"I've nothing more to say on the subject," replied Bob.

"Well, you are making a mistake," shouted the chief Pirate of the Bounding Deep, as the "Nimrod" scudded by.

No further attention was paid to them, the boys having all they could do to keep the "Rambler" on its course. They came at last to what looked like a favorable spot, and it was decided to go ashore.

This was not accomplished without a great deal of trouble, all hands feeling greatly relieved when they at length stood upon the bank.

While Bob assisted in unshipping the rudder, Sam Randall went off in search of a flat stone. Hammers were then brought out of the tool-chest and all stood around, ready to give assistance and advice.

"Sounds like the Anvil Chorus from Trovatore," remarked Dave, as the work began.

They found the task more difficult than any of them had anticipated, the force of the blow having twisted the rudder almost out of resemblance to its proper shape.

It was at least two hours before the Ramblers, taking turns with the hammer, were sufficiently well satisfied to replace the rudder. It was then decided to lunch on shore, whereupon Dave, with great promptness, stretched himself out under the shade of a tree and went to sleep.

The others brought out smoked tongue, cheese and preserves. Bob declared that it would be unkind to wake the poet laureate the moment he began to slumber, but much more unkind to deprive him of a meal, and they therefore had no alternative but to arouse him.

"Been in school, composing the great American poem?" queried Sam, jocularly.

"Neither; I dreamed that the 'Rambler' had turned into a rowboat," responded Dave, his eyes blinking drowsily. "I must say, I was always dead against using a pair of oars. It's no sport for a white man."

"Or a lazy one," said Sam, and even Dave laughed in spite of aching arms.

The spot was very charming. Off to the east lay a low line of hills, covered with verdure, while rolling fields and picturesque clumps of trees added to the charm of the landscape.

As much time had been lost, however, they concluded not to linger. The rudder worked as well as usual, and the "Rambler" was pushed to its fullest capacity.

"This is the kind of sport I like," said Dave, allowing his hand to drag in the cool water. "My, but I'm glad the oars are out of sight."

"When are we going to do any fishing?" asked Tom Clifton, suddenly.

"Plenty of time for that when we get to Lake Minnewago," responded Bob; "I've heard that the fishing there is fine."

Occasionally boats were passed, and the swiftly flying "Rambler" attracted considerable attention.

"There's another of them crazy toy boats ahead," shouted the occupant of a clumsy sloop, so far away that his words scarcely reached their ears. "She nearly run me down, and I was going to—"

But what the gentleman's intentions were could not be learned, for they immediately passed out of hearing, but judging from his manner they concluded that he was much wrought up over something.

"Nat will get his boat broken into little bits, if he keeps up his funny tricks," observed Bob.

The Ramblers could not help being curious to know what had happened.

Several hours glided by, during which the boys were treated to a succession of views which Dave declared were so charming as to give him an inspiration for a grand poem.

"The question before the Rambler Club is this," observed Sam: "When are we going to read one of these mysterious effusions?"

"Going to put Bryant in his proper place, Chubby?" asked Dick.

An expressive grin crossed Dave's face.

"His poems sometimes remind me of mine," he admitted.

"Let us know the worst," groaned Sam. "Can't you give us a small dose now?"

"Suspense is awful," chimed in Bob. "Fellows, we want to get at the bottom of this. What kind of stuff are you scribbling, Dave?"

"You may find out some time," smiled the stout boy.

"Turn a little loose on us, now."

"Not yet," drawled Dave; "it wouldn't be nice for me to spoil this part of the trip."

"You're a lazy duffer, anyway," observed Sam.

Dave laughed, leaned over the side of the boat and let his hand trail in the cool water.

"Got her going at full speed, Bob?" asked Dick.

"Up to the top notch," replied the captain.

The boys moved about, sometimes in the bow, then in the stern, enjoying the pretty views which constantly opened out before them.

"Is that little speck ahead the Trailers, or do my eyes deceive me?" asked Sam Randall, at length.

"No! You are quite right," answered Bob, after a glance through his field-glass. "They have come to a stop, with the 'Nimrod' turned broadside to the stream."

They were now approaching a place where the river widened slightly. Several long, flat islands, covered with reeds, divided it into channels, but all except the main one appeared to be quite narrow. The country to the left was flat and extended off in the distance as far as the eye could reach.

In about fifteen minutes, the "Rambler" drew near to the other boat, which was being kept in the same position by a little manœuvering.

Nat turned his inseparable megaphone toward them. He seemed to have recovered all his old-time sarcastic manner.

"Come on! Come right in front of us!" he bawled. "We didn't hit you quite right last time."

A loud sound, not capable of being described in a few words, issued from the megaphone, then a clear voice: "Don't you dare to forget that we are the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."

"Of the bounding deep!" echoed John Hackett and the others.

"Do you think he would have the audacity to run into us again?" asked Dick Travers. "I wouldn't mind giving them a chance, just to find out."

It seemed so apparent that the Trailers were getting ready for hasty action, that no one thought it worth while to answer this remark.

Bob, however, turned sharply to the left, having decided to take no chances, and pass astern.

"Good-bye, Nat!" he cried, waving his hand, as the "Rambler," tearing at full speed, darted past, well astern.

With absolutely no warning, a peculiar grating sound came to the ears of Bob and his companions, while the motor boat began to wabble in a most alarming fashion. As the boys looked at each other in dismay, a severe shock jarred the craft from stem to stern, then it gave a convulsive shiver, and with a suddenness that pitched the Ramblers in a confused heap, turned partly on its side, and came to an abrupt stop. The propeller, raised to the surface, churned and splashed the muddy water in all directions. They had run hard aground on a treacherous sand-bank.

To add to the unpleasantness of their situation, peal after peal of laughter came from the occupants of the other boat.

"Oh ho! Something has happened to our little ancient mariners," shouted Nat, between bursts of merriment.

"What brilliant seamanship," cried John Hackett. "Oh, my stars, do they take their boat for an automobile?"

The Ramblers could not help but realize that there was a humorous side to the situation, but it failed to appeal to them. Of course the motor was instantly stopped, and they proceeded, for the second time that day, to take stock of damages.

"Why didn't you have the bottom of the river removed?" called Nat. "It's in the way, anyhow, and you might have known what would happen."

A fresh outburst of mirth came from the "Nimrod."

Bob and his followers were not disposed to accept the new turn in events philosophically.

The irrepressible Nat was rattling off a string of comments, accompanied by blasts on the megaphone and shouts from his comrades.

Presently he brought forth a Roman candle, and, lighting the fuse, cried, as its sharp popping sounded: "Whoop la! Signal of distress. Serious accident to a barklet. Captain mistakes bottom of river for surface."

"Did you know that this sand-bank was here?" demanded Sam Randall, angrily.

"We told you to pass in front," laughed John Hackett, "and you wouldn't do it, so the catastrophe is on your own head."

"Yes, and you said—"

"Were you green enough to suppose that we would run you down on purpose?" interposed Nat. "Why that would have been an awful thing to do, even for pirates."

"You try any more funny business on us, and you'll get in the biggest scrap you ever had, Nat Wingate," cried Bob, angrily.

"What's that?" said Nat.

"You heard what I said. You've been too gay, altogether, and we won't stand for it."

"Christopher! If you were silly enough to run on a sand-bank, I can't help it."

"You stopped here on purpose, and—"

"Don't get too fresh, Somers. It's not healthy," bawled John Hackett.

"How can a little 'salt' be so fresh?" cried Nat.

"You don't want to forget what I said," warned Bob. "This is the last mean job you are going to work on us."

"That's so!" added Sam Randall. "We'll spill the whole bunch of you in the river next time."

"Listen to skinny," sneered Nat. "Ha, ha! Why don't you get out and blow the old scow off?"

"Come on, fellows, let's get to work," said Bob.

He pulled out a couple of oars, handing one to Dave.

These were stuck in the sand at the bow. They were placed diagonally, forming a sort of figure X, the centre of which rested against the cutwater.

This gave them a good leverage, but it was difficult to get a firm hold on the sandy bottom. Even the engine, reversed at full speed, accomplished nothing. The Ramblers, however, tugged away, until the perspiration streamed over their faces, compelled, all the while, to listen to a multitude of suggestions from the Nimrods.

Slow progress was made. With a tenacity that was most discouraging, the sand-bar held its captive, and every inch gained was at the expense of great effort.

"Mariners!" bellowed Nat, at length. "I say, brave sailor boys, we're off. Good-bye. Look out for pirates and other perils of the deep."

Bob could hardly repress a laugh, his manner was so comical.

"A mean lot," grumbled Dick, as he wiped his face and looked after the fast departing Nimrods; "I never heard of such a contemptible trick."

"It's a great pity that they should put their wits to such a use," said Bob. "We might as well admit that it was nicely calculated. Next time, if they try anything further, we must be prepared for them."

"We certainly fell easy victims," added Tom Clifton. "And I suppose Nat will tell the story to everybody he knows."

"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "The 'Rambler' moved at least six inches that time. Now, Dave Brandon, another tug!"

The poet laureate was endowed with considerable strength. Spurred on by their success, he gave a prodigious pull, with the startling result that the oar promptly slipped out of the mud, while the would-be author of the great American poem tumbled unceremoniously backward.

Of course he was not hurt. Dave never seemed to suffer much from a mishap. He laughingly arose, and resumed his work.

At the end of another quarter of an hour's work, the "Rambler" slid off the bar into deep water.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and all thought it best to land at the nearest suitable place. This was found a short distance further on, in a sheltered and picturesque little cove.

CHAPTER VIII

CAMPING OUT

The situation of their camp, in a fertile little valley, was found to have so many attractions that the Ramblers, by a unanimous vote, decided to spend all of the following day right there.

"Let that other crowd get as far ahead of us as possible," proposed Dick Travers. "It may take them longer to get back, for I'm sure they don't intend to give us any more peace than they can help."

"I think we can afford to forget them for a while," said Bob. "And now, boys, what do you think of building a brush camp, or lean-to?"

"Just the thing," exclaimed Sam Randall, enthusiastically.

A dense wood surrounded the valley. Through its cool and shady recesses, the dark, rich greens of firs and cedars could be seen.

"Why not build a lean-to right in the midst of them?" asked Tom Clifton.

"Old Bill Agnew said it was better to camp in the open whenever possible."

"Why so?"

"On account of insects and because it is generally safer. That ridge over there looks like a good place. It has a gentle slope, which will be just the thing for our bough beds."

"Oh ho, it seems to me there is nothing but work," groaned Dave, with a yawn. "Why not sleep on the ground?"

"You lazy duffer!" exclaimed Dick. "Come on; think what fun you'll have making all these things."

"I feel in a generous mood," laughed Dave. "I'm perfectly willing to give you all my share."

The ridge lay some distance inland, but from its elevated position, the motor boat could be kept in view.

Lots were drawn. To Tom and Dick fell the task of cutting poles and collecting brush for the lean-to, while Dave, with a terrible grimace, set about chopping sufficient fire-wood for their present needs. Bob Somers and Sam Randall took their guns and started to look for game.

"Let's skirt along the river, if possible," suggested Bob; "perhaps we may get a shot at some ducks."

"Agreed," said Sam; "but that underbrush looks a little thick right here; I guess we'll have to go around."

The boys found that it was not an easy matter to push their way along in any given direction. Growth of all kinds was luxuriant. Tangled vines, provided by nature with very sharp little thorns, continually impeded their progress, besides causing much discomfort, as it was hard to entirely avoid them.

They were careful to keep their guns pointed away from each other, and to keep the triggers free from low-hanging branches or underbrush.

At length, after a detour, the greenish expanse of river flashed in view between the tree trunks.

Suddenly a low whirring sound, directly in front, startled both hunters. A flock of ruffed grouse rose and flew with lightning-like rapidity among the trees.

"Too late," sighed Bob, lowering his gun. "Next time we must be better prepared."

"Yes, and what a supper we missed," said Sam, regretfully.

They had now come to an open space. Beyond it, along the shore of the river, was a thick clump of trees.

"Do I see anything over there?" asked Sam.

"Looks like a lot of birds," answered Bob.

"Hope we'll surprise the fellows with a fine brace of something."

"So do I. Look out, Sam. Don't make so much noise."

"My foot slipped on a stone," said young Randall, apologetically.

The boys worked their way forward with the greatest care.

"Just a little further," said Sam, in scarcely audible tones; "then, oh my, what a supper we may have."

"Don't talk," admonished Bob.

He took a long survey through his field-glass.

"Wood-ducks," he whispered, in a scarcely audible voice.

Sam's eyes sparkled. With the utmost care, he followed in Bob's footsteps.

The two finally concealed themselves in the midst of a patch of tall, rank grass and reeds. Not daring to even whisper, they slowly crawled forward, never, for an instant, exposing any part of their bodies to view.

Both being good shots, it looked as if their patience would be rewarded.

But, to their consternation, just at the critical moment, when they were well within range, a shot rang out loudly, followed by a perfect fusillade of others.

The ducks, with cries of alarm, arose en masse, flying swiftly away, while Bob and Sam jumped to their feet, in the greatest disappointment.

"Those miserable fellows again!" exclaimed the former, angrily.

The "Nimrod" had rounded a point.

"Fine hunters, to shoot at such long range as that," grumbled Sam. "What a nuisance they are."

"They spoil everything," declared Bob, in disgusted tones.

Disconsolately, the return trip was begun.

A series of harsh, rasping cries, issuing from the dim recesses of the woods, betokened the presence of a blue jay, while at intervals sounded the tap-tap of that busy workman of the forest—the woodpecker.

They concluded to return by the same route, in the hope of stirring up some other game. Fortune favored them this time, a couple of squirrels being bagged, which partly reconciled them to their previous disappointment.

They found, upon returning to camp, that the three other Ramblers had not been idle. Dave pointed with pride to a large pile of wood, while Tom and Dick showed equal satisfaction in exhibiting a mass of pine boughs, besides a number of poles. Nor was this all. Reposing on a flat stone were three good-sized fish.

"Where did you get them?" queried Bob, in pleased surprise.

"Just a little way up the river," responded Dick Travers, proudly.

"We can now have a meal fit for a king," exclaimed Sam.

"How are you going to cook the fish?" asked Tom.

"Oh, I know," said Bob. "Let's find a couple of flat stones, fellows."

"I saw some down near the river," put in Dick.

He sped off, with Tom at his heels.

"That's the idea," said Bob, as each returned, lugging a good-sized stone. "Now for a fire!"

When it was burning brightly, the stones were placed in the middle of it.

"What is that for?" asked Tom.

"When they get hot as blazes," explained Bob, with a smile, "I'm going to put the fish between 'em, cover the whole business with hot coals, and let our supper bake."

"Another Bill Agnew act," laughed Dave.

"You've guessed it."

Preparations continued, and after an interval, Bob sang out: "Those stones must be hot enough by this time."

"Red hot, except that you can't see it," laughed Sam. "Hey there, be careful not to roll 'em out on my feet."

Bob laughed.

"Keep out of the way of the cook, then."

The fish were placed between the stones, then covered with hot embers.

"Smells good, fellows, doesn't it?" observed Dave. "I can hardly wait."

The feast was even more delicious than they had been led to expect from the appetizing odor, and Dave voiced the sentiments of all when he declared that nothing could beat a meal out in the open.

The lean-to had to be made quickly, as night was settling over the scene. The boys, therefore, started work with a will. A lean-to might be described as a shelter, having one sloping side, which also acts as the roof, and two vertical, the front being left open. By driving two stout poles into the ground, about a dozen feet apart and securing a cross piece at the top, they readily provided the principal framework. Numerous saplings were next placed at short intervals against it. Dick Travers busied himself forcing the ends into the ground, while the other boys began placing spruce and hemlock boughs, in thick layers, upon the sloping top thus formed. The sides were then attended to in the same manner.

By the glare of the camp-fire, the lean-to was completed. Bob and his companions surveyed its cozy appearance with much pride, but did not desist from their labors until bough beds had been arranged upon the ground within.

"Old Bill couldn't have done better himself," declared Bob. And the others agreed with him.

The fire was replenished, the dancing tongues of flame lighting up the surroundings with a fantastic glare. The Ramblers felt those peculiar sensations which come to nearly all amateur woodsmen, especially at night. Never before had the mysteries of nature, as well as the immensity of the star-studded heavens, appealed to their imaginations so vividly. Insects kept up an incessant chant, while from the woods issued numerous familiar voices.

They were far from any human habitation, in a wild region, seldom frequented by any one except an occasional sportsman. It seemed as if they were alone in the midst of a great solitude.

But suddenly a starlike point of light appeared in the distance, then another and another, until four, all moving in the most erratic fashion, advanced slowly toward them.

"What does that mean?" asked Tom Clifton.

The sound of voices reached their ears.

"The Trailers, as I live!" exclaimed Sam Randall. "Just listen to them."

There was no need of this advice. The Nimrods possessed lusty voices, and began using them to their fullest capacity. The result, while not harmonious, proved effective.

"Here come the mighty Nimrod boys
And pirates of the deep,
And every one will make a noise
To drive away your sleep."

"That sounds like more trouble," said Bob, with a laugh.

"Pirates of the Bounding Deep," shrieked John Hackett.

"Of the bounding, bounding deep," echoed the others, in turn.

"And we're just as bad when off the sea,

As real ones on the ocean be."

It was Nat who uttered the last words, which he followed by a series of frightful discords through the megaphone.

Straight up to the camp-fire, in single file, they came, swinging their lanterns, as they ranged themselves around.

"I told you boys that this cheery blaze must mark the retreat of our friends, the little ancient mariners, who sail on land and try to catch dickey birds without the use of salt," laughed Nat.

"And we are overflowing with joy at this chance meeting," put in John Hackett.

"And likewise have come to inquire if the birds and beasts who once dwelt here have all been shot?" added Kirk Talbot. "I'll explain the idea:

"When hunters brave as these
Go to shooting 'midst the trees,
Will the birdlets fly away,
Or will they boldly laugh—and stay!"

"You all seem to be poet laureates," said Dave Brandon.

"What has been done for a camp?" broke in Nat. "Is it near here? Say, where did that strange looking pile of underbrush come from?"

The Nimrods had discovered the shelter.

"It's a fine one," said Ted Pollock, admiringly.

"That it is," assented Nat, suddenly reverting to a serious mood. A trace of sarcasm seemed to lurk in his tone, however, and the boys, at first, thought he was merely trying to deceive them. But in a moment he caught Bob Somers' eye, and, nodding to him in his most pleasant manner, continued: "We have come with the olive branch of peace. I hope you bear us no ill will, and if any damage has been caused, please accept our apologies."

"You must excuse our fun; a little joking never hurts any one," chimed in "Hatchet."

"We can stand almost any amount, provided it doesn't knock our boat in three or four pieces," returned Bob, who was far from being satisfied that the Nimrods were acting in good faith.

"The fact is," said Nat, presently, "this seems to be an ideal place for camping out. Why not cast our fortunes together for a week—what do you say?"

There was a strange sort of eagerness in his voice that did not escape Bob's attention.

"We don't intend to stay a week," he said.

"You surely don't mean that you are going to leave to-morrow?" inquired Nat, now all seriousness.

"Oh, no, only—"

"Then we can join the camp, eh—why not? We can have a grand time and forget any little differences. Besides," he added, after a short pause, "the arrangement will only last for a few days."

This started an open discussion, in which all present had more or less to say, but it finally became so evident that the Nimrods were anxious to make amends for the past, that their arguments proved effective. Bob and his companions were, also, quite satisfied that they could take care of themselves should an emergency arise, while they all felt more curiosity in regard to the possible course of the Nimrods than they would have been willing to admit.

The Trailers sat around the fire for about an hour, then, picking up their lanterns and promising to return on the morrow, they bade the Ramblers adieu, and retired in an orderly and quiet fashion.

CHAPTER IX

HACKETT'S SHOOTING

Breakfast was eaten with the rising sun. Shortly after, the exhaust of the "Nimrod" sounded and almost immediately she came in view. The work of mooring her alongside the "Rambler" occupied but a short time, whereupon the Trailers, in high spirits, trooped ashore. Bob Somers had kept an eagle eye on their boat during the entire proceeding, in order to make sure that no trick was attempted.

The poet laureate looked at the thick tract of woods ahead, then toward a nice, grassy knoll close by.

"I'll mind the boats," he said, briefly.

"We'll bring our game bags back full to overflowing," volunteered Nat. "Be sure to have a fire big enough to roast an ox."

With long strides, tall and slim John Hackett led the way, causing little Tom Clifton to run occasionally in order to keep pace.

"The best plan is to go as far as possible into the interior," urged Nat; "then we may get a shot at something worth while."

"Yes, what's the use of popping at little two ounce squirrels, when there are bears and wolves around?" said John Hackett, slyly glancing at Tom.

"To say nothing of deer, and fierce wildcats," chimed in Bob, smilingly.

"A little army like we are would scare off anything that toddles on four legs," declared Sam; "we had better not make such a racket."

"It doesn't make any difference yet," said Kirk Talbot, picking himself up, a creeping vine having sent him headlong.

After making their way through a dense thicket, they reached the banks of a small but rapid stream. This was crossed by means of a few stones which rested in the swirling and bubbling water.

Just a few paces further along, John Hackett gave an illustration of how not to carry a gun. Swinging it carelessly over his shoulder, his hand grasping the barrel, he pushed ahead. A low-hanging branch in some manner caught the hammer, pulling it back and then releasing it. The unexpected explosion that followed made the boys fairly jump in alarm, while "Hatchet" turned white.

"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. "Shoot at a grasshopper, Hackett?"

"Hacky knows he can't hit anything more than three feet away," grinned Nat.

"I thought a gun's trigger was meant to be pulled by hand," said Dick, with a wink at Tom Clifton.

"Cut it out," growled John; "you fellows needn't think you're smart."

"Guns and hunting knives! Don't get in front of him," laughed Kirk.

"You're too fresh, Tadpole," warned Hackett. "Mind, now!"

His long arm swept around in a circle, but Dick, with a grin, jumped nimbly aside.

In the hope of striking big game, they pushed on, sometimes being compelled to fairly force their way through dense masses of underbrush or interlacing branches. The chattering red squirrels and rabbits which occasionally darted for cover were unmolested.

Wild flowers grew on grassy banks, bright bits of moss gleamed in the sunlight, while cool and grateful shadows afforded relief from Old Sol's rays.

"I only wish we could see a wildcat or a wolf," said John Hackett, boastfully. "My little friend, would you run?" he asked, turning to Tom Clifton.

"Not with a mighty hunter like you around," responded the lad, and even "Hatchet" joined in the laugh that followed.

On the crest of a hill, they saw a stretch of water in the valley below them, its mirror-like surface reflecting the mottled sky. It was a lake, apparently about a half mile long.

"We ought to be stirring up some game pretty soon now," observed Bob Somers; "but I suppose we shall have to satisfy ourselves with the next size smaller than a bear."

They partly plunged into the woods again, descending by slow degrees until they were near the water. To their chagrin, they found it surrounded by cliffs and huge boulders making progress so difficult that a long detour was necessary. After an hour's hard tramping, the party succeeded in rounding the nearest end of the sheet of water, where they were obliged to halt for rest and refreshment.

The way now became less difficult. There were numerous open spaces and many bits of marsh-land which promised game of some kind, but their explorations were not rewarded.

Disappointed, but not discouraged, the journey was continued, until the base of a high elevation was directly before them. The slope was beautifully wooded, and they lost no time in beginning what proved to be a very hard climb. Small game was plentiful, none, however, drawing forth a shot.

The boys were all thoroughly tired when they stood upon the summit of the ridge and gazed down upon another lake.

"Ducks!" cried John Hackett. "Just look at those spots on the water."

The eight young sportsmen feasted their eyes upon the alluring sight.

"Let us circle around and get on the leeward side," said Bob. "Don't make a sound."

"We ought to get a dozen," whispered Dick Travers, excitedly.

"A dozen," said John Hackett, "a dozen? Just wait until I draw a bead upon them; it's going to be a bad day in the duck family. Come on! What are we standing here for?"

It required fully half an hour before the young hunters reached the coveted position. Then, screened by a perfect bower of small trees which reached clear to the water's edge, they began manœuvering to get in range.

On the alert to acquit himself with glory, John Hackett could no longer resist the temptation to fire, especially as to his excited imagination the birds were about to rise in a body. Suddenly bringing the gun to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. A loud report sounded, instantly followed by a most deafening succession of shots that awakened echoes from far and wide. The members of the two clubs had observed Hackett's action just in time, and not intending to be deprived of their share in the sport, had instantly leveled their guns and fired.

A tremendous amount of white smoke began to slowly clear away, when it became apparent that the result of their shooting was both unexpected and extraordinary.

Two ducks were paddling leisurely toward the shore, as if they did not quite like what had happened, several others had turned upside down and were seen to be minus legs, while still another, with its head blown entirely off, bobbed serenely on the ripples.

"Hulloa, what's this?" cried Kirk. "Did we bag the whole lot?"

A furious barking sounded from a short distance to the right, heavy footsteps were heard crashing through the underbrush, then a pack of nondescript dogs, making the very air ring with their discordant snarls and howls, burst into view, quickly surrounding the astonished hunters.

An instant later, a surprisingly big man, followed by a tall lank youth, dashed at full speed toward them. Both were armed with guns, and their demeanor indicated extreme displeasure.

"There he is, pop," shouted the younger. "I saw that one shoot."

"I SAW THAT ONE SHOOT"

Before John Hackett could comprehend what was happening, an enormous hand gripped him by the collar.

"I'll learn you to be shooting my tame ducks and decoys," roared a deep voice, and the amazed "Hatchet" found himself in a position unfortunately like that of a rat caught by a terrier. The big hand moved rapidly back and forth, John going with it.

His furious struggles were of no avail.

"Don't stand around like a lot of noodles, fellows," screamed the unfortunate youth, at the top of his voice, during a lull in the proceeding; "wait till I get loose!"

A vigorous shove sent him sliding beside his gun, which lay in the tall grass.

The whole affair had taken place in a few brief moments. With a savage exclamation, accompanied by a threatening wave of his hand, the tall youth silenced the snarling and excited dogs.

"I'm a-going to have the whole gang of you took up," declared the big man, hoarsely. "I can stand being stole from, which more than one has tried to do, but I don't keer to have my property blowed into little bits fer nothin'."

"Ha, ha," laughed Nat Wingate; "I wish—"

"Now don't begin any sass, fer I'm that mad I could—"

He was, in turn, interrupted. "Have you got 'em, Stevy?" screamed a shrill voice, and a stout woman of not unprepossessing mien, panting and breathless, came hurrying up.

"Them's the scallywags," roared her husband.

"What, this crowd? Why they are nothing but boys, the poor dears."

"Maybe—but sich boys."

"He nearly dislocated that boy's shoulder," spoke up Nat Wingate, pointing to John as he edged slowly away.

"The idea—Steven Burr a-laying of violent hands on a boy—the idea, I say."

"Eh—what?" stammered the big man.

John Hackett, who was still lying on the grass for the purpose of effect, seized the opportunity to slowly and painfully arise.

"I may be a boy," he shouted, almost beside himself with anger, "but anybody who dares to touch me has got to fight. Come on, you great big overgrown farmer!"

Perfectly regardless of consequences in his passion, "Hatchet" danced around and around, swinging his fists with extraordinary rapidity.

"If it wasn't for your wife, you big coward, I'd fix you, and that in short order."

"We are sorry for what occurred," interposed Bob Somers, at this point, addressing Mr. Burr, "but you made a mistake in acting so hastily."

"Well, then, what d'ye mean by this piece of business?"

"Well, we took the birds for wild ducks, strange as it may appear," drawled Nat, who had witnessed his friend's discomfiture without much apparent evidence of pain. The speaker began to laugh. "Say," he exclaimed, "do you keep a duckery or a quackery?"

"Ha, ha, ha," roared the big man, slapping his knees, while his wife and son joined in. "Ha, ha, ha, wild ducks! 'Pon my word, wild ducks! Did you ever hear the beat of it?"

"The mistake was a natural one," said Bob, calmly. "We had no idea that anybody lived around here."

"But I never heard of decoy ducks being shot at."

"Probably not," volunteered Nat, glibly. "I tell you, Mr. Burr, the circumstances were unusual. Those two or three real quackers were so much like the wooden ones that you ought to have a 'don't shoot' sign put up."

"Think those decoys were pretty good, then?" inquired the slim youth.

"Bang up," said Nat, unable to repress a laugh at his own humor. "That's the reason we fired at them."

"I made 'em myself," continued the slim youth. "Pop says he never seen such good ones."

"Just so," added Mr. Burr, whose anger was greatly appeased. "They will certainly draw the birds."

"It seems, then, that we have paid them an unintentional compliment," said Bob.

"I'm willing to view the incident in that light," said Mr. Burr. "I hope the young gentleman who come so near to fixing me ain't got no ill will."

"Don't 'young gentleman' me," growled John. "If my shoulder doesn't turn black and blue, it will be a wonder."

"I always said you was rash, Steven Burr," said his wife; "and this proves it. Just think how lucky it was for me to come along and save you."

The humor of this was highly appreciated by all except John Hackett.

They found on acquaintance, however, that Steven Burr was not a bad sort of man. He insisted on the boys visiting his shack, as he termed it, and also gave them a great deal of useful information about the surrounding country. He and his son worked in a logging camp not far distant. The shack, which was made of logs and situated near the lake, proved to be a very interesting place, and even John Hackett forgot his ill humor before they took their departure.

The boys concluded to tramp along the shore of the lake, notwithstanding the fact that they encountered occasional bits of marsh-land and small brooks. They laughed and joked about their ludicrous mistake, resolving to profit by the experience.

The scenery was sufficiently varied to make their progress interesting. Dragon-flies in great numbers hovered over the water or darted about. Off in the distance, several cranes could be seen, while an ever-watchful hawk soared against the white patches of cloud overhead.

A flock of sandpipers flew in range, and circled around. Bang—bang—bang. The sharp reports of three guns broke the stillness, and several birds were seen to fall.

Nat Wingate brought his weapon to his shoulder and fired, although the flock was now speeding rapidly away.

A fearful report resounded, Nat staggering back with a howl of pain.

"It's broken my shoulder," he cried, dancing around wildly. "Wow—there must have been a ton of powder in that barrel."

"How did it happen?" inquired Bob, forced to smile, in spite of himself.

"I remember, now, it was loaded twice," said Nat, still rubbing his shoulder gingerly. "I put in a charge while we were roaring and grinning about the wooden ducks and then forgot about it. I guess I never did anything so mechanically in my life."

John Hackett, on this occasion, laughed with more vehemence than any of the others.

"That's a good one on Nat," he said. "It's a wonder the gun didn't explode."

"About as bad as shooting at grasshoppers," grinned Nat. "Christopher! What are those birds over there?"

"Sandpipers," said Dave.

"Some of 'em are goners," declared Hackett; "don't care what their name is."

"Wait until we get a little nearer," warned Bob. "Now!"

A succession of shots followed.

Four fat little sandpipers, or grass plover, were picked up, and as they are delicious eating, the addition to their larder was welcome.

About half an hour later, the boys discovered that a flock of wood-ducks had alighted in a copse near the lake.

The eyes of the Ramblers and Nimrods fairly sparkled, as they began to work their way carefully toward them. Some distance ahead, a stretch of high grass happily served to conceal their movements. They crept stealthily forward, foot by foot, fearful each moment that the flock would take alarm.

A short interval of suspense, and Bob cautiously raised his head above the waving fringe of grass.

"Ready!" he whispered. "Fire!"

Almost simultaneously eight reports echoed and reëchoed from the near-by hills.

The ducks instantly arose, flying swiftly in every direction.

John Hackett rushed forward, followed by the others, and they saw five birds outstretched upon the ground.

"Five of them!" cried Nat Wingate, exultingly. "This is what I call real sport."

"I knew I could do it," remarked John Hackett, with a self-satisfied smile. "I'll bet it was my shot that plunked the head off one of those miserable chunks of wood."

The silence was unbroken for several moments.

"It's too bad we didn't bring anything along to cook with," observed Tom Clifton, at length. "A bit of duck would go well with our lunch."

For an answer, Bob Somers drew out his hunting-knife and severed the head from one of the largest birds, then proceeded to dress it with a proficiency which showed that the operation was not a new one to him.

"I guess we can manage somehow, Tom," he said, with a smile. "But, of course, it means a couple of hours' stay."

The others crowded around him.

"How are you going to do it?" queried Sam Randall, curiously.

"You shall see, presently."

Bob went to the water's edge, scraped together a pile of soft clay and began to cover the duck evenly with it. "You fellows hustle for some dry wood," he said.

"Let's go back to the woods," proposed Dick.

His suggestion was immediately acted upon. Dividing their spoils, they marched briskly, eagerly anticipating the coming feast.

When they arrived at a small open space in the midst of a dense pine forest, Bob Somers proceeded to dig a good-sized hole. The clay-covered duck was deposited therein, close to the surface, the rest of the boys having in the meantime started a huge fire.

Bob filled most of the hole with earth, leaving just enough space for the duck to be surrounded with hot ashes. This took considerably longer than they anticipated, but the task was at length completed, after which the fire was raked over it.

"No one can tell us much, when it comes to camping out," said "Hatchet" sententiously; "before long, we'll be able to give old Agnew a few good points."

While the meal was in course of preparation, the boys wandered around on little exploring expeditions, one of them being fortunate enough to discover a fresh, bubbling spring.

Considerably more than two hours passed before Bob judged that the duck was cooked. It was found that the clay had become hard baked. Bob carefully broke it away and with it came the feathers.

Sitting around in a circle, the boys heartily enjoyed their meal and told stories, while Bob and Nat amused their hearers by several recitations.

"Let's take a short tramp through the woods," proposed the latter, when they decided that it was time to break camp.

As no objections were offered, the young hunters at once set off.

"Who has the hatchet?" asked Bob.

"I have," replied Tom Clifton.

"Then we'll blaze a trail. It's mighty easy to get mixed up in a big wood like this."

"Somers, the woodsman—Bill Agnew's star pupil," laughed Nat.

"Nothing like being on the safe side," said Bob. "Here goes number one."

"Crack! Smack! Hits it like a little man," grinned John Hackett. "Just look at the chips a-flying."

"We're the brigands of the woods," sang Nat.

"And live in a cave by the running brook."

Bob continued to cut the notches at intervals, then handed the hatchet to Nat. The latter certainly made noise enough in the execution of his task. Nearly always, he lagged back and came running after the other boys, with a broad grin on his face.

The afternoon passed quickly, and the sun was well over toward the west when Bob Somers, not wishing to alarm the poet laureate by a too prolonged absence, said:

"We had better go back, fellows."

"Not yet," protested Nat; "we have plenty of time."

"It's more than half-past four, and we have miles and miles to go—just think of the distance."

"Well, perhaps you may be right, Somers."

"Where is that last tree you spoiled, Nat?" asked Kirk, after they had started to retrace their steps.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Nat. "Oh, you lot of greenies. Do you suppose I kept up that foolish trick? I just banged away a bit. Now, if anybody can find a mark, he'll deserve a prize."

The Nimrods laughed loudly.

"My eye! That's a good one!" roared Hackett.

"I'll bet we don't get back to camp to-night, then," exclaimed Tom Clifton.

Bob smiled good-naturedly.

"Brigands know the woods too well for that, Tommy," he said.

"Every part of it looks alike to me," admitted Dick; "I'm fiercely mixed."

"Always seem to be," grinned Hackett.

Bob Somers, fortunately, had taken sufficient note of their route to enable him to say, with some confidence: "I think the right direction is about due west."

"What?" sniffed Nat. "The camp is off that way."

He waved his hand in a southerly direction.

Almost every one had a different idea, but the Ramblers agreed that Bob was apt to be right.

"Well, you'll see," said the Nimrod chief, with a grin. "We'll just have to pass the night away from camp."

An hour's walk did not solve the problem. The woods still extended on all sides, grim and sombre, relieved only by the slanting rays of the sun.

Now and then, they passed places which all agreed they had not seen before.

"I told you!" exclaimed Nat, at length. "Now we are lost completely."

"Yes, we are lost completely, little ones," echoed John Hackett, with a grin.

"Bears, wildcats and wolves—how like the babes in the woods," laughed Kirk Talbot.

Another hour passed. Several ridges were traversed, when Bob proposed climbing a tree.

"I'll do it," exclaimed Nat, promptly.

But Bob, springing up, had already grasped a low-hanging limb. Climbing from one branch to another, he at length reached a position of vantage, which enabled him to see, far off, the glistening water of a lake. He realized instantly that it was the one they had come across early in the day.

"Whew!" he muttered. "We must have walked a good deal further than I thought. All right!" he called, cheerily, in answer to a hail from below. "We are on the right track."

A few moments later, he rejoined his companions. Dusk finally settled over the scene. Then progress became more slow. Fireflies flitted about, from a pond came the hoarse croaking of frogs, while all around, the insects kept up a continual noise.

"Poor old Dave will certainly be worried," observed Bob.

"Well, his legs aren't almost walked off," grumbled Kirk Talbot.

"It's so dark a fellow can't see," chimed in Ted Pollock. "Wish the old moon would hurry up."

"Let's take a rest, and wait for the lazy thing to appear," suggested Nat. "Those vines have scratched me all up."

Accordingly the thoroughly tired boys came to a halt and sat down on a little mossy bank.

"That 'Oh ho' boy would be shaking in his shoes by this time, if he wasn't so lazy," declared Nat, with a laugh. "He'll have a grand chance to scribble a poem on the Terror of Darkness."

It seemed a very long time before the sky began to brighten with the rising moon. By its light they were again enabled to make good progress.

After skirting around the shore of the lake, they came across familiar landmarks and marched ahead in high spirits, notwithstanding their tired condition.

This part of the journey seemed much longer than they anticipated, but, at length, a glad shout came from Sam Randall. "We are all right, now, boys!" he exclaimed, gleefully. "There's the river."

Leading the way, Bob plunged through the last strip of woods. "Hello—hello, Dave!" he called, with all the force of his lungs.

"Hello!" echoed his companions, lustily.

No sound came from the direction of the camp.

"I'll wager he's asleep again," declared Dick Travers.

Again the boys gave a vigorous shout. But when the last throbbing echoes died away, dreary silence still reigned in the solitude.

"That's very strange," exclaimed Bob Somers, with a touch of alarm in his voice.

He broke into a run, the others following close at his heels. The outlines of the lean-to flashed into view, but the lone member of the Rambler Club was nowhere to be seen.

"What can it mean?" asked Bob Somers, in surprise.

Then a most astounding discovery was made. The boys raced at full speed to the river, where panting and almost breathless, they paused, to gaze excitedly up and down its banks. Both motor boats had disappeared.

A small object, revealed by the light of the moon, lay on the muddy bank. Bob Somers stooped, and picked up Dave Brandon's well-worn copy of Bryant's poems.

Torn with doubt and perplexity, they looked from one to another. At this moment, the sound of a shot, far off in the distance, was borne faintly to their ears.

"What was that?" cried John Hackett, excitedly. "Listen!"

They all stood in silence, straining their ears. Then, after an interval, another report came over the water.

CHAPTER X

A REAL HERO

Dave Brandon was not averse to being left alone. Nature, in its wildness and solitude, appealed to him forcibly, and he loved to contemplate it in silence and with naught to distract his attention.

When his friends disappeared in the woods, he lazily stretched himself on a grassy knoll, drew out his volume of Bryant, a note-book and pencil.

"Oh ho," he murmured, "what a glorious day it will be. Nothing but poetry, a composition on nature, and—yes,—first of all, a little nap on this delightful ridge."

The blue sky was flecked with whitish clouds, a slight breeze rustled the grass and leaves, while the river simmered in the early morning light.

It wasn't very long before the stout poet laureate, with his hat shielding his eyes, yielded to the pleasant feeling of sleepiness, dozing away, in that soft and delicious slumber which a care-free conscience and comfortable position are potent factors in bringing about.

An hour passed, then two, no doubt. The lad, in his world of bright-hued visions, dreamed of many things, but certainly not of that which was destined to happen before he saw his friends again.

The third hour had not yet ended, when two men appeared on the river bank making toward the motor boats with a stealth and precaution which showed conclusively that some object other than curiosity guided their actions.

The lean-to and sleeper close by did not escape their attention; in fact, the lad was no sooner perceived than they hastily withdrew into the friendly shelter of a line of bushes, from which point of observation they peered, as if undecided in their course of action.

But they did not attempt to come out in the open again, for Dave moved, stretched, then sat bolt upright.

"A fine nap," he murmured, half aloud; "a fine nap. It must be almost time for lunch."

He arose, gazed in the direction of the two boats, and began to saunter slowly toward them.

As he climbed on board the "Rambler," two pairs of eyes watched his movements with the keenest attention, their owners screening themselves carefully behind the bushes.

Dave got out the oil-stove, together with bacon, cheese, crackers, and carried them all ashore, but remained near the boats.

During his preparations for lunch, the two men, with the utmost caution, stole away.

After his repast, Dave cleaned up, replaced the articles he had used, and seated himself on the locker, to begin his composition.

When six o'clock arrived, Dave began to wonder about his friends.

"What can be keeping them so late?" he mused. "I thought they would be back long before this."

Another hour passed, the anxious watcher listening in vain for any signs which indicated their approach. The golden tinged clouds changed to purple. Then sombre gray stole on, darkening by degrees until night enveloped the scene.

"They must be lost," thought Dave, disconsolately; "it will be hard finding their way back through the woods, even by moonlight."

He paced up and down uneasily. When the moon appeared in view, it was impossible for him to stand the suspense any longer.

"I'll climb a tree and shout," he concluded. "Perhaps that may help them to find the camp. If not, I'll build a fire."

In spite of his stoutness and indolent ways, the poet laureate could be active and agile when the occasion demanded. Selecting a suitable tree near the edge of the woods, he shinnied up its trunk until the lowermost branch was reached. Then, amidst the thick foliage, he worked his way slowly aloft until a good position was secured.

Had Dave not been so worried, it is probable that the view alone would have repaid him for his labor. The long line of the river was broken at intervals by trees; ridges, hills and dense woods, in light and shadow, extended off in all directions, blending imperceptibly with the sky.

"Not a sign of a camp-fire," muttered the lad. "Goodness, gracious, what in the world is that? Why how—"

This disjointed exclamation was caused by a sound, which, without warning, broke the silence.

Clear and distinct, the rapid pulsation of a motor engine, working at full speed, came to his ears.

Dave Brandon had never been more astonished in his life. Peering through the branches, he looked eagerly in the direction of the river.

Almost immediately, between a break in the trees, the indistinct form of a boat could be seen gliding rapidly by.

"The 'Rambler,'" gasped Dave; "I'm sure it is the 'Rambler.' That sound could not be anything else. What does it mean?"

The lad forgot, for an instant, his belated friends, everything, in the excitement of the moment. With a haste that almost threatened disastrous consequences, he began to descend. Branches smote him in the face, leaves flapped in his eyes, but he paid no heed. His actions now would have been sufficient refutation of the charge of laziness.

In an astonishingly short time, he reached the ground, seized his gun and started on a run for the water.

"The 'Rambler' is gone," he cried, in his excitement speaking aloud.

A hundred conflicting thoughts flashed through his brain. Was it all a joke?

But he dismissed that idea in an instant. Bob Somers was not that kind of a boy.

Unable to decide what to do, Dave Brandon paced excitedly up and down. The volume of poems, already half out of his pocket, fell unnoticed to the ground.

"It's all my fault," he cried, self-accusingly. "But then, if the fellows had only come back in time. Who would have thought of this?—I know what I'll do!"

Dave Brandon, dismissing any thought of danger, suddenly rushed toward the "Nimrod."

"She's faster than the 'Rambler.' If I can catch them—" he breathed.

In his haste and excitement, the work of casting off the ropes took double time. When it was accomplished, he shouted long and earnestly in the hope his friends might hear him, but to no avail.

Dave Brandon, in spite of his seeming indifference, had watched Bob Somers manipulate the engine, and had grasped the principles involved without difficulty. The "Nimrod's" engine was almost like their own, consequently he did not hesitate.

As the boat slowly swung out into the stream, not a sound of the "Rambler" could be heard.

The possible perils of the trip did not daunt him, although he felt that any person with sufficient hardihood to steal a motor boat, if such was the case, must be a desperate character, ready to defend himself at all hazards.

Without having any very clear idea as to what his course would be, Dave, when the "Nimrod" was headed up-stream, turned on full power. The night air fanned his cheeks, as the motor boat fairly tore through the water, dashing the glistening spray on all sides.

In the grip of a strange exhilaration, he guided the flying craft in midstream, peering anxiously ahead for any signs of the "Rambler." The moon was high in the heavens now, occasionally obscured by flying clouds; the trees on one shore stood out black and lugubrious, on the other were bathed in that pale illumination which threw a veil of mystery over all. Here and there, a dead tree, gaunt and grim, showed its network of interlacing branches against the sky, while queer-shaped shadows and patches of light sprang into view as the "Nimrod" rushed on.

A flock of black objects flew swiftly by, then, screaming its way along, a night-hawk swooped diagonally across the heavens.

But Dave Brandon was too intent on the strange chase to experience those creepy feelings which are associated with the night. It seemed, to his intently listening ears, that a faint sound came from far ahead. The cool, refreshing breeze had helped to calm him, and, for the first time, he began to wonder if he had acted with wisdom.

"But it's too late now," he muttered. "I'll overhaul them, if it takes all night. What will the boys think? Ah, then I heard the sound of the motor distinctly."

Strive as he would, his eyes could not penetrate the gloom ahead, the moon, just at this time, being back of a heavy black cloud, but it soon became evident that the speedy "Nimrod" was fast gaining on the fleeing boat. Dave pushed the motor to its utmost, being rewarded at last by the positive certainty that the boat ahead was, indeed, the "Rambler." The moonlight suddenly burst forth, revealing its graceful lines distinctly.

Brandon had no idea of making any unnecessary trouble for himself. A moment more, and he hailed the occupants of the "Rambler" in a firm, but not threatening manner.

He heard the sound of a rough voice, but there was no direct answer to his query.

The difficulty and possible danger of the situation now dawned upon him with full force. Superior strength must be met by strategy and courage. His nerves tingled with excitement, but he kept resolutely on his course, determined to make a desperate effort to recover their property.

"Hold on, there! What are you doing with that boat?" he shouted, putting into the words all the force at his command.

Still, there was no reply. The "Nimrod," fairly rushing along, was now within seventy-five feet of the "Rambler," and he could clearly distinguish the figures of two men upon it.

Fearing that they might resort to firearms, he reduced speed, at the same time shielding himself as much as possible.

"Turn that boat in shore!" he cried, fearlessly. "You might as well give up."

"If you don't want to stop a whole lot of buckshot, you'll clear out," returned an angry voice.

"Yes, and do it mighty quick," added the other. "We won't stand no fooling."

"Unless you want to spend the next year in jail, stop!" commanded Dave, surprised at his own boldness.

"How do we know this boat is yours? If you'll come on shore and prove property, we'll let you have it."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," exclaimed Dave, angrily. "That trick is a little too transparent. For the last time, will you turn in shore?"

"What will you do if we say no, you sassy young whelp?"

"I'm going to get that boat if we have to fight it out with shotguns."

"That's a pretty dangerous game for a boy."

Dave Brandon crouched down low.

"One—two," he cried, slowly; "are you going to stop?"

"No!"

The young hunter instantly raised his gun and fired over their heads.

One of the men gave a low laugh.

"Do that again, and we'll blow your old skiff out of the water," howled his companion, angrily.

"I don't think you will," retorted Dave, sturdily.

"It wouldn't be safe for you to try it, boy. We mean business, and somebody is going to get hurt if you don't keep out of the way."

"I'll chase you till daylight, if I don't do anything more," said Dave. "I have the faster boat, and you can't get away from me."

The pursuit continued for a few minutes in silence, until the young hunter realized that his words were not going to have any effect.

"I'll give you one more chance," he called, finally. "Will you take it?"

No response came from the "Rambler." Dave's face wore a look of sternness and determination. Again the gun rose to his shoulder. He had no intention of hitting the men, but they needed a lesson. Dave took careful aim and fired. The charge struck the water not far from the side of the "Rambler," causing a shower of spray to dance in the moonlight.

"Hold on, hold on!" shouted one of the men. "Don't fire again. We'll go ashore."

From the sound of his voice, the speaker was evidently not a little frightened.

Dave Brandon laid aside his gun. Such a sudden backdown came as a total surprise to him, and he rightly guessed that the two men were without weapons. Presently, he had the satisfaction of seeing the "Rambler's" nose turned toward the bank. The "Nimrod" followed.

The two men ran their boat diagonally across the river, shut off the power and allowed it to come to a stop where the limb of a great tree jutted out. By the aid of this, they quickly managed to reach the shore and disappear amidst the foliage.

The poet laureate, left alone, experienced a feeling of great triumph.

"Oh ho," he murmured; "Dave Brandon, you're a real little hero, aren't you?"

CHAPTER XI

DAVE COMES BACK

The Ramblers, as well as their companions, were thoroughly dismayed at the startling turn in affairs.

"Some one must have stolen the boats," declared Sam Randall; "but what has become of Dave?"

"Perhaps the thieves kidnapped him," suggested Tom Clifton, brilliantly.

"Why should they do such a thing as that?" returned Kirk Talbot. "I don't believe it. What do you think, Nat?"

"I never was so completely mystified in my life," returned the leader of the Nimrods, who accepted the situation with a coolness that greatly surprised his followers. "It looks as though our grand expedition has come to an end."

"What is going to be done?" asked John Hackett.

"We had better start out for Kingswood in the morning," said Nat, in tones of decided conviction.

"And make no effort to recover the boats?" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.

Nat shrugged his shoulders. "We are out in the wilderness. I don't see any police around, do you?"

"And what about Dave Brandon?"

"We couldn't do him any good by staying here. Ten to one he has simply rushed off to tell the authorities at Kingswood."

But Nat Wingate's ideas did not meet with approval. The thoroughly disgusted and anxious boys walked up and down, excitedly discussing the matter, advancing many possible solutions of the mystery, and entirely forgetful of their fatigue and hunger.

The unaccountable disappearance of Dave Brandon alarmed them not a little. Some of the boys now proceeded to skirmish around in the immediate vicinity, swinging their lanterns in many a dark nook and corner, others shouted at the top of their voices, but, of course, all these efforts were without avail.

"Boys," said Bob Somers, at length, "I feel sure that Dave Brandon knows how to take care of himself. If he doesn't bring us any news of the boat, I'll find it, if the job takes a year. You seem to take your loss very coolly, Nat."

"What would you expect me to do? Stand on my head, or tear my hair?" returned Wingate. "If I never have to bear anything worse than a robbery I guess you'll find me smiling. I'm going to get the 'Nimrod,' and in a hurry, too, you can bet on that. I believe that whoever took the boat went off in the direction of Kingswood. There is a town at the head of the lake, where the police might get 'em."

"We can't do anything to-night, that's certain, fellows," said Dick Travers, disconsolately. "But boats or no boats, unless I get something to eat soon—"

"Yes, I'm almost starved," interrupted Ted Pollock. "I move that we build a fire and start a meal."

The wisdom of this was apparent to all. In spite of their anxiety, the whole party managed to eat with a hearty appetite.

It was unanimously decided to keep up the fire, which had been built near the water's edge, so that in case Dave Brandon might be lost in the woods, its flaring light would point the way back to camp.

"I'll bet the 'Oh ho' boy ran for his life," declared Nat, with a laugh.

"Dave is no coward," protested Sam Randall, warmly. "Besides if he had stayed around here, we would have seen him before this."

Night wore on and the boys became more and more anxious. No one felt like sleeping, so wood was piled on the fire, until leaping, fantastic tongues of flame threw weird shadows about, while showers of embers sparkled against the background of trees and sky.

Gradually conversation ceased. They seated themselves, one by one, in moody silence, yawning and blinking, sleepy, yet unable to sleep.

Another hour passed, when a faint sound made Bob Somers listen with the keenest attention. Jumping to his feet, he placed his hand to his ear.

"Listen!"

Instantly the lads were all attention.

"What is it?" they cried, in unison.

"My eye! I think I hear a motor boat," exclaimed John Hackett, after several moments had passed.

"Bears, wildcats and wolves! I believe that's just what it is," chimed in Kirk Talbot, excitedly.

Nat Wingate seemed strangely agitated, as the sound gradually increased in volume. He walked nervously up and down, with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"If it is only the 'Rambler,'" cried Bob Somers, hopefully. He brought out his field-glass, sweeping the surface of the river.

"Do you see anything?" inquired Nat, eagerly.

"No! not a thing, yet."

Great masses of vapor, through which the moon shone faintly, were slowly passing across the sky, but Bob kept his glass leveled toward the horizon.

"I'll bet it's not either the 'Nimrod' or 'Rambler,'" observed Nat, a moment later.

"Oh, don't have such dreadful thoughts. You make me nervous," expostulated young Talbot.

"It seems an awful long time since we first heard the sound," complained Ted Pollock. "If it's the 'Ram—'"

"I see the boat, boys," broke in Bob, energetically.

Dick Travers seized the glass, which Somers extended toward him, quickly raised it to his eyes and took a long, earnest look.

"Both boats," he announced, joyfully. "One is towing the other."

Greatly excited, the Ramblers and Nimrods crowded to the very edge of the water, where they awaited, with much impatience, the approach of the two craft.

"Ahoy, ahoy!" shouted a familiar voice, through a megaphone. "Ahoy, pirates and brigands, is that you?"

"Dave Brandon," cried Bob Somers, joyously. "Hurrah! Three cheers for Chubby!"

Their lusty shouts were borne toward the distant boatman.

How slowly the two craft seemed to swing in! It actually was but a short time, however, before the boys began a steady fire of questions.

"Hold on! Wait until I get these canal-boats safely in shore, and I'll tell you all about it," cried the poet laureate, hugely enjoying the sensation caused by his reappearance.

With another chorus of shouts, his friends surrounded him, as he leaped ashore.

"Give me a chance," pleaded the lad. "I can't answer fifty questions at once."

When quiet was restored, Dave told what had happened, interrupted by many exclamations from the deeply interested boys.

The poet laureate found himself raised to the rank of a hero, the praises showered upon him causing a blush to suffuse his features.

"Bully for you, Chubby!" said Bob Somers, grasping his hand, warmly. "Our trip would have come to a fine finish. Three more cheers for Dave Brandon," he called, with a will, and every one joined in.

"If it hadn't been for the 'Nimrod,' you would have lost your boat, anyway," declared Nat, who, through the entire proceeding, had acted in a restrained manner.

"It's a good thing that the 'Rambler' is a slow tub, fellows," put in John Hackett. "If the thieves had had brains enough to take the 'Nimrod,' it would have meant—"

"That we started away from here this very day," finished Nat, glibly; "but having been so lucky, we must stay a while to celebrate, that's no joke."

Excitement having come to an end, fatigue and sleep were fast getting the better of all.

"I'll sleep on board the 'Rambler,'" declared Bob. "It won't do to take any more chances, eh, Chubby?"

Dave nodded his head.

It was quite late in the morning before the camp was astir. In spite of the protests of Nat and his fellow Nimrods, Bob Somers decided to continue their journey.

"By this afternoon, we ought to reach Lake Minnewago," he said. "After going its whole length, we still have a trip through Wolf River, then a whopping long journey on Clair Bay."

"Well," said Nat, "if you fellows are going on so are we."

No time was lost in getting off, the boys contenting themselves with a light breakfast.

Toward eleven o'clock, a few houses were seen here and there, along the river. Others, appearing at intervals, showed that they were approaching the town at the head of the lake. Boats were numerous, and signs of life rapidly began to multiply on all sides.

"What do you say to taking lunch in town, boys?" suggested Bob. "You know we have to get a supply of gasoline and some more grub."

"Fine idea," agreed Tom Clifton. "Then we can send a few postal cards home, telling the folks that the Rambler Club hasn't furnished food for bears or wildcats."

Half an hour later, a church spire was seen rising high above the surrounding houses, while straight ahead a long iron bridge crossed the river.

The arrival of a strange boat naturally attracted a great deal of attention from the idlers lounging around the wharves, and numerous questions were hurled at them.

A party of small boys in a clumsy rowboat obligingly pointed out the best place for them to land. It was an old, tumble-down wharf, with an incline leading down to the water.

Bob swung the "Rambler" in at moderate speed, making a landing in excellent style. Then the boys drew lots to decide who should be the first to go on shore. Perhaps there was no actual necessity for this, but their recent experience had made them careful.

Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton presently sprang upon the landing and made their way up to a narrow street fronting the river. It was lined with small warehouses, stores, and a few manufacturing establishments. The clash and rattle of machinery assailed their ears as they walked along, smoke from numerous chimneys obscured the air, while now and then the odor of tar and hemp was perceptible.

River boats, barges and sailing craft were drawn up at the wharves, and the street was crowded with drays and trucks.

A short walk brought them to the iron bridge, which crossed overhead. They saw that it was used by a railroad; in fact, a train approached just at this time and they could tell by the sound that it soon stopped at a station.

The boys found a store where provisions and gasoline were sold. Accordingly Bob made a bargain to have a supply of both delivered to the "Rambler."

They had now reached a wide street running directly back from the river, and turning into this, a very few minutes sufficed to bring them to the principal business section of the town. It was a larger and much more important place than Kingswood, possessing an opera house, several large hotels and many handsome stores. The streets were crowded with vehicles and pedestrians, making them lively and interesting.

The three boys entered a restaurant, ate a substantial meal, and then continued their tour of inspection. A building with an arched entrance, painted in white and gold, attracted their attention. It was a moving picture show, and, having plenty of time, they concluded to go in.

The mishaps of a bicycle rider, the moving throngs at a seaside resort, and several other scenes from actual life were interestingly displayed, all of which the boys heartily enjoyed.

By a roundabout course, the three proceeded from street to street until they again found themselves approaching the waterfront, after which, they immediately returned to the wharf where the "Rambler" was tied.

Sam Randall and Dick Travers were anxiously awaiting their arrival. Both had made good use of the time, cleaning their guns and arranging various odds and ends in suitable places. The pair immediately went on shore.

During their absence, the groceries and gasoline arrived, and when the latter had been safely placed in the tank, Bob and his companions devoted their attention to sending off cards and letters.

As soon as Dick and Tom returned, the trip was resumed. They had scarcely passed under the railroad bridge when the "Nimrod" came dashing furiously along, Nat and his megaphone helping to attract attention to it.

"Those 'Ramrods' don't seem able to stick by themselves, do they?" remarked Bob, dryly.

"I should say not," grinned Sam. "But I bet they won't try any more funny tricks on us."

Bob did not hurry the "Rambler," mainly on account of numerous boats which were passing and repassing, but the Trailers swerved first one way and then the other, tore at full speed around any craft that happened to be in the way, and never even deigned to answer the remarks which came from all quarters.

"Hello, there in the tub!" cried Nat, as the "Nimrod" drew up alongside of them and reduced speed.

"Hello, boys," replied Bob, good-naturedly.

"I say," remarked John Hackett, loudly, "we have everybody on the river scared. Even the old canal-boats are hugging the shore."

A burst of merriment came from the Nimrods at this sally.

When it had subsided, Dick Travers inquired: "We heard a while ago that you nearly ran into a sailboat—what was the matter—wouldn't it get out of the way?"

Nat Wingate began to laugh.

"It was this way," he explained; "we just ran up a little bit close to tell him he had no business to sail a boat, when he burst out into a perfect roar, and called us a parcel of young rascals. We never knew what was the matter with him."

Nat was disposed to be in a hilarious mood. No sooner had he uttered the foregoing remark than he put the megaphone to his lips and began making long, continuous blasts like a whistle.

John Hackett waved his arms wildly and a rowboat ahead was seen to suddenly veer around and head for the shore.

"Did you ever see such crazy antics in your life?" remarked Ted Pollock, with a loud laugh. "We're getting a clear track to-day, that's sure."

"Full speed, Kirk," cried Nat, at this juncture.

The "Nimrod," with its noisy crew, almost instantly began to draw away from them, the proceeding being accompanied by a wave of the hand from Nat.

The line of wharves had already given place to a few straggling houses at the outskirts of the town. These were soon passed, when the Ramblers saw a wide sheet of water opening out before them.

Its broad, placid surface presented a beautiful picture. The sultry sky was tinged with a warm hue at the horizon, while to the right and left the bordering hills, rapidly separating, melted away into the afternoon haze. High up in the heavens hung great piles of cumulus clouds of dazzling whiteness.

The entire scene, notwithstanding its beauty, wore a threatening aspect, which Bob Somers quickly noticed.

"There is going to be a big storm on Lake Minnewago, boys," he said; "might be a good plan to hug the shore, eh, Dave?"

"Much safer," approved Dave Brandon, with a critical look at the sky.

Bob glanced at a map which was spread out upon a locker, and announced that they would have plenty of time to reach a small harbor which lay off to the northeast. The gently heaving water gave the boat a delightful motion, which proved so fascinating to the boys that they were just a little tardy in following their own advice. They saw the "Nimrod" headed directly toward the centre of the lake, and, for the time being, adopted a course about midway between that and the shore.

Within half an hour they began to realize that they were on a pretty wide sheet of water. The mouth of the river was no longer to be seen, and a vague impression of being half out of the world began to steal over them.

"The lightning has begun already, fellows," volunteered Tom Clifton, at length.

A copper-colored gleam, low down in the sky, flashed for an instant, followed quickly by another, but no sound of thunder reached their ears.

"Pretty far off yet," observed Dick. "But it is coming this way fast."

"I wonder what those foolish Trailers are going to do?" put in Tom Clifton. "They are running a pretty big risk to stay away out there."

A glance through the field-glass showed that the other boat was still headed away from the shore.

"We can't go off and leave them," said Bob Somers, soberly. "Their boat is not as safe as ours, and they seem bound to get into trouble."

In the hope of attracting the Nimrods' attention, Bob and the rest of the boys brought out their guns and fired several shots.

The reports must have been heard, but there was no visible result.

A cool, steady current of air was now blowing in their faces, and the appearance of the scene began to rapidly change. The advance-guard of big white clouds passed slowly across the sun, shutting off its cheerful rays completely. The flashes in the distance became more frequent, while a low rumble of thunder borne on the breeze reached their ears.

"The storm will soon be in full blast," exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Those clouds are a great sight. Whew, what a flash that was!"

A streak of dazzling brilliancy divided the heavens, followed in a few moments by a heavy peal of thunder.

"Do you think we had better try to make the shore?" ventured Tom Clifton, nervously.

"Hardly be safe now, Tommy," returned Bob. "If we could only get those miserable Trailers to follow us, there might still be time, though, to get to a safer place than this."

Off to the right, at no great distance, a point of land could clearly be seen, and just beyond that, according to the map, was a small enclosed bay. Had the boys chosen to think only of themselves, they would have been, even then, within reach of it.

But they were not that kind. Through the field-glass, the Nimrods were seen calmly drawing down awnings, and preparing to weather the approaching gale. They were headed almost broadside to the wind.

"What can they be thinking of?" cried Bob, in alarm. "When a storm sweeps over ten or fifteen miles of water, it isn't safe to take any chances with it."

The prow of the "Rambler" was turned toward them, the boys having decided that they must make an effort to give them assistance, if necessary.

By this time, the vast, rising body of cloud had assumed a strangely black and ominous appearance. Streaks of electric fire darted across the changing, billow-like forms, or shot downward to the earth, while rain blotted out the middle distance, apparently sweeping onward with the greatest fury.

Gusts of wind forced the boys to hold tightly to their caps. In a short time, the surface of the lake had completely changed. Spiteful little waves with foaming crests began to hurl themselves against the side of the motor boat.

"Now for the oilskins," shouted Bob, lustily, and the Ramblers, who had been eagerly watching the storm, hastily donned these garments.

"Here comes the rain!" cried Sam.

A few heavy drops sprinkled around them, then came a lull, which, however, lasted but a few seconds. Straight ahead, a line, rapidly advancing, stretched across the lake, a series of furious gusts heralding its approach.

"Hold on tight, boys," shouted Bob, as he headed the boat squarely into the wind.

With a roar, the storm struck the little craft. She staggered and shook under its blast, then plunged her prow into the choppy water, while clouds of spray dashed over the boys.

A blinding flash of lightning seemed to start directly overhead, accompanied almost instantly by a crash that fairly dazed them. Crouching under the awning, the Ramblers screened themselves as best they could. The rain, however, beat in torrents under it, splashing in their faces, while the "Rambler," like a toy, bobbed up and down.

It was an anxious time to the little crew. Each passing minute found the waves growing higher and higher, until they broke over the bow with a force that made the little boat tremble.

The "Nimrod" could not be seen amidst such a flood of rain, but Bob courageously held the "Rambler" upon a steady course, and as the boat had successfully withstood the storm's first onset, he rapidly began to gain confidence.

"Help, help!"

A series of cries but faintly heard above the roar of the tempest suddenly reached their ears.

Bob's heart beat wildly. He knew only too well what it meant.

"Help, help!"

Then came the report of a gun.

"There they are!" yelled an excited voice at Bob's elbow.

It was Sam Randall, who had pushed his way forward.

Off to the right and seen but dimly through the driving rain, a barely perceptible shadow was visible on the foaming surface.

"Trim boat, boys," Bob called. "Get over to windward, all of you! I'm going to swing her around."

The boys clustered on the weather rail, but exposed to the full force of the howling blast, the "Rambler" nevertheless keeled far over, every wave and blast of wind threatening to send her occupants into the angry waters of the lake.

CHAPTER XII

IN DANGER

Mr. Somers' wisdom in selecting a boat with breadth of beam was now apparent. Had the "Rambler" been a narrow craft, the task which confronted the members of the club would have been attended with the gravest danger.

Several of the boys, clutching for support, felt a thrill of apprehension run through them, as the storm-tossed motor boat, which shipped water at every lurch, ploughed its way toward the Trailers.

Voices could scarcely be heard above the roaring wind. Dick Travers and Sam Randall bailed energetically, though they were thrown down with considerable force more than once. Little Tom Clifton, prey to a terror he could scarcely control, held on for dear life, while Dick Brandon, surprisingly calm and collected, stood by the engine, foreseeing that his services would be required.

The outline of the "Nimrod" became more distinct. She was tossing about like a chip, and her crew seemed to have become totally panic-stricken.

"Help!" again roared Nat, holding on with one hand, while with the other he grasped the megaphone. "We're almost full of water, and haven't a thing to bail with."

The "Pirates" looked anything but a brave lot, as they huddled together. Their faces were blanched, and, drenched to the skin, they presented a sorry spectacle. The "Nimrod" seemed helpless, and at the mercy of every wave.

Bob Somers saw at a glance that they were, indeed, in a serious position, rendered far more so by their inability to act with any degree of calmness.

"Give us some buckets, if you have any, quick!" yelled Nat; "or our boat will be at the bottom of the lake in no time."

The thunder and lightning still continued with unabated force, while the deluge showed no signs of stopping. Wind and waves made the task of approaching the "Nimrod" an extremely difficult one. All of Bob's resourcefulness was needed, but he managed the "Rambler" skilfully. Randall and Travers stood at the rail with a couple of buckets when, at imminent peril of crashing into the "Nimrod," the other boat passed close to windward.

John Hackett managed to seize one bucket, the other being successfully tossed on board.

"Start your motor and then go ahead, facing the storm!" shouted Bob, at the top of his voice.

"Don't go away!" yelled Kirk Talbot.

"All right, we'll stand by you."

A moment later, Nat Wingate was seen crouching down at the wheel. Amidst clouds of spray that dashed over him, he tugged first one way and then the other, but it did not appear that any move had been made to start the engine.

"Throw them a line," ordered Bob, quickly.

The boats, however, were drifting apart, and Sam Randall's first attempt was not successful. Again and again he tried. Bob Somers, in spite of the risk, came to his aid by stopping the "Rambler," and within a few minutes Nat Wingate was able to seize the rope that came flying through the air.

It was made fast, the motor again started, and the "Nimrod" gradually drawn around until its bow was pointed directly toward the oncoming waves.

The frantic energy with which its crew was working with the buckets would have been amusing under other circumstances. It soon became apparent that the situation was not going to grow any worse, but the boats were still plunging violently, and, at intervals, large waves poured over the rails.

For fully fifteen minutes the storm continued in all its fury. Just as the rain began to slacken, and there was a lull in the heavy gusts, John Hackett threw down his bucket and shouted to the Ramblers.

"Hello!" he cried. "If this old boat didn't swallow nearly half the lake, I'm wrong in my calculations."

The speaker looked as if his attempt at humor had caused him a pretty hard effort.

"It was all on account of the wheel getting jammed," added Nat, ruefully. "But for that, we wouldn't have been in such a mess."

The storm ended as suddenly as it began. Before the rain had entirely ceased, a patch of blue was seen in the west. Half an hour later, the sun was shining on a far-off bank of clouds, while the two boats were gently rising and falling on the rounded swells.

The Ramblers suffered no ill effects from their wetting, thanks to the oilskin coats, but the others presented a sadly bedraggled spectacle.

"Did you ever hear of such mean luck?" growled Nat. "I wish I could interview the man who got up this steering gear."

"Little fishes, but I am wet!" exclaimed Kirk Talbot, with a doleful smile.

"We ought not to kick about that," protested Ted Pollock. "If Bob Somers hadn't come along you might be at the bottom of the lake and wetter than you are now. The way we got thrown around was about the worst that ever happened."

The two boats lay to. Bob and his companions set about putting things to rights. Swabs were brought out and before long the "Rambler" resumed its former spick and span appearance.

The members of the Nimrod Club were fully aware of the fact that a great service had been rendered them, and they all expressed their appreciation of it, Nat, however, sandwiching his remarks between numerous growls and complaints, while tinkering at his wheel with an enormous wrench.

From odd scraps of conversation, the Ramblers managed to learn that their rivals had bought a box of canned goods in town, and that Nat, carrying it from one place to another, just as the storm broke, had slipped and let it drop. Nat tried to get his companions to stop talking, but they did not seem to realize the necessity for keeping the facts secret.

"Bump-bang!" exclaimed John Hackett, at length. "Maybe if it hadn't been for the wheel, Nat, that box would have gone clean through the bottom of the boat."

Nat Wingate, with a very red face, arose, holding a spoke, which the wrench, instead of straightening, had broken off. Without a word, he started the motor, and it was presently seen that the "Nimrod" had been restored to a serviceable condition.

"Our friends don't seem to be in a pleasant humor, Chubby," remarked Bob, with a smile, as Nat was heard angrily explaining to Hackett that any more funny remarks would result in trouble.

"Those chaps are only good-natured when they have everything their own way," said Sam Randall, with a laugh.

The "Rambler," having been put in motion, was soon skirting the point of land. Upon rounding it, the entrance to a bay was disclosed, there being a fine stretch of beach along one side and a strip of woods beyond.

"Bob, don't you think that looks like a good place to camp?" suggested Sam Randall.

"Yes! We might as well tie up for the night," replied Bob.

A gentle hill began a short distance back from the water, and, after landing, the boys lost no time in climbing it. They found that a dense forest extended, with but few breaks, in all directions.

It seemed that the Trailers had kept a careful eye on their movements, for, upon returning to the boat, a familiar voice was heard.

"My little salts!" yelled Nat, as the "Nimrod" lazily slipped through the water of the bay. "Are you fellows going to stay in this place for the night?"

Bob answered in the affirmative, and the others, without having anything further to say, continued on their course.

"Guess they will camp close by. We can't lose 'em," observed Dave Brandon, when, after a short interval, the "Nimrod" was seen turning in toward the shore about a quarter of a mile away.

The boys soon saw that in many respects the site was the best they had yet found. The top of the bank was comparatively free from underbrush, while a good deal of fallen timber was strewn around, showing the ravages that various storms had caused.

The ground was still wet in many places, but a spot which the warm afternoon sun had almost dried was finally discovered.

"This is the wildest region we have seen, fellows," observed Dave Brandon, with great satisfaction.

"It would look perfectly natural to see a bear or wildcat stalking through the woods," added Dick Travers, with a grin.

"Well, I hope none of them poke their ugly noses in our camp," ventured Tom Clifton, little apprehensively.

"Say, fellows, let's pitch the tents to-night, for a change," suggested Bob Somers.

"Sure! Let us have the tents," broke in Dick, enthusiastically. "It's going to be a job making a fire all right; can't find a stick of dry wood," he announced a moment later.

"Find a cedar," said Bob, "or get some pieces of bark from the sheltered side of a tree. But first of all, boys, help me with the tents."

The two huge rolls of canvas were thereupon lugged ashore, one of them being spread out on the spot selected for a camp. Bob and Dick, armed with hatchets, then betook themselves to the woods in search of long poles. Of course they were not found without some difficulty. At length, ten, all neatly trimmed, were carried back to the shore.

"How are you going to do it, Bob?" asked Sam Randall, with interest.

"To find out, lend a hand," laughed the captain.

First, one of the poles, together with a long piece of rope, was laid upon the ground, and the canvas unrolled on top. While this was being done, Dick and Tom began to join a number of the stripped saplings in pairs, so that when spread apart, the upper portion of each formed a crutch.

"Now," said Bob, "we will stick one at each end of the tent, then set the ridge pole in the fork."

"All right, Master of Ceremonies," returned Sam, smilingly; "up she goes."

When this had been done, the rope was tied to stakes at the front and rear of the tent.

"Now, just as soon as the canvas is pegged down along the sides, we'll have a shelter that would make old Bill Agnew open his eyes," declared Bob, with satisfaction.

"I should say so. It's great," agreed Dave, who paused a moment from his labor of building a fire; "going to pitch the other tent now?"

"Yes. But it is smaller, and won't take much time," responded Bob.

In the course of another half hour, the two tents stood side by side.

"Now we'll fix up the interior," said Bob.

Tom Clifton was dispatched to the woods for more material, returning in due course with a quantity of neatly trimmed branches, most of them rather short. Two were driven into the ground in the corner of each tent and cross pieces nailed on top.

"These will do to hang our things upon," said Bob.

Having had considerable practice, the boys soon had the beds in position.

By this time Dave Brandon, spurred on by a prodigious appetite, had dressed one of the ducks, pared a surprising number of potatoes, and thrown all into their biggest pot.

"Was I ever so hungry before?" sighed the poet laureate, as he looked longingly at the simmering pot.

The boys had worked hard, and all felt glad when preparations were completed.

"I only hope that nothing disturbs me to-night," observed Sam Randall, with a yawn.

"So do I," drawled Dave; "a lot of things have certainly happened in the last twenty-four hours. Oh ho, look at that dandy sunset."

The sinking sun, resting just above a line of purplish clouds, suffused a glow across the entire sky and lighted the tree tops with a mellow warmth. A broad band of color glistened and sparkled in the lake.

"Isn't that a fine sight, boys?" went on the poet; "wish I could paint it."

"Just at the present moment, the stuff in that pot interests me more," declared Dick Travers, with a laugh.

"Hello—that must be the Trailers."

The latter remark, which came from Tom Clifton, was caused by the report of a gun, then several others, at a point not far distant.

"Well, supper is ready, boys," announced Dave.

"And we for it, I can tell you that, Chubby," returned Bob, promptly.

Sitting in front of the tents, the Ramblers enjoyed their meal as they rarely had, even under similar circumstances.

"If my appetite keeps up like this, I'm afraid my father will soon be ruined," observed young Travers, with comical gravity.

"If there is enough salt left, I'll cook a special stew for you. Want it?" asked Tom Clifton, kindly.

But the Ramblers with singular unanimity declared that they could not think of putting him to so much trouble.

"Dave Brandon," began Sam Randall, suddenly, "as a self-appointed committee of one, I want to know if your great American poem is nearly finished."

"Yes, yes, read us a line or two; go ahead, Chubby," pleaded Dick.

The poet laureate gave a negative gesture. "Oh, no! Not yet, boys," he laughed. "Don't forget, too, that in becoming cook, I was fired from my proud position as chief poet."

"But now you are put back again," insisted Sam.

Dave, however, could not be persuaded, so Bob Somers, who had a good voice, came to his rescue by starting a song they all knew. Then stories were told until bedtime.

Before turning in, the one remaining duck was hung on a pole outside the tents.

The Ramblers were soon sleeping soundly. It was a typical summer night. The moon finally rose, but the sky was considerably overcast. On the western horizon, an occasional gleam of lightning shone with a deep copper hue.

Little Tommy Clifton, who occupied the smaller tent in company with Dave Brandon, was disturbed by a curious dream. He thought that a dragon, uttering a weird cry, had attempted to enter the tent. This caused him to awake with a start, cold chills creeping along his spine.

The tent was partially open, and Tom stared at the view outside, mechanically taking in the shore and gray expanse of lake extending off to meet the sky.

A curious crackling of twigs drove all thoughts of sleep from the boy's mind, while a strange, vague terror took possession of him. Sitting bolt upright, he listened, undecided whether to awaken his companion or not.

With startling abruptness, a low, rasping cry almost froze the blood in his veins. Then a pair of blazing green eyes, but a few paces from the tent, brought his terror to a climax. Tom Clifton gave a loud cry of alarm and struggled to his feet.

CHAPTER XIII

A SQUALL

In his haste, the lad slipped, falling directly over the sleeping form of the poet laureate. Dave awoke with an exclamation. At the same instant, a wild, unearthly screech aroused every member of the club.

In the bright moonlight, a long, powerful-looking animal, with ears thrown back and tail slowly swinging from side to side, was seen crouching as if ready to spring.

The sight of the shadowy figures, however, sent it slinking back a few feet, where, with another scream, it paused.

"A wildcat!" whispered Bob Somers; "the guns—"

He quickly shook off the lethargy which the sudden realization of their peril had thrown over him, and seized his weapon. But before a move could be made, the beast made a lightning-like spring, tore down the duck from the pole where Bob had hung it, and dashed off in the direction of the woods.

Bob Somers hastily fired at its retreating form.

"Christopher, but that was a narrow escape!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, with a shudder. "We might have been chewed all to pieces."

"The scent of that duck must have brought the ugly beast skulking around," said Bob.

"Do you think it will come back?"

"If it does, we'll give it a warmer welcome than it ever got before."

"A wildcat is a pretty ugly creature outside of a cage," observed Dick Travers. "I didn't know that they let out such awful yells."

With considerable apprehension, they gazed at the dark line of forest, half expecting that the savage animal would reappear.

"We must build a big fire," declared Bob; "that may keep the brute away."

Tired as the boys were, they set to work with a will. Fortunately, a plentiful supply of wood was near at hand, and, as all hands took part, a roaring fire was soon sending a great circle of light over the surroundings.

"Boys, we will have to take turns on guard," said Bob. "It would never do to let his lordship come back and find us all asleep."

"Never!" echoed Tom, with a shudder.

"If Hackett was only here to protect us," observed Dave Brandon.

All joined in the laugh that followed.

At every sound, and the woods in the stillness of the night furnished a surprising number, the young hunters gripped their guns more tightly. Bob piled several huge logs on the fire, which crackled and roared in a most cheerful fashion.

"No beast would dare to come around with a blaze like that," declared Bob. "Old Bill Agnew told me once that—"

"Listen!"

It was Dick Travers who uttered this exclamation.

The sound of voices, coming from the direction of the woods, suddenly reached their ears with astonishing clearness, then came the loud report of guns, mingling together in a blast of sound, while, a moment later, a single shot reverberated. More confused cries followed.

"As I live, the Trailers!" exclaimed Sam Randall.

"The wildcat must have been nosing around their camp," said Bob.

"And judging by the sound, it is close here," added Dave Brandon.

"But we haven't seen the light of any camp-fire," objected Sam.

"Those great hunters most likely use an oil-stove," put in another. "Listen! Aren't they coming this way, fellows?"

Such, indeed, seemed to be the case. Various sounds indicated that a party was approaching through the woods.

"The 'Ramrods' in retreat, I'll bet," said Bob, with a chuckle.

His words were scarcely spoken before several dark forms emerged into view, coming directly toward them.

"Halloa, there!" bawled Nat's familiar voice. "Are you all alive?"

When the Nimrods gathered around the fire, it was noticed that they all looked decidedly pale and frightened.

"See anything of a funny-looking cat, boys?" asked Dave Brandon.

"Did we see it?" exclaimed John Hackett and Nat, in chorus.

"Well, say—I had the fight of my life," declared "Hatchet," boastfully. "We didn't turn in until late; I hadn't gone to sleep, when, all of a sudden, the varmint appeared in an open space, fighting like mad with a whopping big eagle."

"An eagle?" chorused the Ramblers, winking slyly at one another.

"Certainly, an eagle; that's what I told you," pursued Hackett. "Then I said to myself—"

"You mean that you let out a screech which awakened the whole bunch," put in Nat, laughingly.

"Well, I thought I'd give everybody a chance to get a shot at it, that was all," went on John. "Well, we jumped up in a hurry, and sallied forth—say—did you hear any shots?"

"Rather!" laughed Bob.

"Well, if my foot hadn't slipped, there would have been one wildcat less."

"Ha, ha!" roared Nat. "Over there, you'll see a tree that looks to be dead. But it isn't. 'Hatchet' shot off almost every leaf."

"Just as I got a bead on him," explained John, "my left foot went down in a hole—"

"And your gun up in the air," finished Nat. "I thought you were aiming at the moon."

"Then," said Hackett, "the beast was right upon me. I grabbed my gun by the barrel, and gave it a fearful clip on the head. Wow, such a screech as went up! I'll wager it nearly killed the beast."

"Do you mean that the screech nearly killed it, or what?" asked Nat, with another boisterous laugh. "I'll bet you only hit a tree trunk."

"Never mind about any funny remarks," returned John. "It's a good thing for the whole gang that I clubbed it."

"What happened after that?" inquired Bob, with a smile.

"The boys all fired, and away it went, like a streak."

"Funny that none of you hit the beast—it was so close," observed Dick Travers, slyly.

"We hit it all right," said Nat; "guess it will never do any more screeching. How did you fellows happen to see it?"

Bob Somers briefly told about their experience.

Notwithstanding their apparent belief that the animal's career was ended, the Nimrods did not seem inclined to leave the friendly glare of the camp-fire.

It was now noticed that John Hackett wore upon the lapel of his coat the wing of a bird. Its estimated length was about three inches.

In answer to an inquiry from Tom Clifton, the Ramblers were treated to the following explanation.

"Last evening," said Hackett, "I saw a small speck on the top of a tall tree about a hundred feet away, so I drew a bead on it, and fired. Well, boys, it came tumbling down. I ate all there was for supper. And the bird was so small," he continued, "that it hardly made a good-sized sandwich."

"Must have been a pretty hard shot," said Brandon, dryly.

"You bet it was, Chub. There was a lot of 'em around; in the trees, and chirping away among the bushes, but I was the only one of the bunch that could shoot straight. Nat missed a bird so close to him that he couldn't keep his face from turning red."

After this complimentary remark, the speaker proposed that they all turn in.

"Good idea," said Nat; "you make me awfully tired, Hatchet."

One by one, the Nimrods stretched themselves out upon the ground. Then the Ramblers, yawning and stretching to an alarming degree, went back to their comfortable bough beds, leaving Dick Travers to stand the first watch.

The lad, with his gun where it could be seized at a moment's notice, seated himself on a log, to begin his lonely vigil. "Looks like another storm," he muttered.

The bank of clouds in the west seemed to be rapidly approaching. The lightning was of a vivid white and the thunder occasionally rumbled ominously.

It was soon evident that all the boys were asleep, tired nature having overcome their fears.

Dick Travers found it almost impossible to shake off the drowsiness that came over him. Twice he nearly fell from the log.

"This will never do," he murmured. "Goodness, how I wish that old beast had stayed away."

He arose, walked up and down, then tried a shuffle, but, in spite of all, his eyes would close. Taking his gun, he made a trip to the brink of the lake, and dashed some of the clear, cool water in his face.

"That feels a sight better," he soliloquized, as he slowly retraced his steps and took a seat on the ground near the fire.

This proved to be a mistake. The effect of the water was but momentary. Dick closed his eyes for an instant, as he supposed. Then the wildcat, his surroundings, everything, faded from mind and view. He was as sound asleep as any of the others.

The light of early morning was spreading over a gray waste of cloud when he awoke. Several logs still flickered feebly. The dawn wore a cheerless aspect.

Dick Travers rubbed his eyes. A strong wind was blowing, in that peculiar manner which presages heavier blasts yet to come. The surface of the lake was a mass of rippling lines.

"My goodness!" exclaimed Dick, half aloud, and rubbing his eyes, "I've been asleep. Hello! We are going to have another blow sure enough. It's almost on top of us, too, and still the fellows are asleep."

Already, the trees in the forest were bending back and forth. Then, with a force that almost took Dick Travers' breath away, the wind squall advanced, coming almost parallel with the shore. The whole air seemed to fill with branches, leaves and flying particles. In a twinkling, the fire was scattered in all directions.

Dick saw the tents swaying in a most alarming fashion. He tried to shout, but the words were choked in his throat. It was almost impossible to stand up before the blast. The frightened Nimrods struggled to their feet, and just at this instant, the larger of the tents, unable to resist the tempest, went down, followed by the other.

THE RAMBLERS WERE COMPLETELY BURIED

The Ramblers were completely buried under a blanket of canvas. Dick Travers had never seen a squall of equal severity. Bravely he struggled toward the forms which were caught beneath the spread of canvas, at times forced to turn his back to the storm.

Ted Pollock and Kirk Talbot, with Nat and John Hackett in the rear, were also pushing forward. The tents had fallen in such a manner that the imprisoned boys were able to make but little progress toward releasing themselves, although the movements of the canvas showed how hard they were struggling.

"Catch hold of this end!" yelled Dick to Ted Pollock.

Struggling against the violent gusts of wind, the boys all tugged and pulled at the heavy canvas until Dave Brandon's arm came into view. Then the stout poet, red-faced and puffing from his exertions, managed to crawl out from his uncomfortable quarters.

At length the other members of the club were rescued. Sam Randall, who had received a severe crack on the head from one of the poles, was the only boy who had suffered any ill effects from the accident.

Gradually the wind squall spent itself, although a canopy of gray still shut out the blue sky.

"Wonder what else is going to happen on this trip," remarked Sam Randall, after the Trailers had taken their leave. "Gaze at that wreck. Wow! it's a pretty sight, ain't it?"

"And the tents looked so fine last night," sighed Dave.

"Can't help it, boys," put in Bob, cheerfully; "maybe before we get through the trip we'll think this was only a slight breeze."

After breakfast, tents, pots and dishes were put back upon the motor boat. Dick cast off the lines, then Dave turned the wheel. But, to their great surprise, the engine did not respond. With a puzzled expression, he repeated the operation. Still there was no result.

"What on earth has struck the thing, Bob?" he asked.

For an answer, the captain gave a whistle of astonishment. Then his eyes kindled with excitement and anger.

"Some mean duffer has cut the battery wires," he burst forth, as he showed the astonished Ramblers the broken ends.

CHAPTER XIV

MISCHIEF

A chorus of exclamations arose.

"Well," said Sam, with a long breath, "I call that a pretty mean trick."

"The duffer who did it ought to be ducked in the river," said little Tommy Clifton.

"I'll bet there is some more mystery back of this," declared Bob, angrily. "Wish I could get my hands on that fellow."

"Can't be that—that—" began Dave Brandon, hesitatingly.

"That Nat Wingate had anything to do with it?" interrupted Bob, understanding his meaning. "No! He may be pretty fresh—still, I don't believe he's the one."

"Perhaps he won't be so much surprised, though, when he hears about it," broke in Sam Randall, who seemed to have a different opinion.

"Well, there's no use in yelling our heads off," declared Dave Brandon; "it certainly was a mean trick, but the damage can be repaired in short order."

"That isn't the point, Chubby—why should any one want to play such a trick on us?"

Dave laughed.

"You've got me there, Bob," he said. "If the Trailers didn't do it, it means that some one was prowling around the camp last night."

Tom Clifton, at the thought, felt an uncanny feeling run through him.

"We didn't think that anybody except the Trailers was within miles of us," he faltered.

"Let us get at the facts in order," proposed Dave Brandon. "First: nobody could have touched the engine before we turned in, that's certain."

"Then it must have been done before that wildcat struck the camp."

A hot flush began to color Dick Travers' cheek.

"Or perhaps just after," he spoke up, manfully. "Sorry to say, boys, I was so tired I went to sleep."

"I can't blame you, Dick," said Bob; "it wasn't on account of the boat that you stayed up."

"Had all the Trailers turned in when you last took a look at them?" inquired Sam Randall.

"Yes—the whole crowd, and sleeping like logs, too."

"Let's look for footprints, fellows," suggested Dave.

A close examination of the mass of impressions at the water's edge proved fruitless. The Ramblers had tramped about so much that nothing could be made out.

"Well, there's no use in wasting any more time, fellows," protested Dick Travers; "let's get to work. Hello—the Trailers are coming."

"Say! What are you little Ancient Mariners looking for?" began Nat, as he came up. "Has anybody dropped a penny?"

"We're in the detective business now," replied Bob.

"Why—has anything happened?"

"Well!—Some fellow played a mean trick on us."

"A mean trick on you?" echoed John Hackett, in surprise.

Bob stepped on board the "Rambler," and held up the severed wires.

John Hackett whistled.

"That's funny!" he exclaimed. "I wonder who could have done that."

"Did you see any one skulking around here last night, Nat Wingate?" asked Sam Randall, bluntly.

"Of course I didn't!" returned Nat, in an offended tone.

"Nor at any time during the afternoon?"

"See here, Randall, what do you mean by asking me such fool questions?" fumed Nat, who seemed to be unduly sensitive.

"Well, why shouldn't I ask 'em?"

"Don't you think that if I had seen any one I would have said something about it?"

"How do I know? You might—"

"Might what? If you think I know who did it, say so right out," snapped Nat, his brown eyes flashing.

"Sam didn't say anything like that," interposed Bob.

"He'd better not," blustered Nat, in war-like tones; "nobody can insult me!"

"Bears, wildcats—"

"And," continued Nat, resuming all his old-time aggressive and sarcastic manner, "I want to know if you fellows think for an instant that I—"

"We think that you are getting worked up over nothing," interrupted Travers.

"And I'll get more worked up. If your old wash-tub was put out of commission, you can't blame it on us. You're a nice lot, I must say."

Doubling his fists, and otherwise exhibiting symptoms of increasing rage, Nat Wingate proceeded: "What do you think of this, anyway, Hacky?"

John, hoping that a first-class row would result, decided to aid in its development as much as possible.

"It looks as if they wanted to insult us," he growled, in his most aggressive manner.

"Maybe the wildcat cut the wires," exclaimed Kirk Talbot. But this piece of pleasantry passed unheeded.

"Did you ever hear of such a thing?" howled Nat, encouraged by his chief lieutenant's attitude. "If you want to stir up the biggest scrap you ever heard of, Sam Randall, just say right out that we did it. Going to say it? I dare you to!"

"That's the way to talk, that's it!" chimed in Hackett, greatly delighted. "Nothing like coming out like a man. I don't want any racket, but we ain't going to stand mean insinuations—and don't you forget it!"

"Remember what they did for us yesterday," spoke up Ted Pollock.

"We do!" said Nat, a little taken aback. "We do! But that doesn't give 'em the right to insult us, does it?"

"Nobody has tried to," said Bob; "quit your row."

"And it's a good thing they haven't," blustered Nat. "All the same, I was never so mad in my life. Do you think I can't see what 'Skinny' was driving at?"

"Yes, it was simply written all over his face," added Hackett, who, however, winked a half dozen times at the Ramblers, and appeared to have some difficulty in repressing a laugh.

"Come on, Nimrods," said Nat, a moment later. "This nice gang doesn't want our company."

With these words, the angry "chief pirate" turned away, Hackett and the others reluctantly following.

"Certainly fine chaps, all of 'em," observed Sam Randall, in disgusted tones. "Think that Nat would have flared up so quickly unless he knew something about it? I don't."

"Looks very queer! Everything happens to us, and nothing to them," asserted the captain. Then he added: "Don't let us fool any more time away. That engine has to be fixed. Good thing we brought an extra supply of wire along."

It was not a hard task to replace the ones which had been cut, and Bob succeeded in making a very quick job of it.

"As good as ever, fellows," he declared at length, with a smile. "Turn that wheel, Chubby."

"Good boy!" exclaimed Dave. "That duffer didn't do us as much harm as we thought."

"One—two—three! We are off—Why! what's the matter?"

To their dismay, the "Rambler" lay as motionless on the placid water of the bay as if it had never moved.

"What is the trouble now?" faltered Tom Clifton.

"I am sure I don't know," answered Bob. "These wires were fixed all right."

"Are the batteries in good shape?" queried Dave.

Bob made a careful examination. "They are all O. K. The trouble must be somewhere else. Perhaps the spark plugs were tampered with," he continued, anxiously.

At this unlooked-for turn in affairs, all crowded around the motor, and began examining it with great misgivings.

"It does look as if the cylinders are scratched up a bit, eh?" exclaimed Dick, excitedly.

"They are," said Bob, bending over them. "I can see it clearly. What do you think of that? The rascal made a good job of it after all."

It is quite certain that had the individual in question been within reach of the highly indignant Ramblers at this moment, he would have passed, as the French say, "A very bad quarter of an hour."

Bob unscrewed one of the spark plugs.

"Well, this has been put out of business," he exclaimed, hotly; "and I'll bet the other has, too."

An examination proved his surmise to be correct.

"No wonder the engine wouldn't work!" exclaimed the captain angrily. "Wouldn't I give a lot to know why this was done? Maybe it's busted so badly we can't fix it."

The boys were now satisfied that the Trailers had had nothing to do with it, but this only served to make the mystery deeper.

About this time the "Nimrod" was seen rapidly approaching. Nat and his companions raised a frightful chorus of groans as they passed.

"What are we going to do now?" asked Tom Clifton, blankly, while the other Ramblers stood disconsolately around.

"These spark plugs are certainly done for," said Bob. Then, to the astonishment of the boys, he began to smile.

"I don't see anything to grin at," remarked Dick Travers; "here we are, miles from home, and stranded. Makes us look like a lot of chumps."

"Cheer up, Dick," said Bob; "I was smiling to think how some fellow wasted his time."

"What do you mean?" queried Sam.

"Do you think I would come on a trip like this without bringing along a few extra spark plugs? No siree!"

"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "You're all right, Bob Somers. Trot 'em out quick, and let us get away before anything else happens."

Bob produced his bunch of keys and opened a small locker near the motor, which contained a tool-box and various supplies.

"Guess the fellow who was kind enough to do all this work didn't think we kept a regular stock on hand, eh, Chubby?"

The stout boy laughed. "I'd give a lot to know who did it," he observed.

Bob, who was something of a mechanic, soon had the new spark plugs in place and the wires attached.

"Turn the wheel, Dave," he cried, at length; "let's see how it works."

Again the cheery chug-chug sounded.

The "Rambler" darted forward, and a mighty cheer rolled over the water. Then the boys joined in a merry song.

By the time the motor boat, with full power turned on, was riding the gentle swells of the lake, the "Nimrod" had disappeared from view.

Far off in the distance the smoke of a lake steamer rested like a blur against the sky. The shore presented an ever-changing panorama of wooded hills and flat, marshy expanses, rather desolate in appearance.

The afternoon on the lake passed without any special event. Toward five o'clock the gray expanse of cloud had become considerably broken, a cheerful glow of sunshine flooding the scene.

"We must be getting near the end of the lake, boys," observed Bob; "I begin to see houses."

He smiled as his eyes rested upon Dave Brandon, peacefully curled up on the locker.

About three-quarters of an hour later, the poet laureate was rudely shaken by Sam Randall.

"Wake up!" cried the latter. "Wake up, old sleepy-head—see what's here!"

Dave Brandon raised himself to a sitting posture. Instead of being out on the lake, as he expected, he saw, straight ahead, a bridge connecting two towns, an island dividing a river and many signs of life. Strains of music floated over the air.

"Good gracious! Also, by ginger!" he exclaimed. Whereupon the others laughed.

CHAPTER XV

MAN OVERBOARD

As the Ramblers drew near the island, a picturesque and lively sight met their gaze. Merry-go-rounds, switchback railways, buildings decorated with gilt and splashes of bright color were scattered around, while a Babel of noise attested to the merriment that was going on. Groups of people moved to and fro, many crowding to the edge of the water as the "Rambler" moved slowly by.

"I didn't know there was anything like this around here," said Bob. "Hello, the island is divided by channels."

A rather wide waterway opened out before them.

"Shall we go through?" he asked.

"Of course," replied Sam, quickly.

Accordingly, the motor boat was turned into the winding reach of water. At intervals, picturesque little rustic bridges crossed the stream.

They soon learned, from the numerous questions and remarks, that the Nimrods could not be far off. One stout man, with a very red face and choleric manner, at the risk of breaking the rail, leaned far over, and emphasizing his remarks by vigorous shakes of a large cane, roared:

"You young rascals! You irresponsible set of young Indians! you'll be arrested before—"

The rest of the sentence was lost, as the "Rambler" passed on.

"He must have seen the Trailers," chuckled Bob; "and their monkey-shines set his nerves on edge."

At the next bridge, upon which quite a crowd was congregated, the boys heard enough to convince them that the Trailers had been enjoying a high lark, dashing about at full speed, with their usual recklessness.

"Big park, this," drawled Dave. "Just look at all the shows. I'll bet a fellow could have some fun in there."

"I see a picture of a fat man and a thin lady," said Dick; "ten cents, I guess, to see 'em both. I say, if you're not careful, Dave Brandon, your phiz will be painted like that some day."

"Just so," laughed Dave; "that's what I have been training for. It's the easiest way to make a living I know of."

During this time, numerous boats, some shaped like Venetian gondolas, were passing and repassing, their occupants being careful to give the "Rambler" a wide berth.

"Funny how the scene has changed," observed Brandon, languidly; "only the other night a wildcat tried to interview us, and now look at all this crowd."

"Twenty miles makes a big difference in this part of the country," said Sam Randall.

"So far, we have had some pretty lively times," put in Bob. "Perhaps nothing will happen for the rest of the trip."

He reduced speed as they were approaching a bend. Loud laughter and voices reached their ears.

"The Trailers again," sniffed Sam Randall.

"Having lots of fun, eh?" observed Bob. "This is a pretty risky place to do any cutting-up in. It's a wonder they haven't sunk five or six boats already."

Almost immediately the point was rounded. Just ahead, the "Nimrod" rested motionless, facing a small canoe. The occupant of the latter, a light-haired young fellow, seemed to be considerably annoyed.

"If you had bumped into me," he was shouting, "I would have had you taken up."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Nat. "It would have been worse than a pumpkin falling on a frog. Christopher!" he cried, in wondering accents, as the "Rambler" approached. "So you got the old tub fixed up. I didn't expect to see you again for—"

"A week," chimed in Hackett. "Have a blacksmith at the next corner hammer the old thing in shape, eh? Look out there, Jack, in the duck boat. Give 'em plenty of room. They have everybody on the bounding deep afraid of their lives. Navigation all tied up."

"Be careful," admonished the young man, darting an angry glance at Hackett; "my father will—"

"Your pa can't scare us, Jacky. Hurry up there, Somers, get that old floating log out of the way."

"Going to stay in town?" inquired Bob.

"No, can't. Pa's going to get after us. Give the spinning-wheel a turn, Kirk—full speed. Don't block up the channel, Jack."

Having uttered these words, Nat Wingate raised the megaphone to his lips and uttered a long, loud screech. Standing erect, he put all the force of his lungs into it, and just at that moment, the motor boat began to glide ahead.

Instantly it was seen that the reckless boy had made a miscalculation. A sudden lurch caused him to clutch the steering-wheel for support, and it was given a sharp turn in the wrong direction.

"My stars—Christopher!" screamed Nat. "Stop! Shut down the engine!"

Kirk, who had failed to notice the incident, obeyed, but not with his usual degree of promptness. The bow of the "Nimrod" was seen to swing around and bump squarely against the frail canoe.

Taken altogether by surprise, the light-haired young man lost his balance and tipped over sideways. A great splash followed, as he plunged into the water, while the canoe turned over and floated bottom upward.

Screams and shouts came from the hundreds who had witnessed the incident. It looked as if the act had been done on purpose.

Nat and his companions only waited long enough to see that the victim of their recklessness was able to swim.

"Don't let anything more happen to him, Bob Somers," yelled Nat; "but look out for his pa. Full speed, Kirk, or we may not be a mile away before the cops get here."

The motor of the "Nimrod" began to work furiously, and it drew rapidly ahead.

The young man did not reply to the Ramblers' proffers of assistance, but swam after his canoe and began pushing it toward the shore.

"Whew, isn't he mad, though? I don't blame him a bit either," whispered Tom Clifton.

"The Trailers may get into trouble for this," said Sam Randall. "Let's stay here until we see what mister towhead does."

A few moments later, the involuntary bather stood on a landing, surrounded by a crowd of sympathetic spectators.

"I tell you, this gang is a regular pack of outlaws," the Ramblers heard him say, as he began to wring out his dripping clothes.

"Going to have 'em took up?" inquired some one.

"Well, I guess so. If the whole crowd isn't up before Squire Peterson this very night, I'm badly mistaken."

"It would serve them just right," observed Sam Randall.

"But we don't care to be mixed up in any scrap," added Bob. "Start the motor, Dave, and let us get ahead."

"Yes, they might want us to see the squire, too," laughed Brandon. "Don't pay any attention to them," he added, as shouts came from the shore.

The "Rambler" slowly wended its way through the channel until the amusement park was passed, after which full power was switched on and the islands rapidly passed.

When the Ramblers emerged into the main river they saw the "Nimrod" far ahead.

"The Trailers are certainly getting out of the way," observed Bob, with a laugh.

The boys now saw that they were in the midst of an industrial community. From high chimneys columns of smoke poured forth, while clumsy barges, stacked high with lumber, seemed to indicate the flourishing condition of that industry. Evidences of business activity were on all sides.

The continuation of Wolf River which connected Lake Minnewago and Clair Bay proved to be a much wider stream than the other branch.

"Aren't there rapids near here, Bob?" questioned Dave.

"About five miles further on. We have to go through a canal."

"But it's getting pretty late," objected Tom Clifton; "don't you think it would be better to tie up for the night?"

"Of course not, sonny; we can sleep on board the 'Rambler' for once," returned Bob.

"Yes, we don't want to do the same thing all the time," said Sam Randall, and Dave, likewise, heartily endorsed the idea.

Numerous craft, of many descriptions, were seen. A wheezing, puffing steam tug, drawing a line of heavily laden barges, passed close by, while an old-fashioned side wheeler, which Dave laughingly declared must have belonged to "the vintage of 1860," sent a rippling line of swells to rock the "Rambler" from stem to stern.

There were so many picturesque features connected with this part of the river that they were almost sorry when the canal was reached. Already, the ruddy glow had left the clouds and a few far-off lights began to twinkle.

Bob turned the "Rambler" into the artificial waterway without stopping. The boat was soon gliding along at the base of a steep hill, with about a quarter of a mile separating them from the river.

At length a roaring sound, which they knew to be the rapids, reached their ears, and soon after the canal lock loomed ahead of them.

"We'll have to wait here some time, I'll bet," observed Bob. "Look at those clumsy tubs ahead of us."

"Rub up against some of 'em, and there'll be a job for a painter," declared Dick.

"To say nothing of a boat builder, if we get crowded between two of them," added Sam. "Try to get in with that little steamer," he advised, indicating one manned by two men.

"Oh ho, but this waiting is tiresome," drawled Dave; "hope we won't be here all night. If I only had a duck's leg to help keep down my appetite."

"You wouldn't have it without a good scrap, I can tell you that," laughed Sam. "Ah, our turn next. Look lively, Bob."

The gates of the lock slowly opened. A barge entered first, then the small steamer mentioned, and a number of other boats, not, however, without some confusion and a great deal of unnecessary shouting.

When the gates closed upon them, the Ramblers lay back to enjoy the sensation as the boat slowly sank to the lower level. In due course, they passed slowly out between stone walls which towered a dozen or more feet above them.

"Might as well get out the oil-stove, and get things going," spoke up Bob; "and light a couple of lanterns, somebody. We don't want to do any Nat Wingating on this trip."

"No, because the other boat might be the stronger," chuckled Dick.

"Let the motor out a bit, Dave, and we'll run by some of these old hulks."

Dusk was now upon them. Lights, in long, tremulous lines, reflected in the dark waters of the canal. From the cabins of several indistinct craft a cheerful glow appeared, and, as the "Rambler" passed them, they heard the rattle of knives and forks.

"I declare, I'm glad to see the river again," said Bob, as they came out into the stream. "How is supper progressing, cooks? Hungry—well, I should say so."

"It's a good thing we brought plenty of stuff along," commented the poet laureate. "Tom Clifton, keep away from that pot. Put the salt out of sight, boys."

"You needn't be afraid, Chubby. I wanted to see what kind of a mess they're getting up. I say, this is a dismal-looking place, isn't it?"

"Wouldn't care to be out here alone," Dick chimed in. "Think of getting tangled up in that marsh. Don't run in too close, Bob; you'll get the propeller all choked up with weeds. Listen to those dogs barking. How far away do you suppose they are?"

"Two miles from nowhere, and that's here," yawned Dave. "I can tell you, nothing will disturb my rest to-night."

"Switch off the power, and heave your anchor," commanded Bob. "The current is swinging us around, but it doesn't make any difference. Now for supper."

The boiled ham, bacon, and canned corn, with coffee and preserves, rapidly disappeared.

"Don't like this place a little bit," growled Tom; "wish we were on shore. Say, doesn't that water look black?"

"What color would you expect it to be—blue?" asked Dave. "You can hear it gurgling and swishing against the sides of the boat, but there isn't even a sparkle to be seen."

"I'm glad there isn't," said Bob; "for in that case it would seem like being in some enchanted region, and we all might have bad dreams. It certainly is black, though."

The "Rambler" had been moored about twenty-five feet from the shore, in a place which was about as desolate as could well be imagined. The stars were partially obscured, and not a light twinkled on either shore. A barely perceptible patch of light, low down in the sky, indicated the position of the town and the amusement park.

"I think I'll turn in," said Dave, finally; "I certainly do feel tired."

"Sleep on one side of the boat, then," said Sam. "All the rest on the other ought to keep the 'tub' from sinking."

Dave laughed good-naturedly as he spread out a blanket.

"Going to be close quarters," exclaimed Bob. "Never mind; choose your places, fellows."

This was soon done, but either the novelty of the situation or the restriction of their quarters prevented most of them from passing a comfortable night. The principal exception was, of course, Dave Brandon.

All were astir when the morning mists hung in long streamers over the river and shore, and the distance was blotted out by yellow haze.

Bob Somers and Sam Randall went ashore with their rods and fishing-lines and made their way to a partly submerged log.

"Ought to be a good place," observed the former. "Let's see what we can catch for breakfast."

The young anglers knew from experience that fish often haunt tree roots and hollows. They moved with the greatest caution, casting their lines with skill and success.

The excitement and uncertainty of landing the catch made time pass so quickly that loud calls began to come from the others while they were in the height of their enjoyment.

But Bob and Sam did not deign to answer. The rippling water, occasionally broken by eddies and swirls, quiet pools, framed by reeds, and humming insects all possessed a charm which made them loth to leave.

Finally, a string of four glistening white fish were gathered up, the boys then making their way back to the boat.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Dick Travers, viewing the catch with great favor. "We thought you were going to stay there all day."

"I declare, it would suit me to do just that thing," asserted Sam. "Look out, Dave Brandon, don't put salt in my cup!"

"Oh ho, beg pardon," yawned the poet; "thought it was sugar. I don't believe I'm getting enough rest."

"The only time you are not lazy is at meal-times."

"I know it," replied the stout boy, mildly; "and when those fish are ready—oh ho!"

He did not conclude the sentence, but his comical expression made the others laugh heartily.

Breakfast over, the "Rambler" got under way. The boys found plenty to interest them on both shores. Several tumble-down shacks, apparently in the last stages of dilapidation, and probably the homes of squatters, brought forth various comments.

"You can see what laziness will bring people to," remarked Dave, humorously. "Boys, take warning."

About noon, they saw a picturesque tributary entering the river on the right hand shore. It was such a cool, pleasant-looking retreat, shaded by overhanging trees, that all thought it best to make an exploration.

"It may be a long time before we come to such a dandy place again," said Bob.

They had proceeded but a short distance up the tributary, when a spot was discovered which Dick Travers declared was "simply grand."

An arching bower of leaves afforded an ideal shelter for the motor boat. Through the thick masses of foliage, splashes of sunlight mingled with deep shadows, and bright bits of blue sky shone here and there, all reflected as a confused blur, in the eddying current of the stream. The chattering of birds, now mild, then loud and imperious, filled the air.

Dave Brandon, whose eyes had been roving around, touched Bob Somers. "Let's have your field-glass," he said. "I'll bet that's a bald eagle."

He pointed toward the top of a fine old sycamore. Upon one of the highest branches was what appeared to be, at first glance, only a patch of bark, but on a second resolved itself into the form of a great bird. He gave no indication that their presence was known, but slowly moved his head from side to side.

"Look, he's going!" cried Sam. "Phew, what a whopper! Never saw one so close before. Don't I wish we could get a shot at it?"

"Jehoshaphat, those wings, aren't they great?" put in Dick.

The eagle soared majestically away over the tree tops, and was soon lost to view.

"There must be plenty of game around here. What do you fellows say to taking a little jaunt?" asked Sam.

"Good plan," agreed Bob. "Get out that oar, Sam, and ease her over a bit. You, too, Dick. See if we can't get right under that spreading branch. Better pitch all the stuff we'll need for lunch on shore now, eh, Tom?" he added.

A few moments more, and the "Rambler" was snugly drawn up.

To get on land without wetting their feet proved rather difficult, but, at length, all save Tom stood on shore.

"Catch, Dave," he called, and one by one the necessary provisions were tossed into the poet laureate's waiting arms.

Tommy Clifton's legs were a trifle shorter than those of the others, therefore he looked rather blankly at the marshy stretch between himself and the shore.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Dick. "And that branch over your head isn't strong enough to hold."

"Here goes—look out!" cried Tom.

He made a flying leap, falling on his hands and knees, but the ground was soft, and no harm resulted.

"The boat is pretty well hidden," observed Bob, with satisfaction. "Guess there is no danger in leaving her."

"Of course not. Come along," urged Sam; "I'm all cramped up. Feel like an old salt."

"No sign of the Trailers," said Tom; "and whoever damaged the engine must be miles away."

They wandered around, through a heavily timbered tract, then into a pleasant little valley, enclosed by gently rounded, wooded hills.

"Oh, I see a place over there," began Dave.

"We know what you mean," broke in Sam; "it's a fine place for a nap, lazybones, but we came out to hunt. Wish something would be kind enough to trot forth and be shot at."

"Too much noise," said Bob, laconically. "Let's go back and cook what we have. Then the Ramblers can ramble afterward."

The day was pleasant. A slight haze tempered the heat, so they sauntered slowly along, having decided to return by a different route. In about an hour's time, the party reached Wolf River at a point some distance below their camp.

A group of scrubby willows fringed the bank, the cool shade of which proved so inviting that Dave Brandon threw himself down in the midst of some tall grass beneath them.

"Won't budge for five minutes," he announced, firmly.

Plenty of small stones were scattered around. Stooping over, Sam picked up a number.

"I'll bet I can throw further than any fellow in the crowd," he challenged. "See that point over there, Chubby? here goes!"

"Great Cæsar!"

"My eye!"

"Thunderation!"

Sam quickly turned on his heel, as a series of wild exclamations came without warning from the others.

"What's up—what—?" But the rest of the sentence died away on his lips.

A most astonishing sight met his gaze, and one which sent a thrill through every fibre of his being.

A motor boat, enveloped in sheets of flame, drifting slowly on the current, had appeared beyond a jutting point of land.

For a moment all stood speechless with dismay. Then they found their voices.

"Is it the 'Rambler'?" cried Bob, in accents of the wildest dismay.

"It can't be."

"I don't believe it."

CHAPTER XVI

DISASTER

The captain raised his field-glass.

"It's the 'Rambler,' that's certain," he cried, with a groan.

Dense columns of brownish smoke poured from the motor boat, while the spurts of flame which darted upward rapidly increased in volume.

"Oh, the wicked scoundrels!"

"Doesn't that beat anything you ever heard of?"

"And nothing can be done to save her!"

"Great Scott, she's a goner, as sure as fate!"

A great burst of flame, capped by a mass of heavy smoke, shot violently upward at this moment, followed by the report of an explosion. A thousand particles scattered in all directions, then, with a convulsive lurch, the "Rambler" settled down and disappeared beneath the surface of the river.

"Gone!" said Bob, with a tremor in his voice.

"Oh, why did we ever leave it?" burst in Sam, almost with tears in his eyes.

"Who in the world could have done that? and we thought there wasn't anybody around for miles."

"Come on, fellows; what are we standing here for, when there may be a chance to get hold of the rascal?" cried Dick, hotly.

The Ramblers raced pell-mell toward the place where they had left the boat.

"Of course, not a sign of any one," groaned Bob. "This is an awful state of affairs."

Their hearts beating painfully, they stood around the spot where the "Rambler" had been moored.

"Look, the rope has all been burned away," cried Tom Clifton.

"And here is a branch that wasn't broken before," chimed in Dick; "see, the ends are fresh. You know, fellows, we didn't do that."

"I wonder if they came here by boat?" cried Bob. "Follow me, boys," he added.

He ran toward the mouth of the tributary, jumping over bushes and underbrush and darting between the trees, with his companions close at his heels.

In the course of a few minutes, they reached Wolf River. Far off, but a mere speck on the wide expanse, they saw a small steamboat.

Bob drew out his field-glass and gazed earnestly toward it.

"I believe it's the boat we saw in the canal lock," he exclaimed eagerly. "See what you can make out, Dave."

"As sure as you live, that's the very one," agreed the other, after a brief inspection; "but what—which—"

"Then I'll bet they are the ones who did it, eh, Bob?" cried Tom, excitedly.

"But we have seen several other boats," said Bob; "and, besides that, who ever—"

"I'll bet I know what it is," interrupted Dick Travers. "Somebody has had a mix-up with the Trailers, and taken revenge on us by mistake."

"I don't think so," returned Bob. "First the 'Rambler' was stolen, then the engine damaged, and now—whew! but it makes me wild to think about it. I'll wager the same people were responsible each time. Say, boys, if we could lay hands on those fellows, wouldn't there be a lively time?"

He made several threatening movements, while the rest of the Ramblers angrily clenched their fists.

"Boat gone, blankets, provisions, everything but what we stand upright in, and the truck Tom threw on shore. What do you suppose my dad will say?"

"That we are a lot of duffers, if there ever were any," cried Sam, angrily. "There are just three questions I would like to have answered. Who did it, why was it done, and how did anybody manage to follow us, find the boat, and yet keep out of sight so well?"

"And all three are stumpers," said Bob.

"Talk about it a week, puzzle your brains out, and you wouldn't know a thing more than we do at this minute," declared Dick, gloomily.

"Guess your dad will be mad, eh, Bob? A cool—don't know how many dollars."

"What's going to be done now—go home?" asked Tom.

"Not a bit of it, sonny. I'm going to keep right on, and tell the police in the next town. I say, won't Nat Wingate enjoy this?"

"And 'Hatchet,' too," added Dick.

"We are in an awful mess, that's certain," observed Dave, ruefully. "Still, there's no use in staying here all day and crying about it. Are you fellows going to eat anything?"

"Don't feel much like it," admitted Bob; "but, still, I suppose we had better, especially with a twenty mile walk in front of us."

"Twenty miles?" gasped Dave, in horrified tones. "My gracious, Bob Somers, don't you say anything like that! Why can't we take a train somewhere?"

The captain brought out his map, spreading it carefully on the ground.

"It's eight miles, at least, to the railroad," he said; "a good three hours' tramp. But, boys, I can't get over this. To think our trip on the water is ended, and that the 'Rambler' lies at the bottom of the river."

"I pretty near felt like crying when I saw it first," admitted Tom Clifton; "and it isn't near so bad on us as it is on you, Bob. Crickets, I am sorry, and no mistake."

"Sorry is no name for it," cried Sam Randall, hotly. "If that mysterious fellow was a giant, I believe I'd tackle him single-handed. All our fun gone, vacation busted—whoop—I don't believe I ever felt so mad in my life. Makes us look like a lot of kids, too. It's a good thing Nat Wingate isn't around here looking for trouble."

The boys had been slowly walking back to the camping-ground.

"Jolly good thing you chucked that hatchet ashore, Tom Clifton," observed Bob. "Let's get something to eat in a jiffy, and leave this place."

The boys looked like anything but the usually merry party of Ramblers, as they sat around dejectedly. None had any appetite, and it was a relief when the meal was over.

"We'll divide the stuff up," proposed Bob; "it won't be much of a load, and it may come in handy."

"Twenty miles!" groaned Dave; "almost as long as the Marathon course. Don't believe my legs will ever stand it."

"Can't you get that off your mind, Chubby?" asked Tom.

"I don't mind the walk, but—oh, say, come on. Haven't I got the blues, though?"

"If my dad doesn't raise the biggest row, I'll be surprised," observed Bob; "he'll have the police hot after them, just as soon as he hears about it."

Dishes were hastily washed. Then the boys gathered up their belongings, and sadly began the long march. How different were their feelings now from those they had in the early morning. Even nature seemed to have lost half its charm.

An hour passed. They toiled on, through pine woods, along the course of a joyous brook, over ridges and hills, while the hot sun poured down, making them hug the shade as closely as possible.

"Hottest day we've had," grumbled Dave, wiping his perspiring face.

"Weary already, Chubby?" inquired Tom. "That's because you're too fat."

"If I was only a human bean pole, like John Hackett," sighed Dave. "Have to rest a bit, boys."

He sank down on a fallen tree trunk with an expression of relief.

"There's a logging camp close by," burst out Bob; "listen, boys!"

"Sure enough!" echoed Dick. "Come on, fellows; let's see what it looks like."

"Yes, I hear them at work. Get up, Dave," called out Sam; "I'll race you."

But the poet laureate shook his head. "Don't bother me. I'll follow you," he grumbled. "Pshaw! I wonder why—"

The others, however, were already some distance away, and the sentence was left unfinished.

The sound of the woodsman's axe rang through the forest, and, guided by it, Bob and his companions quickly reached the scene of their work.

The loggers seemed greatly surprised when a "parcel of youngsters," as they termed the boys, put in appearance.

"So yer have come out fur a spell in the woods, eh?" said a big, raw-boned individual, resting on his labors. "Never see a camp like this afore, eh? Take a look around, then, but don't shoot nobody with them guns."

"Tarnation dangerous things they be, in the hands of a young un," put in another; "know'd a feller, once, what had his hand clean blowed off by a small chap."

"A regular Zeke Tipson," whispered Sam.

"Tote yourselves around, youngsters," said the first logger, kindly; "and, if you hev a mind, stay and grub with us."

The boys thanked him heartily, but explained that they were anxious to reach town as soon as possible.

"Railroad, 'tain't but two miles," volunteered the logger; "if yer hustle, yer kin git a train at Spiker's Hamlet. Logging road goes right toward it."

The boys passed through a clearing, in the centre of which stood a log hut, while, close at hand, were several sheds used for storing lumber. By this time Dave joined them, dragging himself wearily along.

"Come on, come on!" cried Sam Randall. "We don't want to miss that train."

"Another dose of this will surely finish me," groaned Dave; "I'll eat two suppers to-night and sleep all day to-morrow."

The logging road made progress easy, and a half hour later, Tom Clifton gave a joyous shout. "The railroad!" he cried. "Now for Spiker's Hamlet."

The steel rails stretched in a long straight line before them, affording a glimpse, in the distance, of a few houses. This was Spiker's Hamlet, a dull, lifeless little community.

The only occupant of the small station proved to be an old, gray-headed ticket agent, who hobbled forth on one leg and gazed at them in apparent astonishment.

"Hev ter wait thirty-five minutes," he snapped, in answer to their questions. "Last train?—sure. Do yew calculate they run 'em all night? Stick them 'ere guns in the corner."

"Guess he must have know'd a feller once what shot somebody in the neck," laughed Dick Travers.

With a clang, rush and roar, the train finally thundered up to the station, and the boys clambered on board.

Half an hour later, they arrived at the town of Clair Bay.

"A lumbering place, sure enough," observed Bob; "no end of yards stacked high with wood and sawmills, too."

"Don't the people stare at us?" put in Dick. "Probably they never saw a crowd like this before."

"Let 'em stare," answered Dave, wearily.

"I see the bay!" exclaimed Tom Clifton. "Boys, let me introduce you to the place where we might have had some fun. Isn't it fine? Look, there is one of the steamers."

They turned into a street which skirted the bay. Before them, a great sheet of water stretched off until lost to view in the hazy distance. But, too tired and dispirited to continue their exploration further, the Ramblers entered the rather unpretentious Badger State Hotel, and secured accommodations for the night.

CHAPTER XVII

ARRESTED

"Well, I declare—where did you fellows drop from? Where's old sleepy-head?"

"Street-cars and trucks, so we meet again, eh?"

Nat Wingate and Kirk Talbot uttered these exclamations, as the two encountered Bob Somers, accompanied by Sam Randall, on the following morning.

"Having any further trouble with your old tub?" asked Nat.

"Not much," answered Bob, dryly; "don't expect to, either. It's at the bottom of Wolf River."

"What?—Say, where does the joke come in, Somers? I don't catch on."

"The 'Rambler' was set on fire and blown into bits yesterday by some mean scoundrel."

"Come now, what are you trying to give us?" protested Nat, incredulously, while Kirk Talbot fairly gasped with astonishment.

"You don't expect me to believe a fishy yarn like that, do you?"

For an answer, Bob told the two Nimrods all about the destruction of the "Rambler," and their long tramp to the railroad station.

"Little and big fishes, if that isn't the worst I ever heard!" cried Kirk, with wide-open eyes. "Haven't you any idea who could have worked such a game on you?"

"Not the slightest."

"Christopher! Mighty tough luck, I must say," admitted Nat. "I can hardly believe it yet. Save anything, Somers?"

"Not enough to notice."

"Wow, won't your father be mad, though? Didn't you know any better than to leave the tub? Thought after we got out there was no danger, eh?"

Nat exhibited a trace of the sneering, unpleasant manner which had largely served to keep him out of the Rambler Club.

"Never was more surprised in my life," declared Kirk Talbot; "can't imagine why any one should have done it. Didn't you have a scrap with anybody, or raise a shindy in that town back there?"

"No!"

"Maybe 'pa' touched off the fuse," began Nat, laughing uproariously. "Say, Somers, didn't that yellow head take a dandy slide in the water? Oh, my, I guess he was wild, eh? My stars, the funniest sight I ever saw. Ha, ha!" Then suddenly becoming serious, he added: "Suppose you'll go back home now?"

"No, we are going to keep right on."

"What for?"

"You know my father has some land—"

"Come in with our crowd, Somers. Can't you see enough mud and rocks without going off to the edge of the earth?"

"We can have a dandy time, hunting and fishing. Have the use of our boat, too. She'll hold ten, easily. What do you say?"

"That your offer is very kind, but—"

"Oh, say," interrupted Kirk, "what's the matter with you fellows, anyway? Thought you were going to have some fun. More sport when there's a big crowd. I'm awfully sorry your boat is gone, but that's only a good reason why you should join us."

"Which way are you going?"

"To where John 'Hatchet' clubbed that tame old wildcat," laughed Nat. "My eye, Hacky's a wonder when there's no one looking on."

"All had your backs turned, and running like mad?" inquired Sam, innocently.

"You guessed it, my little salt," returned Nat, with a grin. "Are you going with us, or not?"

"If you keep on Clair Bay, we will."

"And if we don't, you won't, that's it, hey? You've given us an ul-ti-ma-tum, as they say, when big words are sprung on us. All right, Somers, we'll think it over, and let you know. Come on, Kirky; Ted may need these pills."

"What's the matter with Pollock?"

"Oh, he got sick yesterday. Ate some of Hackett's cooking. Must say it was a narrow escape. We'll see you later." And with a wave of his hand, Nat and his companion moved off.

"Wingate's a queer fellow," declared Bob; "we wouldn't have him in our club, yet he turns around and wants us to come in with his. It's funny; I never thought Nat was that kind of a fellow."

"Oh, I'll bet Wingate is up to something," said Sam; "thinks, maybe, that he is smart enough to play some trick on us. Nat will bear watching. Smooth, just like his uncle."

Clair Bay, while not a large town, possessed several handsome buildings, but the boys found that the police station was not among the number. It stood just off a main thoroughfare. A flight of steps led up to a rather wide, but dingy-looking entrance.

"Glad we don't have to stay here long," observed Sam, with a grimace.

They pushed open the door and entered. Before them was a square room, lighted by two large windows. Three benches occupied as many sides, while in one corner stood a railing and desk.

Within the enclosure sat an elderly, gray-haired official. He looked up as the boys entered.

"What can I do for you, young men?" he asked.

Bob Somers related his story.

"Humph!" muttered the official. He glanced over the rim of his eye-glasses at the boys, then began to question them.

The Ramblers had no intention of mentioning Nat Wingate and his crowd, but, under the fire of persistent queries, even the fact that the Nimrods' leader had threatened them came out. Bob, however, assured the official that no suspicion could be attached to their rivals.

"I don't know that we can give you much hope," said the official, at the conclusion of their interview; "but we will do the best we can."

"Now for the post-office!" exclaimed Bob. "I'll break the news to my dad as gently as I can. I wouldn't like to see his face when he gets the letter."

"There's the post-office across the street," said Sam.

In the meantime, the two Trailers had rejoined their companions. The "Nimrod," decked with several flags, the largest of which bore the club's name in gilt letters, was tied up at a wharf near the far end of the town.

"Hi, there!" cried Nat, as they approached, and unmindful of the fact that several spectators were engaged in talking to his friends. "Great news—bing, bang, bust, air full of little pieces—old canal-boat of Somers under fifty feet of the worst drinking water in Wisconsin."

"What's that?" asked Hackett.

"Bing, bang, bust! I told you; the 'Rambler' blew up. Couldn't stand the crowd that was on it any longer."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Hackett, impatiently.

"For goodness' sake, Kirk, explain. I thought I was speaking English."

"Their old tub was blown into the middle of next week," said Talbot, bluntly. "Some fellow who had a grudge against 'em—"

"Say, is that true—blown up—sunk?" burst forth Hackett, exhibiting the greatest astonishment.

"Sunk?" echoed Ted Pollock, aghast.

"That's just what happened," said Nat; "I feel sorry for the poor duffers.—What say, Bill?"

This remark was addressed to a respectable-looking gentleman of about forty, who, standing close by, had heard the various remarks, and ventured to make an inquiry.

"I asked," said the gentleman, "about the explosion on a boat, but, if you will permit me, I would like to say that your manner of addressing people might be considerably improved."

"That isn't my fault," returned Nat, who was not in the least abashed; "somebody stole the club's book on manners."

A howl of merriment sent the dignified gentleman away in disgust.

"That was a piece of nerve, wasn't it?" said John Hackett.

"Frightful!" returned Nat. "Let me see, what was I saying? Oh, yes, ha, ha! I feel sorry for those chaps, but I can't help laughing. This is the way it happened."

Nat then related the particulars, frequently interrupted by exclamations and questions. Several loungers who crowded up also seemed to be interested in the story.

For some time, the Nimrods discussed the extraordinary event.

Suddenly Nat Wingate remarked: "Feeling any better, Ted? I got some stuff for you."

Young Pollock's pale face and listless manner showed that he felt far from his usual self.

The day before, while rambling through the woods, the lad had come across a plant that he supposed to be an artichoke. Only Nat's fortunate arrival at that moment prevented him from eating more of the poisonous wild parsnip. As it was, Ted had been sick all day, and he vowed never to touch any of the wild plants growing in the woods.

"What have you got, Nat—pills with an awful taste?" questioned Ted.

"There's a policeman making a bee-line this way," broke in Hackett. "Say, do you suppose that fellow who fell out of his tub back there made any kick?"

"Guess 'Brass buttons' is just coming to take a look at the 'Nimrod.' Don't let a blue uniform get you scared."

But the policeman only glanced at the trim little motor boat.

"What's your name?" he demanded, addressing the leader of the Nimrods.

"Nat Wingate—why?"

"Is that your boat?"

"Sure, it is."

"Then you fellows will have to come with me," said the officer.

"What for?" protested Nat.

"Never mind, Johnny. The captain will tell you all about it. Step lively now."

"This is an outrage!" cried Hackett, loudly.

"There's some mistake," faltered Nat.

"Well, I can't chin here all day," said the officer, gruffly; "I was given orders to take you in hand, and in you go."

"Somebody is going to pay for this," blustered Hackett, angrily. "My stars, what can you want with us? We only got here this morning."

The officer reached forward, and grasped the slim youth's arm. "Come right along, Johnny," he commanded; "march."

He pushed him forward, while Hackett fairly boiled with anger. To add to the Nimrods' discomfiture, a large crowd had gathered.

"Just wait until my uncle hears about this," fumed Nat; "somebody is going to catch it, I can tell you."

"The whole bunch pulled in," said Kirk, disconsolately. "This will be pleasant news to the folks at home."

The walk to the police station was decidedly unpleasant, and the Nimrods were glad when the station-house door shut them from the view of the curious crowd.

They soon found themselves facing the man who had received Bob Somers' complaint.

Names were placed on the police blotter. Then the official, resting his elbows on the desk, leaned forward, gazing sternly into Nat Wingate's face.

"Tell me what you know about the destruction of the 'Rambler,'" he said, sharply.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NIMRODS IN TROUBLE

During the afternoon, Bob Somers and his companions strolled around town. They paid the "Nimrod" a visit, in the expectation of seeing the Trailers, but, of course, the latter failed to put in appearance. The evening was spent at a small theatre.

The Ramblers had scarcely finished breakfast on the following morning, when a tall, slightly built gentleman walked briskly up to the Badger State Hotel. He was neatly attired in black, and had a generally prosperous appearance.

"Mr. Wingate!" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.

"I'm glad to see you, Robert," said Mr. Parsons Wingate, holding out his hand, and nodding to the others. "No doubt my visit is unexpected," he continued, with a smile, as he accepted the proffered chair.

"It seems that both the Rambler and Nimrod Clubs have been experiencing some lively times," he went on. "I'm sure you will understand how much I sympathize with you in the loss of your boat. It must have been a dreadful shock."

The Ramblers were intensely curious to know what object could have brought Mr. Parsons Wingate not only to town, but to see them.

"I don't suppose you have heard the news?" inquired their visitor, in his suave, pleasant voice.

"What news?" asked Bob.

"Ah, I thought not. You don't know where Nat and his friends passed the night?"

"No, sir."

"In the police station."

"In the police station?" echoed the astonished Ramblers, almost in one breath.

"Exactly."

Mr. Parsons Wingate even smiled at their surprise.

"Imagine my astonishment, last evening, when I received a telegram from my poor Nat, telling me of their plight."

"But why were they arrested?" broke in Sam Randall, unable to restrain his curiosity longer.

"If I should say that the police actually tried to make it appear that Nat knew something about the destruction of your motor boat, what would you think?"

"By George!" exclaimed Bob, in amazement. "Surely, Mr. Wingate, they were not arrested for that?"

"Not altogether. An ignorant boatman got in their way, somewhere, then, stupidly, had to fall overboard. The fellow makes a ridiculous claim, but, of course, a few dollars will settle that."

"I told the officer at the police station, yesterday, that Nat couldn't possibly know anything about the blowing up of the 'Rambler.'"

"Sure you did," chimed in Sam.

"There is no reason why Nat and his friends should not be discharged from custody at once," went on Mr. Wingate; "but, to clear away every shadow of doubt from the minds of these blundering police, I should be glad to have you go with me to the police station."

"Of course we will," chorused the Ramblers.

"And now," continued Mr. Wingate, with a smile, "I'm glad to hear that you have accepted Nat's offer. A couple of weeks' fun with the boys, will, I hope, make you partially forget your loss. You have agreed to join Nat, haven't you?"

"No, sir, we are going to visit my father's land."

"Your father's land?" questioned Mr. Wingate. "Your trip was undertaken with that object in view?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, a few weeks with Nat, before you start out, won't come amiss. A lot of lively youngsters ought to have a fine time together. In my boyhood days we never dreamed of the privileges that the youth of the twentieth century would enjoy. Motor boats, motor cycles, and a lot of other things. You are living in a great era, boys, and should appreciate it."

"It's too bad about Nat," ventured Tom Clifton.

"'All's well that ends well.' I hope that we shall dine together this evening."

Mr. Parsons Wingate smiled affably, and looked from one to the other. Then he added: "I mean, of course, that the Ramblers and Nimrods, alike, are to be my guests.

"Very good!" he exclaimed, when all had politely accepted. "Now, if I can trouble you, we will go to the station."

The Ramblers, with Bob and Mr. Parsons Wingate leading the way, were soon walking briskly toward the police station. When they arrived, which was shortly before ten o'clock, they found the towheaded young man conversing with an elderly gentleman and two others.

"That's the one," whispered Dave.

Nat's uncle walked toward the group and bowed politely. "My name is Parsons Wingate," he began; "very sorry that you should have any misunderstanding with my nephew. Of course, if you suffered any loss, I am willing to make a reasonable settlement."

Mr. Wingate's respectable appearance and pleasant manner seemed to make a favorable impression, but the young man, who evidently considered that he had been intentionally upset, was not disposed to let the matter drop. He introduced himself as Douglass Brown.

"I can tell you that the whole crowd acted in a most outrageous manner," he declared; "I have witnesses to prove it. Really, it was frightfully mortifying."

"Boys will be boys," observed Mr. Wingate, pleasantly. "Ah, here they come now."

The Nimrods, looking none the worse for their experience, trooped into the room. Backed by Mr. Wingate, they seemed to feel entirely easy in mind.

"Hello, Somers, hello!" said Nat, with a grin.

"My nephew," began Mr. Wingate, pompously; "this gentleman whom you unintentionally upset is Mr. Douglass Brown."

"How are you, Douglass?" said Nat, with his usual familiarity. "You made a big mistake in having us all run in. That little affair was all an accident."

"Of course it was," put in John Hackett; "if Nat's foot hadn't slipped, Mr. Brown, you wouldn't have hit the river with such a splash. Hope you didn't swallow much of it."

"We didn't do it on purpose, that's sure," chimed in Kirk Talbot.

"Of course not," laughed the gentleman from Kingswood. "You can see yourself, Mr. Brown, that the whole affair was brought about by a too sudden starting of the boat. My nephew explained to me this morning how it happened."

"Was the boat pointed toward you when we started?" interrupted Nat.

Mr. Brown was obliged to admit that it was not.

"And you, Kirk, don't you think you started the boat off in a little more lively fashion than usual?"

"Yes, sir," returned Talbot, glibly.

"Therefore my nephew got an unexpected lurch, and the mishap followed as a natural consequence. The boys may have been a trifle too exuberant, but they meant no harm."

"I think so, myself, now," exclaimed the elder Brown, a short, stocky man, with red hair and moustache. "I reckon, Douglass, they have told the truth. What do you think, Ben, and you, Sam?" he added, addressing the witnesses.

"I can't say for certain," replied Ben; "all I know is that this young chap," pointing at Nat, "was yelling like mad, when that 'ere boat of his'n suddenly went bang into the canoe. The next thing I see was Douglass a-swimming. 'Tain't in my nature to say a man done a thing like that a-purpose."

Ben, a tall, thin man, with angular features, reflected a moment before adding: "I don't know but what that idea may be right, only sich things ought never to happen. My darter was with Douglass, and she was nigh scared into fits."

"We all, of course, deeply regret what has occurred," put in Mr. Wingate, with an affable smile. "Your clothes, Mr. Brown, no doubt suffered to some extent. If you will kindly name—"

He paused, the justice of the peace having entered.

The latter was an elderly, gray-bearded man, who seemed to feel the importance of his position.

As there was, apparently, no other case on the calendar that morning, Mr. Wingate and the others were immediately given an opportunity to make their respective statements. The proceedings were of an informal nature. The justice listened attentively to all that was said, and nodded his head approvingly when Douglass Brown signified his willingness to withdraw the charge.

"In a matter of this sort," said the justice, "my duty is to decide whether the case is serious enough to warrant the accused being sent back to the local court for trial. It is clear that these boys did not act with the deliberate intent of doing harm. I will not hold on this charge. But I hope this will prove a warning to be more careful in future. A motor boat is a dangerous thing, unless handled with considerable judgment."

Mr. Wingate bowed. "If I may take the liberty," he said, "there is another matter which I would like to call your attention to. Chief," he proceeded, turning to that official, who was sitting close by, "yesterday you practically charged my nephew with having had some connection with the blowing up of a motor boat."

"In our business," returned the officer, "we cannot always respect people's feelings. A complaint was made, and I soon discovered that the young man, to say the least, has acted in such a manner as to lay himself open to suspicion."

"Nat is a good-hearted boy," went on Mr. Wingate; "he feels very badly over this matter, and neither of us is disposed to leave town until he is absolved from all suspicion."

"There are no charges against him," said the chief. "My questions were necessarily abrupt, and, happily, served to convince me of his innocence."

"I trust you may soon discover the author of that piece of work. It was certainly a most serious affair."

"It was. And, as yet, there is not a clue."

After a few minutes' further conversation, the party left the station.

"Do you mean to say that one of the motor boats was blown up?" questioned Douglass Brown, in surprise.

"Into five thousand little pieces," grinned Nat.

Young Brown listened in open-mouthed amazement, as Bob related the story of the tragic end of the "Rambler."

"I'm awfully sorry, boys," he said. "Only a mean snake would do a thing like that."

His father and their two friends expressed a like opinion.

"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Wingate, "I hope you will accept an invitation to dine with the boys and myself this evening."

"I'd like to well enough," said Mr. Brown, Sr., "but I got to get back home. Douglass can stay, if he has a mind to."

"And I think I'll have to leave, too," said Ben.

"At any rate, we shall have the pleasure of Douglass' company," said Mr. Wingate, with his usual smile, as he bade the others good-bye.

When the Badger State Hotel was reached, Nat's uncle took his leave, on the plea of business, having arranged to meet them all again early in the evening.

"Fine man, that," observed Mr. Douglass Brown; "a very fine man. I never thought we should become friends like this."

"Let's hurry up, fellows," observed Nat. "I want to see if the 'Nimrod' is all right.

"Safe and sound!" he exclaimed, with satisfaction, when they finally came in view of the graceful motor boat lying at her moorings.

It was a beautiful day, and the bay was dotted with many kinds of craft.

"Somers, does your ultimatum still hold good?" asked Nat.

"We don't want you to keep on Clair Bay unless you feel like it," returned Bob.

"Then come back to the place where Hacky lammed the pussy cat."

"What's the use of that?" spoke up Dick. "I think we could have more fun by keeping on the bay."

"So do I," added Ted Pollock.

"Wish I could go on the trip," ventured Douglass, wistfully; "it must be fine."

"There's one thing we have to do," interrupted John Hackett; "that is, get some grub. Nine fellows can eat a sight of stuff; isn't that so, you sleepy 'pirate'?"

"Depends upon the cook," answered Dave, smilingly.

"Let's get the fodder now," proposed Nat. "We ought to leave this little Punktown first thing in the morning. Ted," he continued, "make up a list; that's a good fellow, and we'll have a grocer attend to it at once."

"Oh ho! I can't help thinking about that great supper to-night," observed Dave; "I'm going back to the hotel, and write a few letters."

About six o'clock that evening, the members of the two clubs, Douglass Brown and Mr. Parsons Wingate met at the Badger State Hotel.

"Now, Nat," remarked the latter, as they took their places at the supper table, "it isn't necessary for you to act in such a fashion as to attract crowds around the hotel. This is to be just a quiet little dinner."

CHAPTER XIX

ON THE BAY

"The mist is coming up worse than ever, boys," observed Bob Somers, as he sat on the forward part of the "Nimrod"; "think you had better hug the shore, Nat."

"Getting scared, Bobby?"

"Hardly," laughed Bob; "but we can't see a sign of land."

"Never met a fellow who was so set on looking at mud, rocks and trees before. I'm not a bit sorry to vary the program."

"My eye, Somers thinks he's on an automobile again," laughed Hackett.

"That's it!" exclaimed Nat, with a grin. "Hi, Dave, are you wide awake enough to wrestle with this wheel a minute?"

"I guess so," said Dave, good-naturedly, as he made his way toward the bow.

When the "Nimrod" had left the wharf, early that morning, a mist hung over the bay. The sun shone like a great, yellowish ball through the masses of vapor. Not the slightest breeze was stirring, and as the morning wore on, the mist became thicker and thicker until now it was scarcely possible to see more than fifty feet in any direction.

Hoarse blasts of fog-horns, shriller whistles from small steam craft, rendered faint by distance, came over the air, while the "Nimrod" slowly ploughed through the colorless water.

"Seems as if we were out of the world," declared Tommy Clifton; "it's almost spooky."

"Just like an air-ship in the clouds," said Pollock.

"Where do you suppose we are?" inquired Dave, straining his eyes to pierce the gloom.

"On top of the water, Dave," laughed Nat.

"Big and little fishes! I don't care for this," grumbled Kirk. "There are some whopping big steamers on this bay. Did you hear that?"

A blast from a fog-horn sounded far ahead.

"Better turn in shore," suggested Dick.

"Who's doing this, Travers?" demanded Nat. "Never saw such scared cats, eh, Hacky?"

Pulling out his megaphone, the leader of the Nimrods continued: "Each fellow take a whoop through this. Here goes number one!"

An astonishingly discordant series of blasts rolled over the water. "Sounds like a wildcat getting hit by John Hackett," laughed Nat. "Here, Somers, let's see what kind of a yell you have. Pass it along. I'll take that wheel.

"Christopher!" he added, a few moments later; "Somers, that screech of yours reminds me of a circular saw cutting a board."

"He means when it hits a nail," explained John Hackett.

Bob laughed, and handed the megaphone to Tommy Clifton.

"That ought to keep 'em away," chuckled Nat. "A little more, and we'll have the bay to ourselves. We're the Pirates of the Bounding Deep, and can fight, awake or asleep."

"Oh, lollipops, whatever that means," groaned Dick. "That floating tub is getting nearer and nearer."

The increasing loudness of the hoarse blasts which sounded at intervals across the water began to have an effect on Nat.

"Got a pocket compass, Somers?" he asked, hurriedly. "Guess we'll have to hike in toward the shore. Wonder how far away it is?"

No one seemed able to offer any information on the subject.

"Great Cæsar!" cried Ted Pollock; "listen to that screech. We can't see a yard. Hi, hi!" he yelled at the top of his voice; "hi, hi, hi!"

The others joined in, while Kirk, with the megaphone, shouted lustily.

The Clair Bay steamers were large and powerful boats, and the peril of their situation began to dawn upon the boys with full force. Whether the oncoming craft was on the starboard or port side could not be determined, as the gray blanket of fog hid everything from view.

"We'll have to get out of this!" cried Nat. "Dave, exercise your lungs on that howl-increaser."

"I'll bet we are steering right for it," exclaimed Kirk.

"We are, that's what we are doing!" shouted Tom, in the greatest alarm. "Mind your eye there, Nat!"

A loud blast of the fog-horn threw the lads into a state of panic.

"Look, look! There it is!" shouted Nat, excitedly.

Through the dense fog, an indistinct form, gradually taking shape, could be seen approaching. The boys were presently able to distinguish a confused blurr, as passengers crowded to the rails. They heard shouts and calls, the clanging of a bell, then the siren blast of a fog-horn drowned all other sounds.

"My eye, a close call that!" exclaimed Hackett, in excited tones; "not more than fifty feet to spare."

"Isn't it going slowly?" said Sam Randall.

"Hi there!" called out Nat, perceiving that they were not in any danger; "why don't you keep your old tub tied up a day like this?"

"Haven't you any more sense than to be out in the middle of the bay in a little cockle-shell like that?" came an answering voice.

Then the gloom again swallowed up the steamer, while Nat, through the megaphone, sent a long string of compliments after it.

"Great Cæsar, I was scared—that's a fact," admitted Tom Clifton.

"A little more, and they would have plunked us," remarked Ted Pollock, with a great sigh of relief. "Going ashore, now, Nat?"

"Not before the boat reaches it," returned Wingate, who, judging from his actions, seemed to have profited but little by the recent experience. "Let her out a bit, Hacky. Legs feel weak, Somers? I'll bet they do—never saw such a scared crowd in my life."

The leader of the Nimrods glanced quickly at a map, replaced it in his pocket, then gave the wheel a turn.

"Going further out?" asked Bob, in surprise.

"Who said I was going further out?"

"You changed your course just then."

Nat laughed. "I'm afraid you're beginning to dream," he said.

"We are an awful way out," ventured Ted; "and my dad says the water in the middle of this bay is five hundred feet deep."

"Fog getting thicker and thicker," observed John Hackett. "Keep your eyes open, fellows, for any more boats."

There was no need of this admonition, but time slipped away, without bringing any further incident. Nat Wingate remained at the wheel, keeping the "Nimrod" on a perfectly straight course, at the same time talking and laughing in his liveliest fashion.

Suddenly Sam Randall uttered an exclamation. "Land! As I live, land ho!" he cried.

"Land?" echoed the others, in chorus.

"Your peepers must be pretty good," exclaimed Hackett; "where? I don't see anything."

"That's because you're not looking in the right direction."

"I see it!" cried Bob.

"So do I."

"And I," repeated each, in turn.

Barely perceptible, to the left, through the fog, rose a rounded, tree-covered hill.

"I knew you changed your course, Wingate," said Bob, dryly. "Where have you been heading for?"

Turning, Nat held up the compass, then passed it back to its owner, remarking: "You fellows certainly are green. I've piloted the 'Nimrod' clear across the bay."

"A brilliant piece of navigation," observed John Hackett.

"Shut off power a bit, Kirk," said Nat; "I don't want to run on any shoals."

Talbot obeyed, and the motor boat progressed slowly toward the shore. Finally the boys saw that a sort of flat expanse extended back from the water, but the fog prevented them from gaining a definite idea as to the formation of the land.

"There seems to be a pretty good channel here," observed Dave.

"That's the reason I'm cruising along a bit," returned Nat, quickly.

The "Nimrod" skirted the shore for fully half a mile, then rounded a jutting point.

"No use, fellows, we'll have to anchor and wade ashore," said Nat finally; "I can't take the boat in any further."

Accordingly, the boys took off their shoes and stockings and rolled up their trousers. Nat cast the anchor overboard, then, each taking some needful article, they waded ashore.

"We'll have a swim here this afternoon," proclaimed Nat; "bet I can beat any fellow in the crowd."

"I'll take you up on that," said Hackett. "My eye, this fog is a nuisance."

By making several trips, the boys carried ashore all that was necessary. The tent canvas and poles required the combined effort of both clubs.

"I guess you fellows will have to do the 'Bill Agnew' act," said Nat. "Little oil-stove's good enough for me."

"You're only parlor campers," drawled Dave; "we go in for the real thing."

By this time the fog had begun to lighten. Clumps of vegetation were scattered around, while several pools could be dimly seen, close at hand.

"Gee willikins, regular Robinson Crusoe life, this," exclaimed Nat. "Eh, Chubby?"

Dave smiled, then slapped his hand to his face. "Skeeters," he announced; "and plenty of 'em."

"Aren't they fierce?" said John Hackett. "Here's the sun coming out nicely, and we have to fall into a regular bug metropolis."

"Darning-needles and butterflies!" exclaimed Kirk Talbot. "Look at this one! It's nearly as big as the bird that 'Hatchet' shot."

Bob, Sam and Dick soon went off in search of wood, while Tom Clifton and the poet laureate got everything in readiness to cook. The Nimrods pitched their tents, and also began preparations for lunch. In the course of an hour the meals were ready.

"What's on the bill of fare?" asked Bob.

"Sardines, baked beans, crackers and cheese, sir," sang out Dave. "Have tea or coffee, sir?"

"Quit your fooling, and trot out the stuff," put in Dick; "I haven't had a bite for three solid hours."

"Cricky! a nice place, this," observed Tom Clifton, with his mouth full, a few minutes later. "Let's explore those hills back there after lunch, fellows."

"Hello, how are you getting on, 'pirates'?" shouted Bob.

"Great!" answered Nat. "Got any skeeters over your way?"

"Any number," grumbled Dave; "had forty-seven bites already."

The afternoon was spent in roaming around. The Ramblers found a tumble-down shanty, evidently built by gunners, and they determined to take possession of it. The fog had entirely cleared away and the sun occasionally peeped forth between gaps in the masses of whitish clouds. Shadows chased each other over the landscape in rapid succession, trees, now bright with color and light suddenly changed to dark green masses, then all became gray and sombre until another rift in the clouds let through the flood of light.

Along the bay, a flat, marshy expanse seemed to extend for miles, its surface being dotted with ponds.

"That's where those six-legged little pests come from," declared Dave; "they breed in the swampy tracts. Fellows, it's a good thing we are going to camp in the hills to-night."

"We'd be eaten alive down there by the shore," agreed Bob; then he added: "Let's go and get our stuff now."

As they approached the Trailers' tents, loud voices were heard.

"Fifteen feet, you say? That's the biggest I ever listened to. It wasn't an inch more than five," came from Nat.

"I said fifteen, and I'll bet it was nearer twenty," shouted John Hackett; "ain't that so, Kirk?"

"You'll have to grow some, to beat me any day in the week," yelled the leader; "you didn't give me a fair start."

"Playing the baby act. Very well, I'll swim you again to-morrow," sneered Hackett.

"I'll do it," cried Nat. "Crickets, but you're going to get beaten. Hello, Somers, got back already?"

"We are going to take our stuff up on the hill," explained Bob.

"You won't sleep a wink down here," added Dave; "the mosquitoes are fearful."

"That's so," agreed Nat; "I've killed about two million already. Will you fellows help us take up the canvas?"

"Sure thing," answered Bob. "Aren't you afraid to leave your boat, though?"

Nat glanced at the trim little "Nimrod," then answered: "Don't think there's any danger. The fellow who blew up the 'Rambler' most likely thought it was ours."

"That's right, we had everybody scared," added John Hackett, and the recollection made the ill-natured expression leave his face.

Nat burst out laughing. "Pull up stakes!" he cried, loudly. "Here we go."

"Whew, ouch! Never saw such biters," exclaimed Ted Pollock, slapping frantically at the little buzzing pests around his face. "Come on, fellows, let's vamoose."

"Big rocks and pine trees! Right you are," observed Kirk scratching his wrist. "Say, Nat, why can't we sleep on the 'Nimrod' to-night?"

"It's up in the hills for us. Don't you get enough boat all day long?"

"But these tents?" objected Kirk.

"Got to go up, too," replied Nat, laconically. "Get a gait on. Found a good place, Somers?"

"Yes! on the top of that hill."

"All right. Grab some of the stuff, fellows. We'll leave the tents until last."

It was nearly six o'clock before the new camp was finally put in order. The boys found the mosquitoes much fewer in number, and their surroundings in every way better than on the shore below.

"It's a pretty wide bay," observed the poet laureate; "can't see a sign of land. How small the 'Nimrod' looks."

"It ain't as big as the 'Lusitania,' that's sure," commented Nat. "Fall to, fellows. It's grub time."

When night came on, Bob added a few logs to the smouldering fire, while the Nimrods hung a number of lanterns upon convenient branches. The Ramblers merely spread their blankets upon the floor of the shanty, and turned in.

CHAPTER XX

ANOTHER BOAT GONE

It was a quiet summer night, not unpleasantly warm, but with no wind stirring. The boys, however, did not fall asleep with the readiness that their tired feelings led them to expect. The fire crackled and hissed, sending a fitful glare around, but its smoke seemed to have no effect in driving away the ever-increasing army of mosquitoes. A dancing host encircled each swinging lantern, and the old shanty was invaded by a perfect swarm.

"Buzz, buzz—smack, smack!" laughed Bob, as his companions slapped and hit. "Just imagine what it must be down there by the beach."

"Millions and millions of 'em," groaned Dave. Smack! "I hit that great brute. Hi! Awake there, Tom?"

"Think a fellow could sleep in such a place as this? Of course I'm awake."

"I'm nearly stifled, trying to sleep with my head under the blanket," declared Sam, gaping to an alarming degree.

"Asleep, 'pirates'?" called Dick Travers, in a loud voice.

"Yes, and having an awful nightmare," answered Nat. "Make a noise, can't you, and wake me up."

"I feel like calling for help," broke in Hackett.

"Knew a feller once what was bit so bad he couldn't see straight for a month," said Dick, mimicking Zeke Tipson. "This is nothing."

"Well, I can't stand it any longer," groaned Bob.

He arose, stretched, then walked out and began piling wood on the fire. One by one, wrapped Indian fashion in blankets, his companions gathered around, slapping vigorously at their tiny foes.

"I didn't know there were so many skeeters in the world," said Pollock, ruefully.

"Oh ho, but I am weary," yawned Dave.

"Isn't it frightful?" added Tommy Clifton. "I'm going to lie down close to the fire, and go to sleep anyway."

He threw himself upon the ground, followed by the disgusted Dave Brandon, and the two were fast asleep in a moment. The rest, however, after several vain attempts, gave it up. Now and then one arose, threw on a stick, and then resumed his seat by the fire-side to gaze through half-closed eyelids at the tongues of flame and dancing sparks.

The night was overcast, and outside of the circle of light nature was wrapped in impenetrable blackness.

"We certainly were stung in this place," remarked Bob, with a sorry attempt at humor. He frantically slapped his wrists and face, then, unable to endure the onslaught in quietness, rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth.

Nodding and blinking, the boys presented a queer picture in the glare of the fire-light.

Finally Kirk Talbot joined Bob.

"Bears and wildcats!" exclaimed the latter, suddenly clutching his companion's arm. "Hear that? Steamboat down there, sure as guns."

"Great Scott! Wonder who can be nosing around at this time of night. Nat, hello Nat, do you hear that?" cried Bob, excitedly.

"Eh?" muttered the chief "pirate," drowsily. "What?"

"Wake up, wake up! A boat's close in shore. You can hear the engine puffing."

"Can't help it—we don't own—"

"Let's light some pine-knots and see what it is," cried Bob. "After our experience with the 'Rambler,' we don't want to take any chances. I say, Nat—"

"He's asleep. Don't waste any time," urged Kirk, excitedly. "Come on, get up, John 'Hatchet.'"

"What's the matter—what's all this? Of course I won—and by fifteen feet, too."

Several pine-knots were lying around. Bob and Kirk each eagerly seized a stick and held it over the fire. As flames began to hiss and sizzle from the end of his torch, Kirk leaped forward and picked up the megaphone.

A series of blood-curdling whoops instantly brought the campers to their feet in alarm. They tumbled over each other, half frightened out of their senses.

"Somebody fooling around the 'Nimrod'!" yelled Kirk, throwing the tube to the ground. "Quick, grab your guns, and come with us."

The two boys dashed pell-mell down the hill. The light of the blazing pine-knots, raised high above their heads, flitted from tree to tree, danced and wavered on the ground, fantastic shadows lengthened and shortened, while the torches sizzled and flared, as the boys rushed on.

"It may be nothing," panted Kirk.

"Better be on the safe side," cried Bob. "That boat must be close to the 'Nimrod,' or I miss my guess. The rest of the fellows are coming."

"What's that?"

"Pine-knots and puzzles!" gasped Kirk. "The 'Nimrod,' sure as fate."

The rapid pulsation of a motor boat suddenly started up.

"Come on!" yelled Bob. "The rascals are stealing that boat."

Thoroughly angry and alarmed, the boys dashed on. Kirk tripped over a trailing vine and fell headlong in a mass of underbrush. His torch landed amidst the twigs and set them ablaze, but the lad, though badly shaken up, was on his feet in an instant, stamped out the fire and dashed on.

Lights moving in a fantastic fashion and many shouts showed that the rest of the boys were following. Bob Somers reached the site of their first camp. The water lapped at his feet, while the flaring torch sent a circle of light over the bay.

The "Nimrod" had disappeared.

"It's gone!" gasped Bob Somers.

"Stolen!" cried Kirk Talbot, in dismay.

"Great Cæsar! There must be a gang of motor boat thieves around these diggings."

"Gee willikins, what's this, Somers—all our grub chucked ashore—what does it mean?"

"The boat has gone," puffed John Hackett, coming up at this instant.

It was an excited group that crowded to the very edge of the water. Torches and lanterns were held aloft, but they revealed nothing.

"Well, this is a pretty mess!" cried Hackett, furiously. "Listen to that sound, growing faint in the distance. Somebody has sized us up for a fine lot of ninnies."

"What will my uncle say?" wailed Nat.

He paced up and down and shook his fist in the air.

"The finest motor boat in Wisconsin, too," he groaned.

"Both crowds have been followed," declared Sam Randall.

"There is a mystery about this whole thing," cried Bob. "Why did the thieves pile our stuff on shore, instead of taking it with them?"

"Can't imagine," muttered the poet laureate, scratching his head in a vain endeavor to get an idea; "it's a puzzle."

"Cricky, maybe a note." Ted's eye had caught a glimpse of a piece of white paper projecting from under a case of canned goods.

A PIECE OF WHITE PAPER

"Anything on it?" questioned Nat, eagerly.

"Yes!"

Ted held it up in the full glare of a torch, while nine heads, as close together as nine heads could be, scanned a rude scrawl. Ted began to read.

"'Your boat has been stole by an honest man what works for a living and needs it worse than a lot of kids.'"

"I was right!" cried John Hackett, loudly; "I was right! We've been done, like the biggest lot of chumps you ever heard of."

"Steals the 'Nimrod,' and calls us a lot of kids," exclaimed Nat Wingate. "That's just a little more than the limit."

"Maybe the fellows at Kingswood won't laugh at us," said Ted Pollock.

"Why didn't some one sleep on board?" wailed little Tommy Clifton.

"Because we were a pack of idiots, that's why," snapped Hackett. "I don't think that 'honest man' made a mistake—not a bit of it."

"It means the finish of our grand trip, all right," declared Nat; "make up your minds to that, boys."

"Talk about being disgusted," fumed Hackett; "I never was so wild in all my life. We are a fine lot—the whole crowd of us. Your uncle is going to raise a beautiful row, Nat."

"You may be sure he will," sighed their leader. "No use standing here. Suppose we get back to camp."

Two almost spent pine-knots hissed and sputtered as the water closed about them. John Hackett had kicked one violently and thrown the other.

"And just think of all the fun we were going to have," he groaned.

The light of the camp-fire shone faintly between the trees, as the boys began to toil dejectedly up the hill. When the summit had been reached, Tom Clifton, who was in the lead, approached the fire and stooped over.

"Look, Nat!" he exclaimed, holding up a sadly charred object.

"The megaphone!" cried young Wingate. "How did that happen?"

"Kirk must have thrown it too near the fire, after he gave that awful howl," answered Ted Pollock; "anyway, it's done for."

The fire brightened up for a moment, as the last of the megaphone crumbled to pieces in the hot embers.

There was no sleep for the boys that night. The mosquitoes still hovered around, and a dreary time was spent while awaiting the approach of day.

When the light was sufficient, Bob Somers brought out his map.

"Boys, here's something I never thought of before," he said slowly.

"Any new trouble?" inquired Dick.

"I believe we are on an island."

"Mud-turtles and lobsters! What makes you think that?"

"Clair Bay is full of them. Look at this."

Bob ran his fingers over the sheet.

"I'll bet we are just here," he said, indicating a position on the map.

"What! Nearly in the middle of the bay?" asked Tom, incredulously.

"Yes! And we may not see a boat for a week."

"Crusoe life with a vengeance, eh?" laughed the poet laureate. "What next on the programme?"

"The whole kit of us had better get back to Kingswood," came from Nat; "your dad, Somers, and my uncle will see that we do."

A breakfast was hastily eaten just about the time that the rosy tint of early morning began to disappear. Then the boys, in three parties, started on a tour of inspection.

Bob, Dave and Sam, in the course of an hour, reached a point on a high hill from whence the water of Clair Bay could be seen sweeping around in a wide curve to the west. They compared the coast line with the map, and found that it agreed exactly.

"I told you—an island!" cried Bob. "There's something funny about this business."

"How do you mean?"

"I saw Nat change the course of the 'Nimrod' yesterday. He was steering by map and compass and must have known that we were not going all the way across the bay."

"Well?" asked Dave, in puzzled tones; "what of that?"

"I have an idea he dumped us on this island for some purpose."

"But what could it be?" Sam asked.

"I am sure I don't know. Another funny thing was the way our stuff was thrown on shore."

"It's mighty queer," admitted Dave; "I can't make head or tail out of it."

"Ever notice how Nat is always talking about going back to Kingswood?" asked Bob.

"Yes, and kicked, too, about keeping on Clair Bay," added Sam Randall, reflectively.

"But Nat is in it now as badly as we are," said Dave. "The 'Nimrod' is gone. His uncle will be wild."

"Hmph!" observed Bob, dryly; "I may be mistaken, but I think there's a pretty deep mystery about this. And—"

"And what?"

"Well, it is going to be solved—that's all."

CHAPTER XXI

"I HATE TO GIVE UP"

"Five days marooned on an island? Five days fighting mosquitoes? Well, well, boys, you have had a time of it, sure enough. You're almost as brown as Indians—every one of you."

Mr. Wingate was pacing the floor of a room in the Badger State Hotel. He glanced with an amused look from one to another of the nine boys who sat or stood around the room.

The boys had met with some strange experiences.

"Crusoe Island," as Nat had named it, was quite a distance from the track of boats, the Clair Bay line of steamers passing so far away as to be scarcely visible. It was not inhabited, and even fishing boats rarely came to its shores.

The boys, thanks to the strange kindness of the "honest man" who stole, were well provided with food. They found game very scarce, and, indeed, there was little to be said in favor of the island. Swampy pools, wild, desolate expanses of meadows stretched along the shore, while back of these were areas of sand and rocks. The spot on which the boys had happened to land was about the best part of the entire place.

They made every effort to attract the attention of the few boats which were seen, and, after five weary days, most of which were spent in fighting mosquitoes, succeeded.

Bob Somers, waving a huge cloth attached to a pole, attracted the attention of a couple of fishermen.

Arrangements were made to take them to the mainland, where they camped out over night. Then the boys took a train at a small station some miles away and rode back to Clair Bay, reaching that town early in the morning.

They were heavily laden with their camping outfits, and it was a weary lot of boys that trudged up to the Badger State Hotel.

"My uncle told me he was going to stay here for a couple of weeks," said Nat; "I hope we shall find him in."

Mr. Wingate seemed to take the loss of the motor boat very calmly.

"It wasn't your fault, boys, I know," he went on; "still—and I speak to all of you—I think you had better return to Kingswood with me this afternoon. Let me see, there's a train at 4:15. Your parents must be very much worried about you."

"I'd like to stay here a while," ventured John Hackett.

The proposition did not seem to please Mr. Wingate at all. His affable expression for an instant vanished.

"I don't approve of that," he said, tersely. "You have earned a most unenviable notoriety. Listen to this!"

Walking over to a table, he picked up a newspaper and began to read an article.

It told about the affair with Douglass Brown, and pictured the actions of the Nimrods in a most unfavorable light. The destruction of the "Rambler" was also mentioned.

"This account closes with the following words," said Mr. Wingate, emphatically; "'We question the judgment of parents in allowing boys to indulge in such a dangerous pastime as motor-boating.' You can see, boys, that such publicity is decidedly unpleasant."

There was no reply, and Mr. Wingate continued, "I am sure that Mr. Somers would prefer to have you return."

"I knew we'd have to go back," whispered Nat in Bob Somers' ear.

"Did you?" responded Bob, dryly.

"Then we leave at 4:15, Uncle Parsons?"

"Exactly! Boys, you will kindly be ready in time."

"I'm not going back, Mr. Wingate," said Bob, quietly.

"What! Not going back?" echoed the gentleman, in considerable surprise. "I think it is only due to your parents, Robert, that you should return."

"My father will get a letter from me to-morrow morning," said Bob; "he expects us to visit his land in Michigan."

"Now, Robert, don't be stubborn. If your father consents, it would be a very easy matter for you to start out again."

Mr. Wingate's tone was mild and pleasant.

"That's so, Somers; you might as well go with us," chimed in Nat.

But Bob shook his head.

"I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Wingate," he said, "and I only hope you'll excuse me."

"It can't be that you are sensitive on the subject? I wouldn't have you think that I am reflecting on your ability to take care of yourself."

"No, sir!" replied Bob, with a smile. "But when I once start out on a thing I hate to give up."

"Very commendable indeed, in certain cases. But sometimes older heads are wiser."

"I don't doubt that, sir!"

"At any rate, your friends will see the wisdom of my course?" said Mr. Wingate, glancing at the Ramblers interrogatively.

"I think I'll go with Bob," replied Dave Brandon, slowly.

"So will I," added Sam.

And each in turn, apparently to Mr. Wingate's annoyance, announced a similar determination.

"Boys, boys!" said the gentleman, raising his hands, "I certainly am disappointed."

"Can't I go with them, uncle?" asked Nat, meekly.

"Most certainly not! All of the Nimrods must return with me."

John Hackett, wearing an extremely sour expression, ventured to protest, but Mr. Wingate shook his head.

"I shall insist that you act according to my desires," he said, firmly.

"Say, Somers," whispered Nat, "are you really going to keep on?"

"Of course I am," returned Bob.

"Let me go with them, Uncle Parsons?" pleaded Nat. "I don't see why I can't."

"No, Nat, I can't think of it. Be a good boy. Boating and fishing around Kingswood should satisfy you. Possibly Robert, too, may reconsider his determination on second thought."

"No, sir!" replied Bob, firmly, but respectfully.

"Of course, then, if anything further happens, you will tell your father that I did the best I could to get you to return home? Will you go by boat or train?"

"By the Clair Bay line of steamers, Mr. Wingate."

"My eye!" exclaimed John Hackett, in an angry voice; "we ought not to miss anything like that."

Nat's uncle cast a look at the long-legged youth which effectually enforced silence.

Feeling that there was no necessity of prolonging the interview, Bob politely bade good-bye to Mr. Wingate and the disconsolate Nimrods. His companions did likewise, and they soon found themselves on the street.

"We won't have to hurry," said Bob; "the boat does not leave until eleven, and that will give us time enough to go to the post-office and send off our letters."

"Hasn't this been a funny trip?" remarked Dick Travers; "always something queer happening."

"Didn't Mr. Wingate want us to go back, though?" said Tommy Clifton; "and John Hackett was almost ready to boil over."

"Nat has caused all of them to be punished," added Dick; "it is our innings now."

"The Trailers surely have come to grief at last," said Sam Randall; "guess they don't think it so amusing when they happen to be on the wrong side of the game."

"Guess my dad will be frightfully worried," observed Bob, as they turned into the post-office.

Each of the Ramblers found several letters awaiting him. As Bob had thought, his parents were much agitated, fearing that the boys had been in considerable danger. Mr. Somers was greatly mystified at the various attempts on the motor boat, which had culminated in its final destruction, and intimated that there must be something back of it.

"Your mother and I don't want you to take any risks," read the letter. "The loss of the motor boat does not worry us so much as the fact that some one seems to be taking an extraordinary interest in your movements. While I would prefer to have you return home, I leave it to your own judgment as to what course to pursue."

"All right, Bob?" questioned Sam.

"Yes! Dad isn't kicking as much as I thought he would. Hurry up, fellows, scribble your letters and come."

"Oh ho!" drawled Dave. "Now for the 'bounding deep.' I can hardly believe," he added with a smile, "that we have seen the last of the Trailers."

In a short time, the boys trooped out on the street, walked rapidly along the main thoroughfare, passed the Badger State Hotel, and kept on to the pier, where one of the great bay steamers was making ready for departure.

The usual scene of activity was going on. Great boxes and bales, and apparently many kinds of merchandise were being hustled on board. Shouts and cries, altercations and commands filled the air, while passengers crowded up the gangplank. A loud blast of the whistle floated off on the breeze.

As was usually the case, the five boys, with their guns, attracted considerable attention, but to this they paid no heed.

"The 'Lake Michigan' is a mighty fine boat," observed the poet laureate, as they strode through the saloon.

"Must have cost a sight of money to build; it's a regular palace," commented Dick Travers.

Up on the main deck, the boys provided themselves with camp chairs, and, taking a position near the stern, watched the ever-changing scene below with interest.

Another blast of the whistle, and finally the "Lake Michigan" swung slowly out from the wharf.

"I'm glad we are going," said Bob, with satisfaction. "No more motor boats, no more Trailers—seems queer, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," answered Sam Randall; "and it was queer, too, how Mr. Wingate tried to euchre us out of it. Seemed to consider himself the guardian of the whole crowd."

"Got any new ideas, Bob, about that mysterious finish of the 'Rambler' and all the other strange happenings?"

"No! But it will be our fault if we don't find out."

"Clair Bay is quite a town," broke in Tom Clifton; "look at all the mills and factories."

The shore line, rapidly receding, enabled them to get a good view of it. From many chimneys smoke was pouring forth, while jets of white steam here and there spurted upward amidst the darker masses.

"Hello, fellows!"

This exclamation, uttered by a familiar voice, caused them to turn quickly.

Nat Wingate stood close by, grinning down at them.

CHAPTER XXII

DETECTIVE WORK

"Nat Wingate!" chorused the Ramblers, in astonishment.

"Surprised to see me, eh?" chuckled the former chief of the Nimrods.

He burst into a laugh.

"I just lit out," he said; "guess Uncle Parsons will be wild when he finds that I've given him the slip."

"I'll bet he will," said Dick.

"But it will be nothing to the way that poor old 'Hacky' is going to feel. My, but isn't he in a state of mind! Ha, ha, ha! Just think of the whole crowd being taken back to Kingswood like a parcel of little kids."

"Going to let your uncle know you are with us?"

"Guess so. Wait till I get a chair, and I'll join the company."

"Well, what do you think of this?" whispered Bob.

"That he certainly likes our company," said Dave, with a smile. "Still I—"

"Look out! Here he comes back," put in Tom.

Nat planted his chair in their midst.

"I wasn't going to be cheated out of a lot of fun," he proceeded; "and, if Hacky had had any real sand, the whole crowd might be together now. Say—did you notice how he glared when Uncle Parse was talking?"

At the recollection, Nat began to laugh again.

"We've had a queer trip," said Bob; "some mighty funny things happened."

"I should say so. Both boats gone—well, we can have a good time yet. Hacky's got my gun, though," he added, reflectively, as he glanced at those of the Ramblers'.

"You're welcome to ours," said the poet laureate.

"Thanks! What's on the programme, Somers?"

"We are going to Tocono, see a bit of the town, then keep right on."

"Will you stay long?"

"Oh, a day or two."

"Heard that it's a pretty lively place," commented Nat; "no end of things to see. Maybe we'll like it well enough to put in a week."

By this time the steamboat was far out in the bay, and the shore was barely discernible on the horizon. The boys, too active to sit still very long, left their seats for a tour of inspection. They visited the engine room, interviewed the engineer, then trooped into the restaurant, where a meal was thoroughly enjoyed. Nat, by his loud speech and droll remarks, managed to attract a great deal of attention.

About two o'clock, Tocono was sighted.

"Biggest town we've seen yet," said Bob, as they approached.

"Makes Clair Bay look like a village," declared Nat.

Factories of all sorts and warehouses fronted the bay, while church steeples and a number of towering structures rose above the great mass of buildings beyond.

"We ought to have a great time here!" exclaimed Nat, gleefully. "Won't I crow over Hacky when we get back to Kingswood?"

Nat pushed forward, and was the first to pass down the gangplank.

A wide thoroughfare led along by the bay. It had the usual characteristics of a waterfront street. Irregular rows of buildings crowded between high, gloomy warehouses, ship-chandlers' stores and sail lofts were prominently in view, while empty casks, sending forth odors of tar, sugar and other commodities, stood against cellar ways and on the curb. The street was crowded with drays and trucks, and altogether presented an interesting sight to the boys.

"Kingswood isn't like this, is it?" exclaimed Nat, his eyes flashing with pleasure. "Some life here. Christopher! I'd like to stay a couple of weeks."

"Going to a hotel now, Bob?" ventured Tom Clifton.

"Might as well," put in Dick; "then we can get washed up a bit, before sallying out to see the sights."

They crossed a wide street, dodging between the vehicles, then turned along it, passed under a railroad bridge, and, at length, reached a busy section of the city.

Electric cars whizzed along; on every side there was something of interest to see.

At the junction of Main and State Streets, the boys came to a stop.

"Which way?" queried Tom Clifton.

"Any way," laughed Bob; "feel kind of lost, Tommy?"

"Makes a fellow sick of a little place like Kingswood," said Nat.

In the course of a half hour, just off the main street, they stopped in front of the Wisconsin House.

"Think we are too good for this place?" asked Bob, with a smile.

"Maybe they won't take us in, you mean," grinned Nat. "Shoulder arms! Forward march! Charge past the big front door, and we'll soon find out."

The boy entered, and walked up to the desk.

"Is this a hold up?" asked the clerk, with an amused glance at the array of guns.

"Depends on you," Nat glibly answered; "some hotels try it."

The clerk laughed.

"Can't catch you, young fellow," he said. "What do you want—distinguished guest suite?"

"That's it," laughed Nat; "and all the good things that go with it."

Bob Somers and Sam Randall took one room, Brandon and Travers another, while Nat and Tom Clifton occupied a third.

After a general wash-up and glance at the newspapers in the reading-room, the boys started out to see the town.

Naturally, the business section, with its big stores and lively appearance, received their first attention.

"Fellows," observed Nat, as if with a sudden thought, "I guess I'll scribble a telegram to my uncle. Wait for me here. There's a telegraph office 'cross the street."

"Why not write?" asked Bob.

"Hate letters! Besides, now I come to think of it, old Uncle Parse may be kind of worried. You see," added Nat, "I left pretty suddenly."

"All right, we'll wait," said the poet laureate.

"Hurry it up," urged Dick Travers; "supper time will be here before we know it."

The former leader of the Nimrods acted with commendable promptness, and the party soon continued on their way. They all enjoyed themselves hugely, and, after supper, visited the principal theatre.

Before turning in that night, Bob Somers, sitting on the edge of the bed, made this observation:

"Take my word for it, Nat Wingate is up to some mischief. I can't help liking him, but he hasn't followed us just for the pleasure of our company."

Sam tilted his chair back and balanced himself, a feat he had learned after much practice.

"What do you think now?" he queried.

"That Wingate is bound to delay us as much as possible."

"But he ran away from his uncle."

"Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't," said Bob. "I've been thinking about it."

"Do you think"—Sam let his chair come down with a bang—"that it was—no, you can't mean it—that it was all a bluff?"

"It wouldn't surprise me a bit."

"Great Cæsar, Bob Somers!" exclaimed Sam, rising and walking briskly up and down; "you're making a great mystery out of this, aren't you? How do you explain about the 'honest man' act?"

"Part of the game. The provisions were all left. Nat made no efforts to signal. He didn't seem to care about it."

"And you think—?"

"That neither Nat nor his uncle is especially anxious for us to reach my father's property out there in the wilds."

Sam whistled and his eyes sparkled.

"Perhaps you've struck it, Bob, my lad. But, oh, wow, I'm too sleepy to think any more about it. You and I, Bob, will play detectives. Natty had better look out."

Bob laughed.

"Don't for the world let him suspect anything," he cautioned. "Whatever his game is, it will have to be a pretty smart one to get ahead of us, after this."

Next day the boys continued their explorations until noon. It was just after lunch, when Nat, with his usual smile, exclaimed: "I'm going to the post-office to write some letters. Guess you don't want to come along, eh?—No! Well," he added carelessly, "I'll see you later."

"Now's our time," said Bob, in a low tone, after Nat had disappeared; "come on, Sam. Our detective work continues from this moment."

"What are you going to do?" queried Dick Travers, with interest.

"Follow Nat, and—"

"Oh, that's absurd," put in Tom Clifton. "What is the use of wasting so much time?"

"We can't stop to talk, fellows," declared Bob, hastily; "Sam and I will meet you this evening. No use to make any kick," he added, as Dick began to object.

Then, before the other Ramblers could add a word, he was off, with Sam at his heels.

"As I live, I'm afraid he has slipped away from us," exclaimed Sam, who was full of enthusiasm at the new rôle he was playing.

"No! I see him, passing that white building over there," cried Bob. "Now, Sam, we must be very cautious. One little mistake might spoil the whole business."

The two separated, taking different sides of the street.

Bob found that shadowing was not as easy as he had supposed it to be. To keep Nat in view, and himself out of sight, proved a difficult task. Once, owing to groups of people and passing vehicles, the trail was lost entirely.

But Sam Randall's sharp eyes had been used to advantage, and with a wave of the hand, he put Bob on the right track again.

"My gracious!" muttered the lad; "he's just going to the post-office, after all. Perhaps we're having a wild goose chase. Yes," he added, a few moments later, "that's where he is bound."

Nat turned into the building, while Sam Randall rejoined his companion.

"Think we got left this time?" observed Sam.

"Seems like it," returned Bob; "but don't let us give up so easily. We'd better look sharp, or he will give us the slip yet."

The post-office was a rather imposing building, standing next to a department store. The entrances, running the entire length of the building, were fortunately all on one street. Therefore, when Nat reappeared, the two Ramblers were quickly on his track.

It is quite probable that had he been at all observant, the ex-Trailer would have seen either Bob or Sam, for, in their anxiety to always keep him in view, they often exposed themselves unnecessarily.

"He is not going back to the hotel, that is certain," said Bob to himself. "Ah! It begins to look interesting."

Nat stopped to speak to a policeman at a crossing.

"Must have asked for directions," muttered Bob.

The man in the blue uniform waved his arm, and Nat moved off at a brisk pace.

"It's getting warm now," chuckled Bob. "Wonder what he would think if he knew that we were at his heels? Whew! I'll have to be more careful. He almost caught me that time."

Along one street, down another, several times stopping to ask directions, Nat led them a merry chase.

In about half an hour, the outskirts of the city were reached. Rows of pretty residences, surrounded by gardens, extended a considerable distance, until, finally, fields, partly wooded, with a house here and there, came into view.

"Talk about a mystery—this beats everything," thought Bob, with a tinge of excitement.

He nimbly jumped over a fence, back of which were numerous shrubs and trees, and thus being better able to protect himself from observation, increased his speed until he had gained a considerable distance on the unsuspecting Nat.

On looking back, he saw that Sam had followed his example.

"Ah! That's where he is going, eh? Have to be a little careful now. It wouldn't do to be caught napping, Bobby."

On the opposite side of the street, which bore the name of Chelten Road, and just beyond the end of the field, stood a plain, unattractive building, two stories high, with green shutters. In front was a garden enclosed by wooden palings, while at the edge of the pavement stood a huge sycamore, the branches overtopping the house.

Nat pushed open the swinging gate, mounted the steps, and Bob could hear the knocker loudly sounded.

He threw himself down in the midst of some tall grass, and peered cautiously over the lower rail of the fence.

"Perhaps we may learn—"

An involuntary exclamation suddenly escaped his lips. He had made a startling discovery.

The man who opened the door and shook hands with Nat was none other than Mr. Parsons Wingate himself.

CHAPTER XXIII

WHAT BOB SAW

"It beats anything I ever heard of—I can hardly believe it. Sure you're not joking?"

"Amazing—that's the word! I wonder what their game is now. H'm, I'm utterly befogged, or whatever you choose to call it."

"Haven't we been easy marks, though?"

"Now we are certain that Mr. Wingate and Nat have been working some kind of a game on us."

The five Ramblers had gathered in Bob Somers' room, and were discussing the astonishing turn in affairs with much animation.

"The whole thing must have been started on the very day that Mr. Wingate came down to look at the 'Rambler.' Probably he only gave Nat a boat so that he could follow us."

"There's a lot of things we have to find out," observed Dick; "who damaged the engine, for one."

"Yes—and who blew up the 'Rambler.'"

"And who took the 'Nimrod.'"

"And—and—Say, fellows, this everlasting mystery is positively getting on my nerves," said Dick. "Can't we do something to clear it up?"

"We must."

"One sure thing," replied Bob, "they don't want us to continue our trip."

The five boys were so interested in their discussion that the afternoon slipped away almost before they knew it.

A light, quick step outside suddenly brought all conversation on the subject to an end. Another instant, and Nat entered the room.

"Hello, where have you been for such a long time?" asked Bob, carelessly.

"For one thing, took in a lot of moving picture shows," replied Nat, without hesitation. "Didn't expect to find you fellows here until about grub time, anyway."

"Come on, fellows," put in Dave; "that reminds me. A nice piece of roast and some mashed potatoes would go pretty well just now."

They all trooped down-stairs into the dining-room.

"What are we going to do after supper?" inquired Tom Clifton.

"Oh, walk around and see what's going on."

"Wish a fire or something else would happen," observed Nat, charitably. "Say, Somers, how long are you going to stay in this place?"

"About two or three days."

"H'm—hang it all, we ought to put in at least a week, eh, Chubby?"

Bob smiled, as he led the way out into the street.

"Well, Nat," he asked, "haven't you any news for us?"

Wingate began to laugh.

"Yes!" he answered, pulling a letter out of his pocket. "Listen to this, and you'll hear the funniest roast you ever came across."

He went off into another burst of merriment.

"Hit your funny-bone, Wingate?" asked Dick Travers.

"It's a letter from Uncle Parsons. Christopher! But he has handed out a few choice remarks about poor old Hacky. Listen."

Nat began to read.

"'When John Hackett learned of your disobedient and disgraceful conduct, and my firm resolve to take them all back to Kingswood, he acted in a fashion which I can hardly describe. His loud and impudent remarks encouraged the others. They actually defied me, made a rumpus in the hotel, then stamped out into the street, as if they were a lot of rowdies. Not one of them has since put in an appearance. I consider John Hackett the most impudent boy I ever came across, and I hope it is not your custom to be guided by anything he may say.'

"A fine, hot roast for poor old 'Hatchet,'" gurgled Nat. "Uncle Parsons is certainly sore. Ha, ha! The whole crowd left him in the lurch."

Next morning, just after breakfast, Bob declared his intention of going to the post-office.

The members of the Rambler Club, accompanied by Nat Wingate, left the hotel in a body and were soon in the busiest section of the city.

"Where is Nat?" cried Dick Travers, a few moments later.

"That's so—what has become of him?" added Dave.

Nat was nowhere to be seen.

"He has given us the slip."

"Is he up to some new trick?"

"Boys!" exclaimed Bob Somers, suddenly, "I'm going to leave you."

"Hold on I Where are you bound?"

"To the house behind the picket fence. It may be a waste of time—but—"

"Let us go along, too?" urged Sam.

Bob shook his head.

"Too risky, Sam."

"But I went the other day."

"That was different. Can't wait to talk, fellows—see you later."

"Perhaps Nat has gone to meet his uncle and their mysterious friend," thought the boy. "I wish I could get a good look at that fellow's face."

At the next corner, he jumped on board a car, rode for some distance, then transferred to another line. When he got off, although still at some distance from his destination, he began to keep a sharp lookout for Nat.

"The Trailer trailed," he chuckled; "Nat isn't quite so smart as he thinks he is."

Bob scarcely breathed easily until he was back of the bushes which had helped to conceal him on the day before. A number of people were near, and he found it difficult to avoid observation.

The minutes seemed to slip by very slowly. The sun grew hotter and hotter, and Bob, wiping his perspiring face, began to think that his vigil would result in nothing.

"Whew, but it is warm!" he murmured. "I can't stand this much longer. Don't see a sign of life now. By Jingo! that isn't a bad idea."

A sudden thought had entered his head.

"It's pretty risky," he muttered; "but I'll do it. I haven't come all this way for nothing."

Bob took a careful view of the deserted street, then arose and walked boldly toward the house.

"Perhaps it won't do any harm, even if they do see me," he thought; "anyway—here goes."

Pulling his hat well over his eyes, he made a bee-line for the big sycamore which stood just inside the curb. It was the work of only a few moments to reach it, when, with considerable agility, Bob drew himself up into a crotch, and screened by the thick foliage began to climb slowly upward.

THE BIG SYCAMORE

The shade of the tree was grateful to Bob, but, as the moments flew by, he began to feel that detective work was not the most pleasant in the world.

"I don't suppose—"

The half uttered words came to an abrupt stop.

A faint sound of voices from below reached his ears. Then the front door was opened and two figures appeared on the steps. They were Mr. Wingate and Nat.

Bob scarcely dared to breathe, as they walked slowly toward the gate.

"Don't bother me about it any more," Mr. Wingate was saying; "this is only a matter of business, and we prefer to discuss it in private."

"I don't believe you've told me the real thing," growled Nat. "Why do you want to keep anything back?"

"You should not have been so silly as to leave the boys and come here. You ran away at Clair Bay, and now when I ask you to stay with your friends you come here to bother me with annoying questions."

"But why are you so afraid to answer them?" demanded Nat.

"I declare! You would try the patience of a saint," cried Mr. Wingate, angrily. Then he added, in a milder tone: "Now, Nat, if everything goes well, my promise is to be fulfilled. Run along—I am keeping those gentlemen waiting."

Nat was clearly in a disgusted frame of mind as he slowly walked away.

Bob Somers straightened up to ease his aching back. The expression on his face indicated the greatest astonishment.

"Crickets, I'm glad to know this," he muttered. "Nat Wingate isn't half as bad as we thought. He did run away from his uncle, after all. What a piece of luck! Guess even Chubby will open his eyes when he hears the news."

In his cramped quarters, he had shifted from one position to another until it seemed as if every muscle was aching, but he kept to his post.

At length, after what seemed to be a very long wait, voices at the door again made him keenly alert.

Four figures appeared.

Gently pushing aside a branch, he was able to get a good view of the group. One was tall and slim, dressed in a gray suit and wore a straw hat.

But Bob's glance quickly left this man to centre on two figures who had a strangely familiar look.

"Where can I have seen them before?" he mused.

His eyes eagerly roved from one to the other, as the group approached the gate.

One of them presently turned. His profile was sharply outlined against the sunlit ground.

Like a flash, Bob recalled where he had seen the two before. It was on the little steamboat which they had encountered when passing through the lock.

CHAPTER XXIV

ANOTHER MYSTERY

This, indeed, was another startling discovery, and one which brought a flood of thoughts to Bob Somers' brain.

He waited until satisfied that there was no danger of discovery, then slipped down from his perch and started rapidly away.

"A lucky thing I climbed that tree," he soliloquized. "A mighty good morning's work. Now I think I'd better give father's letter to Mr. Jenkins at once."

Passing a restaurant, he was reminded of the fact that lunch time had arrived, and accordingly entered.

During the course of the meal, Bob took from his inside pocket a wallet. It contained a letter which Mr. Somers had sent to his agent. The inscription on the envelope read:

John C. Jenkins,
243 State Street,
Tocono, Wisconsin.

He remembered the locality, and on leaving the restaurant started off without hesitation.

Number 243 State Street was an old-fashioned building. The march of progress had left it dingy and dreary-looking between two of its more pretentious modern neighbors. In the hallway was a directory of tenants.

"Fifth floor, rooms 501 and 502," read Bob. "It's a rather poor-looking office building,—and these stairs certainly do creak."

When Bob reached his destination, he found a notice tacked on the door which informed him that Mr. Jenkins would return at half-past two.

"I'll walk around a bit," he mused, slowly retracing his steps.

Promptly at the time stated, Bob was again standing before the office door.

Mr. Jenkins, however, was still absent.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and Bob, impatient at the delay, once more reluctantly descended to the street. Finally a neighboring clock struck the hour of three.

The notes had scarcely ceased reverberating, when a tall, thin man rapidly crossed the street, headed directly for the doorway. He brushed past Bob Somers and mounted the stairs.

Bob gave a gasp of surprise and quickly followed.

As the man turned on the fifth landing, Bob had reached the fourth. He waited long enough to hear a door opened and shut, then mounted the remaining steps two at a time.

The notice at the entrance to Mr. Jenkins' office had been removed.

"Another important discovery," mused Bob. "So Mr. John C. Jenkins happens to be one of the very men I saw with Mr. Wingate a few minutes ago. This is interesting—sure enough. Guess I don't care to see him just yet."

Whistling softly, Bob turned away, and headed directly for the post-office.

In a long letter he told his father of the various discoveries he had made, advised him not to sell his land, and concluded by urging him to come to Tocono at once.

At half-past four he reached the Wisconsin House.

The boys had not yet put in an appearance, and another trying wait followed.

At ten minutes past six, a welcome sound reached his ears. The Ramblers were ascending the stairs.

"Hello, fellows!" he cried, stepping out upon the landing.

"Hello, Bob, you runaway; any news?" asked Sam.

Even Dave listened eagerly, as Bob related his experience. Wonder and surprise were depicted on the faces of all when he told about the men on the steamboat, and the discovery of the agent in Mr. Wingate's company.

"You have done yourself proud, Bob Somers," declared Dick Travers; "you'd make a great detective."

"Just to think, those chaps on that little steamboat did all the mischief," observed Sam; "who could have believed it?"

"One thing we know, now," said Bob; "Nat Wingate isn't quite as mean as we thought."

"But somebody ought to be in jail."

"Well, just wait until dad gets here. The whole scheme is plain—they wanted to buy that land before we could get there."

"Maybe there's a gold mine on it," suggested Tom, jestingly.

Bob Somers' thoughts were, naturally, very much occupied with his discoveries.

"Dad will find out all about it in short order," he said to himself, "or else I'm much mistaken."

Sightseeing, a trolley ride to an amusement park and an evening spent at the public library were all enjoyed.

Early on the following morning, Bob received the hoped-for letter.

"Father is coming on this afternoon," he announced joyfully to Sam Randall; "he expects to get here at 2:37."

"Splendid!" cried Sam. "I only hope he clears up everything."

"Don't for the world let Nat know that dad will be here," cautioned Bob.

"Trust me for that. I'm too anxious to have things settled."

The two boys kept together until nearly train time. Then Sam Randall took his departure, while Bob entered the railroad station.

He walked up and down the long platform, viewing the sights with interest. Trucks, loaded with trunks and valises, were being rattled forth and back, while passengers in groups or walking to and fro awaited their trains.

At length a whistle sounded in the distance, a puff of smoke rose above the buildings, then the train rounded a curve and within a few minutes a roar and the hiss of escaping steam filled the air.

Suddenly Bob darted forward. He had caught sight of a stout, prosperous-looking gentleman, who, bag in hand, had alighted.

"Hello, dad!" he cried, seizing his hand.

"Hello, Bob! Glad to see you safe and sound."

"How is mother?"

"Very well, but, naturally, anxious about you. You seem to have had a most extraordinary trip."

"Yes, indeed—I should say so."

"You must tell me all about it—from the very beginning," said Mr. Somers.

He waved his arm toward a rickety-looking conveyance.

"Now, Bob," said his father, settling himself back in his seat, "let us go over the various points together. Mr. Jenkins may have been playing a pretty deep game."

"I'm almost sure he has."

"So you told me. You have done remarkably well in finding out so much."

As the cab rolled along, the two discussed the whole affair at length.

"Mr. Jenkins saw me at Kingswood, and I was on the point of accepting his terms, when your letter arrived," declared Mr. Somers; "everything seemed square and aboveboard."

"And you weren't going to wait until we got there?" asked Bob, reproachfully.

Mr. Somers smiled.

"Your trip had been so much delayed that I began to feel it wasn't worth while. Then, your mother urged me to accept, and I could see no reason for holding out any longer, as the terms were satisfactory."

"What is your plan, father?" asked Bob.

"I shall see Mr. Jenkins to-day—beard the lion in his den, as it were," replied Mr. Somers. "Ah! here we are."

The cab stopped in front of the Tocono House.

Mr. Somers, in due time, reached the State Street building, and the occupant of rooms numbers 501 and 502 answered the sharp knock in person.

As the light from the rear window illuminated his visitor's face, he started back in astonishment.

"Mr. Somers!" he exclaimed. Then, collecting himself, he added, "Very glad to see you, sir. Come right in. No doubt you wish to conclude our land deal."

Leaning over, he drew forth from their respective pigeon-holes several papers tied with pink strings.

"My client is getting impatient, Mr. Somers," he said; "I shall be glad to have the matter settled."

"I will not keep you in suspense, Mr. Jenkins. I have reconsidered the matter, and decided not to sell."

The agent stared at the speaker in surprise.

"You have decided not to sell?" he echoed, slowly. "What do you mean—wasn't the deal practically closed in Kingswood?"

"Things have developed since then which caused me to change my mind," said Mr. Somers, his keen gray eyes fixed full on the other's face.

"I must confess that I do not understand you, Mr. Somers," said Jenkins, with a very weak smile.

"Could you spare the time to visit the land with me?"

Mr. Jenkins moved uneasily in his chair.

"Just at present I am too busy," he stammered; "but, Mr. Somers, you were out there last year, and know all about it. The offer is a good one—I advise you to accept it."

"I commissioned my son and several friends of his to go out and see this land," said Mr. Somers, slowly, "and no sooner did his destination become known than a plot was formed to prevent him from reaching it."

Mr. Jenkins straightened up. His thin hands trembled.

"What do you mean?" he asked, in a hesitating voice.

"That two men on a small steamboat kept track of them," replied Mr. Somers, calmly; "and when an opportunity presented itself, destroyed a valuable motor boat."

"Is it possible!" gasped the agent, whose face plainly revealed the state of his feelings.

"And not only that," went on Mr. Somers, "but when it was found that they had the courage to continue, they were marooned on an island. Afterward, at Clair Bay, an effort was made to induce them to return home. Can you blame me for changing my mind?"

"Most astonishing. But what has it got to do with me?" asked the agent, with a desperate effort to retain his composure.

"Do you know Mr. Parsons Wingate?" demanded Mr. Somers, abruptly.

"Mr. Parsons Wingate?—er—slightly," admitted the agent, in a low voice; "but why—I ask you again—"

"Because there are several matters which must be cleared up. On Chelten Road there is a house with green shutters. You, Mr. Wingate, and the two men who destroyed my son's motor boat have been meeting there."

Pale and agitated, Mr. Jenkins sprang to his feet. His lips quivered. He stood with trembling hand resting upon the arm of the chair.

"What is all this rubbish?" he gasped. "I—I won't be insulted! Who dares to accuse me?"

"Facts, sir! The facts accuse you," said Mr. Somers, who now felt assured of the other's guilt. "The police are ready to make arrests."

"The police—you say?" gasped the agent.

"I will tell you that only this morning, on my way to Tocono, I stopped at Clair Bay and saw the authorities. They only await my word!"

Utterly overwhelmed, Mr. Jenkins sank back in his chair.

After being assured that he would not be prosecuted, he gave Mr. Somers the following facts:

Copper ore had been discovered by Mr. Jenkins on a strip of land adjoining that of Mr. Somers. As this was not generally known, Mr. Wingate and he were able to purchase it for a comparatively small sum. Aided by the men who destroyed the motor boat, several frame buildings were erected, borings made and everything put into shape to begin active work.

All this was due to Mr. Jenkins' knowledge of copper mining. He had succeeded, by a practical demonstration of its value, in interesting Mr. Wingate, with whom he was acquainted.

Unfortunately for their plans, it developed that the vein extended directly into Mr. Somers' property, and that unless this was also purchased they would be able to make little or nothing by the find.

Negotiations were at once started, and, about this time, in spite of much precaution, it became noised about that an important discovery had been made. Then, right on top of this, they were dismayed to hear of the Rambler Club's prospective visit.

Mr. Jenkins therefore knew that unless the deal was carried through at once Mr. Somers would learn the real facts of the case and put his price up to a prohibitive figure. It was therefore decided to prevent Bob and his companions from reaching the land, at all hazards.

Mr. Wingate hired the "Nimrod" and told Nat that he would make him a present of the motor boat if he should succeed in delaying the Ramblers for a certain length of time.

At first it was thought there would be no difficulty, but Mr. Somers' failure to decide promptly upset all their calculations, and caused them to realize that bolder steps would be necessary.

An old steamboat was hired, and the two men detailed to retard the movements of Bob and his companions.

The agent admitted that Mr. Wingate had been entirely opposed to desperate measures, and that he and Nat were not acquainted with all that was done.

The destruction of the "Rambler" was largely due to the advice of one of the two men, who argued that Mr. Somers would never allow the boys to keep on after such a disaster. Mr. Jenkins said it was his intention to pay for the boat later.

When the boys kept on Mr. Wingate devised the "Crusoe" island scheme. Nat, who was always ready for mischief, viewed this mainly in the light of a practical joke. He carried through his part of it successfully, the two men following at a safe distance.

The "Nimrod" was secured and returned to its owners.

While the boys were marooned on the island, Mr. Jenkins went to Kingswood, and returned to Tocono confident that success would crown his efforts.

When the boys turned up at Clair Bay, Mr. Wingate played his last card, and upon receipt of Nat's telegram, hurried on to Tocono. He was greatly incensed at his nephew's insubordination, but foresaw that advantage might be taken of it. Nat was summoned to Mr. Jenkins' residence on Chelten Road, and instructed to keep track of the boys.

Letters and telegrams were dispatched to Mr. Somers, and the conspirators seemed to be on the point of winning at the very last moment.

But Bob Somers' strategy had upset all their plans.

CHAPTER XXV

MR. SOMERS' LAND

The "chief pirate of the bounding deep" was a most disgusted and mortified boy when he learned of the unfortunate result of his uncle's scheming.

All the facts became known at a stormy meeting between Mr. Wingate and Jenkins, which took place in the house on Chelten Road. Nat's uncle was very angry when he learned of Mr. Somers' visit. As is usual in such cases, each blamed the other, and in the war of words that followed Nat's presence was disregarded.

"Somers," said Nat, sheepishly, when he saw him later on, "this is the truth—Uncle Parson never told me the real reason why he wanted you kept back. 'It's a business matter,' he would say; 'there are other people trying to buy this land, and if Bob Somers gets out there he couldn't help discovering it.' I couldn't see any particular harm in what he wanted done. That's the reason I helped. It was only just a lot of sport to me."

"What made your uncle say anything about it in the first place?" asked Bob.

"I heard him talking over the 'phone one day, and found that he was trying to buy the land. He had to tell me, for fear I might say something to you."

"But when the 'Rambler' was stolen, then damaged, and at last blown up, didn't you know anything about it?"

"Honestly, Somers, I went to my uncle and asked him a few questions, and he flew into a terrible rage. 'Do you think I'm in the business of blowing up boats?' he said. 'Of course not! I had nothing to do with it.'"

"I suppose it was the same men who stole the boat?"

"You're right! Say, Somers, I'm awfully sorry, and hope you don't bear any ill will toward me."

Bob held out his hand.

"Of course I don't," he said, heartily.

And the rival leaders shook hands.

In Tocono lived Mr. Horatio Strang, a well-known copper mining expert.

Mr. Somers visited him and finally induced him to accompany the party to their destination. Thus it happened that two gentlemen and five boys started off, early one morning, on a Clair Bay steamer.

The boys carried pickaxes and all other implements necessary for their work.

Mr. Somers' tract of land proved to be densely wooded in places, with other portions barren and rocky.

Guided by information which Mr. Jenkins had furnished, the party went from place to place, exposing here and there the underlying strata of rock.

Investigations were not completed until the sun had sunk beneath the western horizon and the gray of evening began to steal over the landscape.

"Well, Mr. Strang," said Mr. Somers, turning toward the mineralogist, "what is your opinion?"

The expert removed his glasses, carefully replacing them in their case.

"For your sake, Mr. Somers," he replied, "I am glad to say that, to my mind, your land represents a fortune."

"In which case," said Mr. Somers, turning to the boys, "I have to thank the Ramblers. But for you, the land would not now be in my possession."

On a pleasant evening, a few days after the party had returned to Kingswood, the Rambler Club, the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Somers, sat in the big dining-room of Pembroke Hall.

"Boys," said Mr. Somers, at the conclusion of the repast, rising to his feet, "I feel that I owe you a great deal, and in recognition of your services, have decided to make you an offer. I want you to decide among yourselves what you would like me to give you to replace the 'Rambler.' Think it over."

The boys clapped their hands, thanked him heartily, and Dave Brandon voiced the sentiment of all when he declared that the prospects of the Rambler Club were bright indeed.

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Table of Contents

- The Rambler Club Afloat
- Introduction
- Contents
- Illustrations
- The Rambler Club Afloat

- CHAPTER I

- THE NEW CLUB

- CHAPTER II

- THE BOAT

- CHAPTER III

- NAT IS ANGRY

- CHAPTER IV

- A TRIAL TRIP

- CHAPTER V

- THE NIMRODS

- CHAPTER VI

- TOM'S COOKING

- CHAPTER VII

- REPAIRING DAMAGES

- CHAPTER VIII

- CAMPING OUT

- CHAPTER IX

- HACKETT'S SHOOTING

- CHAPTER X

- A REAL HERO

- CHAPTER XI

- DAVE COMES BACK

- CHAPTER XII

- IN DANGER

- CHAPTER XIII

- A SQUALL

- CHAPTER XIV

- MISCHIEF

- CHAPTER XV

- MAN OVERBOARD

- CHAPTER XVI

- DISASTER

- CHAPTER XVII

- ARRESTED

- CHAPTER XVIII

- THE NIMRODS IN TROUBLE

- CHAPTER XIX

- ON THE BAY

- CHAPTER XX

- ANOTHER BOAT GONE

- CHAPTER XXI

- "I HATE TO GIVE UP"

- CHAPTER XXII

- DETECTIVE WORK

- CHAPTER XXIII

- WHAT BOB SAW

- CHAPTER XXIV

- ANOTHER MYSTERY

- CHAPTER XXV

- MR. SOMERS' LAND

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE