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.