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.