"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.