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Boy Scout Series Volume 6

THE BOY SCOUT PATHFINDERS

Or

Jack Danby’s Best Adventure

by

MAJOR ROBERT MAITLAND

C






The Saalfield Publishing Company
Chicago      Akron, Ohio      New York

Copyright 1912
by
The Saalfield Publishing Co.




                              CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGE
      I  HO! FOR THE ADIRONDACKS                                     3
     II  THE LOGGING CAMP                                           12
    III  THE OLD SNAKE HUNTER                                       26
     IV  THE FIGHT                                                  35
      V  THE BEAR’S SURPRISE PARTY                                  42
     VI  THE PLOT                                                   50
    VII  TRAPPED IN THE CAVE                                        58
   VIII  THE BOY SCOUTS TO THE FORE                                 66
     IX  DICK CRAWFORD GIVES WARNING                                77
      X  “BUSY AS BEAVERS”                                          87
     XI  THE BOG                                                   100
    XII  OLD SAM TO THE RESCUE                                     108
   XIII  THE BROKEN TRESTLE                                        117
    XIV  THE SAVING OF THE TRAIN                                   124
     XV  A STRANGE DUEL                                            132
    XVI  TOO LATE!                                                 139
   XVII  JACK’S RUN FOR LIFE                                       148
  XVIII  BALKED OF THEIR PREY                                      154




                      The Boy Scout Pathfinders




                              CHAPTER I

                       HO! FOR THE ADIRONDACKS


“Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!” clashed the great bell
on the locomotive, and with much creaking and clanking and letting
off of steam, with iron scraping on iron and one last, long drawn
whistle of the air-brakes, the train came slowly to a stop.

As if vying with the locomotive to see which could make the greater
noise, a score or more of khaki-clad boys came tumbling to the
platform of the little mountain station, amid whoops and cat-calls
and shouts of, “Here we are!” “Hurrah for the Adirondacks!” “Say,
fellows, this is the backwoods and no mistake!”

And then in rapid succession came the further inquiries:

“Which way do we go? Up this road?”

“See that big rock away down there? I’ll race you to it!”

The big collie Don, not to be behindhand when there was any noise or
capering to be done, and more glad than anyone else to be released
from the many hours of close confinement in that awful baggage car,
ran wildly about, darting in and out between the boys’ feet, at the
imminent danger of upsetting the whole procession, and added his
joyful bark to the general noise and confusion.

A couple of boys did go down, but were at once on their feet and
after Don, who--knowing and wise dog that he was!--understood well
that his pursuers were his loyal friends, as he was theirs, and felt
no fear, but ran and doubled, and ran on again, treating it all as
the very best kind of a joke.

A half hour of racing and tearing to given points and back again,
and impromptu games of leapfrog and follow my leader gave vent to
the bubbling spirits held in check during the long journey and the
Scouts, once more looking like self-controlled boys instead of
cavorting wild Indians, settled down to a walk.

This was the opportunity for which Mr. Durland had been waiting to
discuss plans for the season’s camp.

The call to camp had been sent out so late that most of the Scouts
knew little beside the location and duration of the camp; and now
Scout-Master Durland proceeded to enlighten them.

Late in the autumn of the previous year Mr. Scott, a very
wealthy gentleman, had purchased a large section of land in the
Adirondacks--many, many acres of ground, nearly a whole county, in
fact.

As it was late in the season, he had been forced to postpone the
inspection and surveying of the tract until the next year, but in
order to be ready early in the summer, he had had a stout log house
erected, to serve as a shelter for whomever should be sent out for
the survey, and after that as a temporary hunting lodge until a
larger and more elaborate one should be built.

Mr. Scott and the Scout-Master were warm friends, and knowing the
proposed plans for the new lands, Mr. Durland had suggested making
the work the object of the Boy Scouts’ summer camp. Mr. Scott, a firm
believer and warm advocate of the Boy Scout movement, had readily
consented.

Because there was more or less danger in this region of encountering
a bear, or even a wildcat, and as a rattlesnake was not altogether an
impossibility, it was thought advisable to use the lodge as sleeping
quarters instead of the usual tents or lean-tos. A large shack would
have to be built for a mess tent, and a place to store provisions.

This tract of newly purchased land was in a section uninhabited for
a distance of many miles around, as far as had been ascertained. The
county town was twelve miles away--not too far for an occasional
trip for provisions, but as the mountain roads were steep and rough,
making the going very difficult, an unusual amount and variety of
provisions had been sent with the Troop. One or possibly two trips
during the season would be all that would be necessary to keep the
camp well stocked.

So much for the camp-building and welfare. Now for an explanation of
the work laid out for the Scouts by Mr. Scott.

They were to be pathfinders in this hitherto almost totally
unexplored region. They were to locate springs, brooks, streams,
lakes, perhaps rivers; note the kinds of fish to be found in these
waters and in what numbers; make lists of the different trees, birds
and animals to be found upon it, and to group and classify them.
They were to ascertain the nature of the soil in different sections,
explore by-paths, and outline the best and safest and shortest routes
to the section where any desired water or soil or bird or animal was
to be found.

Beside all this, they were to become so familiar with the country for
five miles around the camp as to be able to guide any person at any
time, day or night.

A great work, surely, and one which, if well and satisfactorily
handled, might well cause any boy’s heart to leap with pride.

The Scouts, sober enough now, had listened with absorbed interest to
all that Mr. Durland had said. At the mention of bears and bobcats,
every boy had felt his heart thrill. Was there a possibility of a
real encounter with one of these animals which, when seen even in
the zoo, had been terrifyingly fierce? Mr. Durland had said that the
possibility was so small that it was hardly worth considering, but
that there was even the faintest chance was enough to make your heart
beat faster.

However, when he spoke so earnestly of the great work outlined for
them, and showed the eager Scouts what splendid opportunities for
mental growth it would open to them, and what a part this knowledge
they were sure to gain would play in their future success in life,
each Scout determined to do his very best and to make the most of
every opportunity.

So, at last, just at high noon, they came to the place where they
were to pitch their new camp, and again the excitement broke out.

Catching sight of the log house or lodge, with one accord they made
for it, and in a great deal less time than it takes to tell it, every
nook and corner of that house was explored.

They saw with satisfaction that the building was very strong, and
that the many windows, beside being set with very thick glass, were
provided with perforated shutters of inch-thick solid oak wood,
closing from the inside. Ben Hoover expressed the general sentiment
when he said, “Those shutters certainly look good to me!”

Mr. Durland’s voice reminded them that if everything was to be made
shipshape in the new camp before nightfall, there was no time now to
play, and from that moment the camp was a busy scene.

The two Scouts who were detailed as cooks were soon busy making
a small fireplace on which to cook their dinner. Placing three
stones together, they laid between them some whittled shavings for
kindlings, applied a match and, as the fire commenced to burn, they
placed over it some twigs and dry wood, quantities of which lay
scattered about, and soon had a fine fire over which to place their
frying-pan.

In the meantime the hamper was opened and when, in shorter time than
you could have thought possible, the call to dinner was sounded,
everyone came running. No one needed a second call, and the way that
bacon and crisp fried potatoes and cornbread disappeared was a marvel.

Dinner over, one small squad was detailed to unpack, while all the
rest were pressed into service to build the mess shack. This was
finished by five o’clock, and then each Scout gathered branches of
the fragrant balsam and hemlock for his bed. Over these he spread his
rubber blanket, and over that his sleeping blanket, and he had a bed
soft and springy and comfortable enough for a king.

Everything being in first-class order at last, and ready for the
night, a tired, hungry lot of boys gathered around the supper table.
As they ate they talked of their impressions of the new camp site,
eagerly discussed the probable adventures they would have, and then
someone asked Scout-Master Durland what kind of animals they would be
likely to find here.

Mr. Durland smiled and said he would rather they would find that out
for themselves.

“Well,” said Jack Danby, “from what I have read, I am dead sure there
is one little animal who lives up here whose acquaintance I shall be
very glad to make.”

“What is that?” eagerly asked Bob Hart.

“The otter,” replied Jack.

“Oh,” said Bob, disappointedly, “there’s nothing so very interesting
about an otter!”

“Perhaps,” said Jack, smiling, “after you have had a chance to see
him in his home and at work, you will change your mind. I know you
will, for he is one of the most interesting of animals. In certain
parts of England, especially near rivers, there used to be a great
many otters, and some of the fishermen trained them to catch fish for
them.”

“Say, Jack, you really don’t believe that, do you?” said incredulous
Bob.

“I have to believe it if it is true,” said Jack.

“How can they be trained to do that?” asked Tom Binns.

“Well,” explained Jack, “it is something like this. A string was tied
about the otter’s neck in a sort of slip-knot that could be lightened
when the trainer wished. Then the trainer would say, ‘Come here!’ and
pull on the string, so that the otter would be drawn toward him.

“This was done several times, until the otter connected the action
with the words, and then the string was dropped and he came
obediently without it at the words of command.

“Next a small, artificial fish was made and placed on the ground
before the otter, the string pulled until he opened his mouth, when
the fish was placed in it, while at the same moment the words, ‘Take
it!’ were uttered. It would be a long time before he would learn to
do this, but when he did, the string was again used while he had the
fish in his mouth and the command, ‘Drop it!’ was given.

“At last he learned to obey these two commands without the use of
the string. Then he was taken to the edge of the water and a small,
dead fish thrown in and the command given him to take it. He at once
seized it, and at the word, ‘Drop it!’ yielded it to his master.

“Next live fishes were thrown in, and when he had brought them, the
heads were given to him as his reward, and the little fisherman was
always ready for his work. In fact, one entire family was supplied
with food for a long time in this way.”

The result of this story was to make all the Scouts wish that they
might have a chance to make Mr. Otter’s acquaintance.

As everybody was very tired, it was decided to make no camp-fire
that night, so after the roll-call all were glad to throw themselves
upon their beds of fragrant balsam. They found them deliciously
comfortable, and many a tired New York millionaire, tossing
sleeplessly on his luxurious couch, might have envied these sturdy
Scouts as they sank at once into the sleep that is the reward of
a healthy body, a clear conscience, and muscles tired with honest
effort.

Once in the night Mr. Durland was aroused by a sleep-bound voice
asking, “Are those shutters closed? There might be a bear!” But no
bear more formidable than Ursa Major peeped through the holes of
the shutters, and sweet, restful sleep held the tired Scouts in her
embrace.




                             CHAPTER II

                          THE LOGGING CAMP


The Scouts arose early the next day, in order to be able to march
during the cool morning hours, and so escape the torrid middle part
of the day, which is especially hot during the short northern summer.

But although hot after the sun is up, the nights seem all the colder
by contrast. Fortunately, the Scout-Master had foreseen this and had
provided for it by insisting that each Scout carry a warm woolen
blanket. To many of the boys this had seemed a waste of energy at the
time. Who on earth could want a blanket at that time of the year,
they argued.

The first night in camp, however, proved the wisdom of Mr. Durland’s
course, and they were glad enough to wrap their blankets around and
around them and lie close to each other for the sake of warmth.

Ben Hoover expressed the general feeling when he said, “We must all
be crazy with the heat, I think. By this time we ought to realize
that Mr. Durland knows what he is talking about.”

It had been arranged that today they would make a visit to a logging
camp which lay about five miles in a westerly direction from their
camp.

All the Scouts were eager to see the lumber camp, and so stepped off
smartly at the word of command from Scout-Master Durland. If left to
themselves, most boys would probably have run the first part of the
way, but these Scouts knew that five miles through the woods on such
a day as this promised to be was not any laughing matter, so they
went along slowly.

This did not suit Don, but he submitted with good grace, like the
Scout and gentleman he was. He usually traveled about three miles to
every one that the boys made, anyway, darting off on his own doggish
errands and returning with a wise look on his face. Whatever anyone
else thought, he evidently considered his expeditions of the utmost
importance.

Today, however, he restrained his exuberant feelings, and walked
along sedately with the rest of his Troop, his magnificent brush
waving slowly from side to side. Even when a squirrel darted across
the path, he curbed his ardent desire to chase it, and Jack petted
him lovingly on the head.

“You’re just as good a Scout as any of us, aren’t you, old boy?” he
asked. “Even if you haven’t taken the Scout oath, I know well enough
that you would if you could. When it comes right down to having good
principles, I guess you are as good as any of us!”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mr. Durland, who had overheard the last
part of his remark. “If every man had as good and upright instincts
as that dog, the world would be a better place than it is now.”

Jack saluted, and said respectfully, “Yes, sir, I guess it would.”

It seemed no time after that until they were surprised to come
suddenly upon an opening in the woods, and Mr. Durland said, smiling,
“Well, Scouts, we have arrived! While you are here, I want you to
keep your eyes and ears open, and learn all you can about logging.
Everything you see will be interesting, so I have no doubt you will
have a good time. Remember, we are to make a report on what we see,
so we want to be on the job. Now, forward, march!”

The Scouts defiled out into the open, and started down the rough path
toward the camp. This was situated at the bottom of a hollow, where
it was sheltered somewhat from the wintry blasts.

As the Scouts approached, they saw that it was composed of two rough
log buildings, one considerably larger than the other. The larger
structure was the bunk house, where the lumberjacks ate and slept,
and the smaller one was the cook house, or kitchen.

As the boys came nearer, they could see the cook’s helper, or cookee,
as he was called, standing outside the door, washing an immense pile
of dishes. He was engaged in a hot argument with the cook, who was a
peppery little French Canadian.

“What you tink, by gar?” the latter was shouting as they got within
hearing distance. “You tink I am goin’ to cook for dees here bunch of
hungry pigs, an’ den help you wash dishes, also? Mon Dieu! What you
take me for--what you call zee easy mark?”

“There, there, Frenchy, keep your hair on!” replied the cookee, a
red-headed lad about the same age as the Scouts, and then added,
with an exasperating grin, “If I couldn’t cook anything better than
the sour dough biscuits and the sinkers you turn out, I’d be ashamed
to take the boss’s good money! Why don’t you get a job in New York
driving an ash cart? You’d look nifty in one of them white uniforms,
and then you wouldn’t have a chance to kill off any more poor
lumbermen with your bum grub! That’s what I’d do if I was you!”

This seemed to drive the excitable Frenchman nearly frantic.

“Pig! Dog! Vile one!” he screamed. “Is it zat you would mock me,
child of ze gutter?”

The grinning boy appeared to take pleasure in teasing the peppery
cook, and finally the latter seemed to go quite mad with rage. He
grasped a huge wooden spoon from a table beside the door, and
made a clumsy rush at his assistant. The nimble boy easily eluded
him, however, but once or twice let the cook get so near him that
the little man felt encouraged to keep up the chase in the hope of
finally catching him. At last his breath gave out, and he came to a
standstill and shook his fist wildly in futile rage.

“That’s right, Frenchy, fan the air all you please,” shouted the
evidently delighted youngster. “It does you good, and doesn’t hurt
me, so we’re both happy.”

“Wait, wait, zat is all!” gurgled the cook, his face purple. “Soon
ze boss, he will come back, and zen you will see, little devil! He
will--what you call it? Make ze punching bag of you! Who will be
happy zen? I will laugh at you, so, ha-ha!”

“Go ahead, laugh, old boy, it will ease your mind!” said the boy,
whom the cook had so aptly described. “It may save you from having
apoplexy and croaking. Fat old guys like you often go off just like
that!” and he grinned and snapped his fingers.

The outraged cook could think of nothing to say to this crowning
insult, and retired into his shack, muttering a string of variegated
profanity. After a short interval the boy returned to his
dish-washing, but kept a wary eye on the door, prepared to cut and
run at the first sign of danger.

The Boy Scouts had been interested spectators of this scene, and now
Mr. Durland stepped up to the boy who had been the cause of all the
trouble, and said, “Can you tell me, my lad, where I can find the
foreman, if he is in camp?”

“The boss is away just now,” replied the boy, civilly enough. “Wot’s
yer business with him? Shall I tell him you were here?”

“That depends on when he will be back,” replied Mr. Durland. “Do you
think he will be here soon? If so, we will wait for him.”

“I guess he will, if you want to see him bad enough to wait,”
answered the boy. He seemed willing enough to oblige, and Mr. Durland
felt sure that he was not a really bad boy, although it is safe to
say that the cook would not have agreed with him.

“Who’s them guys with you?” asked the boy, but with a note of respect
in his voice that was seldom heard there.

“That is a Troop of three Patrols of Boy Scouts,” explained Mr.
Durland.

“Boy Scouts?” echoed the boy. “I knew a feller once who was a Boy
Scout, and he said it was nifty to be one. He said I could be one,
too, if I wanted to, and I did, but I thought he was just kidding me.
How is a guy like me, what can’t even talk straight, goin’ to be a
Boy Scout?”

“There’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t be one, if you really
desire it,” said Mr. Durland, kindly. “You can soon learn to ‘talk
straight,’ as you call it, and once you have taken the Scout oath,
everything else will come of itself.”

The Scout-Master then went on to explain just what being a Boy Scout
meant, and the boy listened attentively. When he spoke about the
Scout oath, the boy inquired:

“Just what is the oath, mister?”

“It is the oath that every boy desiring to become a Scout must take,
and once having done so, he must stick to it through thick and thin,”
explained Mr. Durland.

“Well, I know now that I will want to join, but could I have a little
time to think it over?” inquired Harry, for so his name proved to be.

“Why, surely!” replied Mr. Durland, cordially. “We wouldn’t hurry
you in your decision for a moment. We will be in the camp off and on
quite a while, and you can let me know of your decision at any time
that suits you best. Just take your time, my boy, and think it over.”

“I will, sir,” replied Harry, gratefully, and turned again to his
seemingly endless task.

The Scout-Master rejoined the boys, and they all started on an
inspection of the camp. As they walked, Mr. Durland told Jack and
Dick Crawford about what the red-haired boy had said, and they were
as pleased as he over the prospect of gaining a new Scout, when
in this part of the country nothing had been further from their
thoughts.

The clearing in which the logging camp was situated covered several
acres, and was hemmed in closely by giant trees. Some of these had
already been nicked by the woodcutter’s axe, which marked them as the
next victims to the demands of advancing civilization.

Not far from the camp ran a river, or at least what was a river at
certain seasons of the year, though now it was little more than a
large brook. The boys could hear it murmuring through the trees, and
suddenly Tom Binns said:

“Say, fellows, I wonder if there’s any place around here that we
could take a swim? It’s getting pretty hot, and I for one feel as if
a good swim would do me all sorts of good.”

There was a general shout of approval, and the Scout-Master said,
“Why don’t you see if you can discover a pool of some kind?”

This was no sooner said than done, and the boys, accompanied by Don,
were plunging pell-mell through the underbrush in the direction of
the river. Soon they emerged on the bank of the stream, and after
their hot run the thought of a plunge in the cool, shady river was
pleasant indeed.

Running along the bank, they discovered a place where a fallen forest
giant had formed a natural dam, and the water was several feet deep.
It was not two minutes before every Scout was in the pool, and oh,
how grateful the cool, clear water felt! They splashed around, and
in one place the better swimmers found it deep enough for diving.

“Say, isn’t this a bully place?” shouted Jack.

“Bet your sweet life it is!” shouted one.

“I just guess yes!” agreed another.

Mr. Durland remained on the bank with Don beside him. He could see
that the dog wanted to jump in with the boys, but felt that he ought
not to leave the Scout-Master alone. So Mr. Durland picked up a dry
stick and, showing it to Don, said, “Here, boy, fetch it back!” and
threw it into the stream.

In three bounds Don had reached the brink of the pool and dashed in,
covering the boys with spray. In less time than it takes to tell, he
had grasped the stick in his strong, white teeth, and clambered up
the bank.

Pausing only long enough to give himself a shake, which sent a
miniature shower into the air, he ran proudly up to the Scout-Master
and dropped the stick at his feet. Mr. Durland patted his wet head
approvingly, and this performance was repeated several times, much
to the delight of both boys and dog. When it came to swimming, Don
could beat any of them, and the water seemed almost to be his natural
element.

But time was passing, and at last the boys had to climb out
reluctantly and dress.

“Gee,” said Bob Hart, “we’ll have to try to get down here as often as
we can,” and this sentiment was heartily echoed by the others.

They now proceeded to the camp, and when they reached there found
that the foreman, Mr. Flannigan, had arrived a few minutes before.

Mr. Durland introduced himself, and handed the foreman a letter from
Mr. Scott. With many grimaces and mutterings Mr. Flannigan finally
deciphered the letter and, looking up, remarked:

“Shure, an’ Mr. Scott says as how yer all right, an’ by the same
token, whativer Mr. Scott says goes around here, him bein’ the boss.
What kin I be doin’ fur ye, sir?”

“Why, nothing very much,” answered Mr. Durland with a smile. “We are
commissioned by Mr. Scott, as he no doubt tells you in his letter, to
get the lay of the land around here and make a report to him. While
we were about it, I thought it would be a good chance to give my
Troop some idea of what a logging camp is like.”

“Shure, an’ it’s glad I’ll be to do what I kin fur yez,” said
Flannigan, scratching his head. “But, bedad, it’s a poor time o’ the
year to see a loggin’ camp. Most of the brave b’ys is in town or
scattered around further north. At this time o’ the year ’tis little
we do besides nickin’ the trees for the fall cut. Howiver, if I’m not
mistaken, here come the b’ys now fur supper, an’ if ye don’t mind
rough table manners, we’ll soon have a bite to eat. Here, cook!” as
that individual bustled past, “set up an extra table in the bunk
house for the b’ys here. More’s the pity, it’s not much we’ve got to
offer ye, but such as it is, there’s never any lack, and I guess ye
kin make out.”

By this time the lumbermen had arrived at the house, and the boys
thought they had never seen a stronger or more healthy set of men.
The sun had tanned their bearded faces to a deep brown hue, and as
they dropped their heavy axes into a corner, it was easy to see that
each one was as strong as two ordinary men.

They all muttered a “How d’ye do” to Mr. Durland, and took their
seats around the rough table in silence.

Obedient to instructions, the cook had stretched a wide plank between
two barrels, and this served Mr. Durland and his Troop as a table.
The boys were not in a mood to be critical, and so long as they got
something to eat, did not care much what kind of a table it was
served on.

Harry, the red-headed cookee, now entered, bearing a huge platter
of steaming beans. This was followed by other dishes of biscuits,
doughnuts and great cups of black coffee.

The lumbermen fell to with a rush, and it was wonderful to see the
way in which the eatables vanished. They ate like famished wolves,
and the Scouts, hungry as they were, almost forgot to eat, and could
only stare at the spectacle and wonder how the men ever did it.

However, you may be sure that their own hunger soon asserted itself,
and, as Ben Hoover expressed it, they began to “feed their faces.”

The food was very good in its way, and the boys made a hearty meal.
The lumberjacks, however, were through almost before the Scouts had
begun, and had gone outside, there to smoke their pipes and swap
yarns of perils by wood and water.

Soon the boys followed them, and ranged themselves on the grass,
listening to the whoppers that the inventive men told. It must be
admitted that most of the yarns had some foundation of truth, but
on this had been reared an elaborate structure of events that had
happened only in the imagination of the man telling the story.

After a while they started singing a rough lumberman’s song, and some
of the boys joined in the chorus. Tom’s clear, piercing voice rang
out above the thunderous bass of the men like foam on the crest of
the wave, and when they had finished, the men gazed at him admiringly.

“That there kid,” said one great, bearded fellow, who at one time had
been a cowboy on the western plains, “is sure goin’ to be some shakes
as a singer when he grows up. I bet he’ll be in opry some o’ these
days. I knew a feller on the Panhandle as could sing like that oncet,
but he _would_ borrow hosses as didn’t belong to him, and so we all
strung him up one fine mornin’. It sure seemed a shame to strangle
that voice of his’n, but it had to be did.”

He gazed meditatively out over the tops of the trees, and a big
fellow called Pete said:

“Say, boy, why don’t you bane give us a song?”

Tom was about to refuse, when Mr. Durland said, “Go ahead, Tom. Sing
_My Old Kentucky Home_, won’t you?”

Thus encouraged, Tom drew a deep breath and started the Southern song.

In the hush of the great north woods, his wonderful voice floated out
in liquid melody, and the men sat entranced. Visions of childhood
days, when they had sat at some distant fireside, came up before
them, and more than one hardened “scrapper” felt a lump rise in his
throat and his eyes grow moist.

As the song was finished there was a short silence, and then someone
said in a husky voice: “Say, kid, that was great! I’ll bet your
father is proud of you. I would be, if I was your dad! Sing some
more, will yuh?”

Tom sang song after song, until it was almost dark, and the Scouts
were forced to leave.

All the men followed the boys to the edge of the clearing, and here
they parted.

“Youse b’ys has given us an iligant evenin’, bedad, and it’s us that
thanks ye, although we can’t do it in none of them flowin’ speeches
like the poetry fellers does. All we kin say is as how we hope ye’ll
come early and often, and stay late.”

There was a hearty chorus of, “We sure will!” and “Much obliged, Mr.
Flannigan!” from the boys, and as Mr. Durland shook hands with the
boss of the camp, he said:

“We certainly have been royally entertained, Mr. Flannigan, and want
to thank you for it.”

“Shure, an’ it’s yourselves that has done the entertainin’,”
responded the foreman, with a comical grin.

“Well, good-night, everybody!” shouted the Scouts in chorus, and were
answered by a good-natured mumble from the deep-chested woodmen.

“Forward, march!” called Scout-Master Durland, and the Boy Scouts
started on their return journey.




                             CHAPTER III

                        THE OLD SNAKE HUNTER


The boys--Jack, Tom and Bob--set off one morning at the
Scout-Master’s direction for the bluestone quarries situated about a
mile from the lodge. Don rushed joyfully ahead, barking at squirrels,
who looked at him tantalizingly from safe retreats in the trees,
chasing rabbits into their burrows, and making himself altogether
disagreeable to the astonished inhabitants of the forest.

The way to the quarries was not an easy one. The boys had to climb
over great rocks, descend the steep sides of mountains, slipping and
sliding most of the way; they had to make a path through stout vines
that reached from tree to tree and seemed determined not to let them
pass. Still they went steadily forward, for what Scout would ever
think of complaining or, worse yet, of turning back with a task half
done?

Finally they saw before them through the trees a small hut before
which an old man of strange appearance was standing. He wore an old
brown hunting suit, so old and threadbare, in fact, that the boys
wondered how it ever managed to hold together; his leather leggings
were strapped securely just below the knee. In his hand he held
an implement that looked like a pitchfork, but which had only two
prongs, and in his mouth was a huge pipe that sent up a cloud of
smoke at every puff. And although his face was all criss-crossed with
wrinkles, the few people who knew him forgot all about that when they
caught the kindly gleam of his dark eyes, which were just as keen and
bright at sixty as they had been at twenty.

Don trotted up and down and regarded the old man, with one paw raised
and his head cocked inquiringly on one side, confident of welcome.

“Waal, I’ll be durned!” said the old fellow scratching his head in
perplexity. “If that dog ain’t the image of my Rover what got drowned
down in the river yonder a year ago come Monday! Seems like he might
almost be Rover’s sperret; that is, ef I was to believe in sech
things. Come here, doggie, an’ ’splain yerself! One minnit ye ain’t
there an’ next minnit ye air! Whar be ye from?” and he laid his hand
gently on the big dog’s head.

Just then the boys came into the cleared space in front of the cabin
and saluted the old man courteously.

“Waal, you be pow’ful fine youngsters,” he said, fairly beaming with
delight at the unexpected visit. “Be this your doggie?”

“You bet your life he is!” Bob asserted, proudly. “Jack here is his
real owner, but we all have a part interest in him. We come from the
Boy Scouts’ camp about a mile back,” he went on to explain, “and
we’re bound for the bluestone quarries.”

“Waal, I’ll be durned!” again said the old man, knocking the ashes
out of his pipe. “Seems to me I heerd somethin’ ’bout a boys’ camp
t’other day when I was down in town. Layin’ out that new ’state or
whatever you call it, beant you?”

“Yes, we’re locating lakes and brooks and different kinds of trees,
and we’re getting great fun out of it, too,” Jack replied; then
added, “I’m afraid we’ll have to get along, fellows. We’ve got quite
a way to go yet.”

“What’s your hurry, boys? ’Tain’t so often Old Sam has company drop
in to see him that he’s glad to see ’em go. Why can’t ye stay and
hev a bite o’ somethin’ to eat with me? I am bound for the quarries
myself to get the ile from any o’ them pesky snakes what are fools
enough to let me ketch ’em. I kin show you a durn sight better road
there than any you know of.”

The boys, who had brought some lunch with them, were only too glad to
accept Old Sam’s kind invitation. Don, who had felt a lively regard
for the old man from the first minute he looked at him, trotted
contentedly into the cabin with the rest.

The old man was so happy to have someone to talk to that he kept up
a continual chatter as he put the frying-pan on the stove and sliced
some bacon.

“You see,” he was saying, “it was like this, boys. We had had a
turrible late spring same’s we’ve had this year an’ the river was
pow’ful swollen an’ angry like, along o’ the snow meltin’ an’ comin’
down from the mountains. Waal, my Rover an’ me, we wuz walkin’ along
when all o’ a sudden we heerd a child screamin’. Sez I to Rover, sez
I, ‘It’s ’bout time, my boy, that we wuz findin’ out the meanin’ o’
that there scream.’

“Rover seemed like he wuz o’ the same opinion, cuz before I had time
to git the words out o’ my mouth, away he went like a streak. When I
got to the river, I see my Rover gather hisself together and spring
into the river, makin’ straight fer a little patch o’ white that I
took fer a child’s dress. It didn’t take long fer me to git my coat
off and foller him, let me tell ye!”

The boys, deeply interested, waited impatiently while Old Sam turned
a slice of bacon, and then continued, reminiscently:

“Waal, by the time I had fit my way as fur as from this stove to the
door, I see Rover comin’ back with a little piece o’ white in his
mouth. He swum much slower and feebler than he done at fust, and I
could see that the strain was tellin’ on him turr’ble. I swum as fast
as I could to meet him. Purty soon up he come, stickin’ on to that
piece o’ white like he would sooner give up his own life than let go,
but when he looked up at me so pitiful like I--I----” Here the old
man choked and drew his hand hastily over his eyes, stealing a glance
at the boys to see if they had noticed his weakness, but finding them
all looking in the other direction, then, putting the bacon on the
table, he went on:

“Waal, I put out my hand to take hold o’ the little child, an’ Rover,
he let go jest too soon and the little one went under. I dove down,
and soon felt the dress in my hand. When I got to the top, I jest
nat’ally looked to see whar my Rover wuz, but I couldn’t see him
nowhere. It hurt me turr’ble to go in without findin’ him, but I
knowed my strength wouldn’t hold out much longer, so I had to use it
while there wuz any left. Waal, I never could remember how I swum
the rest o’ the way to shore, but I got thar some way, an’ found a
crowd o’ people thar, glad enough to take the child after I had saved
it. They told me how brave I wuz, too, but I turned on ’em, kind of
fierce like, an’ said:

“‘It wuzn’t me as done it! It was my Rover, and he’s dead now. Dead,
d’ye hear that?’ an’ then I jest walked away with my heart gone clean
out o’ me. Ye see, my Rover wasn’t a water dog. He jest nat’ally
hated the water, but the big, brave heart o’ him----” Here the old
man’s voice grew husky, while Don, wistfully watchful, nestled close
to him, looking up into his face with a great longing to comfort
expressed in his beautiful eyes.

“Aye, lad,” and the voice was still unsteady, “aye, lad, ye have the
look o’ my Rover!”

More than one of the boys dashed his hand across his eyes as he
looked at the lonely old man with his arms around their Don’s neck.

In a moment Old Sam had pulled himself together, and called to the
boys to “fall to,” upon which the boys brought forth their baskets
and promptly carried out Old Sam’s suggestion. They avoided further
mention of Rover, but their thoughts were often drawn back to the
tragedy and in their hearts was a very tender spot for Rover’s master.

After dinner they all set out for the quarries. Sam, as he insisted
upon the boys calling him, was as good as his word, showing them a
much shorter road than the one they had intended to follow. In a
short time they reached the quarry, and found they were in time to
see some of the blasting done.

“Ye see,” Old Sam said, “owin’ to the late spring, all the snakes
hasn’t left their snug bedding places in the rocks, but when the men
comes around with their blastin’ the durned reptiles thinks it’s
’bout time fer them to be movin’. Ye wouldn’t believe it,” he went
on, “but some o’ them critters curls up in a great big bunch durin’
the winter so’s they kin keep warm, and when they gits their walkin’
papers, it’s as easy as rollin’ off a log to ketch ’em, they take so
long to get untangled.”

“But how do you catch them?” Jack had asked eagerly. “Isn’t there
great danger of your being bitten?”

“Not much; ye have to be pow’ful keerful, that’s all. Ye see, I gets
behind one o’ them snakes and sticks the two ends o’ this here pole
in the ground, one on one side o’ his neck jest below the head, an’
the other on t’other side. Then I stoops over and picks him up by the
neck, and drops him head first into this here leather bag. Then when
I gets him home, I kills him and gets the ile.”

This interested the boys intensely, and they could not wait to see it
done. They stood awhile watching the blasting when they had reached
the quarry, and then Old Sam suddenly cried out: “See that? Look over
there by them rocks! No, this way! That’s right! Now d’ye see that
reptile? Come along, and I’ll show you how I kin ketch ’em.”

Excitedly the boys followed Sam across the rocks until he said, “Stay
there! Don’t come a step further. Now jest watch yer Uncle Sam!”

So saying, Old Sam was off down the rocks, climbing as nimbly as a
boy. With breathless interest the boys watched as he drew near a
snake that lay basking in the sun. Without an instant’s hesitation,
he slipped up behind it, plunged his pronged stick hard on the ground
on either side of its neck and, stooping over, picked it up quickly
just behind the head and threw it bodily into his bag. Then, closing
the bag tight, he clambered up once more beside the admiring group of
Scouts.

“You sure are a wonder!” said Tom, and the praise came from the
bottom of his heart.

“I don’t think I’d have the nerve to try that,” said Tom Binns, who
always had had a fear of snakes.

“Waal, ’twan’t much to do,” Old Sam protested, pleased beyond
measure, nevertheless, by the boys’ hearty and open admiration.

After they had examined the quarries thoroughly, the party started
out once more. When they reached Sam’s cabin, he urged them to come
and see him often, to which the boys agreed eagerly, and exacted a
promise from him in return that he would come and spend a day with
them in camp soon.

So, with a last gentle pat on Don’s head, Old Sam watched the boys
out of sight among the trees, and then turned with a happy sigh to
enter his cabin.

“Them boys sure are fine lads, an’ the dog--waal, he did have the
looks o’ my Rover!”

The boys went happily along, talking about the interesting events of
the day, full of wonder at Old Sam’s courage and skill.

That evening around the camp-fire, they told an interested group of
boys about the old snake hunter. Tom Binns, who had been especially
interested in the story of Rover’s death, turned to Don where he lay
in his usual place beside Jack, and whispered softly: “Don’t you go
and get drowned like poor old Rover, boy, ’cause if you do, we sure
would have to break camp! We can’t get along without our mascot, old
fellow!”




                             CHAPTER IV

                              THE FIGHT


As is usually the case with men who live close to nature, the
lumberjacks in Mr. Scott’s logging camp possessed many rough virtues,
and, it must be confessed, some equally strong vices.

Among these might be numbered an inordinate love of fighting.
And fighting among these elemental natures was not the honorable
stand-up-and-fight-and-don’t-hit-a-man-when-he’s-down style of combat
that our Scouts were used to considering it.

On the contrary, the one thing that the lumberman desired was to
put his opponent out of the running, either by fair means or foul.
And, indeed, the tactics employed were considered all right by their
comrades, so in a way it could not be said that they fought by
underhand methods. They knew what they had to expect, and so it was
“up to them” not to be taken unawares.

“Everything went,” no matter what it was. A man might kick, bite, or
gouge his adversary, and if he tripped, might even jump on the fallen
man, without being criticized by his companions. Just to win, in any
way, was their one great aim and object.

But if they had been allowed to follow their tendencies unchecked
there would have been little work done around the camp, as a large
part of the working force would have been disabled a good part of the
time.

To prevent this, the foreman, Flannigan, had issued strict orders
against fighting of any kind.

“The first one of yez that Oi catch at it, Oi’ll lick meself,
begorra, and fire him afterward,” had been his ultimatum and the men,
knowing him for a famous “scrapper” and a man of his word, had kept
the peace up to today.

But there had always been a smouldering animosity between two of
the men and this morning it threatened to burst forth into a “real
knock-down rumpus,” as the lumbermen described it.

The two lumberjacks in question were named respectively Larry O’Brien
and Jacques Lavine. As may be inferred from the names, the former
was a strapping red-headed Irishman, with a big bull neck and small,
twinkling, blue eyes.

The Canadian, on the other hand, at first glance seemed to be much
the physical inferior of the two. He was a lighter man and more
slenderly built, but from constant outdoor work his muscles had
become like steel wires. So that if the men should at any time come
to blows, as now seemed very probable, they would be a pretty evenly
matched pair.

It was unusually hot weather, and that may have had something to do
with the ill-temper in which the men found themselves. For another
thing, work had been slack recently, and that is always bad for men
who are not used to it. Indeed, the same thing may be said in regard
to all of us. The man who does not have to work reasonably hard is to
be pitied.

To cap the climax, the foreman was away on a trip to the distant town
for supplies, and this fact further relaxed the reins of discipline.

If either of the two men had been called on to give a reason for
their hatred toward each other, the chances are that they would have
been hard put to it to give an adequate reply.

Their feud had started in some little slighting allusion to the
other’s nationality, and small things had led to larger, until now
they both felt that they must settle the question of supremacy once
for all.

As is commonly the case with those who are of such an irritable and
trouble-seeking nature, they were really the two most worthless men
in the camp. They both drank heavily whenever they got the chance,
and were continually shirking their work and picking quarrels.

It is safe to say that if they had put half as much energy and time
into their work as they did into grumbling and quarreling, they would
have been valuable men.

Both were strong and skillful in the handling of axes, and could
bring a forest giant to the ground as soon or sooner than anyone else
in the camp. It is too bad that in this world of ours there is so
much misdirected energy, which if deflected into the proper channels
would do so much valuable work.

As has been said, on this particular morning the men all felt out of
sorts, and, to make things worse, the cook had burned the biscuits.

“It’s always the way,” grumbled O’Brien, who was usually called
“Red,” both because of the color of his hair, and also on account of
his red-hot temper, “them French cooks never is no good, nohow! I for
one never heard of a---- frog-eater who ever was any good, anyhow,”
he continued, casting a meaning glance in Lavine’s direction.

Lavine rose slowly from his seat, an ominous scowl on his dark face.

“You mean to say, den, Irishman, zat you tink no Frenchman be any
good? Is zat what you say?”

“Ye guessed right foist time, Frenchy,” replied O’Brien, recklessly.
“Now, what ye gonna do about it, hey?”

“Dog!” hissed the Frenchman, his eyes flashing and his dark face
livid with rage. “I will show you who ees your master!” and he leaped
across the rough table and struck O’Brien a tremendous blow on the
jaw.

Any ordinary man would have dropped like a log, but the hardy
Irishman only reeled a little from the terrific buffet.

“So that’s how ye feel, is ut?” he grunted, and they fell to
belaboring each other in good earnest.

The rest of the men were delighted at this turn of affairs and
quickly formed a ring around the combatants.

Neither man was very popular in the camp, so the men could enjoy the
fight without having to worry about which one conquered. All they
cared for was to see a rousing fight, and their desires seemed in a
fair way to be gratified.

Both men were in the pink of condition, and for a long time neither
seemed to gain any advantage over the other.

They swayed backward and forward, exchanging terrific blows that
echoed on their chests like the beating of a drum. No sound was heard
save their labored breathing and an occasional encouraging cry from
one of the men. It seemed as though no man could live through such
punishment, and finally both were forced to rest through sheer lack
of wind.

Then they fell to again, and this time employed all the rough-house
tactics that they knew. Lavine suddenly brought his spiked shoe down
on the Irishman’s foot with all the force at his command, and the
latter gave a bellow of pain and rage. He retaliated by lowering his
head and butting it into the pit of Lavine’s stomach. The Frenchman
gave a gasp and reeled for a moment, but quickly recovered and
returned to the attack with tiger-like ferocity.

There is no telling how the fight would have ended, for here there
was a diversion. Flannigan, the foreman, had returned to the camp
after his trip to town, and with one quick glance realized what was
going on.

With a yell he charged the group of men, who made a path for him with
rather sheepish looks on their faces. He grabbed one by each shoulder
and threw them apart.

“Pfwat the Dickens do ye mean by this, ye shpalpeens?” he shouted,
angrily. “Didn’t Oi say that Oi’d have no fighting in my camp? If yez
want to scrap, go and do it in some other camp. Yez can’t do it here!
Ye’re fired, both of yez! Pick up yer duds and vamoose! Beat it now,
before Oi lick the two of yez! Get!”

The two men were entirely taken back by this, for, as is usual
with men of their type, they had an exaggerated idea of their own
importance and had not believed that Flannigan would really discharge
them. When they realized that such was actually the case, however,
their first astonishment changed to rage and resentment. Their common
plight caused them to forget their recent quarrel and they were drawn
together by their natural grudge against Flannigan. They regarded
him with black scowls and then entered the bunk house to get their
things.

“Who’d have thought the old cuss would take it that way?” growled
O’Brien.

“He’ll live long enough to regret it, by gar,” snapped Lavine,
grinding his teeth, “but not much longer. No man can fire me, Jacques
Lavine, in dat way and live to boast about it. No, sar!”

“We’ll get hunk on him, all right,” muttered “Red.” “We’ll show him
that he can’t get away with anythin’ like that! Yes, by thunder, we
will!”

“Sure ting!” assented the Frenchman, and the look in his eyes was not
good to see. He was the kind of man that would not stop at anything,
and it is safe to say that O’Brien would not be far behind him in
anything he might undertake.

The two worthies packed their blankets and, after drawing the money
due them, set out from the camp. As they reached the edge of the
clearing they both looked back, and Lavine shook his fist at the
rough log houses.

“We’ll get square wiz ze whole bunch,” he said, with a furious oath,
“old Scott and all of zem! Wait, dat’s all!”

“Right you are, Frenchy,” growled O’Brien. “Shake on that,” and with
black thoughts in their hearts they entered the forest.

What plots they laid and how they failed to take Jack Danby into the
reckoning will be seen a little later on.




                              CHAPTER V

                      THE BEAR’S SURPRISE PARTY


“And bang! bing! bang! went Billy’s gun, and that was the end of
_that_ bear.”

The words came clearly, distinctly to Dick Crawford swinging
along through the cool, green, glorious forest; but as he looked
wonderingly around, not a trace of the speaker could he see.

The words had been uttered in a clear, boyish voice, but if a boy had
been there, he must have vanished into a hole in the ground, or been
spirited away by the woodland brownies, for no sign of a boy could he
see anywhere.

Dick stood perfectly still and listened with all his might, but not
a human sound could he hear. Other sounds there were in plenty. The
soft gurgling of the little brook that wound down the mountain side,
and at its deepest part the quick splash of an otter, as, his small
head glistening in the light, he swam rapidly across. There was the
low murmuring of countless insects, the soft rustle of leaves as a
frightened jack-rabbit scurried to his burrow. In the branches of a
tree near by he could hear the twitter of a mother bird as she fed
her nestlings, and directly over his head, in the spreading branches
of a giant oak, two squirrels scolded noisily, very noisily, _too_
noisily it all at once seemed to Dick, and, looking up keenly into
the branches over him, he said quietly:

“A very good imitation of a squirrel, fellows! The only fault with it
is that it is _too_ good, too awfully good! Come down out of that,
and give an account of yourselves.”

At this there was a great commotion overhead, and with, “Ain’t he
smart?” “Too smart!” “_Altogether_ too smart for us,” a little group
of noisy Scouts slid recklessly down the scraggy trunk of the old
oak, and Dick was surrounded.

“We were some tired,” a Scout said to him, “so we thought we would
wait for you in the tree. Just as you came in sight Bob was finishing
a most exciting bear story.”

“It’s fine and dandy up in that tree,” said Tom. “Let’s go up again
for a while.”

Dick looked doubtful, for their time was not their own, and they must
give an account of it to the Scout-Master; but Jack told him that
they had really been working very hard for two hours, and he thought
a twenty minutes’ rest was what the fellows needed. So as Dick gave
the word, five boys scrambled and climbed back like monkeys into that
tree before you could have said “Jack Robinson!”

Comfortably settled, the talk went back to the all-absorbing topic
they were discussing when Dick arrived, and one of the fellows asked
Jack what he would do if he should stumble upon a bear.

“If I were well armed,” said Jack, “and knowing, as I do, how to
shoot, I would face him and defend myself. If I should meet him
to-day, I should race for the nearest hut or cave or anything I could
get behind or into, and thank fortune that I was lucky enough to find
such a place.”

Some of the Scouts were inclined to think that would be rather
cowardly and were for taking their chance of fighting with a club or
anything they could lay their hands upon. Jack gave them a gentle
reminder of Bruin’s by no means gentle claws and his ferocious nature
by running his finger nails energetically down a Scout’s leggings and
uttering a most savage growl. At the same moment Dick threw his arms
around the nearest fellow and gave him a genuine bear’s hug till he
begged for mercy.

After this demonstration, there was a general coming round to Jack’s
view. Some of the Scouts hoped they _would_ see a bear, and some
hoped they would not; but even those who hoped they would felt way
down in the bottom of their hearts that they could manage to live
without it. After all, they hadn’t “lost any bear.”

Time was up now, so the Scouts slid nimbly back to solid ground,
and they were off to locate and make a list of the different trees.
Already that list was a creditable one, but they had an hour yet to
work before starting back to camp, and they were anxious to make it
long enough to show to the Scout-Master with pride.

Aside from this desire, the trees themselves--the great, noble,
splendid trees--appealed to them, and made the study of them an
ever-increasing delight.

They had located, marked and listed great sturdy oaks towering
seventy, eighty feet toward the sky, and one old giant measured one
hundred and twenty feet in height. The Scouts felt very small as they
looked up with awe at the towering branches of this monster tree.

Then there were beech trees, with their smooth, ashy gray bark, about
the same height as the oaks, but not to be compared with them in
usefulness, although as firewood they are perfect, as are the hickory
trees. They (the hickory) and the chestnut trees need no description.
What boy does not claim a close acquaintance with them?

Here rose a colony of butternut trees, not so tall, but with large,
beautiful leaves measuring from fifteen to thirty inches in length,
and the air was redolent with the fragrance of pine and balsam and
hemlock.

From group to group of trees the Scouts went, examining, studying,
listing, so happily and thoroughly interested in this delightful
work that everyone started at a sudden cry of alarm in Tom’s voice.

All turned, and at that moment saw the little fellow run out from
a clump of low bushes and fairly flying toward them, call out
bravely--not “Help me!” but “Run, boys, run, run! There is a bear
coming!” and from the bushes lumbered a bear, really of medium
size, but looking to the startled boys at that moment as big as an
elephant, and loped along only a few rods behind Tom.

“The nearest tree and up it!” was their first instinct, and Bob Hart
and Harry French, who were nearest to Tom, seized him by an arm on
either side and pushed and pulled him up with them into the tree. The
whole thing had been so sudden and the scare so great that there had
been no time for sober thought, but only the blind instinct to seek
the first place of refuge. But just as they were settling themselves
in the spreading branches, a thought occurred to Jack that made his
face whiten and his heart beat faster.

“Say, Dick,” he said, “we all forgot that a bear could climb. We’ve
done just exactly what he wanted us to do!”

All the boys were seized with panic. Sure enough, they were trapped.
They were only boys, after all, and face to face with a peril that
might well have struck terror to grown men; it is no wonder that for
a moment they were smitten with panic.

The bear himself soon dispelled any doubt as to his intentions
and, swinging along heavily to the foot of the tree, reared on his
hind paws and began to climb. There were no weapons in the party,
unless you could apply that term to the small, light hatchets that
they carried in their belts. Even these were only toys against such
an enemy. One or two of the boys snatched at them frantically and
threw, but the branches of the tree interfered with their aim and it
was only Dick’s hatchet that struck with its blunt end the nose of
the bear. Beyond a slight shake of the head, he gave no sign of it
hurting him, and steadily kept on climbing.

The boys had pushed their way out along the branches as far from the
trunk as possible, and just at this moment the branch on which Harry
French was moving suddenly cracked, broke, and he found himself lying
face down full length on the ground about twenty feet from the foot
of the tree. The bear heard the crash and, seeing one of his enemies
thus delivered into his hands, scrambled hastily back down the tree
and started toward Harry. There was only one thing for the boy to do,
and, being a Scout, he did it; he lay perfectly still.

The bear, surprised at the quiet of the motionless figure, hesitated
just a moment, but that was long enough for Jack Danby, who was
perched on a branch just overhead, to decide what to do.

His plan was only a forlorn hope and he knew if it failed it probably
meant the loss of his life as well as Harry’s, but what could he do?
“A Scout is brave.” And he simply could not stay there and see Harry,
dear old Harry, attacked without an effort at least being made to
save him.

It was a time for desperate measures. With a silent prayer for help,
he jumped quickly and landed, as he had schemed to do, squarely upon
the bear’s back. Now Jack was no featherweight. Nearly nineteen years
old, he was tall and well developed, weighing much more than an
ordinary young fellow of his age.

The effect upon the bear was startling. When this weight came
crashing down upon him like a thunderbolt, he was seized with
consternation, and, forgetting everything else in his panic, he
rushed away as fast as his legs could carry him, and that was
very fast, for, though a bear’s movements give an impression of
clumsiness, he can move like a streak, as many a one has learned
to his cost when trying to escape. Jack, who had rolled over and
over, jumped up quickly and ran to where Harry still lay, not daring
to move. His fall had shaken him badly, but no bones were broken,
although now that the danger was over the terrific strain made him
tremble like a leaf.

The Scouts had joyfully watched the bear out of sight and, fearing
that he might recover from his fright and return, slid down the tree
and all started off thankfully for the camp.

Their path led along a natural hedge of high-growing bushes, and
suddenly they heard gruff voices on the other side. They caught the
name of Flannigan, the foreman, coupled with an oath. The words that
followed halted them in their tracks and they stood like statues.




                             CHAPTER VI

                              THE PLOT


“Zen we shall knife heem--we shall keel heem!” came over the hedge in
accents undeniably French.

“Naw!” was the reply, in a heavy brogue. “We won’t kill him--that
would be too aisy fur him! He’ll sweat more if yer let him live.
We’ll do fur him! We’ll fix him so that it’ll be many and many a long
day before he’ll set foot to the ground, and thin, begorra, mayhap
wan foot will be farther from the ground than the ither!”

The boys had no choice but to listen. Bob, who was nearest the hedge,
could look through a small opening and plainly see the two ruffians
seated on the ground with heads close together in deep and dark
converse with each other.

They were an ill-assorted pair. Their different nationality made
them totally unlike in outward appearance--one a great, ruddy, burly
Irishman, the other a slight, dark, wiry Frenchman. Utterly opposed
to each other by nature, their common desire for vengeance had drawn
them together and, for the time being, made them pals.

At first, their one thought and desire was vengeance. They had room
in their angry hearts for nothing else. Both were naturally cruel,
and on the day of their discharge they had shaken angry fists at the
camp, and through the days of idleness that had followed they had
thought only of the punishment they would wreak on their enemy, the
foreman.

To waylay him in the woods, to get their eager hands upon him, to
beat him into pulp, and in the end perhaps to take his life--this had
been their one object and aim.

But now a new element entered into their desire for vengeance. For
days after their discharge they had roamed the woods. At first they
had made a visit to the county town, and there with the reckless
improvidence of their kind, had feasted and drunk and gambled away
every dollar of their pay, drawn on that last day in camp, and then
had taken to the woods.

Since then they had lived on berries and roots, and an occasional
bird which they had managed to snare. With a bent pin and a line made
of twisted fibers of long grass, and with worms for bait, they had
caught some fish, but their living was scanty and poor.

Accustomed to the plain, but well cooked and abundant food of the
camp, days of this meagre diet had told upon the two. Especially was
it felt by O’Brien, for his great, muscular frame needed nourishing
food, and food in plenty.

While their tobacco lasted, it had not been so bad, but as their
hunger grew, their ferocity grew, and, added to their desire to
punish the man they considered their enemy (it never occurred to
them that they were their own worst enemies) came a determination to
obtain money, no matter how.

Why should other people be sitting down three times a day to tables
loaded with things good to eat and drink--the very thought made their
mouths water!--and lie down every night on soft, comfortable beds,
while they nearly starved and slept on the hard ground at night?

The thought of Flannigan having plenty of food and tobacco and all
other needed comforts filled them with ferocious rage and hate.

Money they _would_ have, and mighty quick, too! And a plan to obtain
it had come to both men at almost the same moment--Flannigan and the
payroll!

It was the custom of the foreman to take a trip to the Junction, a
station on the railroad about ten miles from the logging camp, where
the station agent always had ready an express package containing
several thousand dollars, to be used to pay off the men, and to
defray the expenses of the camp.

This trip was always taken on the last day of the month, and now that
was only five days away!

What a thought! What fools they had been not to think of it before!
To be able to get revenge and at the same time secure what was to
them a fortune, to revel and drink and gamble to their heart’s desire!

“Be gobs!” said Larry, “that’s the finest scheme that iver came down
the pike!”

“It sure ees!” said the little Frenchman; and then they fell to work
in good earnest to arrange their wicked plot.

“There’s only wan road back to camp, as yez well know, Jacques, me
mon,” said Larry, joyfully. “An’ do yez moind the sharp turn in the
road about six miles this side o’ the Junction?”

“Oui, I know heem!” said Jacques.

“Well, that’s the spot to do the job,” said Larry. “If he wuz on
foot, he might take the short cut back to camp, but with the buggy,
he can’t hilp himself goin’ round by the road.”

“Dat ees goot; dat ees bien goot!” said the little Frenchman. “Before
he can say one petit word, we will have heem by ze t’roat, and zen--”
Here Jacques, in an excess of fiendish exultation at the thought of
having his enemy at last in his power, rolled over and over in the
grass, and then, springing to his feet, executed a series of clumsy
steps and only stopped when, his limbs failing him, he dropped
breathlessly to the ground, while Larry sat grinning at his pal,
fully sympathizing with him in his delight at so soon realizing the
success of their scheme.

Again Jacques’ greed for the money gave place to his hatred of
Flannigan, and with darkening face and cruel eyes, he raged:

“Chien! Pig! Dat he should tink to fire me, _me_, Lavine, a son of ze
great French republic, and nevaire hear notink again!”

Larry waited a minute for him to calm down a little, and then went on:

“Whin we have done fur him, we’ll divide the long green aiven, and
thin make thracks fur Canada. Once in there, Jacques, me b’y, we’re
outside the United States, and they’ll not be able to find us.

“Whin Flannigan comes around the turn of the road, you go fur the
horse’s head, and I’ll tackle Flannigan. In wan minnit, before he
knows what’s happenin’, I’ll----”

Just what more O’Brien might have said was never known, for just then
Don--blundering old Don, seeing a jack-rabbit poke his head out from
behind the roots of a great tree, found the temptation too strong
to resist, gave chase and raced the rabbit across the grass in full
sight of the plotters.

The Scouts, who all this time had been standing motionless, their
hearts beating faster and faster as the details of the plot were made
plain to them, and with faces on which horror was clearly written,
were filled with consternation at this unexpected move of the dog.
They now quickly skirted the bushes and, slipping among some thickly
growing trees, found a little bypath and ran rapidly along it, on
their way back to camp.

As the big dog bounded after the rabbit and into the bushes, within
ten feet of them, the plotters sprang to their feet, filled with
alarm.

“Someone ees list’ning to our talk,” said Jacques. “What ees eet that
we shall do?”

“Look around and find them,” Larry replied. “You look in the trees on
that side, and Oi’ll go over to that short cut thim Scout spalpeens
take to their camp.”

The two searched all around on both sides of the hedge, but finding
no trace of anything human, returned to the scene of their conspiracy.

“But certainly there ees somebody has been here, and he have hear
what we have say,” said Jacques, uneasily.

“If it was anybody, it, was thim B’y Scouts, bad cess to thim!”
grumbled Larry; and then, as if thinking aloud, he went on:

“If it was thim measly Scouts, they’ll blab from a ‘sinse of juty,’
as I heard wan of thim say oncet, just as soon as they reach camp,
and the nixt thing they’ll do ‘from a sinse of juty’ will be to
warn Flannigan. But let thim thry it! Jist let thim thry it!” he
sputtered, full of rage at the thought that the Boy Scouts, whom
he despised, might, by warning the logging camp, be the means of
bringing to naught their carefully thought out plans.

“But zey shall not,” said Jacques. “We--you, Larry O’Brien, and I,
Jacques Lavine--_we_ will stop zem! Eet ees that we shall find a way.”

“We will that!” the Irishman said. “And Oi’ll tell yez how we’ll do
it. From the first minnit the Scouts are out in the mornin’ till they
are in camp agin at noight, we’ll lie along the road to the loggin’
camp and watch, and the first Scout spalpeen that shows his face
anint it, we grab him. Oncet we git our hands upon him, Oi’ll bet yez
any amount yez want that he’ll wish he’d niver been born! His own
mither won’t know him when she sees him!”

“_Varmint!_” said the “son of the great French republic.” “Zat makes
me ver’ glad--ver’ happy! Zat ees what we shall do!”

So they talked; and, having arranged all to their wicked
satisfaction, went their way.

As soon as the Scouts reached camp, they made a full report to the
Scout-Master of their adventures. When he heard the details of their
encounter with the bear, his hearty words of praise for Jack’s heroic
act found an echo in the heart of every Scout in camp.

Jack modestly insisted that it was no more than any Scout would have
done if he had been given the same opportunity. While the boys tried
to tell themselves that this was true, they admired Jack none the
less. They _might_ have done it, but Jack _had_ done it, and that
made all the difference in the world.

At the recital of the details of the plot against Mr. Flannigan, the
Scout-Master looked very grave indeed. Knowing how unrestrained the
passions of the class of men employed at the logging camp were, and
how brutal and cruel they could be, he fully realized Mr. Flannigan’s
danger.

Of course, there was only one thing to do. He must at once send a
Scout to the logging camp with a letter to the foreman, giving him
full particulars of the plot and warning him of his danger.

So, intending to send Jack Danby and Tom Binns immediately after
breakfast the next morning, he went to his tent to write the letter.




                             CHAPTER VII

                         TRAPPED IN THE CAVE


Don opened his eyes, yawned, and then got up from his comfortable
bed, shaking himself and stretching to his heart’s content. Trotting
over to Jack’s cot, he stood regarding his master, doubtful whether
or not to wake him. Finally deciding that it must be time to get
up, he stuck his cold nose into Jack’s hand, and uttered his low,
good-morning bark, as Jack sleepily opened his eyes.

“Time to get up, old fellow, is it?” he said, pulling Don’s front
paws up on his cot, while Don’s plumy tail waved vigorously. “Well,
I’m not specially stuck on it, but ‘needs must when the---- ’”; then,
turning to Don, he said, reprovingly, “You mustn’t say things like
that, Don; it’s not nice.”

Here Tom chimed in, saying with a stifled yawn, “What time is it,
anyway? It seems to me as if I had just gone to bed, and here you are
talking about getting up!”

“Blame it on Don,” said Jack, cheerily. “He woke me up, and he says
it’s about time for us lazy humans to be getting a move on.”

“Well, of course, what Don says goes,” Tom responded, caressingly
pulling Don’s ear as the dog went over to him, for Tom came second in
the big collie’s regard.

“Say, that was a narrow escape we had yesterday, wasn’t it?” asked
Tom, reverting to the overheard plot of the day before. “There’s no
telling what those fellows would have done if they had found out that
we knew all about their plans of revenge.”

“Whom do you suppose Mr. Durland will pick out to go to the lumber
camp to-day?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” Jack replied. “I’d like nothing better
than to go myself. After I’d warned Mr. Flannigan of his danger,
perhaps he would show me around the camp. It would be great fun, for
I’ve always wanted to go over one thoroughly, but have never had the
chance. We only got a glimpse of it the other day.”

“If you went, you could count on me to go, too, and old Don,
here--he’d never consent to being left behind, would you, boy?” To
which Don promptly gave a decided negative.

Although the boys had been talking in whispers, it was just enough
to arouse the rest of the Scouts, and in a twinkling the lodge was
filled with sleepy boys’ voices.

“I don’t want to get up,” complained one.

“I don’t, either! Nothing would suit me better than to stay just
where I am for a couple of hours!”

“I wish I could take a dip and lie in the sun until I was dry, the
way Don does. He never has to bother with clothes.”

However, a Scout’s sense of duty is always stronger than his love
of ease, so in a few minutes the boys all filed out to take their
morning plunge. It was only a few minutes until each Scout, refreshed
by a dip in the cold water, and filled with the joy of living,
rushed to the mess tent and began his day in a way approved from the
beginning of time.

After the bedding had been aired and the cots made up, the boys were
called together by the Scout-Master’s shrill whistle. They were then
divided into squads, and each squad was assigned some special work
for the day that was always play to the wood-loving boys.

“I think,” Mr. Durland said, “that since Jack knows the woods so
thoroughly, he had better be the one to warn Mr. Flannigan of the
plot. I suppose,” he added, turning to Jack, “that you want Tom to go
with you, as usual, and of course Don couldn’t be kept in camp while
you were out of it. If I were you, boys, I’d start right away, so
that you can get back to camp early.”

With that the boys saluted, and with eager haste went into the lodge
to get their things ready for the hike.

“Come on, Tom! Come on, Don!” Jack shouted a minute later as he led
the way through the woods. “Let’s see how quickly we can get to the
lumber camp. Sure, we’ll break the record. Ouch!” he exclaimed after
a minute, turning to look frowningly at the plant that had pricked
him.

“What do you suppose that is, Jack?” he asked. “I don’t remember ever
studying a plant like that.”

“Guess you don’t! That’s one of the plants that grow near a bog--I
forget the name of it now. We’d better look out, though, if we’re
anywhere near a bog. I’m not over-anxious to take a mud bath,” Jack
replied.

“We’d be mighty lucky if we got off with nothing worse than a mud
bath. If we once got mired in one of those swamps, the chances would
be two to one that we would never get out alive,” said Tom, and then
added suddenly: “Where’s Don?”

“Blessed if I know!” said Jack, while his face began to take on a
worried expression. “He can’t be very far off, though. He was here
just a minute ago. Here, Don; here, Don--where are you, old fellow?”
he called, but no joyous bark answered the well-known voice.

Then Tom put two fingers between his teeth and sent forth a shrill
whistle that echoed and re-echoed through the trees. This time, to
their great relief, they were answered, and in a moment more Don
himself came bounding up to them. His relief showed in his voice as
Jack patted his favorite on the head and said, “We thought you might
be stuck in the swamp, Don. Don’t go away like that again, will you,
old fellow?” And Don readily promised.

They started on again, this time with much greater caution than
before. Whenever they came to ground that looked the least bit
suspicious, they skirted it very carefully. Don had kept close to his
master’s side as he had promised, although at times it was very hard
for him to keep from chasing the squirrels and rabbits that looked at
him in such an aggravating way. Finally one reckless little chipmunk
scurried along almost under Don’s nose, and it was more than dog
nature could stand. With a bound he was off after the little fellow,
who, frightened by the sudden onslaught, fairly flew to the shelter
of his hole and left Don to bark away his vexation.

Suddenly he stopped barking and trotted forward a few paces, then,
with ears bent forward and front paw raised, seemed to be listening
intently. Suddenly he burst into a chorus of wild barks and then
crouched down, growling savagely, with his eyes fixed on a clump of
bushes.

The boys, who were just rounding a rock and could not see Don on
ahead, started forward eagerly to find the cause of his uneasiness,
but stopped abruptly as two men armed with heavy clubs sprang out
from the shelter of the bushes with the evident intention of doing
for the dog then and there. In a flash it came to Jack that these
were the two men whose plot they had overheard. Suppose they had seen
the Scouts the day before and, taking it for granted they would warn
Flannigan, had lain in wait for them here in this lonely spot?

As the boys were unarmed, discretion was the better part of valor,
so, calling to Don, they doubled behind a couple of huge rocks and
made for a cave that they had come across on one of their scouting
expeditions a few days before.

Meanwhile Don had sprung at the man nearest him, who happened to be
Lavine, and had caught him by the leg. Lifting his cudgel high in the
air, the man would have felled him if he had not heard Jack’s command
to the dog to “come along.” Quickly the dog dodged and started off
in the direction his master had taken. By that time the second
ex-lumberjack, O’Brien, had caught sight of the boys and had started
off hotly in pursuit. Don knew that the boys’ safety depended on the
time they had to get away, so he raced off after O’Brien. When he
reached him, he snapped at his legs and hands, while the man, cursing
and swearing horribly, aimed blow after blow at his tormentor’s head.
Dodging the blows easily, Don watched the boys until they disappeared
through the trees.

As Lavine came running up--Don’s teeth had only gone through his
trousers--the faithful dog thought it was about time he left, so he
made off as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of the
camp.

The cave that the boys were bound for had all the characteristics of
some wild animal’s home. When the Scouts had come across it first
they had been impressed by the fetid odor that filled it and the
bones of small creatures that were strewn all over the floor. Now,
as the boys rushed along, their one thought was whether or not the
animal would be there.

Running, slipping, sliding and stumbling, they made their way down
the steep ravine, dodged behind a boulder and came in sight of the
bushes that hid the entrance to the cave.

“Quick!” Jack hissed, pulling aside the bushes. “I don’t think
there’s anything in there, but if there is, we’ll have to take our
chance!”

In less time than it takes to tell, the boys were inside and the
bushes were once more in place. With hearts threatening to jump out
of their mouths, they listened for the sound of footsteps outside the
cave. Pretty soon they came. Heavy, ponderous footsteps they were,
and they seemed to be nearing the mouth of the cave.

“I don’t see where the young deevils could have gone,” they heard the
Frenchman say, “yet zey have disappear as if ze earth is open an’
swallow zem up.”

“I wish it had!” the Irishman replied, grimly. “More be taken if Oi
could oncet get ahold of the spalpeens it wouldn’t be so very long
before they’d be kivered with airth.”

The boys shuddered as they thought of the murderous attack they
had so narrowly escaped, and it was with a long sigh of relief
that they finally realized that their pursuers knew nothing of
their hiding-place. After a short time spent in fruitless search,
Lavine and O’Brien started off, grumbling and cursing, to scour the
surrounding woods.

The boys had been in as much apprehension because of the possible
return of the occupant of the cave as they had been because of the
presence of the men. So now, when one danger was removed, they had
time to think of the other. As soon as they thought the men were
far enough away for them to venture out, Tom, who was nearest the
opening, looked out to see if the way were really clear.

He sprang back in alarm as a great pile of dirt and stones came
hurtling down the mountain side with a roar like thunder and with a
force that made the ground tremble. The great mass was piled high
before the opening of the cave, shutting out every vestige of light
and air.




                            CHAPTER VIII

                     THE BOY SCOUTS TO THE FORE


“Jack, Jack, where are you?” Tom called wildly, groping around in the
inky blackness for his friend.

“Here, old man!” Jack replied from his corner. “I thought from the
roar a lion had come to interview us. What has happened, anyway?”

“What has happened? Why, man, it seems as if the whole mountain has
slid down to cover the cave. It’s shut out all the air, and we can’t
breathe very long with the little we have in here. Why, Jack, do you
realize that unless someone finds us in a hurry we will die in this
horrible smelling hole like rats in a trap?”

“It sure is some tight place, old fellow, but what we’ve got to do
now is to brace up and think of some way to get out.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds all right, but how are we going to do it? Can
we dig our way through rocks and dirt with our fingers? Can we change
into moles and burrow our way out underground? I tell you, Jack,
we’re goners unless somebody discovers us within the next hour at the
most.”

“Tom, Tom, don’t talk like that! Brace up and be a man! If we’ve
got to face Death, let’s meet him bravely, as a true Scout should.
Besides,” he added after a moment’s thought, “don’t you remember the
bones that we saw scattered around here the other day? Let’s hunt
around and see if we can find some. They might possibly help us to
dig our way out.”

The boys searched desperately for a bone big enough to be of service
to them. Finally they found a couple that they thought might serve
and they set to work fearfully to see what they could do.

Slowly but surely they dug through the mass of dirt and stones and
they were just beginning to hope that they might succeed when they
received an unexpected check. They had cleared away a good part of
the debris, but when they started again after a moment’s rest they
found that they could go no farther, for the bones struck upon a
solid rock.

Mad with disappointment and rage, the boys threw themselves upon the
rock, tore at it with their nails and struck at it with their bare
hands until they were all raw and bleeding. Finally, exhausted and
weakened by the lack of air, they threw themselves, panting, on the
ground where they lay unable to move for a few minutes.

Jack was the first to recover himself and, sitting up, he put his
hand to his head, which seemed to be whirling around dizzily, and
said sharply:

“Come, this will never do! Here when we need what little brains we
have, we use them by acting like fools. If I could only think! If I
could--only--think,” he muttered, while his head dropped wearily to
his knee.

“Jack, Jack!” Tom cried, springing to his feet. “I can’t stand it!
I’ll go mad if I have to stay here much longer! Can’t you hear the
birds singing out there? Can’t you hear the murmuring of the brook?
Can’t you smell the air sweet with the glorious sunshine filtering
through the leaves and touching all the flowers with gold? Why,
man, the world’s alive out there, while in here the darkness--awful
darkness is bearing me down, crushing me--” and with a shuddering sob
he sank down and buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out
that impenetrable wall that seemed to be closing in upon him on all
sides.

“Listen a minute, Tom, old friend, old comrade!” Jack said gently,
soothingly, reaching over to put an arm about Tom’s shoulders. “We
forgot all about Don,--our Don who has never failed any of us in a
tight place. He must have escaped from those lumbermen all right or
they would have said something about having done for him when they
came to look for us here. Well, now, suppose he has escaped, what
would he naturally do first? Why, he’d go straight to the camp of
course and get the fellows here to help us. If he did that, we may
expect them any time now. All we have to do is to wait.”

At Jack’s calm, matter-of-fact tone, Tom gathered himself together
and said frankly, “Jack, you make me heartily ashamed of myself! From
now on I’ll try to act like a man and a Scout!”

So the boys, encouraged by the faint ray of hope, sat side by side
to wait for whatever might be in store for them. Only once, as the
air got thicker and they found it harder to breathe, Tom muttered,
“I only hope they come soon!” And with that they fell into a sort of
stupor from which they aroused themselves with great difficulty from
time to time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Don’s one thought and aim had been to reach camp and bring
help to his friends. At first he had trouble in striking the trail
and had to go way back to the scene of the attack before he finally
found it. Then with nose to the ground and with eyes that turned
neither to the right nor to the left, he trotted steadily along.
There was no rabbit in that whole wide expanse of forest that could
have tempted him to leave the trail that day, for the well-being,
perhaps the lives, of his two best friends were at stake.

Once he lost the trail and for a few terrible seconds ran about
wildly in vain search of it. Finally he picked it up again on the
other side of the brook and started on, faster than before to make up
for lost time.

Another time a thorn stuck into his foot and, although it hurt
him cruelly, he never once faltered or stopped, but only limped on
unflinchingly.

Ay, Don, Old Sam spoke very truly when he said, “Ye have the look o’
my Rover,” and he might have added, “an’ the good, brave heart o’
him, too!”

Although it seemed ages to the tired, lame dog, it was in reality
only a very short time before he reached the camp. Luckily the boys
had come back from their scouting and were talking over their various
experiences. As the dog limped painfully up to them Harry exclaimed,
“Say, fellows, what’s the matter with Don?”

“Looks as if he had something in his foot,” Dick commented. “Come
here, old fellow, and let me see what’s the matter.”

Don came up willingly and held up his paw to be examined. Impatiently
he waited while Dick, with many expressions of sympathy, took out the
long thorn and gently bound up the injured paw.

“Poor old boy!” one of the Scouts said, as he patted the dog’s shaggy
head, “it must have pained you terribly! But where are Jack and Tom?
It’s not like Jack to leave Don to come on alone especially when he
knew he was hurt,” he added, turning to the boys.

At this Don, who had been waiting impatiently while his foot was
being doctored, ran to the edge of the woods and stood there looking
back at the Scouts pleadingly.

“What does he want?” asked a Tenderfoot Scout, who did not know Don
as well as the rest.

“He wants us to follow him. I’m afraid, fellows, that something’s
happened to Jack and Tom. And I, for one, mean to find out what it is
and mighty quick, too!” said Pete Stubbs.

“We’re with you!” came a chorus of hearty voices.

By this time Mr. Durland had come up and asked the cause of the
excitement. He listened to the recital of their fears with a very
grave face. In a moment the boys were flying around everywhere to
carry out his directions.

“Some of you boys go and get anything that you can find in the lodge
or out of it,” he said, “to dig with. There are three or four old
shovels there that may come in handy and a lot of trowels that we use
for digging up specimens of flowers. Hurry, boys!”

In a short time the Scouts were ready to start, and Don, forgetting
all about his sore foot, led them rapidly along the trail.

Dick turned to Mr. Durland and asked him how he meant to use the
shovels.

“There is great danger in this part of the country on account of
the landslides that frequently occur,” the Scout-Master explained.
“Of course, they are not usually on a very large scale. They are
very often caused by a loose rock starting to fall from the top of a
mountain and so loosening masses of stones and dirt.”

“But do you suppose that the boys could possibly be caught in one of
them?” Dick asked, while his face grew white at the very thought.

“There is a chance, of course,” Mr. Durland replied anxiously, “and
because of that chance, I thought it was best to bring the shovels
along.”

“Be prepared!” Dick murmured, and felt a curious tightening of his
heartstrings as he thought of his comrades in distress.

Finally Don brought them to the clump of bushes behind which O’Brien
and Levine had been hidden. The boys noticed how the ground had been
trampled down and the bushes torn aside, and at once it flashed
through their minds that the boys might have been attacked. Here Don
seemed to lose the trail, but the Scouts now readily picked it up,
trained for trailing as they were, and they started on again with
redoubled speed.

A dozen wild conjectures chased each other through the boys’
bewildered heads. Suppose the two lumbermen had learned of the boys’
intention to warn Flannigan! Suppose they had waylaid Jack and Tom!
Would the boys stand up to them? If they did, would they win? If they
had been attacked on their way to the lumber camp, every Scout felt
sure that the boys would do their best to avoid the plotters and
deliver their message. On the other hand, if they had been coming
back, it was more than likely that the boys would stand up to the two
ruffians. If this last were so, what had been the outcome? As nobody
was able to answer this, all they could do was to follow Don, now
plunging on far ahead.

As they neared the cave some of the boys recognized their
surroundings. Then a new fear came to torment them. What if the boys
had run to the cave for shelter and had found the unknown inhabitants
there?

In another minute they had scrambled down the ravine, rounded the
rocks and had come into full view of the place where the cave had
been. At the sight that met their eyes they stopped short and fairly
gasped with astonishment and dismay.

They all looked to Mr. Durland for an explanation of this state of
affairs.

“Boys,” said the Scout-Master in a strained, unnatural voice, “you
say that there was a cave in the side of that mountain?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bob. “We examined it thoroughly the other day.”

“Then I am afraid that you will all have a chance to test every ounce
of courage and fortitude you possess to-day. Boys,” he said, and his
voice shook a little in spite of himself, “our Tom and Jack are
almost certainly in that cave and are suffering--perhaps dying--for
lack of air! Are you ready, now, to get them out?”

The boys’ answer was a deafening shout, and, snatching up their
shovels and trowels, set to work with a grim do-it-or-die expression
on their young faces that did Mr. Durland’s heart good. In earnest
they applied themselves to their heart-breaking task, opening their
lips for nothing except to call the boys’ names from time to time.

       *       *       *       *       *

What was that voice? It seemed so far away--as if someone were
calling from a great distance. What was it they were saying? Was
it “Jack?” No, it was “Tom.” Why were they calling them? Where
were they? What was that strange feeling in his head, that dizzy
sensation, that made him feel as if he were spinning around and
around? Had the lumbermen caught them after all? No, that could not
be it. Now he had it! They were smothering to death in this loathsome
hole! So, by painful degrees, Jack drew himself back from the dark
abyss of oblivion and came to a full realization of his whereabouts.

“Tom, Tom,” he cried, shaking his friend fiercely, “they’ve come,
they’ve come! Do you hear them?” and he called out in as loud a voice
as he could again and again.

When Tom came to himself, he added his shouts to Jack’s and they
finally succeeded in making themselves heard by the straining
workers outside. With glad cries of encouragement, the Scouts went to
work once more with redoubled energy. In five minutes, that seemed
like five ages to the gasping boys inside, a tiny place was cleared
before the entrance of the cave, letting in a breath of cool, fresh
air. In another half hour the cave mouth was entirely free and the
two half-smothered boys were helped out by their anxious friends.
With a sharp cry Tom clapped his hands over his eyes to keep out the
dazzling light.

The Scouts crowded eagerly about the two boys, scarcely able to
restrain their delight. They patted them all over to see if there
were any broken bones, shook their hands and overwhelmed them with
questions.

Then it was Don’s turn. Limping from the wound in his foot, he came
slowly over the pile of dirt and stones and looked wistfully up into
his master’s face.

“Don, darling old Don!” Jack cried, hiding his face in the dog’s
rough coat. “Then they didn’t hurt you, beauty, did they?”

Then the boys learned all that Don had done for them, and if they had
loved him before, they idolized him now.

Of course Jack and Tom were too exhausted by their nerve-racking
experience to continue their journey to the lumber camp, so Mr.
Durland chose Dick in their place, and with the good wishes of the
boys, he started off through the trees.

On the way home, the boys could not hold their wild spirits in check.
They chased rabbits and squirrels, shouted to each other, played
leapfrog and sang rollicking college songs. Only Don walked soberly
along beside Jack, too happy to leave his master’s side, and his eyes
alone told a story more eloquent than words.




                             CHAPTER IX

                     DICK CRAWFORD GIVES WARNING


It was an ideal summer day, and Dick Crawford, going through the
woods toward the logging camp, could not help thinking what a lucky
fellow he was.

“It’s worth a million,” he thought, “just to be a Boy Scout, and to
be alive on a day like this.”

Dick was no poet, but if he had been, he could have written an ode
to the wonderful, mystic forest. The narrow path he traversed was
closely hemmed in by giant trees, covered with moss and, at times, he
could see the glistening of a waxy bunch of mistletoe high up on some
old oak.

Finally his mind came around to all the exciting events of the last
few days, and he became sober.

When would the miscreants be brought to book? It did not seem
possible that they could long remain at large, but then the North
Woods are very extensive, and offer thousands of hiding places to
experienced woodsmen like the discharged lumberjacks.

At this thought his heart sank, but Dick was not one to worry much
about things he could not help, nor to cross a bridge until he came
to it.

So he dismissed all forebodings from his mind and set up a shrill
whistle that caused the forest to echo and the squirrels to sit up in
front of the entrances to their homes and chatter angrily.

He looked upward toward the sun, which he could at times glimpse
through the thick foliage, and, judging from its position that it
must be growing late, hurried his footsteps. He was soon in sight of
the camp, but could see no sign of life about it. As he drew nearer
the rough log houses, he shouted, “Hello, there! Hello! Hello!”

“Hello, yourself!” responded a voice from the cook’s house, and a
moment later the tangled red head belonging to the owner of the voice
was stuck out of the doorway.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Dick?” he continued in a more friendly voice,
as he recognized the Assistant Scout-Master. “Well, what can I do you
for?”

Dick smiled at this characteristic question, and replied, “Why, I
wanted to see the foreman, Mr. Flannigan. Where is he, do you know?”

“Search me!” replied Harry, with a careless shrug of his shoulders.
“But say, wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “He did say something about
it, too. I remember now. He has gone about fifty miles up north to
look over a piece of uncut timber land there, and I remember he said
he would be back before the last of this month. But what did you want
him for, anyway?” inquisitively.

Dick thought a minute, and then decided to tell Harry all about the
happenings of the last few days. He knew that Harry was friendly to
the Scouts, and would help them all he could in bringing the outlaws
to justice.

Another thing that he did not know, but which was an important factor
in the chase later on, was that Harry disliked the outlaws heartily.
They had often plagued him, and made his hard life even harder, and
he had often wanted to get even with them. So it is possible that
Dick could not have taken a wiser course than that which he now
decided to pursue.

Accordingly he proceeded to detail the happenings of the last few
days to the attentive cookee, who could not help interrupting him at
times with expressions of surprise and indignation.

“Well, what do you know about that?” he asked at the conclusion of
Dick’s recital. “Ain’t them two about the most underhanded crooks
goin’? I only hope I can do somethin’ to help put them in jail,” and
here the expression of his eyes boded no good to the outlaws.

Dick perceived that he had gained an ally worth having, and was
pleased accordingly.

“I know that the others will be as pleased as I am to know that you
are going to help all you can,” Dick replied cordially to the other’s
outburst. “Now, Harry, you know from what I have told you that both
Lavine and O’Brien will go to any lengths to get even with Flannigan,
and also with us, whom they now suspect to be their enemies.

“We have reason to believe that they will do all they can to waylay
the foreman, steal the money that he will have on his person, and
either kill or seriously injure him.

“Now, what we want you to do is to notify us at our camp if the
foreman is not back before the last day of the month. Will you do
that?”

“Will I?” said Harry, his eyes sparkling as he thought of the trust
that was being placed in him. “Well, I should smile! Just give me a
chance, that is all I ask. You can count on me, Dick, as much as you
can on yourself.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” responded Dick, heartily. “We’ll
consider that settled, then. And another thing, Harry, why on earth
don’t you join the Boy Scouts? You’d have no end of fun, and we’d all
be glad to have you.”

“Dick, all you fellers are bricks fur askin’ me, but how can I?
There ain’t anything I want as much as to be a Scout, but I have no
chance to do what you fellers do. I got to work here from the first
streak of daylight, and quit when my work’s done, which is about ten
o’clock every night of the week. I am what you call a ‘kin and can’t’
worker; I work as soon as I can see and quit when it is so dark I
can’t see.”

Here the boy tried to laugh, but the laugh sounded strained somehow.
It is very possible that he felt more like crying than laughing, but
he would not have had Dick know it for anything.

Dick, however, knew boy nature pretty well, and he guessed from
Harry’s tone just about how he actually felt. So he joined in the
latter’s laugh, and then said, “Now you see here, Harry, old top, if
you really want to be a Boy Scout, there’s nothing on earth can stop
you, and we’re going to help you all we know how. I was speaking to
Mr. Durland about you the other day or, rather, he was speaking to
me, and he said that he knew of a place that is open in Mr. Scott’s
saw-mill that he was sure he could get for you. That would give you
more money than you are making now, I guess, and you’ll have a whole
lot more time to yourself. What do you say; would you like to have
that job?”

Harry’s eyes had filled in spite of himself while Dick was talking,
and now he said in a queer, husky voice, “Say, Dick, would a duck
swim? All I can say is that you Scouts and your Scout-Master are
about the squarest, whitest bunch that I ever run up against! I’ll
beat it right along with you when you go back, and this job can go
to the dickens for all I care!”

“Hold on a bit,” exclaimed Dick, smiling at the boy’s impulsiveness.
“You can do us a whole lot more good by sticking right here than you
could by being with us just now. We need you here to tell us in case
Flannigan doesn’t get back on time.”

“Gee, I’d clean forgotten all about that,” said Harry, ruefully. “But
you’re dead right, and no mistake! I’d be willing to stay here the
next ten years if it would help to catch them guys. They’re pretty
slick articles, though, don’t fool yourself about that,” he added.

“Oh, I realize that we will have our work cut out for us,” responded
Dick, seriously, “but I think we can get them finally, just the same.”

“You bet your sweet life we can!” responded Harry, enthusiastically.
He had great confidence in his new friends and felt that if anybody
could, they would be the ones to break up the plot. But he was better
acquainted with the rascals than any of the Scouts, and knew that
they were resourceful and desperate men.

He was immensely proud of the trust placed in him by Dick and the
others, and resolved then and there to show himself worthy of it.
He had always had a hard time of it, and had never known what it
meant to have a father or a mother. He had earned his own living as
long as he could remember and that in a great city meant constant
and hard work. Then he had drifted north in search of better paying
work, and had finally landed the job of cookee to the lumber camp.
There was more money in this than he had ever made, although it was
little enough, in all conscience, but the work was terribly hard and
exacting.

He was supposed to be the first one up in the camp every morning, and
on him devolved the responsibility of arousing the sleeping men and
getting a good share of the breakfast. Then, after each meal, there
was the immense pile of dishes to wash--a task which he hated with
all his heart. His work was ended only after everyone else was asleep
and he had rounded out the last of his duties by setting the huge pot
of beans in the pit dug for it, there to simmer all night.

And it was not only the wearing work and long hours that worried him
and made him wish more than once that he had never been born. He
lacked the comradeship of other boys of his own age. He had always
been too busy earning a living in the city to mingle much with
others, and now, since coming to the lumber camp, there had not been
another boy within many miles of him until the advent of the Scouts.

So is it any wonder that at the thought of easier and more
congenial work and more especially at the prospect of having that
companionship that his very soul craved, his heart went out in
gratitude to those responsible for the change in his fortunes?

He felt that no sacrifice would have been too great to make for them,
and would willingly have risked his life if he thought their welfare
demanded such a sacrifice.

So now when Dick held out his hand, and said, “Well, so long,
old man, until I see you again!” his heart was running over with
gratitude.

“So long!” responded Harry, shaking the proffered hand fervently.
“You can count on me to the last gasp.”

“I’m sure of it, Harry,” and so with a last word of farewell, Dick
started on his homeward journey.

He was very well satisfied with the result of his mission, and was
convinced that he had gained a recruit worth having. In addition to
this he had formed a real liking for the cookee, and was glad for his
sake that things were to be better for him in the future.

He felt, as many others have done, the force of the fact that there
is always a greater and nobler pleasure in giving happiness to anyone
else than there is in securing it for oneself.

He swung along at a good gait, his mind busy with these thoughts, and
was somewhat startled when, at a short turn in the path, he almost
ran into Bob Hart.

“Gee, you gave me a scare!” he exclaimed, after they had exchanged
salutes. “What on earth are you doing here, Bob?”

“Why, it’s this way,” explained Bob. “You know that we overheard what
the outlaws said, and after you had gone, Mr. Durland thought that
we had better patrol this path so that in case either of them tried
to stop you from going to or coming from the logging camp, we could
wig-wag signals back to our camp, and so let them know there what was
going on. That is the solution of the reason we are here.”

“I wish we could solve the mystery of why those fellows aren’t in
jail just as easily,” remarked Dick.

“So do I!” returned Bob, soberly. “We seem to be as far as ever from
catching them, don’t we?”

“Here, here, young fellow! That kind of talk won’t do at all,”
laughed Dick. “This isn’t a case of where we _want_ to catch them.
It’s a case of where we’ve simply _got_ to. That’s the only way to
look at it.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Dick,” said Bob, his confidence
somewhat restored. “What did Harry say? Is he going to join?”

“Surest thing you know!” responded Dick, cheerfully. “That boy is
going to help us more than a little, too. He knows a good deal about
the surrounding country, and he knows the habits of these rascals.
He can figure out better than we can, perhaps, just what they would
be likely to do under given conditions.”

As they had been holding this conversation, the boys had been walking
rapidly along, and now they came up to one boy after another, all
posted as relays for wig-wagging.

Before very long they reached the camp itself, and soon Dick was
making his report to Scout-Master Durland.

“So you see, sir,” he concluded, “Harry will be a help to us, and
we can help him, so it is a sort of mutual benefit arrangement all
around.”

“Which is just what the Boy Scouts are for,” said Mr. Durland,
smiling.

After a pause, he continued thoughtfully, “Well, Dick, I guess we
have done all we can for the present, and now all we can do is to
keep a sharp lookout and see how events shape themselves. Do you
think of anything else?”

“No, sir, I can’t say I do. Not before Flannigan gets back, anyway,”
answered Dick respectfully, and so matters were left, and the Scouts
settled down to a short spell of “having a good time, doing nothing
in particular,” as Ben Hoover expressed it.




                              CHAPTER X

                          “BUSY AS BEAVERS”


“Come on, fellows,” said Jack, “let’s go and take a swim.”

Dinner was over and the Scouts lay in various attitudes on the grass
a little distance from the mess tent. The day had been unbearably
hot. Usually there was a breeze that somewhat tempered the fierceness
of the sun, and at night, indeed, it was so cool that their blankets
felt mighty good.

This was the first really hot day that they had had since they had
pitched camp. They had started out on a game of Mountain Scouting
during the morning, but Mr. Durland, who feared the effects of the
sun combined with violent exercise, had limited the range of their
run and they had come home earlier than usual. Now nearly an hour had
elapsed since their dinner had been eaten--or shall we say “gorged”?
because with appetites like theirs that was the most fitting
term,--and sufficient time had passed to make the proposed swim a
matter of no danger.

The boys greeted Jack’s suggestion with a shout, and after obtaining
Mr. Durland’s permission, started off, running and leaping, kicking
up their heels like young colts, for the swimming place a little way
from camp.

It was an ideal spot. The brook, starting from a point high up
in the mountains and cold as ice at the beginning, was gradually
tempered as it flowed under the sunlight into the lower levels and
in the meantime also widened its course. At the point that the boys
had chosen, it had spread out into a small pond or lake perhaps
three hundred feet in width. Its course had also been checked by
the level nature of the bottom at that point, so that it lay, with
scarcely a perceptible movement, gleaming in the sun, which warmed
it sufficiently to make swimming a delight. In places it was only
three or four feet deep, but toward the southern end there was a
depth of eight or ten feet that made it suitable for diving. The
younger boys and those whose skill as swimmers was not very great,
chose the upper part where, under the direction of Dick Crawford,
the Assistant Scout-Master, those unable to swim rapidly learned,
while those who simply knew the breast stroke were taught one by one
the more scientific crawl and over-hand stroke that are the envy and
despair of the small boy when he sees them put in practice by his
larger companions. Tom and Pete and Bob were down with Jack at the
southern end of the pool and as all were expert swimmers and the bank
was within easy reach, to say nothing of the assistance that would
be instantly rendered by any of their companions, should ill luck
befall, were left to do as they liked.

They had found a heavy plank a few yards distant from the bank and
had placed it over the log of a fallen tree so that it rose at a
gradual angle until, where it overhung the stream, it was about ten
feet from the water. The end that rested on the ground was firmly
wedged between heavy rocks that the boys had gathered, capped by a
section of tree trunk, so that, no matter what might be the strain
at the other end, it was impossible for it to slip or yield. It made
a capital springboard and the Scouts had a glorious time playing
follow my leader. The slope of the plank was so gradual that they got
a good running start, and, reaching the end of the plank, with hands
upraised over their heads, were flung out in a graceful curve coming
down head foremost, straight as an arrow, and seeing how far they
could swim under water before the need of breath compelled them to
come to the surface.

Jack’s familiarity with woodcraft and the lonely life of his early
boyhood when he was left so largely to his own devices and to what
enjoyment he could procure unaided from nature had made him a
splendid swimmer. He could dive forward and backward. He could sit
at the end of the springboard and from a sitting position leap to
his feet on the edge of the board and dive into the water with just
one motion. Once in the water, he swam like a fish. He could float
and on occasion had done so for an hour at a time without changing
his position. His action in swimming was grace itself. Now after the
boys were tired of sporting in the water, he pressed his hands close
against his side and swam from one end of the pool to the other,
using simply his feet.

“Gee,” said Tom, who had never seen Jack swim this way before, “where
did you learn that stroke, Jack?”

“Oh,” said Jack carelessly, “I got that from the beavers.”

“Beavers?” said Pete, with interest. “Do they swim that way?

“Sure!” said Jack. “Their front paws are very small and they have
to rely entirely upon the back ones. These are webbed like those of
a duck up to the root of the nails, and it’s one of the prettiest
things you ever saw to see a beaver swim. There is scarcely a ripple.
The front feet are perfectly motionless, pressed close up against its
side, while its head, with its shining fur and its keen, bright eyes
that seem to look in every direction at once, moves in a perfectly
straight line toward the front door of his house.”

“House?” said Tom, incredulously. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just exactly what I say,” said Jack. “Haven’t you ever heard of
beavers’ houses? Why, there isn’t a more intelligent builder among
all the animals I know about, and I’ve watched almost every one of
them! It’s not only a big house, but a well-made one. The beaver is
never satisfied with anything but perfection. It has a lot of rooms
in it and these are carpeted with leaves and moss and grass. The
upper rooms are sometimes six or eight feet above the surface of
the water so as to be perfectly dry. The wise old rascal knows that
sometimes there is a freshet that raises the level of the stream and
he makes his plan accordingly. There isn’t a thing about carpentering
or mason work that he doesn’t know. And he has to make his house
strong, too, because he has a good many enemies. The wolves and
wolverines are after him all the time and unless he had something
that they could not bite through or claw through, it would be all up
with Mr. Beaver.”

By this time all the boys had become interested in Jack’s description
and had gathered around him.

“You’re a lucky dog, Jack,” said Bob. “You’ve seen a whole lot of
things that us city fellows don’t know anything about.”

“Well,” said Jack, “there is no reason why you shouldn’t find out
all about the beaver, because I know for a fact that there are some
not far from camp. Just the other day I caught sight of a beaver dam
about three miles the other side of the logging camp. I was going to
speak to you fellows about it at the time, but Don just then started
up a woodchuck and we all got so excited that I forgot. What do you
say to dressing and going over there now? It won’t be so much of
a hike and as the camp is on our way, we will drop in and ask Mr.
Durland about it so that he won’t be worried if we don’t get back
until just before supper time. There is nothing else on hand for this
afternoon and I am mighty sure that he will let us go. Wouldn’t be a
bit surprised if he wanted to come along with us!”

The plan was greeted enthusiastically and after the fellows at the
other end of the pool had been told about it, they rushed out and
dressed quite as quickly as the rest. Then they hiked back to camp
and put the matter before the Scout-Master, who readily assented to
the trip, and, as Jack had foreseen, was very glad to go along. After
a little more than an hour’s tramp Jack held up his hand in caution.

“You’ve got to be careful now, Scouts,” he said. “They’re wary old
fellows and the least thing disturbs them. If they once suspect that
we are anywhere near, it’s good-night with us. Those big, bright eyes
will see us all right but we won’t catch a glimpse of them. Now’s the
time for you Scouts to show what you know of woodcraft and follow me
as silently as a band of Indians.”

Thus cautioned, the boys fell in behind Jack and, carefully avoiding
stepping upon twigs or speaking above a whisper, soon reached the
dam. They were on the banks of a mountain stream that wound its way
through the woods until at the point where they stood it was perhaps
a hundred feet in width. Just below them the progress of the stream
had been checked by what seemed at first sight a narrow bridge
extending from one bank to the other. This was about three feet wide
and perfectly smooth.

As Jack whispered to Dick, who was the nearest, this was made just
wide enough so that the beavers in going to and fro could pass each
other in comfort.

It evidently grew a great deal thicker as it approached the surface
of the water and at the lowest part was probably ten or twelve
feet thick. As the current was not especially strong, this served
effectually to make an almost unrippled pond such as the beavers
love. It was not exactly straight across but bent in slightly on the
side that pointed up stream so that at the center it was decidedly
curved.

This, as Jack further whispered, was to break the force of the
current and shunt it off gradually to each side of the dam.

It was the same principle that in a racing automobile gives the
cigar-like point to the machine so as to act as a wedge going into
the wind and lessening by that much its resistance. The base of the
dam was formed by young saplings and branches of trees that had
been cut by the beavers’ teeth and planted as piles. Between these
they had woven blades of grass and strips of bark so as to hold the
branches straight and form a foundation for the mason work that was
coming next. For the wise little creatures knew perfectly well the
force of the current, and were determined to make a good job while
they were at it. They had made mortar from the gravel and clay on
the bank of the stream, using their broad, flat tails as a trowel
for mixing. They must have had to travel to and fro thousands of
times before they completed the work and built around their temporary
outlines of plaited branches the solid wall of masonry. They knew
enough also not to make it top-heavy, and so gradually sloped it from
the bottom to the top, making it more compact by slapping it with
their tails until at last it stood almost like a wall of granite.
They watched over the dam day and night. No Hollander was ever more
careful to prevent a leak in the dikes than they were to keep their
dam perfectly solid. They knew that a little carelessness at the
start might spoil the work of years.

While the boys were looking open-eyed at this specimen of the
beavers’ work, Jack suddenly whispered, “’Sh, here they come! Now
keep perfectly still, boys, and you will see something worth while.”

From one of the mound-like houses up the stream a large beaver came
out, slowly looking around him with infinite caution before he left
the safety of his home. He was about two feet long in addition to
a flat oval tail that made his total length nearly three feet. His
nose was blunt, his ears small, and his eyes wonderfully soft and
intelligent. He carefully scanned the banks and the surface of the
stream, and, satisfied at length, paddled slowly toward the dam.
Something in its appearance must have alarmed him, for suddenly he
lifted his tail and struck it several times against the side of the
dam. At the sound, as though it were a signal, two or three other
beavers emerged from their houses and rapidly joined him. They swam
toward a point on the farther side, where the boys, now that their
attention was attracted to it, could see that a little stream was
trickling through and falling to the lower level of the creek beyond.

In an instant all was activity, although there was no confusion. They
acted as though they were perfectly disciplined and each knew just
what he had to do. Two of them swam to the farther bank, climbed up
and began to tear with their sharp teeth at some slender saplings.
It was astonishing to see how quickly they had gnawed their way
through and how adroitly they moved to one side when it fell. These
they dragged to the edge of the bank, plunged into the water, holding
an end in their teeth, and swam quickly toward the threatened point.
Then two or three of them got together and pushed the young branches
in among the others. One of them in the meantime had taken up his
position on the bank and was rapidly making mortar, doing it as
skillfully as the most experienced mason, pounding the clay and mud
and stones together until it reached an even consistency and at times
flirting water upon it with his tail. Then gathering up as much as he
could carry between his two front paws and chin and with head held
well out of the water he swam to the others, just as Jack had said,
using his hind feet alone. There he dropped his load and returned for
another.

By this time the others had done whatever work was necessary with
the branches, and all devoted themselves to the mortar, working with
incredible rapidity and never stopping for a moment. How long it
would have taken to complete the repairs the boys never knew, for
at that moment Tom, who in his eagerness had bent forward, lost his
balance and fell with a crash to the ground. The wary creatures heard
him instantly and like a flash turned and made for their homes. A
moment after the surface of the water was as smooth as a mill-pond
and none would have dreamed of the life and activity of a moment
before.

“Well,” said Bob Hart, angrily, “of all the bone-heads!”

“Bone-head yourself!” said Tom. “How could I help it? Do you suppose
I fell on purpose?”

“Come, come, boys!” said Mr. Durland. “We all know it was an accident
and nobody is more sorry than Tom himself. But I guess there is no
use waiting here any longer. You can be perfectly sure that there
will be nothing doing now for the rest of the day.”

He rose to his feet and the others followed toward the camp, so full
of wonder and excitement at what they had seen that it completely
overshadowed their chagrin at Tom’s carelessness, and he got off more
easily than he had expected.

All that evening when supper was over and cleared away the boys were
so full of the events of the afternoon that they could hardly think
of anything else.

“My,” said Bob, “did you see that beaver’s teeth? I’d hate to have
him bite me!”

“Well,” said Jack, “they wouldn’t bite you unless they were cornered
and had to. Then it would be a pretty healthy thing to keep out of
reach of their teeth. They are as sharp as a chisel. As a matter of
fact, the Indians use them to carve out their ornaments of bone. The
beavers use them so much that Nature has to keep hustling to supply
new material. There is an outside row that projects toward the front
and an inner row that furnishes the material to keep the outer ones
strong and keen. Sometimes a beaver loses a tooth on either the upper
or lower jaw and then the one directly opposite this keeps growing
so fast that after a while it prevents the beaver from closing his
mouth. He can’t eat and soon starves to death.”

“I wonder,” said Dick, “if that was a whole family that we saw this
afternoon.”

“I think very likely,” returned Jack, “because if there had been more
they certainly would have been on the job. The beaver is a sociable
animal and never cares to live alone. Usually there are four or five
found together, but sometimes as many as thirty or forty will gather
in a little village of their own. Each family has a separate house
and each member of the family has his own individual room, which he
keeps jealously for himself, and there is always a scrap if any one
else tries to bunk in there with him.”

“I suppose you find them almost everywhere,” said Bob Hart.

“No, you don’t,” said Jack. “They used to be very plentiful, but
their fur is in such great demand that hunters and trappers are
after them all the time. In Europe, where they used to be abundant,
there are hardly any left except in the zoos as curiosities. You
don’t find so many of them in America either now, except where it’s
cool, as it is up here, and over the line in Canada.”

“Well,” yawned Tom, as they finally got ready to go to bed, “I’d hate
to have to work as they do. Did you see how they pitched in this
afternoon? It makes me tired even to think of it.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I guess we all know better than ever before what
it means to be as ‘busy as a beaver.’”




                             CHAPTER XI

                               THE BOG


“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’

“‘I’m going a-milking, sir, she said,’” chanted Pete as Ben Hoover
emerged from the mess tent with the largest tin pail the camp boasted
swinging from one hand, and the next largest one from the other.

“Gentlemen,” said Ben, with mock dignity, “I’m not in the humor even
to resent the insult your words imply further than to say that you
will be sorry for those cruel words when you learn my mission.

“I am about to sacrifice myself on the altar of friendship! I am
about to separate myself from human society for the space of two
endless hours! I am to spend those two hours in gathering material
for raspberry dumplings”--here a general shout of delight greeted
him--“with which to brighten the lives of many friends.”

This speech was highly applauded by the “many friends,” and Ben,
bowing solemnly, picked up his two pails and walked off, followed by
cries of:

“Hurrah for friendship!”

“Bully for you!”

“Go in and win!”

“We won’t do a thing to those raspberries!”

“Wait till you get them,” Ben called back, as he disappeared down the
hill.

Whistling gaily, Ben swung along till he came to the spot he had
noticed the afternoon before, where the raspberry bushes glowed red
with the luscious fruit.

By the time he had filled one pail, the berries were getting more
scarce, and he wandered on in search of the best filled bushes.

He did not notice that the ground was growing soft and springy under
his feet. He only thought of getting that other pail filled and
hiking back to camp in time for the cook to use the berries for those
promised dumplings.

“Ah, there is the dandiest one yet!” he said to himself, as a bush
fairly loaded with the red berries met his sight. He set down his
pail and reached for the berries. At that moment a sensation came
over him as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet, and
without a moment’s warning he found himself ankle deep in soft,
sticky mud.

Not in the least alarmed, he tried to spring to firmer ground, but
instead sank deeper into the mud than before.

More vexed than frightened, he made a more determined effort to draw
one foot out, but found that he only sank deeper. In sudden anger,
he struggled fiercely. What a sight he would be to return to camp
with his clothes all covered with mud! And such mud! How he loathed
it! He _must_, he _would_ get out, and again he tried, leaning from
side to side, tugging first at one foot, then at the other, but to no
avail.

Thoroughly frightened now, and filled with panic, he threw himself
first backward, then forward, to left, to right. Desperately, wildly,
he strove to draw himself from that awful bog. It seemed as if some
terrible monster with countless hands were dragging him down, deeper,
deeper into that awful mire. The more he struggled, the deeper he
sank.

All at once he realized this and ceased to struggle. He tried to
think. Was it possible that there was no way to get out of this
all-enveloping mud? Could it be that he was to die here, all alone?
And such a terrible death!

The thought sent a shudder through him, and for a few moments he felt
faint and ill. But no, it could not be! Why, his life was just begun!
What about all those plans to make the most of every ounce of ability
God had given him, to make a successful man of himself, to help
others, to make this old world some better because he had lived? Why,
he _could_ not die, he _could_ not! He had too much work to do first!

He thought of the merry words that had passed between him and his
fellow Scouts only a short hour before. How full of life he had been!
Why, he was as full of life now! Nothing had changed! The sun shone
warm upon his upturned face, the air was sweet with the smell of
growing things. A brilliant butterfly settled for a brief moment on
his motionless hand, fluttered, and flew away. A bird rose from a
tree, and, spreading light wings, was soon lost to sight.

How he envied that bird! It was free, while he, worth countless
birds, was held here, where, if help did not come to him soon, he
must die. His boy heart was filled with despair.

But no, he would not despair! He must think of some way to help
himself. There must be some way! Some of the Scouts must be near.

He called again and again, but no answer came back to his straining
ears. He kept his face toward the sky, for he did not dare look down
at that terrible mud, but yet he knew that he was sinking, slowly,
steadily. He could feel that the muck was half way between his knees
and his waist.

If he could only get someone to help him! If he could only make
someone hear! If he only had something--ah, a sudden thought sent
such a thrill of hope through his heart that it fairly hurt.

His whistle--his Scout’s whistle! Why could he not signal with it?
He, like all other Boy Scouts, was familiar with the American Morse
telegraph alphabet. He would try and, placing the whistle to his
lips, he sent out in shrill notes his call for help.

Bob Hart, like Ben Hoover, was on the commissary staff that day,
and was fishing for a mess of trout for dinner in the brook about a
quarter of a mile from the bog.

Pausing to take breath, after a particularly fine fish had been
landed, he wondered what that queer whistle was that came faintly,
yet insistently to his ears. Was it some bird he had never seen or
heard until then? Well, it was a queer, jerky note, anyway.

All at once there was something in that whistle that made him drop
pole and line, and stand listening not only with all his ears, but
with all his heart.

There was something familiar about it. What was it? Ah, now he knew!
It was a signal--a message in the Morse alphabet, and again he
listened intently.

Two short, sharp whistles--that was _I_. One long-drawn, and then
a short whistle--that was _in_. Then in quick succession the other
letters of the message, _In the bog. Help me. Hurry._

Every nerve in Bob’s alert young body responded to that pitiful
call. He ran--he raced--he flew, while always came that cry, “Hurry!
Hurry!” faint at first, but louder as he neared the bog. It seemed as
if his feet were held down with leaden weights. Why could he not go
faster? In his eager heart the wish was repeated again and again, Oh,
if he only had wings!

On, on he sped, and nearer and more insistently came the call,
“Hurry! Hurry!”

Now perhaps he was near enough to call and, raising his clear voice,
he shouted, “Courage! I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sweeter than angel
music the words sounded to Ben Hoover, sunken now to his waist.

A moment more, and Bob was there, encouraging him and promising to
have him out in a jiffy, but this was far more easily said than done.
To find something he could throw to Ben that would serve to keep him
from sinking farther--that was the first thing. After that he would
think of something to do to draw him out.

He pulled some bushes up by the roots and, as he threw them, told
Ben to push them close up against him and rest his arms upon them.
He felt sure they would keep Ben from sinking deeper. They did help,
and for a moment both Scouts thought their problem solved and they
chatted hopefully of the help that Bob was to bring. Vain hope!
Suddenly the bushes sank from view, and in the suction they caused
poor Ben sank lower.

Quickly Bob ran back and forth, searching desperately for something
to throw to his unfortunate comrade. A sapling! A board! Oh, if he
had a board! And as if a miracle, he caught sight of a long one lying
among the trees. How it came there he did not know or care. That it
was there was enough. He ran to it, snatched it up and, running to
the edge of the bog, slid it carefully along until it was within
Ben’s reach.

Carefully, wise now to the fact that the slightest movement made him
sink deeper, Ben drew the board in front of him.

“Don’t bear your full weight upon it,” counselled Bob. “If you just
press upon it lightly with your hands, perhaps it will hold you.”

Poor Ben, eager to do every slightest thing to help himself, obeyed
and, as the board did not seem to sink, again hope sprang up in their
hearts.

Bob wanted to go at once for the desperately needed help, but Ben,
terrified at the thought of being left alone, begged him to wait a
few minutes until they were sure the board would hold him up until
Bob could go and return.

“Keep up your courage, old man,” said Bob. “If that board holds--and
I feel sure it will--we’ll be all right. I’ll do a regular Marathon
up to camp. Harry and Pete are cooks this week, you know. They will
come back with me, and we’ll bring everything we can lay our hands on
to help. It will be mighty strange if we three husky fellows can’t
get one boy out of a fix! So you just be gay thinking about it, old
fellow. We’ll have you out before you know it.”

As he finished speaking, Bob arose and with a last wave of
encouragement to poor Ben, he started on a run for camp. But that
Marathon was never run.

Hardly had Bob gone a hundred yards from the bog than he heard Ben’s
imploring voice calling, “Come back, Bob! Come back! The board is
beginning to sink!”

Bob came tearing back in answer to that pitiful summons to find that
in truth the board was sinking a little in the mud. Beginning at the
heavier end, it slowly sank out of sight, and as it disappeared drew
the boy a little farther down.

He had now sunk halfway between the waist and shoulders. Now, indeed,
did both Scouts begin to despair. Half-crazed, Bob ran wildly up and
down, whistling shrilly, frantically searching for something with
which to aid his comrade.

There was nothing! He could do no more!

He stood, outwardly calm, but with his heart dying within him as he
watched Ben’s efforts to be brave as his last hope vanished.

“That’s right, dear old fellow,” said Bob, “keep up a brave heart!
I’m sure that help will come! I’m sure! Oh, Ben, if we only had a
rope!”




                             CHAPTER XII

                        OLD SAM TO THE RESCUE


As Bob stood there, desperately casting about in his mind for some
way to help poor Ben, now up to his armpits in the black mud, he
heard, or fancied he heard, a twig snap in the forest. Did that sound
exist only in his imagination, or had he really heard it? While he
was still in doubt, the underbrush parted, and he saw the best sight
in the world for him just then. There, framed by the bushes, was the
picturesque figure of Old Sam, the snake hunter, and in his hand he
held his two-pronged snake pole.

At a glance he took in the situation and, springing forward lightly,
extended the pole to Ben.

“Ketch a hold o’ the pole, an’ hang on to it, lad, an’ I’ll pull ye
out! Got a good grip? That’s right--now steady! Never mind! Ye’ll
keep it next time,” as the pole slipped from Ben’s nerveless fingers,
and let him down a little deeper in the muck.

“Here, lad,” he said to Bob, “ketch on to this here and help me
pull!” Then encouragingly to Ben, “Now ye got it? Hang on tight this
time! Good boy! Now once more--steady--steady! Ye’re comin’, boy,
ye’re comin’! Hang on another minnit and ye’ll be on solid groun’!
Steady! Now--steady! There ye be!” he cried, exultingly, as they
landed poor Ben, mud from head to foot, on the soft, dry grass, where
he lay exhausted.

“It’s durn good I happened ’long jest as I did,” Old Sam hurried on
to keep the boys from thanking him. “I nearly turned down t’other
road for the village, but I sez to myself, ‘Sam, old boy, p’raps ye
may meet some o’ them camp boys if ye goes by this here road,’ and so
jest on the chanct o’ meetin’ ye, I come this way. I never reckoned
I’d meet ye the way I done, though,” he added, chuckling to himself.

Here Ben, who had been trying desperately during this monologue to
get a word in, thanked the old man heartily for the great service he
had done him.

“I surely would have gone under in another minute if you hadn’t come
along!” he said. “I never was so glad of anything in my life as I was
to see you standing there with your long pole. I really don’t know
how to thank you!”

“Tut, tut,” said old Sam, who always hated to be thanked for his
kind deeds. “’Twan’t nothin’ ’t all! No more’n any Christian would
hev done ef he’d found a friend o’ his’n in a tight place. I reckon
ye must feel durned sticky with that there mud all over ye, lad,” he
added, to change the subject. “S’pose ye come up to my cabin--’taint
so very far from here, and scrape some o’ it off.”

The boys readily consented, for they had learned to think a lot of
this quaint old man of the woods. Therefore, as soon as Ben had
recovered his strength and felt rested enough, the three started out
for Sam’s cabin. In a very short time they came upon the little place
nestling in the very heart of the forest.

Sam told Bob to make himself comfortable while he took Ben around to
a brook that ran back of the cabin and told him that if he wanted to
take a plunge, he (Sam) would scrape the muck off his suit. And soon
Ben, wonderfully refreshed by his dip in the cold water, and wearing
his khaki suit, from which Old Sam had scraped the worst of the mud,
came around the corner of the cabin and joined Bob.

The two Scouts were in a very subdued mood. The terrible experience
they had just passed through brought with it a reaction. There was
something very restful and soothing in sitting on the grass, with
their backs against a log, while Old Sam moved cheerily around inside
the little cabin, frying bacon and eggs.

When everything was ready, Sam called them and seated them in two
very comfortable chairs of his own making.

“Aye,” said the old man, as he began serving the simple meal,
“there’s been many footsteps leadin’ up to them bogs as has never
come out o’ them. I remember once, when I was only a young feller,
how two o’ the ugliest villains I ever see got their deserts. Ye
see, these here rascals was tryin’ to steal some pow’ful val’ble
trees here’bouts. They had it all fixed up fine how they were goin’
to git away with ’em. Wall, they wuz hard to work one night loadin’
the logs on a wagon so’s they could get ’em away before mornin’,
when all a sudden they hears a voice and, lookin’ up, sees two great
big, green eyes a glarin’ right at ’em. With a yell they runs off
through the woods as fast as their legs could carry ’em, and never
stops to look where they’s goin’. All a sudden, the first man slips
an’ falls, ketchin’ hold o’ t’other and draggin’ him with him. With
a blood-curdlin’ cry, they found they was bein’ pulled under. In a
little while there was nothin’ to show they’d been there, ’ceptin’
their footprints leadin’ up to the edge o’ the bog. Me and a friend
o’ mine was jest in time to see the last o’ ’em disappear.”

The boys had listened in horrified silence to this story and, as Old
Sam stopped, Bob broke in breathlessly to ask, “But where did the
green eyes come from?”

“Why, seems them belonged to a bobcat,” Old Sam began, but was again
interrupted, this time by Ben.

“A bobcat?” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard there are some around here, but
I haven’t seen any yet.”

“Waal, ye will! They ain’t so pow’ful plentiful, but once in a while
ye ketch sight o’ one. Me an’ me friend, after we seen the finish o’
the rascals, we went back to see what mischief they’d been up to, and
then, all o’ a sudden, my friend sez, sez he, ‘Look a-there, Sam, I
reckon that’s what skeered them durned thieves!’

“I looked where he wuz pintin’ an’ I see them terr’ble glarin’ eyes.
I tell ye, lads, they made my hair jest raise itself right up on my
head, an’ I hadn’t no guilty conscience, nuther! Wall, quick as a
flash my friend, he up with his rifle an’ popped that there pesky
crittur right through the eyes!”

Just then a menacing rattle came from one corner of the cabin that
made the boys jump from their seats in alarm.

“Don’t be skeered!” Old Sam chuckled. “That there is one o’ my
rattlers as is waitin’ fur the man to come an’ take ’em to the
museem. If ye like, I’ll show ye my c’lection.”

On the boys expressing an earnest desire to see the collection, Old
Sam led the way to a couple of glass-covered boxes that stood in a
corner of the cabin. In each box were two snakes; in one two rattlers
were writhing and twisting, and in the other two unusually large and
beautifully marked copperheads were lodged.

As the boys pressed forward eagerly to examine them, one of the
rattlesnakes coiled itself and gave forth an ominous warning.
Instinctively the boys drew back with a shudder of repulsion.

“They’re awfully treacherous creatures--those snakes!” Bob remarked.

“Wall, yes, they be!” Old Sam drawled, “but they has one thing to
recommend ’em, anyway. They always gives warnin’ afore they strikes,
so ye kin get out o’ the way.”

“That’s so,” Ben agreed, then added, “Haven’t you ever been bitten,
Sam?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “Come pretty nigh it, sometimes, though. Many
a time I’ve found the critters hangin’ on to my boots. I had a cat
once what used to ketch a pow’ful lot o’ snakes fur me. He could do
it a durned sight better’n I could myself!”

“I never knew that cats could catch snakes,” said Bob, incredulously.

“Wall, that there one o’ mine could. Every day he used to go with me
when I hunted the critters.”

“Tell us how he did it,” the two boys said in the same breath, and
Sam, delighted by the interest they showed, willingly complied.

“Wall, it wuz this way,” he began. “Tommy--that wuz what I called
him--would hunt around till he found a good big rattler. Then he’d
creep on him on them soft paws o’ his’n, then all a sudden, when he
wuz just in front o’ him, he’d make a little noise and hold up his
paw. At the noise the snake would coil hisself up into a ball and
rattle somethin’ turr’ble. But Tommy, he’d never stir an inch. That
would make the reptile awful mad, and he’d strike out at that raised
paw o’ Tommy’s with all the strength he had in him. That’s just what
the cat had been countin’ on, an’ when the rattler struck, he would
jump aside quick as lightnin’. Then when the snake would go past him,
Tommy, he’d jump and land right on the critter’s neck, just below his
head. Yes, he wuz great on ketchin’ snakes, old Tommy wuz!”

“What became of the cat?” Ben asked, eagerly.

“Why, he lived to be sixteen years old, Tommy did, and at the end o’
that time passed off quiet and peaceful like. He lived a happy life
and a durn useful one, too, which is more’n you kin say fur most
cats,” he added.

Although the boys would gladly have stayed longer with this old man
who knew so many interesting tales, they knew Scout-Master Durland
would be anxious about them. They urged Old Sam to go with them back
to camp and stay to dinner, but he refused on the plea that the
“museem man” was coming to take away “them durned reptiles,” and he
had to be on hand to receive him.

“I’ll go with ye a little ways through the woods, though,” he said,
“and see that ye don’t get stuck in no more bogs.”

So they started merrily for the camp. Old Sam’s bacon and strange
stories had had a good effect on the two boys and they felt
themselves again.

The snake hunter gave all the bogs a wide berth, and beguiled the way
so pleasantly with his interesting talk that before they knew it they
were almost on top of the camp.

Bob and Ben tried their best then to persuade Old Sam to go in with
them, if only for a few minutes, but again he begged off, saying, “Ef
I once git in there, lads, I couldn’t pull myself away, an’ then what
would the poor museem man say?”

The boys didn’t know and didn’t care, but as they saw he could not
be moved from his determination, they reluctantly let him go. Before
they parted, however, the boys overwhelmed him with thanks and
gratitude.

“Tut, tut!” he said, for the second time that day. “’Twan’t no more’n
any Christian would hev done.”

But although this was true to some extent, the boys looked after his
disappearing figure with no lessening of their respect and love. With
a sigh they finally turned away and started toward camp once more.

In a few minutes they found themselves surrounded by the Scouts, who
were greatly relieved to have the two runaways with them again.

“Where are those raspberries, Ben, that you were going to bring for
the dumplings?” Dick cried.

Then Ben told the excited boys all about this mishap and how loyally
Bob had come to his rescue. When he spoke of the snake hunter’s
timely arrival and how he and Bob together had pulled him out of the
bog, the Scouts sent up three cheers that set Don barking.

Reserving the snake hunter’s stories to tell around the campfire that
night, Ben concluded: “I’m sorry, fellows, that I wasn’t able to get
you those raspberries! My intentions were good, I assure you, but
I was prevented by ‘circumstances over which I had no control,’ as
contracts say.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Ben,” said Jack, “you look better to
us than all the raspberry dumplings going!” and that he voiced the
general feeling was shown by the boys’ hearty, “You bet your life!”




                            CHAPTER XIII

                         THE BROKEN TRESTLE


Never had a day dawned more brightly, never had the skies been bluer
than on the morning of a day a week or so later, to which the Scouts
had looked forward with so much pleasure; and yet it proved to be a
day of disaster.

The unfortunate happenings had begun with an accident to Mr. Durland.
He had stepped carelessly upon a loose stone, and, his foot slipping,
he had been thrown from his balance, and had rolled and slid down
the steep mountain side. He had grasped at some stout bushes and so
managed to stay his fall until help could reach him. His Troop had
all been thankful enough when at last they had him at the top again
and had found no bones were broken, and that there was apparently no
more serious injury done than some severe bruises.

Thankful as they were, the accident had affected them all, for there
was not a boy in that Adirondack camp who did not love Mr. Durland.
He had been their Scout-Master ever since the formation of the
Thirty-ninth Troop, and in all that time they had spent together
the Scouts had found nothing in him that the most critical would
have cared to change if he could. His never-failing cheerfulness,
his quick sympathy and full understanding of boy nature, his
hearty praise for work well done or any act that proved the doer a
worthy Scout; the quiet reproof, when reproof could no longer be
withheld--all these traits had endeared their Scout-Master to the
members of the Thirty-ninth.

So it had been with thankful hearts but subdued spirits that they had
again taken up the trail.

Then venturesome Tom Binns had foolishly wandered away, and it had
taken an hour of searching before they had located him.

They had gone on quietly without any other unpleasant incident
and had covered several miles of their hike where there had come
literally “lightning out of a clear sky.”

One moment the sky had been of clearest blue, the sun shining
brightly. The next the air had been filled with a lurid yellow light.
It had thundered and lightened and, by sheer good fortune, just in
the nick of time, the boys had stumbled upon a refuge formed by three
great rocks piled one against the other. Against and between these
they managed to crowd, but it had offered only meagre protection
from the fury of the storm. Such a storm had never been witnessed
before by any of them. It was preceded by a terrific wind which bent
the saplings to the ground, wrenched up great trees by their roots,
casting them aside like a giant’s discarded playthings. This it had
made the boys’ hearts ache to see, for they had come to love the
trees, and regard them almost as friends.

Then came the rain, in driving sheets that hid even nearby objects.
It seemed as if the very floodgates of heaven were opened, and that
it poured in “floods that came and came again,” until in every
depression there was a small lake and wherever the ground sloped
downward small rivers ran.

Not a living thing was to be seen, for every wild creature had taken
refuge from the fury of the storm in its deepest woodland shelter
and nestled there quivering, while still the thunder rolled, the
lightning flashed and the rain came down in torrents.

Suddenly there was a peculiarly vivid flash, and then a crash that
seemed as if the heavens themselves must be falling, and a tall
oak directly opposite the Scouts’ shelter was riven by lightning.
Straight through the center of the tree the blue fire ran, from
topmost leaf to roots, and the giant parted and fell crashing to the
ground.

At last, after what seemed a never-ending wait, the deluge was over,
and the Scouts came out of their refuge, stretching their limbs, and
again took up the trail.

At first their progress was slow, for in every hollow the water lay
so deep that they were forced to abandon the trail and skirt around
it. In more than one place a great tree lay across the trail and they
must either go around or push through the fallen branches. All this
took time and effort, and the boys were tired when they reached a
part of the trail that led outside the woods, where they found the
going much easier.

Then they reached the river, along whose banks the trail led to
within a mile of the county town, for to purchase some much needed
stores in the village had been the object of this hike.

Long before they reached the river they could hear its rushing waters
and so were prepared to see it swollen, but the sight which now met
their eyes was beyond anything they had imagined.

The raging volume of water that came tearing down the river course
was more like some great, swirling cataract than a river. They
remembered how it had looked on the day they came to camp as,
crossing on the trestle which spanned it, they had looked down upon
it from the train, and admired its quiet beauty. Then the blue sky
was mirrored in its quiet depths, now a great mass of whirling, muddy
water, sweeping all before it.

Recovering a little from their amazement at the sight of the rushing
current, they went on down the trail until the trestle came in sight.
At the first glance they stood as if turned to stone. For several
minutes the Scouts gazed into the faces of one another, and, though
no word was spoken, whole volumes were read in eyes full of alarm and
faces which, despite the stout hearts back of them, were blanched
with fear.

It had needed only one glance to see it all. On its course down the
valley, the swollen river, overflowing its banks at many places,
had loosened the earth from the roots of many trees growing along
its edge and had borne them along. Several of these had been wedged
against the foundation supports of the trestle and on the farther
side had loosened several of them. This had caused the frame to sag
away from the track, leaving the rails loosened and out of place for
many feet at that end of the trestle, and--appalling thought! the
afternoon express was due in little more than an hour. Is it any
wonder that the thought left the Scouts white and speechless?

In order to give the alarm to the on-coming train it would be
necessary to cross the river. Ordinarily this would be easy enough,
for here the river had neither great depth nor strong current, but
one glance now at the raging, boiling torrent that had taken the
place of the usually placid river showed that to be dangerous, if not
impossible.

As the Troop stood there hesitating, trying to decide on the best
thing to do, there was constantly before each one a picture of
the train speeding out on that broken trestle, then falling, its
cars piling up one upon the other, the shrieks and groans of the
injured--Ah, but they must not think of these things! It would make
them unable to plan. That they must do something to save the train
went without saying. No true Scout could stand or had ever stood by
when there was disaster to be prevented or life to be saved.

“Now, Scouts,” said Mr. Durland in a resolute voice, “here is an
emergency that will test all your training. We must act quickly, or
it will be too late.”

As he spoke a new thought flashed into his mind and now, looking into
the earnest faces of the Scouts, he saw the thought that was in his
own mind grow in theirs.

The trestle! But to run along that trestle over the mass of seething,
angry water, when the slightest misstep meant death, to warn the
on-coming train--could he ask or expect such a heroic deed from these
Scouts, the oldest of whom was scarcely more than a boy? He must
consider.

The wind that had risen to a hurricane before the storm had broken
now began to rise again, and he knew that this would increase the
peril fourfold. What was his duty to these boys? Should he teach them
at this crisis that their first duty was to themselves, or that it
was their great privilege to risk their own lives to save others?

His decision was made, and, raising his head, he quickly called for a
volunteer.

Every Scout, to the last man, stood ready!

Strong man as he was, Mr. Durland felt the tears rush to his eyes,
and he could not speak for a moment for the choking in his throat.
Then he said, “Well, Scouts, I’m proud of every one of you, but you
see you cannot _all_ go.” Then glancing keenly about, he continued:
“I will let you choose your own man. Whom do you think best fitted,
not by courage, for you are _all_ that, but by physical strength and
steadiness of head to undertake this task?”

And there was but one word spoken, as with but one voice, “Jack!”




                             CHAPTER XIV

                       THE SAVING OF THE TRAIN


Without a word Jack threw off his Scout’s pack and prepared for
his task, but turned to ask what he should do for something with
which to flag the train. Harry French whipped out a large red silk
handkerchief and quickly passed it over. Without a moment’s delay
Jack swung off, with Mr. Durland’s “Take care of yourself, Jack,” and
the good-bye shouts of his fellow Scouts ringing in his ears.

His companions held their breath as he swung out over the rushing
water. Until now they had failed to notice in the excitement that
the sky had again darkened and that there was every sign of another
downpour. The darkness increased, and again came that terrible rain
in such sheets that, strain their eyes as they would, they could not
see a trace of Jack.

And now Jack, brave Jack, was all alone in his struggle. Blinded by
the wind and the pouring rain, he could scarcely see one iron girder
of the trestle. Standing with difficulty and swaying dizzily, he
waited until a flash of lightning showed the way before him for one
blinding second. In that second he calculated the distance between
the girders and now crept on from girder to girder over those hungry
waters that seemed to leap at him in an attempt to drag him down into
their raging depths.

Once he slipped and fell between the girders and for an instant
thought that he was lost, but with cat-like agility he caught at a
projecting beam, and, though the angry waters dashed over him and
sought to break his hold, they could not, and he pulled himself
slowly back to the trestle.

No standing up now! He had learned the danger of that. On hands and
knees, drenched by rain and river, buffeted by the terrible wind that
tore at him like some living enemy determined on his destruction, he
crawled painfully along inch by inch and foot by foot.

His hands, torn and bleeding from his desperate attempts to hold onto
the rough iron, almost refused to obey his will. The cold wind and
rain chilled him to the marrow and it was only his strong, determined
will and dauntless heart that held him to his task.

It seemed to him that he was going so slowly, so terribly slowly,
when there was such need of haste. He must hurry! He told himself
that the short hour before the train was due must already be gone.

At any moment now he might hear that dreaded whistle and see the
monster train bearing down upon him. What if it should come while he
was still on the trestle?

For a moment he stopped overwhelmed, controlled only by that physical
fear of death that is common to us all. The thought of going down
into that swirling flood and yielding his young life to those
merciless waves was more than he could bear. Only for a moment did
this thought sway him. Almost instantly the realization that upon him
depended other lives, and that he must hurry if he would hope to save
them restored his courage and banished every thought of self. Again
he crept on, trying to hurry and constantly beaten and held back by
wind and rain.

On, on, he crept, with bleeding fingers, toward the end of the
trestle. Would he never reach it? The downpour of rain lessened, and
it grew lighter. He strained his eyes, and, yes! there before him,
only a few yards distant now, was the end of the bridge and beyond
it, wet rails glistening, the track stretched away.

Rising to his feet, Jack looked eagerly, searchingly along that
track. Nothing in sight, he told himself exultingly. He was going to
be in time!

The storm was over now, and in the clearer light he hurried along,
his bleeding hands and bruised knees forgotten in the joyful thought
that he was going to succeed--but at this moment there was a terrible
crash and noise of breaking and splintering wood, and he stood
transfixed at the sight before him.

The end of the trestle the entire width across had given way and
fallen with a crash and now lay, a broken mass of wreckage, half on
land and half in water. An open space about six feet wide yawned
between Jack and the bank.

Not very much space, you think, for an agile Boy Scout trained in
all sorts of athletics to cover; and, ordinarily, that would have
been so. But now the ground under and beside the tracks was soft and
yielding from the rain and, to make the task of jumping still more
difficult, the mass of wreckage served as a dam and the water flowed
out over the roadbed, making it impossible to calculate the leap.

Our Scout stood there for a long minute trying to decide what to do.
If it had been only his own life that he had to consider, he would
not have hesitated a second, but he had to reflect that if lost there
would be no one to warn the express, which must now be very close at
hand.

Whatever he did he must do quickly. He glanced around keenly, but
could see nothing to aid him. Desperate, he looked again. Ah, yes!
There, a foot or so beneath where he was standing, he saw a beam of
wood projecting from the water. Jack could only see a few feet of it,
for the rest of it was under water, but it was his only chance and he
took it unhesitatingly. Drawing off his shoes that his feet might get
a better grip, he stepped down upon it and felt his way cautiously
along until he came to the broken end of the beam. Knowing that he
had gained several feet, he now leaped out over the flood. As he
jumped, he leaned far forward, and it was well he did, for as his
feet touched the soft earth, it slid from under them and it was only
by grasping at the rails that he kept himself from slipping backward
into the water.

Hurrah! he was on firm ground at last, and all else was forgotten in
the triumph.

Toot! Toot! T-o-o-t! It was the whistle of the express. He was just
in time. He dashed up the track toward the on-coming train with the
speed of an arrow. He had sore need now of all his athletic training
and ran as he had never run before. There around the bend, about a
fourth of a mile away, appeared the express, ten minutes behindhand,
and in consequence putting on extra speed.

Jack planted himself firmly in the middle of the track and waved the
red danger signal to and fro, his heart singing with joy. He expected
to see the express slow down, but to his amazement it did nothing of
the kind. They did not seem to see him!

What should he do? The train, with the broken trestle ahead of it,
must not be allowed to take that awful plunge. He must stop it!

He waved the red flag more frantically than before, but still the
train, unheeding, came on. Two minutes more and it would be upon
him. Now came the supreme test of his Scout training. Would he fail?

Lightning quick he thought and decided. Springing from the track, he
caught up a rock, and, as the train came abreast of him, hurled it
through the window of the cab. Then, well nigh exhausted as he was,
he ran along by the side of the track.

As the train sped by him he heard startled exclamations and shouted
oaths mingled with the sound of the breaking glass. He caught a
glimpse of the engineer face thrust from the cab window, and once
more he frantically waved the red flag.

At last, at last, he heard the grinding and whistling of the
air-brakes as the express began to slow down. So great had been its
speed that its momentum carried it on even when all steam had been
shut off and the air-brakes applied.

The engineer and fireman, now fully aware of some terrible danger,
feared the train could not be stopped in time. With bated breath
they waited, while nearer and nearer crept that awful gap. On, on,
went the great locomotive until within two scant feet of the broken
trestle when, with whistling brakes and grinding wheels, it came to a
full stop.

From cab and car people poured, gathering around Jack, whose white
face, bleeding hands and clothing torn almost in shreds told their
own story of the terrible ordeal through which he had just passed.

As it happened, there were several wealthy mine owners on the train
going up into the Adirondacks to verify a report of a rich vein in
that locality. With them was the superintendent of the road, likewise
interested in the mining project. His family, consisting of his wife,
his married daughter and her husband and their two young children,
were also of the party. It was for their accommodation that a most
luxuriously furnished private car had been added to the regular
train, and very soon Jack, quite restored, found himself sitting in a
wonderfully comfortable chair, and the center of attraction.

With keenest interest all listened to his account of the storm in the
mountains and as, in answer to their many questions, they drew from
him the story of the crossing of the trestle, their hearts glowed
with gratitude to the brave Boy Scout who had done so much for them.
They quickly made up a purse, and the superintendent of the road
presented it to Jack, saying, “This is from the passengers, for they
recognize the great debt you have placed upon them, and I can say for
the road itself that it will be quick to recognize in a substantial
way the service you have rendered it.”

Jack drew back, and firmly refused to accept the reward, first of all
because he did not wish it, and second because it is against Scout
rules to accept a reward for any such service. When the passengers
saw how determined he was in the matter, their admiration knew no
bounds, and if Jack had not been as strong minded as we know him to
be, it is to be feared that he would have grown conceited.

The superintendent soon gave orders to the engineer to make best
speed in backing the train to the county town, only a mile or two
away, and there Jack alighted, and after a short wait was joined by
the rest of the Troop, who had gained the town by means of a bridge
which had withstood the storm some miles down the river.




                             CHAPTER XV

                           A STRANGE DUEL


Lounging in all sorts of careless attitudes around the campfire that
evening, the boys were playing with Don. That exuberant animal was
an unfailing source of delight. No matter how much he had tramped
through the day, he was always ready for a frolic with the boys. All
of them were fond of him and since he had led the Scouts to the cave
and saved the lives of Jack and Tom just when the situation seemed
most desperate, he had become the idol of the camp. He was constantly
learning new tricks and perfecting those he had. Now he rolled over
and over, turned somersaults, stood on his hind legs and marched as
a soldier, stretched himself out and played dead and went through
all his extensive stock of tricks. Nor did he do it as a matter of
obedience to the shout of a command, but took as much delight in
it as did the boys themselves. It was easily seen that he thought
himself as important as any Scout in camp and there were times, it
must be said, when the boys agreed with him.

Now as he barked joyfully and leaped and ran from one to another, Ben
remarked, “Well, there’s no use talking, there’s something wrong
with a man who doesn’t love a good dog!”

“Right you are!” said Tom, who, since Don had saved his life, had
redoubled his affection for the dog. “They’re the finest animals in
the world.”

“Yes,” said Jack, while Don squatted on his haunches and looked in
his eyes adoringly, “they’re the most faithful and affectionate
beasts on earth. They’ll never go back on you, no matter what
happens. You’re just the same to them whether you have a dollar or a
million; whether you’re a helpless outcast or the President of the
United States. There aren’t many human friends that will stick by you
everywhere in foul weather as well as fair weather, but a dog always
will. He will trot along with you; he’ll fight for you; he’ll forgive
all your impatience and ill-treatment, and he wouldn’t hesitate a
moment to give up his life to save yours. They’re noble fellows,
sure enough, aren’t they, old dog?” as he fondled the shaggy head
caressingly.

“And they’re so intelligent,” said Pete. “They’ll follow a trail
anywhere. You may try to cover up your tracks by all sorts of tricks,
by walking backward in your footsteps, by running along fences or
jumping from rock to rock, but although you may confuse them, they’ll
stick to it until soon or late they pick up the trail again. The
only way to fool them utterly is to take to the water and wade
through it, but even then you have got to head for land sooner or
later and the chances are they’ll get you. You know how hard it used
to be in the old slave-holding days for a runaway to escape. I’ve
heard that in some of the places of Europe--Belgium I think--trained
dogs are a regular part of the police force and a most important part
too, if you believe all that is told about them.”

“Well,” said Dick Crawford, who, after discharging some of the
routine duties of the camp, had joined the group, “I know of a famous
case that shows both those qualities of the dog, his affection and
his intelligence. It all happened four hundred years ago and yet it
is so interesting and remarkable that the story has lived all this
time.”

The boys clamored to hear it and Dick went on:

“There was a young man in Paris, we’ll call him Aubrey for short,
of good birth and breeding and moving in the gay world of fashion.
He had a large circle of friends and owned a magnificent greyhound.
It was a splendid brute, whom people turned about to watch as he
followed his master through the streets.

“One day there was a great tournament in Paris, a very gay and
splendid occasion, and his friends were surprised to see that Aubrey
wasn’t there. They thought this was strange because he had counted
very much on this coming event and had shown the greatest interest
in it. Still they thought that something had detained him, but when
on the second and third days he was also absent, they began to be
worried about him.

“On the fourth morning a great friend of Aubrey, whom we’ll call De
Narsac, heard a scratching at his door. He arose and found there his
friend’s greyhound. The poor brute was wounded and had evidently
been without food for days, so that his ribs almost showed through
his flesh. De Narsac gave him food that he ate as famished. The
appearance of the dog in such a condition deepened his suspicions
that harm had come to his friend. The dog kept running about the
apartment, whining and looking at him imploringly and plainly asking
him to follow. Convinced now that something was wrong, he hastily
dressed and followed him through the streets of Paris. The dog led
him without a moment’s hesitation several miles out into the country
through a forest that had a bad reputation as a resort for thieves
and outlaws. Coming to some freshly disturbed earth under a great oak
tree, he fell upon it and began scratching and whining pitifully. De
Narsac and some friends he had brought with him began to dig and soon
uncovered the murdered body of Aubrey.

“On their return to the city, they met a group of young men on one of
the main streets. As soon as the dog caught sight of one of them he
growled furiously, crouching and then leaped at the man’s throat. The
courtier, whom we’ll call Macaire, beat off the dog with the help of
his friends, but the greyhound made unavailing efforts to renew the
attack.

“The sudden fury of the dog aroused suspicion and a little quiet
investigation showed that sometime before there had been a bitter
quarrel between Aubrey and Macaire.

“The matter came to the ears of the King, who determined to sift the
matter to the bottom. He gave a great function in the royal palace
and so managed that Macaire with a dozen other courtiers stood in a
group at the right hand of the throne. By previous arrangement, De
Narsac entered, accompanied by the greyhound, who, the instant his
eye caught sight of Macaire, made a tremendous bound and bore him
to the floor. It seemed to the King and all present that Providence
had pointed out Aubrey’s murderer. Macaire denied it violently but,
in accordance with the ideas of the time, it was arranged that the
matter should be left to the judgment of heaven. In other words, the
dog and the man were to fight a duel. It was supposed that eternal
justice and wisdom would select the winner. If the dog won, the
murderer of Aubrey stood revealed. If, on the other hand, Macaire
came out victor, he was to be adjudged innocent.

“A duel between a man and a dog!” exclaimed Ben who, with the other
boys, had listened breathlessly to Dick’s story. “That doesn’t seem
fair. How could they fix it so that each would have an even show?”

“Well,” said Dick, “perhaps it wouldn’t be possible to make a thing
of that kind exactly fair and even between a man and a dog, but they
figured it out and made it as fair as they could. The man was armed
with a heavy club and the dog had to rely upon his teeth and claws. A
barrel was provided for him, in which he could take refuge when too
hard pressed and get ready to renew the attack.

“The affair came off before a tremendous crowd. All the leading
people of Paris and the court were present. The instant the dog was
brought in he tugged at the leash and being freed, leaped at his
enemy. Macaire fought with the fury of despair; but the consciousness
of guilt unnerved him and most of his blows beat the air. The dog
returned again and again to the attack and, finally, leaping through
Macaire’s guard, caught him by the throat and threw him to the
ground. He shrieked for help and confessed his guilt. Justice was
keen and quick in those days, and that very night Macaire was led out
to execution. The dog had avenged his master.”

The Scouts drew a long breath as Dick finished his exciting story
and Pete ejaculated, “Well, that certainly was some dog!”

“They thought so at the time,” said Dick, “and put up a monument to
him that can be seen even now.”

“Well,” said Jack, turning to Don, “you’re not so big and strong as
that great greyhound, old fellow, but I bet you know as much, and
no matter what happened to any of us, you would stand by us to the
very end. Wouldn’t you, Don?” and Don, looking eloquently into his
master’s eyes, wig-wagged, “Yes!”




                             CHAPTER XVI

                              TOO LATE!


The morning of the last day of the month dawned bright and clear.

The day before, Harry, as he had promised Crawford he would do, had
come over to the Boy Scout camp and had a long talk with Mr. Durland.
Flannigan had not come back from his prospecting trip nor had they
heard from him in any way. The only conjecture was that he had been
delayed longer than he had expected, but had probably planned his
return so as to stop at the junction point to receive the express
package that always arrived for him on the last day of the month in
order to meet the payroll, and from there would drive over to the
logging camp.

It was absolutely necessary that somebody should reach there before
the arrival of the train in order to give him ample warning, and let
him make his arrangements accordingly. Jack was selected as best
fitted for that important duty and immediately after breakfast he
started off for the Junction.

He gave himself plenty of time. It would not do to take any risk
when theft was in the air and when possibly a life also depended
upon his getting there before the train. The distance from the Boy
Scout camp to the Junction was about five miles as the crow flies.
If he had been able to go by the road, he could easily have made it
in a little over an hour. The path, however, lay chiefly through
the woods and there were brooks to be crossed and occasional hills
to be climbed and for all this Jack had to make allowances. Thanks
to the efforts of the Boy Scout Pathfinders, the district had been
thoroughly surveyed and rough paths indicated, and as Jack himself
had been in the thick of this exploring, he had a perfectly clear
idea of the shortest and easiest way to get there.

The train was due at the Junction at ten thirty-five. Usually it
was behind time. It ran on a little spur jutting off from the main
road. It was a single narrow-gauge track, with only one train each
way every day. It carried both freight and passengers and stopped,
as its patrons sometimes grumbled, at “every dog kennel” on the way.
The chances were that it would be late, but then again on this one
occasion it might happen to be on time and Jack could take no risks.
He figured that, with all the roughness of the road, he could make
the distance easily in two hours. He gave himself an extra hour and a
half, however, to allow for any possible hindrance and left camp at
about seven o’clock.

It was a splendid morning. A slight haze tempered the heat of the
sun and made walking a delight. As Jack swung into his stride, the
charm of the morning took possession of him. The full tide of youth
and strength ran through his brain. The balsam of the woods filled
his nostrils. The woods were full of life. Birds sang in the trees
overhead. He caught glimpses of chipmunks and squirrels gliding
through the bushes and occasionally crossing the path. It was good to
be alive, and it seemed scarcely possible that on such a day robbers
and murderers were abroad and the possibility of a crime near at hand.

As this last thought came to him his step quickened. He didn’t
anticipate any danger in his mission, and yet his blood was stirred
by the possibilities that lurked in the day’s work. He had no idea
that he himself would be concerned in it or come face to face with
the robbers.

What he had to do after all was perfectly simple. He only had to
warn Flannigan and he knew enough of that individual to have perfect
confidence in him. He was sure that the big, burly Irishman could
easily hold his own if it came to a tussle. But there would be no
tussle. He was sure of that. All the foreman had to do was to take no
chances in going by the main road, but to take a less traveled path,
rough, to be sure, but over which a horse could be driven, and thus
reach the camp. It was a much longer road, but in this case at least
the old proverb was true that “the longest way around is the shortest
way home.”

He had no doubt that Flannigan would be at the station. No matter how
important his business might have been, he would never let pay-day go
by without turning up in camp. That was the one unwritten law of the
logging camps that was like the laws of the Medes and the Persians
and could not be broken. The rough characters that Flannigan had to
deal with in their hard-worked and narrow lives looked forward all
through the month to that one day of the pay envelope. To be sure,
the money didn’t last long when they got it. A big spree in the
county town usually followed and, after a day or two of gambling and
drunkenness, the men stumbled back to the camp and began to work
for another month, and dream of the next pay-day. They were quick
tempered at the best, would listen to no argument or explanation and
only the sight of the money would appease them. If Flannigan did not
turn up at the camp that day, there would be a riot, and nobody knew
this better than Flannigan himself. Therefore he was sure to be on
hand.

While Jack was thus pressing steadily forward, two men lay in a clump
of bushes alongside the road about half way between the Junction and
the logging camp. They had chosen another place than that on which
they had first determined. They felt a vague uneasiness regarding
the Boy Scouts. While the sudden appearance of Don had given rise to
some misgivings, they had not been sure that they had been overheard.
They had missed Dick on his trip to the logging camp to give warning
and though after that day they had kept a sharp lookout, they had
seen no proof of any communication from the Boy Scouts to the lumber
camp. As a matter of fact, on the strict injunction of Mr. Durland,
the Scouts had kept carefully away from that section since that day.
Still on the mere chance they had thought to “make assurance doubly
sure,” and had picked upon a new location where, squatting in the
bushes, they waited the coming of Flannigan.

The intervening days spent in wandering about the woods and brooding
over their plot had not improved their appearance. They were unshaven
and unkempt, and their clothes hung on them in tatters. But if their
appearance was bad, their tempers were still worse. Their rankling
bitterness and hatred of all society had turned them into wild beasts.

“Curse him!” growled Red, as O’Brien was called, “we’ll settle his
hash this time!”

“Yes,” returned Lavine. “By gar, I get even with zat man to-day if I
swing for it!”

“We’ve got to be pretty keerful,” said Red. “He’s a moighty handy man
with his fists, begorra!”

“His feests I fear not,” replied Lavine. “What are his feests against
zis knife?” and he ran his hand significantly across the razor edge
on an evil-looking hunting knife. “Do you zink he weel hev a pistol?”

“No fear uv that,” said Red. “He’s too cock-sure of himself.”

Just at the turning of the road they had felled a tree and with true
woodmen’s skill had arranged it so that some of the heavier branches
lay across the road. They thought that Flannigan, on reaching the
obstruction, would be forced to get down from the wagon in order to
remove it and clear a path. While he was bending over, they planned
to spring upon him from behind with their clubs. Taken by surprise,
they figured that he would be helpless in their hands. The knives
they held as a last resort. Their thought of vengeance went no
further than to give the prostrate man a terrible beating and perhaps
maim him for life. It would be safer than actually murdering him and
the pursuit was likely to be less keen than if they had killed their
man. Yet their knives were there and in a pinch neither one would
have flinched from using them should it come to that.

“He’ll soon be here now,” said Red, looking at the sun.

Lavine responded with a growl and an oath, and the two outlaws drew
their belts tighter and waited for the coming of their prey.

In the meanwhile Jack had caught sight of the Junction from the
brow of the last hill. His watch told him that he had an hour and a
half to spare and he knew that he could easily make the distance in
fifteen minutes, leaving plenty of time. He stepped out briskly and
came to the edge of a little brook. It was only about a foot deep and
there were stepping-stones leading from one bank to the other. As he
neared the farther bank, a round stone slipped from under him and he
plunged forward, striking his head against a tree stump on the edge
of the brook. The world swam around him and then his senses left him.

How long he lay there he never knew. When he opened his eyes he
looked around bewildered. His legs were wet to the waist where he had
lain in the brook. He carried his hand to his forehead that ached
horribly and when he withdrew it, found it covered with blood. Where
was he? What had happened?

As he staggered to his feet the thought of his mission came to him.
How late was it? He looked at the sun. It seemed much higher in the
heavens. Could it be possible that he was too late for the train? He
glanced at his watch. It was no longer going. The force with which
he had fallen had stopped it and the hands marked nine thirteen. He
remembered that a few minutes before his fall it had been nine eight.
How long had he lain there?

Suddenly a thrill ran through his veins. Over the hill came the
shrill whistle of a locomotive. It must be the train that Flannigan
was to meet. There wasn’t any other that morning. Could he possibly
be in time? He knew that it would take him at least fifteen minutes,
doing his best, to get there. The train would get to the station in
less than five,--might be there now. Even yet, he told himself, he
might be in time! Perhaps there would be a car to be shifted on a
siding. Even after the train had gone, Flannigan might stop for a
chat and gossip with the station agent. There might be some delay in
signing for the express package. A dozen things might happen to help
him. At least he might get near enough to wave his arms and attract
attention.

While these thoughts rushed through his mind, now clearing from
the effects of the fall, he had struggled to his feet and started
dizzily on his way. At first he staggered, but with every step he
felt himself getting stronger. Only a little part of the remaining
distance was up a slight ascent but after that it would be easy
sailing. All the way from that to the station would be down hill.

A groan passed from his lips as he reached the brow of the hill, half
a mile from the Junction. The train had reached the station, let
off a single passenger and, grunting and groaning, was just pulling
out. Alongside the platform was a buckboard drawn by an old white
horse. Holding the reins was a thick-set, sturdy figure, whom he
recognized as Flannigan. Jack shouted but they could not hear him at
that distance. He blew his Scout’s whistle but still there was no
sign. He ran on, waving his hands wildly. Their backs were to him
and no one saw him. A solitary passenger stepped into the buckboard,
Flannigan gathered up the reins, the old white horse started off and
disappeared around a turn of the road just as Jack rushed up to the
station.

He was too late!




                            CHAPTER XVII

                         JACK’S RUN FOR LIFE


Too late! The horrible truth flashed across him as he flung himself
on the platform, unable to speak and almost unable to breathe. He had
failed! He had been entrusted with that mission and he had failed. A
life, perhaps two lives now, could have been saved by a word from him
and he had failed! The picture of the men jogging quietly along the
road on that beautiful morning without a thought or dream of danger,
going to a certain robbery and perhaps to death came before him. He
put his hands over his eyes and groaned aloud.

What would Mr. Durland say? What would the Scouts say? Above all,
what would his own conscience say to the last day of his life? He had
never yet fallen short in any important mission and now on this day
of all days he had come miserably short, and he felt that he could
never forgive himself as long as he lived.

How bitterly he blamed his carelessness in crossing the brook! Of
course it was an accident, and after it had happened he had done his
best to remedy it. But why had the accident happened? Why had he
not been more careful? Why had he trusted that treacherous stone in
crossing the brook? His heart swelled up in bitter self-reproach. But
what was the use of that now? That wouldn’t save a life. He was too
late!

But _was_ he too late? The thought came to him like an electric shock
and roused him from his despair. How did he know but what he might
yet save them? While there was life, there was hope. Was he, Jack
Danby, to lie there like a coward and give up supinely while lives
hung in the balance? No, a thousand times no! He sprang to his feet,
pushed through the door and rushed into the little office.

The station agent, a long, lanky native of the woods, was sitting
with his back to him, looking over the orders left him by the
conductor. His back was to Jack, but at his tumultuous entrance he
sprang to his feet in alarm. Jack’s appearance was not prepossessing.
His forehead was still covered with clotted blood, his hat was gone,
his eyes were blazing. Less than that might have startled the agent,
used to the slow and quiet ways of that isolated spot. For one brief
moment he thought of a hold-up. In a moment he had slammed the cash
drawer shut and reached for a pistol that lay on his desk. A second
glance, however, showed him that it was no robbery he had to fear.

“Tell me,” gasped Jack, “can I get a horse around here anywhere?”

“Why, no, son,” replied the agent. “There isn’t anything less than a
mile from here and that old plug ain’t no good. He’s too lazy even to
switch the flies off him. What do you want him for?”

In quick, broken sentences Jack told him the danger. The station
agent became grave and frightened. “And Mr. Scott is with him too,”
he said. “That was him as got off the train and drove off with
Flannigan. He has come up to look over affairs at the logging camp.
He ain’t very husky, and I don’t know what would happen to him if it
came to a scrap. Flannigan’s all right, but ’tain’t at all likely he
can beat off two men if they take him by surprise. There ain’t no
telegraph station down here and there ain’t no telephone, either, in
these woods. What on earth are we going to do?”

Jack thought quickly. His brain never worked more swiftly than when
in the midst of danger. There was nothing to hope for from the
station agent. He put his head in his hands and tried to think.

Suddenly he remembered.

The road was hilly and roundabout, the horse was old and staid and
would probably go along just at a jog trot. He had noticed that they
had driven away slowly. Mr. Scott would have a lot to talk about on
matters connected with the camp, and they would be so engrossed in
talking that the old horse could jog along at his own gait. Could he
not intercept them?

A great deal of work had been done near the station by the young
pathfinders. Among other things, they had made a rough survey of a
proposed path that, starting near the Junction, had led almost in a
straight line to a point five miles distant, where it struck the road
along which Flannigan was driving. At intervals of half a mile they
had set up stakes with fluttering cloths tied to them, to mark the
most easily traveled path between the two points. He happened to know
that the work had been done well. He himself had led the squad that
planted the stakes and remembered clearly the general directions. If
he could only run across country and get to the main road, he might
beat Flannigan to it despite the heavy handicap. In all the games of
hares and hounds he had been easily the central figure. When with the
hares he had rarely been captured; when with the hounds he had always
brought a hare back captive. Now was the time to show his speed. If
he could do this much in games merely, what ought he to do when lives
were at stake?

An instant later the astonished station agent saw Jack bolt out of
the station, running like a frightened rabbit. The ground flew away
under him; the wind sang in his ears; his heart was beating like a
trip hammer. Lives hung on his speed that day, and he would win or
die trying.

The terrific pace at which he started soon began to tell and now that
he was fairly on his way, he had time to think. He was going the pace
that kills, and he realized that he must husband his speed. There
was no use throwing the game away at the very start. At the rate he
was now going, he would be blown before he had made a mile, and five
good miles lay before him. So while his instinct pushed him on at top
speed, his judgment began to get the upper hand. He must hold himself
in, he must watch the path, he must save his strength. He fell into a
swift lope that carried him over the ground with great rapidity, but
still left him strength in reserve. He must keep that reserve until
the last minute.

One pole marking a half mile flew by, then two, three, four. Two
miles already covered! Only three yet to go. His legs began to tire,
but his wind was good. Another pole and still another. Three miles
now! He began to pant. His chest was straining, his breath was
labored. He knew that he had reached the end of his first spurt, but
he also knew that this was only temporary.

Another half mile and he had gotten his second wind. Now he felt as
though he could run all day. He threw off his coat, his kit, his
hatchet. Everything that could possibly hinder him he shed as he went
along. He wasn’t going to carry an extra ounce. Another pole went by.
He dashed through a brook and dipped his head under for a moment;
then, refreshed and dripping, he ran on. Oh, if he were only in time!

His clean life and strong vitality were helping him. If he had spent
his strength in excesses, he would have been absolutely helpless in
this great emergency, but young, untainted life surged in him. He
called on all his resources and they responded.

Four miles now! Another pole and only a half mile more! The main road
was in sight. On and on he flew. Now he was within a few rods. He
caught a glimpse of a white horse, with Mr. Scott holding the reins
and Flannigan getting down to remove the branches of a tree that
blocked the path. The next instant he dashed into the road just in
time to see Red O’Brien fling himself upon Flannigan who was bending
over the tree, while Jacques Lavine with uplifted cudgel rushed
toward Mr. Scott.




                            CHAPTER XVIII

                        BALKED OF THEIR PREY


Though taken by surprise, Flannigan was a man of ready resource
and tremendous strength. His life had been spent among the rough
men of the woods, where muscle and courage were constantly called
into play. Again and again he had come to hand grips with some of
the wild characters of the district and he had always come out with
flying colors. He had a reputation throughout the North Woods as a
rough-and-tumble fighter. His heart was as stout as his arms, as many
a lumberjack filled with drink and ferocity had found to his cost.

At this supreme moment his long experience stood him in good stead.
The warning shout of Mr. Scott, as the robbers rushed forth from the
thicket, told him of instant danger, and he turned so swiftly that
Red, instead of leaping upon his back, as he had intended, met him
face to face. Before he could swing his cudgel, the hairy arms of
Flannigan closed around him.

Back and forth the giants struggled, their eyes glaring, each trying
to get at the other’s throat. Sheer strength and courage must decide
that battle. They surged back and forth, their muscles stretched to
the utmost. At first the result hung in the balance. Neither gained a
decided advantage. All their passions were unleashed. Red fought for
his liberty and Flannigan for his life. Neither one thought of giving
in. Neither intended to give any quarter. They were more like wild
beasts than men.

As Lavine lifted his cudgel to strike Mr. Scott, the latter dropped
the reins and, snatching the whip from the socket, swung the heavy
butt on the robber’s shoulder. With a savage curse Lavine dropped his
cudgel, and at that instant Jack hurled himself upon him and bore him
to the ground.

They rolled over and over like a pair of wild-cats. Lavine was the
stronger, but Jack the quicker. The ruffian tried to get his great,
gnarled hands on Jack’s throat, but his agile adversary eluded his
attempt at a strangle hold. With muttered oaths Lavine tried again
and again, but suddenly finding this unavailing, his hand went down
to his belt and Jack knew he was feeling for his knife. Now indeed it
was a fight for life. If the maddened wretch could get that knife out
of its sheath, all would be over. Jack redoubled his efforts, but the
tremendous strain was beginning to tell. Had he been fresh, he might
have had an even chance and his agility might have proved a match for
the Frenchman’s strength. Slowly but surely he felt the knife being
drawn up inch by inch. He grasped the knife hand and twisted it with
all his might. Into that twist he put all the power of his young and
well trained strength. With a howl of pain and rage, Lavine shifted
his knife to his other hand. Jack felt the wrist he was twisting
snap, then the knife in the other hand gleamed before his eyes and
the knife fell once, twice. Jack felt a keen pain like a red-hot iron
flash through his shoulder. He heard the yell of the Scouts as Dick
and Tom rushed through the bushes and flung themselves upon Lavine.
His grasp relaxed, his head was strangely light, the trees danced
around him, he felt that he was sinking, sinking ten thousand fathoms
deep, and then for the second time that day he lost consciousness.

When he came to himself, he was lying on a litter that the Scouts
had hastily constructed. His shoulder had been deftly bandaged and,
as he opened his eyes, they fell upon Mr. Durland, Mr. Scott, Dick
and the other Scouts crowding around him. At a little distance were
the two robbers waiting for the wagon that Flannigan had sent for to
the camp to carry them to the county jail. All the fight had gone
out of them. Dick and Tom, together with Mr. Scott, had disarmed and
overpowered Lavine, and he now sat nursing his wounded wrist and
cursing horribly. Red was lying on the ground, bruised and dazed,
where Flannigan with one mighty twist had thrown him and, falling
upon him, choked him until he begged for mercy.

“Thank God!” said Mr. Durland, his voice broken with emotion. “He’s
coming around all right!”

“Yes,” murmured Jack, smiling faintly, “I guess I’m worth a dozen
dead men yet.”

“Sure yez are,” said Flannigan, his massive frame yet panting with
his exertions. “It’s a broth of a b’y yez are, and ’tis glad and
proud I’d be if I had a son like yez! Sure, ’tis a fighter yez are,
by the powers! It takes no baby to tackle Jacques Lavine. And don’t
yez be worrying about that knife play,” he said, turning to the
group. “There’s nothing bad’ll come of that. ’Twill keep him in bed a
day or two perhaps, but nothing worse than that.”

Mr. Scott came forward and put his hand on Jack’s forehead. “My boy,”
he said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my money to-day
but that was a little thing. You saved my life as well, and I shall
never forget it. If ever you need a friend or help of any kind, call
on me! You’ve put me in your debt for life.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” said Jack, “I only did my duty. It was only a
little thing after all. Anybody else would have done as much.”

He tried to lift himself as he spoke, but Mr. Durland stopped him
instantly.

“No, you don’t,” he said, with a smile. “You’re not going to stand
on your feet to-day or for several days. You’re going right over to
the camp. Mr. Scott has sent to the county town for a doctor and he
will be there before evening. You’re going to ride in state to-day,
Jack, as befits a hero. Who’ll volunteer,” he said, turning to the
Scouts, “to carry this litter?”

Who would volunteer? The boys almost fought for the honor. They
crowded around him in wild excitement. They had always admired him,
but to-day they fairly idolized him. Mr. Durland had to settle the
matter by arranging for relays, so that all might have a chance to
carry him, and the boys picked out for the first relay were the
object of envy to the other fellows.

It was a joyful, if rather subdued, party that carried Jack back
to the camp that day. They took the utmost care to avoid the rough
places, so that there might be no shock to the wounded shoulder.
When they got him there, the first bandages were removed, the wound
was carefully washed and dressed and Jack was put to bed. Toward
evening the doctor arrived and his examination confirmed the opinion
of Flannigan. The knife had missed any vital spot, had touched no
arteries and, with the good care and nursing that Jack was sure to
get, he would be all right again in two or three days.

“You see, old boy,” said Dick Crawford as he sat by Jack’s bedside
the following day, “it was like this. We knew the place that those
fellows had fixed on to waylay Flannigan, from what we overheard in
the woods. Although we felt sure that you would get to the train in
time, we thought it better to take no chances and made up our minds
to be on hand. We could not go too close for fear of being seen, and
so we lay behind some bushes a little way off. Of course we didn’t
know that they had changed their plans, so when the real rumpus came,
we were farther off than we expected to be. We ran--how we ran! I
never made such time in my life before. If we had only got there a
minute sooner, you wouldn’t be lying on your bed to-day.”

“That’s all right, old fellow,” said Jack. “I know how gladly any one
of you fellows would have risked your lives to save mine. But all’s
well that ends well, and I’m mighty glad I’m alive.”

“And so are we!” came with a shout from outside the tent where the
boys were gathered, fearing to disobey the doctor’s orders to keep
Jack quiet, if they had crowded in as they had wanted to. “Three
cheers for Jack!” and they gave them with a will.

The next few days came and went quickly. The time had come for
breaking camp and most of the boys had been compelled reluctantly to
go back to town. The life-giving air of the woods, combined with the
careful nursing of Dick and Tom, who had remained behind to take
care of him, had worked wonders for Jack. His splendid vitality and
will power had assisted nature, and the morning came when, strong and
well, he too bade farewell to the Adirondack camp.

“I tell you what, fellows,” he said, as they stood upon the station
waiting for their train, “I never had such a delightful as well as
exciting time as I’ve had this summer and I don’t believe I will ever
have anything in the future that comes up to it.”




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                        _By_ JAMES A. BRADEN

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                        _By_ JAMES A. BRADEN

  A tale of frontier life, and how three children--two boys and a
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                           [Illustration]


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                            RALPH MARLOWE

                     A Tale of the Buckeye State

                                 By

                        DR. JAMES BALL NAYLOR
                 Author of “THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET”


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                         _FICTION FOR GIRLS_


                          BETTY, The SCRIBE

                         _By_ LILIAN TURNER

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                  [Illustration]     [Illustration]


                                _The_

                        BILLY WHISKERS SERIES

                                 BY

                      FRANCES TREGO MONTGOMERY

  Billy Whiskers--frolicsome, mischief-making, adventure-loving Billy
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                               TITLES

  BILLY WHISKERS                        BILLY WHISKERS’ GRANDCHILDREN
  BILLY WHISKERS’ KIDS                  BILLY WHISKERS’ VACATION
  BILLY WHISKERS, JR.                   BILLY WHISKERS KIDNAPED
  BILLY WHISKERS’ TRAVELS               BILLY WHISKERS’ TWINS
  BILLY WHISKERS AT THE CIRCUS          BILLY WHISKERS IN AN AEROPLANE
  BILLY WHISKERS AT THE FAIR            BILLY WHISKERS IN TOWN
  BILLY WHISKERS’ FRIENDS               BILLY WHISKERS IN PANAMA
  BILLY WHISKERS, JR. AND HIS CHUMS

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              The Saalfield Publishing Co., Akron, Ohio




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber’s note:

  The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by
  the transcriber.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation such as “camp-fire”/“campfire”
  have been maintained.

  Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
  and all misspellings in the text, especially in dialogue, and
  inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.