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.
