Frank Allen at Old Moose Lake;

“Twelve o’clock and all’s well!” cheerily sang out Lanky Wallace as the clock struck in the City Hall tower.

Four energetic lads, Frank Allen, Lanky Wallace, Paul Bird and Buster Billings, had packed everything they needed on board the Rocket, swaying gently to and fro in the Allen boathouse on the Harrapin River, at the foot of Main street in Columbia.

It had been planned to get away at noon, and they were now ready.

“Everything’s ready!” said Frank. “Ease her out.”

The Rocket slid gently, easily, gracefully out of the “well” and was promptly caught by the current of the river.

Lanky threw the flywheel over, the chug of the motor was the immediate response, for they had spent a half-hour tuning the cold motor up.

The practiced hand of Frank Allen, commander-in-chief of the Old Moose Lake expedition, turned the wheel, and the nose of the lithe little craft stood up-river.

“Right on time. I hope that’s a good omen,” observed Frank. “We’re off for an exciting time if our hopes hold up.”

During the middle of the morning Mr. Van Kirk, who had hunted in practically every wild in the United States, whose rifle had always been ready and accurate, whose knives were on exhibit in his room, each with a special history of moments of peril and of success, came down to the wharf and there chatted with the boys on the eve of their putting out to camp on Old Moose Lake, where they hoped they might come in contact with the big moose bull for the capture or killing of which the old hunter had offered a goodly reward.

“We’ll bring you the antlers,” said Frank, during the talk.

“I don’t want the antlers, but I do want to see them. The boy who gets the prize is the one who should have the antlers. And they’ve got a spread of almost five feet,” said Mr. Van Kirk.

“Five feet! That’s a whole lot of spread for the antlers to have!” exclaimed Frank, who had heard a great deal in the last few days about moose and a little about this particular bull.

“Yes. And this old fellow is a giant, too!” the old fellow replied. “I don’t need to describe him to you. You’ll know him when you see him. He’s the king of that territory, actually the monarch of all he surveys.”

Thus it was that the boys, as they chugged up the Harrapin, had their minds full of the old moose bull that had been the cause of many hunts and that had outfought and outwitted many attempts at capture.

The air was cutting cold on the deck of the Rocket, with the breeze blowing downstream while they were making their way against it. A sky banked with lead-gray clouds presaged snow before they got very far. Along the bank of the river most of the bushes and trees had lost their leaves, the skeleton branches thrust out from the shoreline like long, bony fingers of crooked shape, quivering and shaking as the chill winds struck them.

“The only thing warm around here is the motor,” said Lanky. “I wouldn’t mind being a motor to-day myself.”

“What time do you think we’ll reach Todds?” asked Paul Bird.

Frank suggested that they should reach the little settlement on the upper reaches of the Harrapin late in the afternoon—it should not be more than a four-hour ride.

Finally they passed the last of the spots along the river to which they had become accustomed, and now Frank was more watchful of his helmsmanship.

“There’s the snow starting!” cried Buster Billings, reaching out for a tiny flake which drifted around in the wind.

In ten minutes more the cohorts of which that small flake had been the forerunner came upon them, and the wind’s velocity increased slightly.

“Wow! Looks at if we’re going to plow the snow to the lake!” remarked Lanky, dancing from one foot to the other on the deck.

“It has every appearance of it right now,” replied the boy at the wheel. “But it ought to begin snowing. Goodness knows it’s about time for winter to start. We’ve been having little flecks of snow for several days.”

“Well, it’s started now,” and Lanky pointed up-river where, as rain often does, the snow was falling heavily. It appeared, from this distance, as if a wall of impenetrable thickness was built up against them.

The gray clouds came lower and lower, seemingly hanging almost to the water, darkening the river so that it looked as if evening were upon them, but, as a compensation, the wind died down somewhat. Another hour passed. The deck of the Rocket was well covered with snow, but the motor had not missed a single stroke.

As evening drew on, as the clouds continued hanging low, the boys saw, through the snow, the place which had been described as Todds—little more than a landing place at the upper stretches of the river, the outpost ahead of the trails across the mountains to the east.

As the Rocket drew in close to shore and came alongside the heavy logs of the landing place, they heard a hail from a long, low, rambling building and saw a bewhiskered man, old in looks behind the beard, but youthful in his agile bound as he came leaping down the hewn log steps and took charge.

“Mighty glad to see you, boys. Where are you going?” he called out heartily as he shook hands in a big, frank way.

“Camping over on Old Moose Lake,” said Frank. “Came up from Columbia this afternoon and going to tie up here until we are ready to go back.”

“Fine! Fine! Come along in and get warmed up. I’ll take care of the boat and the packs. Just get in there by the fire,” and he waved a hand toward the door from which he had come.

Within the place a great log fire was burning in an open fireplace, and two men, dressed in heavy woollen shirts and wool-topped boots, turned to nod a hearty welcome as the lads trooped in.

“Going to Old Moose Lake, eh?” one of the men asked, when told by the boys that was where they were headed. “Well, it’s a great place right now. What camp, did you say—old man Parsons’s?”

Both men were interested in the boys’ tale of their big camping expedition, and Frank led up to a question about the old bull moose they had heard so much about.

“Old King, eh?” laughed one of the men, filling his pipe after having knocked out the ashes on the heel of his heavy boot. “By the great horn spoon, you’ll never get old King. That’s a foxy critter. Say, old man Van Kirk—know him? Old man Van Kirk came up here a couple of seasons ago, before he had that accident, and old King almost got him for true. Yes, sir, I was up there with him, just north of Old Moose Lake, and that bull moose nigh got him.”

This whetted the appetite of the boys for more news, and they got plenty of it—a great deal of it being legend, pieces of tales that had been handed about from one guide to another, for it seemed that the big moose bull had been roaming the woods in that section for a long time.

When they sat down to a meal spread for all on one large table, with a roaring log fire warming up the dining room, oil lamps hanging from the rafters overhead to light the place, the run of conversation about the moose kept on, with these two guides, not so old, as the boys soon discovered, adding more and more to the stories. Frank caught the wink of one of them during a particularly exciting recital of an episode, and he then took all they said with a large pinch of salt.

However, there was little doubt that there was a moose bull at Old Moose Lake that was a leader and a fighter, and that he had been sought by many huntsmen before themselves.

“I don’t want you to think,” said Frank, “that we came up to get this moose. We came up for a camp—to fish and hunt and do anything else that happens to suit the occasion. We’re just out for some fun. It was Mr. Van Kirk who told us about the moose,” and here Frank told of the prize which had been offered.

“There’s plenty of fishing up there, but the lake will be frozen over by to-morrow or the next day. It’s getting mighty cold, you know,” said one of the guides. “Which trail are you going to follow?”

The boys said they had been told of two trails.

“That’s right. Two trails. One of them’s around the mountains and the other is right through the hills. The short one is through the hills, saves about ten miles. But with all the snow that’s falling outside I doubt if you can go through.”

Frank smiled pleasantly at this and suggested that not much snow could fall between now and the next morning—certainly not enough to stop them from going through the mountain trail.

“Don’t know about that. I’ve seen some mighty heaps of snow fall overnight,” said the guide who appeared to be the more talkative of the two. “Liable to be enough fall to-night to fill the trails, and the only way is to be guided over.”

Frank could not see that. He was not up here to hire guides for a little camping expedition. However, he did not voice his opinions.

An hour’s talk followed supper, and then Frank and his chums turned in, asking that they be called early the next morning.

There was a rough boathouse at Todds and Frank had made arrangements to have the Rocket taken to this shelter and hoisted up out of the water. He had brought along a big tarpaulin, and this was to be roped over the craft.

The first cold break of day saw the boys up and around, the snow still falling, though not so heavily. Breakfast was given to them at once, but the two guides were not present.

After this the boys unlimbered all of their packs, made two of them over again, and strapped everything up, shouldering their burdens carefully. Then, warming their boots inside, they started away.

The keeper of the place gave them minute instructions as to the trail through the mountains, making no effort to keep them from going that way.

“Just bear straight for the east. It’s a little distance out before the trail divides and you take the one to the right. You can’t miss it then, the trail’s plain until you get ten miles through. Then there are two different forks, and you take the one that leads to the left, starting higher through the hills. So long, boys, and good luck to you!” he called, as the boys stepped out of the door and started in the direction pointed out.

As Frank and his chums started away from Todds they did not see three men who had come up some time before and who had spied upon them. These men were Fordham Jeek and his two unworthy cronies. The men stood at the opposite end of the hotel, peeping out from the side of the building. Jeek spat into the snow rather angrily.

“Going up to Old Moose Lake, eh?” he muttered. “Up to old man Parsons’ place, eh? And he ain’t paid me for my dog, the dirty dog-killer. He’ll pay for it, though! I’ll fix him yet!”