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.
