CHAPTER I

THE NEW CLUB

A stout boy of pleasing appearance lay indolently in the shade of a group of willows which fringed the bank of a small brook. It was one of those early summer days when nature is all aglow and the sweet scent of the woods and fields is in the air. On this particular day, the sky was flecked with a few white clouds, which remained almost motionless in the great expanse of blue. A faint line of hills, hazy in the distance, lay to the east, and the undulating country between was dotted by occasional farmhouses.

The stout boy basking in the shade looked to be the picture of ease and contentment. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the chatter of the birds and the musical murmur of the brook, as it joyously babbled along in its course.

"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "How glorious to think of—no more school for two months; no dry books to make one's head ache, or lectures on the sins of idleness. I call this fine!"

A particularly large and inquisitive bee, buzzing unpleasantly near his head, caused him to shift his position slightly.

"Summer before us," he continued; "boating, fishing and all kinds of sport—it's the best time of the year."

He had closed his eyes, as if in contemplation of the glorious prospect before him, when the sound of a step arrested his attention.

"Hello, Dave Brandon!" exclaimed a cheery voice. "I thought I should find you here."

It was a boy of about sixteen who had stepped into view. He eyed the recumbent figure quizzically.

There was a striking difference between the appearance of the two boys, as the new-comer was lithe and his every movement denoted an active temperament.

"I say, Dave, were you born lazy, or did you acquire it by practice?" he inquired, good-naturedly.

David Brandon yawned prodigiously and stretched. "I don't know, Sam," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye; "but, at the present moment, I do feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"I don't doubt it," laughed the other; "but perhaps I have some news that will wake you up."

"Some news, eh?" echoed Dave, with provoking indifference. "Some news—perhaps that Professor Hopkins is going to have a summer school, and wants us to join."

He put on such a comical look of pretended dismay that Sam Randall burst out laughing.

"No, Dave, nothing like that, it's the finest thing. Why I—"

"Must be," yawned Dave. "Say, can't you chase that bee away? It keeps buzzing around my head and wakes me up."

"Yes, it's the best scheme that was ever thought of," continued Sam, without heeding the interruption. "What do you think—"

"That the afternoon will be over before you tell me," said Dave, lazily.

He once more moved a very short distance, this time because the rays of the sun were beginning to creep around the willows.

"Well, listen, Dave," persisted the other, and his voice was earnest; "I'm almost bubbling over with enthusiasm; Bob Somers is going to form—"

"Wish he was here, trying to catch that bee."

"Well, I must say—"

"Must say what?" repeated Dave, with provoking slowness. "It is an awful nuisance to have a great big insect buzzing close to your ear. Aren't you going to chase it away for me?"

"I declare! You seem to take an intense interest in what I am going to say; here I've been waiting all afternoon to find you, and can't get in a word edgewise."

Dave rubbed his eyes, and looked as if he didn't hear a word. "Do you know, Sam," he drawled, "this brook always makes me think of Bryant's poem, 'The Green River.'

Ever read it, Sam? I'd advise you to; then it goes on like this:

"Well, Dave Brandon, I've a good mind not to tell you."

"Then don't," said the stout boy, in pretended anger.

"This is the last attempt I'm going to make," was Sam Randall's rejoinder. "You are certainly not lazy when it comes to interrupting a fellow—now listen; Bob Somers—mind you, Bob Somers, is going to form a club, a hunting and fishing club. I'm in it; so is Dick Travers and Tom Clifton—and you're going to join, of course!"

"A hunting and fishing club!"

Dave forsook his recumbent position and sat up with an alacrity that showed how fast he could move if the occasion demanded. "Am I going to join? Well, I guess so." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, as he again settled languidly on the greensward: "Provided there isn't any hard work connected with it. A fellow can't keep going like a steam engine both winter and summer. Sam, I feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"Well, it is just what you are not going to do," declared his friend, emphatically. "I told Bob Somers that we would both be on hand at three o'clock this afternoon to talk the matter over."

"It seems I can never get any rest," grumbled Dave. "I could just lie here all day and listen to the birds. They make me think of the line—"

"Dave Brandon," said Sam, hastily, as he seized his friend's coat sleeve, "get right up! The club is about to be organized, officers elected and—"

"Leave it till to-morrow," said Dave, coaxingly.

"No, sir!"

"Very well, I suppose I'll have to go. It was the bee that made me sleepy, by spoiling a nice little nap."

The stout boy sighed, yawned twice, and then, with exasperating slowness, arose to his feet. "Listen to that brook," he said. "What better music could you want than that? I certainly do like to just ramble around."

"That's it! Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Sam.

"That's what?" demanded Dave, staring at his companion in surprise.

"Hurrah! To ramble around—that's good—we'll call it the Rambler Club!" and Sam gave vent to his enthusiasm by another shout.

"Oh, yes, it's a capital name," admitted Dave. "Come on; what did you make us lose such a lot of time for?"

Sam smiled at this attempt at humor, and the two started off. By means of a rustic footbridge they crossed the stream, stopping to gaze for a moment into its crystal depths. The vegetation along the banks was rich and luxuriant, and, at this point, a low-hanging branch, with its myriad leaves of bright fresh green, was reflected in the running water.

Across fields covered with buttercups and daisies the boys took their way, until a road was reached.

The town of Kingswood, situated in the state of Wisconsin, included among its population some very wealthy gentlemen, and none were more respected than Mr. George Somers, the father of Bob. His residence, a handsome colonial mansion, known as Pembroke Hall, lay well toward the southern end, where most of the fine estates were situated.

The surrounding country formed a charming combination of wildness and cultivation, rugged hills, heavily timbered tracts and long stretches of undulating fields.

As the two boys approached the town, a youth of about their own age, who was seated on the flat top of a boulder just off the road, caught sight of them and stopped idly drumming his heels against the side of the rock. His appearance was rather striking. He had a dark complexion, rich, wavy brown hair and eyes of the same color. A lurking smile played around the corners of his mouth, giving to his face a peculiar, sarcastic expression.

"There's that 'Oh ho' fellow," he muttered; "always reading and reciting poetry when he isn't asleep." He put his hand to his mouth and shouted, "Oh ho!" several times. Then his smile deepened, as he saw the two turn.

"Oh ho! Birdie," he continued, putting all the sarcastic emphasis of which he was capable into the call: "Oh ho, oh ho." If he sought to vex the good-natured Dave Brandon, his effort was in vain.

"Hello, Nat Wingate," greeted the latter, cheerily; "I suppose you wish you were back in school?"

Nat slowly climbed down from his elevated perch, and sauntered forward. "Where have you been?" he asked, rather bluntly. Then, as his eye fell upon a book in Brandon's pocket, he added: "Over by the creek, I'll wager, reading poetry."

"Quite correct," laughed Dave.

"And I'd like to know what good it does you," observed the other. "Laziness is a frightful thing to encourage. Where are you going now?"

"To a meeting."

Nat showed signs of becoming interested, and did not hesitate to declare that he would like to know all about it.

"A club is going to be organized," said Sam Randall, with some hesitation.

Nat Wingate stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaned against an electric light pole and put on a quizzical expression.

"What's the club going to do when it's formed?" he asked.

"Oh, have a good time, hunting, fishing—"

"Well," said Nat slowly, "I wouldn't mind joining myself." His sarcastic expression gave place to an eager look.

Dave and Sam exchanged swift glances. "Bob Somers is managing the whole affair," said the latter; "it was his idea."

A rather curious twinkle shone in Nat Wingate's brown eyes, and for a moment he hesitated. Then he said with apparent frankness: "Well, I guess the club could stand the two of us."

"We don't know yet just what is going to be done," replied Sam, evasively, for, to tell the truth, he was not anxious that Nat Wingate should join.

At this juncture, the two, realizing that they had barely time to reach the meeting place, bade Nat good-bye and started off.

The latter slowly made his way back to the boulder, and resumed his former position.

"They don't want me, eh?" he said, half aloud. "Well, I think I'll have some fun with them yet. It's a soft crowd, and they need to be stirred up."

The thought seemed to give him satisfaction, and he laughed quietly to himself.

Within twenty minutes, Dave and Sam reached their destination. Passing between two ornamental gate-posts, they passed along the broad, graveled road past Pembroke Hall and toward a large barn in the rear. There they found three boys awaiting them.

Bob Somers was a sturdy, brown-haired lad of about sixteen, with pleasant blue eyes and a frank manner. His companions, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton, were lively, keen American boys, the latter being the younger and smaller.

"Boys," said Bob Somers, with mock gravity, as he mounted a bale of hay, "we have assembled here to form an organization, the object of which is to pass the vacation months in as pleasant a manner as possible. Hunting, fishing and camping out will form a part of our enjoyments, which I feel that we deserve, after a hard season of study."

"If only those who have passed a hard season of study may join, I'd better leave," remarked Dave Brandon, comically.

"No, we'll let you in because your natural attainments are such that hard study isn't necessary," declared Bob, with a smile. Then he continued: "And, boys, I propose that this shall be an organization without officers."

"No—no!" came in chorus. "Bob Somers is president."

"Now don't protest, for it won't do any good," said Tom.

"And I elect myself unanimously poet laureate," laughed Dave Brandon.

"I propose that the name of the organization shall be the Rambler Club," shouted Sam, and everybody agreed to this with enthusiasm.

They had scarcely begun to talk in an animated fashion about their plans, when a figure suddenly appeared at the barn door. It was Nat Wingate. He sauntered forward, and his usual rather sarcastic smile broke into a broad grin, when he observed that his presence had created something of a sensation.

"Sam said that you were going to form a club," he began, by way of explanation; "so I thought I'd drop in,—all proceedings over?"

"Yes," replied Bob, pleasantly. But he did not evince any desire to supply his visitor with information.

"From what Sam said, I wouldn't mind joining, myself," pursued Nat, coolly, and evidently enjoying the embarrassed looks of the boys. "It's a good idea."

There was an interval of silence. Then Bob spoke up. "I'm sorry, Nat," he said, quietly, "but it's just a little club that the five of us have formed among ourselves."

"Would one more do any harm?"

"No, only that—"

"Only that you don't want me, eh?"

Nat Wingate's eyes flashed, but his voice betrayed no feeling of anger. He seated himself on an empty box, and continued, with extraordinary coolness: "I shouldn't think that it would make any difference whether there were five or six members in the club."

The others understood Nat's nature well enough to know that he was really amusing himself at their expense. When thwarted in anything, he had a way of making it so unpleasant for those who were responsible that his wishes were often regarded in order to avoid trouble.

But the members of the Rambler Club did not wish to have among them a strife-making spirit, and they firmly but politely declined all overtures.

"Very well," said Nat, carelessly, as he arose; "just as you fellows say—'Oh ho.'"

He stretched, glanced slyly at Dave Brandon and moved toward the door. Then, in a mocking manner, just as he had seen a comedian on the stage do, he bowed and took his departure.

"I suppose Nat will find some way to show us what he thinks of our outrageous conduct," observed Tom Clifton, resignedly.

"Better have him making trouble outside the club than in it," said Bob Somers. "That seems a philosophical way to look at the question. Now, boys, let's talk over our plans."

The afternoon passed quickly, but before Bob was left to himself the Ramblers had decided upon a plan of action, and even selected a site for their first camp.

CHAPTER II

THE BOAT

The idea of forming a club had long been uppermost in Bob Somers' mind. During the preceding year, he and his four chums had spent much of their time together, and the experience proved so agreeable that Bob determined to speak to his father and tell him what he proposed to do.

Mr. George Somers was, fortunately, one of those men who, in spite of a few gray hairs and increasing girth, still remember what it is to be young. He therefore was in full sympathy with his son's plans, and encouraged them whenever he could. In the present instance, the idea of the club and its object pleased him, particularly as he knew that Bob's associates were of the right character. More than once, he had suggested that it would be just as well for him to have little to do with Nat Wingate, though Bob was left entirely to his own discretion in the matter.

The residence of Mr. Parsons Wingate was situated in the northern end of Kingswood. Nat, his nephew, being an orphan, had dwelt with him for many years, and perhaps, just for that reason, the boy's character and actions should be viewed in a charitable light. Mr. Parsons Wingate was a man of perhaps fifty, tall and slender, with a smooth, suave manner and agreeable voice. Many of those who had dealings with him were given cause to regret it, for Mr. Wingate was sharp and not unduly particular as to his business methods. Some years before, he had interested Mr. Somers in a certain venture, and since that time the gentlemen, whenever they met, acknowledged each other's salutations in a cold and formal manner.

Nat Wingate and Bob Somers were classmates in the Kingswood High School, and generally divided the honors between them. For some unknown reason, the former seemed to harbor a most unreasonable animosity toward his rival, and frequently took pains to give vent to it by both words and actions. As is usually the case, he had his adherents, who were glad to stir up trouble, and it was only due to Bob's good nature and coolness that many clashes were averted. Altogether, Nat and his followers managed to make more trouble in the school and town than all the rest of the boys put together.

During the latter part of the school term just closed, Nat, for some reason, had been quite friendly, and Bob Somers was more than willing to forget their differences. But in view of Nat's past conduct and hasty temper, he thought it best that the latter should not be included among the members of the Rambler Club. Several nights after their first meeting, Bob Somers' father received a letter which interested him greatly. Some three hundred miles away, in a desolate region, far from any centre of population, lay a tract of land in the northern part of Michigan, which had come to him as an inheritance from a distant relative. Never having regarded the property as of special value, he had left all matters regarding it in the hands of an agent who resided in the city of Tocono, some fifty miles distant from the tract.

It was this man who had written him, and the contents of his letter had surprised Mr. Somers not a little.

"He writes," said the gentleman, "that he has received an offer which he considers very liberal."

"What is the land like, dad?" asked Bob.

"A rather desolate tract, partly wooded," answered his father. "When I went there, about a year ago, I found that the nearest town, a mere village, is miles away."

"Then why should any one wish to buy it?"

"That is just the question which is interesting me at present," said Mr. Somers, dryly. "Of course the timber may be of value."

"Did Mr. Jenkins state the name of the intending purchaser?" asked Mrs. Somers.

"No! He merely says that owing to the inaccessibility of the land, he might never again receive so good an offer."

"Well, George, I agree with him. Take my advice, and sell it."

But Mr. Somers shook his head.

"No!" he said, slowly. "If it is worth that much to some one else, it is worth the same amount and perhaps more, to me. I shall await further information. It is never well to act hastily in such matters."

But the incident had given Bob Somers an idea, and the more he considered it, the more alluring it seemed. He ventured to confide in Sam Randall, and the latter was so delighted that he turned a few somersaults in the roadway, much to the disapproval of Miss Maria Pringle, in front of whose house they had happened to pause.

That night Bob approached his father on the subject.

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Somers, in astonishment. "You boys take a trip of three hundred miles? Why, the land is situated far from any railroad, you know."

"So much the better," pleaded Bob. "We can have a bully time, and there isn't a particle of doubt about our being able to take care of ourselves. Then, besides, the trip will have an object."

Mr. Somers thought for a moment, and the look on his face inspired Bob with hope.

"It might not be a bad idea," he said, reflectively. "With five of you together, it ought to be safe."

"Of course!" exclaimed Bob, enthusiastically.

"But you know that you may encounter wild animals, and perhaps other dangers."

"We are all good shots," persisted Bob. "That is, all except Chubby, perhaps."

"Who is Chubby?" asked his father, with a smile.

"Oh, he's the 'Poet Laureate,'" laughed Bob.

"Is he to immortalize your trip in poetry?" asked Mr. Somers.

"He scribbles plenty of it. Has a volume of Bryant that scarcely ever gets out of his sight."

"Good for Chubby," said Bob's father. "How would you propose to make this trip—by rail?"

"I'll talk to the fellows about it, and see what they say," replied Bob.

"Let me know at once, then."

"Thanks, dad. I will. We'll certainly have a dandy time."

Mr. Somers smiled at his son's enthusiasm, then continued: "If your mother consents, I will give the Rambler Club its first commission. When I was there they were talking of a new road near the property. I'd like to know whether it has been built, what other improvements there are in the neighborhood, and what lumber is being cut near by. In fact, you'll make careful notes, and tell me all you see."

"First-rate, dad," exclaimed Bob; "I'll hunt up the boys first thing to-morrow, and tell them."

Bob rushed off to talk to his mother.

He found that it would be a difficult task to gain her consent. Naturally, she feared that they might encounter unforeseen dangers, besides being too venturesome.

Bob, however, with the confidence of youth, was so sure nothing could happen to them, that he at length managed to gain her consent.

Bubbling over with enthusiasm, he then called a meeting of the club, and laid the plan before them.

"Just the thing!" exclaimed Sam Randall, who had dreamed about the matter all night. "A great idea, eh, Chubby?"

"If there isn't any hard work to do," said Dave, smiling. "Can't help it, boys. I want to loaf this summer."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dave," said Bob, with mock severity.

"I would be, if my system didn't need rest," laughed Brandon. "What's the matter with you, Dick Travers, and Tom Clifton? What are you so solemn about?"

"Thinking," replied Dick.

"What about?"

"Well, you see, fellows," proceeded Dick, frankly, "a trip like that might take too long. I have to work a part of the vacation. My father isn't astonishingly rich, you know."

"That's my case, exactly," admitted little Tom Clifton.

"Never mind! We'll fix that up some way," said Bob, confidently. "Don't you worry."

Bob went to his father, explained the situation and asked his advice.

Mr. Somers thereupon consulted the two boys, told them that with all five members of the Rambler Club together, he would feel assured of their safety, and hinted, mysteriously, that the financial outlay might not be as heavy as they expected.

At any rate, Tom Clifton and Dick Travers managed to get their parents' consent, and it was, indeed, a happy day when the matter was finally arranged.

"I wish we could go on a flying machine," said Dave Brandon. "Just think of taking a nap on the deck of an aeroplane express; wouldn't that be grand?"

"If you didn't happen to fall off, Chubby," replied one of the others.

"Now the question is, how are we going to make this trip?" observed Sam Randall.

"By boat and train," said Bob.

"And we shall start out in my little sloop?" queried Dave Brandon. "It can carry five, easily."

The plan was unanimously endorsed.

"We can put ashore at night, pitch a tent, and live like regular nimrods," said Bob, gleefully. "Imagine sitting around a blazing camp-fire, and talking over our experiences."

"Or taking a noonday siesta in the shade of some fine old tree," suggested Dave, humorously.

"Yes—at long intervals," returned Sam Randall. "There's no doubt about our having a grand time. And won't Nat Wingate be sorry to miss all the fun?"

That evening, on his way home, Sam encountered Nat sitting on the steps of the post-office, and was immediately met with a volley of questions. Sam was too full of enthusiasm to conceal the plans of the Ramblers from the rejected applicant, but he did not fail to note that a very curious look came over Nat's face when he learned of their destination.

"What!" he almost stammered. "Are you going on a wild chase to such a place as that? Old Somers' land is no good, and I don't suppose you could find any hunting at all."

"Oh, yes, we shall," returned the other. "I guess you don't know where the land is."

"Maybe not," said Nat, slowly. "I heard it was pretty close to being off the map—that's all. Say, Sam, why don't you fellows let me in?"

Nat arose, flicked a few spots of dust from his coat, and continued, persuasively: "If you will only stand up for me, Bob Somers may change front at once. It isn't a nice way to treat a friend, I'm sure."

It seemed rather strange to Sam Randall that a high-spirited boy like Nat, who until recently had professed such a dislike for Bob, should now be so willing to ask a favor of him.

"When are you fellows going to meet?" persisted Nat.

"The day after to-morrow."

"Well, Sam, fix it up for me, that's a good fellow," urged Nat, in his most pleasant manner. "I'll see that you don't lose anything by it."

"He's a queer fellow," thought Sam, as he resumed his way. "He can be very pleasant, too, when he wants anything."

As the days slipped by, the members of the Rambler Club made all preparations for their voyage, always being polite to Nat Wingate, who on several occasions suggested his wish to be a member, but never received any encouragement. Guns were cleaned and polished, and rods and tackle brought out from the place where they had been stored the autumn before. Then a list of the articles required for the trip was made. It included blankets, corned beef, potted tongue, bacon, sardines, tea, coffee, flour, sugar, salt, pepper, canned goods and a varied assortment of tin plates, together with kitchen utensils, court plaster and a few simple remedies which Mr. Somers thought it might be well to take.

The Ramblers were eager to start, and they agreed that on the following Tuesday the sail of the "Lively," as Dave had humorously christened his boat, should be hauled aloft, and their journey to the wilderness begun.

But Mr. Somers, at this time, requested a delay. "You have all summer before you," he said, smilingly; "and there is a little matter which I think should be arranged before Bob leaves."

The gentleman vouchsafed no information, and the boys were obliged to submit with the best grace possible. But they chafed under the restraint.

"Such magnificent weather, too," grumbled Dave. "Just think of the woods, and the birds flitting from branch to branch, while we are still cooped up in town."

The speaker, accompanied by Sam Randall, was on his way to the post-office to get the morning mail.

"There's Bob Somers now," exclaimed the latter; "perhaps by this time he knows when we can start."

But Bob could give his fellow member no information, Mr. Somers having scarcely referred to the matter since.

At this, the two boys looked very disconsolate indeed.

"Well, I suppose it can't be helped," sighed Sam, as he led the way into the post-office, a frame building situated at the junction of two roads.

As was usually the case at mail time, the three boys found the small interior crowded, and it was some time before they were able to reach the delivery window.

Several letters were handed to Bob Somers. He was about to mechanically put them in his pocket when the inscription on one attracted his attention. "Hello, what's this?" he said, aloud.

"Love letter?" inquired Dave, pleasantly.

"Not yet," smiled Bob. Then he added, with some animation: "Look at that!"

His chums did as requested, and saw written in a clear, bold hand, "Robert Somers, Kingswood;—Personal."

"Something's up there," laughed Dave; "better see what it is."

Without hesitation, Bob tore open the envelope, glanced at the letter and gave a whistle of astonishment.

"Goodness!" he exclaimed. "What can this mean?"

The communication was unsigned.

The three boys looked at each other in astonishment.

"I'm afraid it is some trick," declared Sam, at length; "perhaps Nat Wingate is trying to lead us on a wild goose chase."

"Can't you make out whose handwriting it is?" queried Dave.

The trio scrutinized the missive carefully, but none of them could recall having seen such a style of penmanship before.

"Well, I certainly call this mysterious," exclaimed Bob. "We must find Tom and Dick and start right away."

"And make ourselves a laughing-stock?" objected Sam.

"Even if it is a trick, a walk through the woods on a fine day like this won't do us any harm," commented Dave Brandon. "Besides we can see if the 'Lively' is all snug and safe."

"I have it," broke in Sam, suddenly.

"If you're not careful, we might get it, too," laughed Dave.

"Oh, pshaw, do be serious; I'll wager that some one has hidden the boat."

"You may be right," assented Bob; "and the only way to find out is by going to the clearing."

Thoroughly mystified, the trio started off, stopping at the homes of their fellow members, to tell them the latest news.

Both lads were as curious as their friends, and all indulged in a great deal of wild speculation, as they made their way in the direction of Lloyd's Clearing.

"I call this grand!" exclaimed Dave, drawing in a long breath of the pure air. "Just imagine what fun it will be, camping out."

"If we could only start right away," said Tom. "I'm longing for the time to come."

There was a well defined path leading off from the main road across several fields, through a little copse of giant pines, and then down a gradual decline between two hills until it came out on the bank of a creek.

Upon reaching it, the boys turned to the left, and were presently traversing an extensive tract of woods, through which the little watercourse wended its way.

Occasionally, rabbits darted across their track, and squirrels, disturbed by the strange visitation, climbed swiftly to their sheltered retreats. Everywhere the woodland occupants gave evidence of their presence, and the cheery song of birds enlivened the air.

At a little glen, Dave Brandon, who had quite a reputation as a naturalist among his classmates, pointed out a great bald eagle soaring in the sky.

But the other members of the Rambler Club, at this moment, had but one thought, and that was to reach Lloyd's Clearing as quickly as possible.

Soon a glimpse of the river was visible between the trees. Then the boys broke into a trot. Across the open space they raced pell-mell, and, panting and excited, reached the river's brink. There a sight met their eyes which caused them to utter many and varied exclamations of surprise.

Moored to a rude little wharf, resplendent in the sunlight, lay the finest motor boat they had ever seen.

Then their astonished gaze rested on the stern, upon which was painted in large Roman script this magic word, "Rambler."

CHAPTER III

NAT IS ANGRY

Scarcely believing their eyes the boys crowded around the boat.

"What does this mean?" gasped Bob Somers.

"Look, look! There's a note for somebody," shouted Tom; "quick, let us see what it says."

Bob leaped lightly into the boat, and picked up an envelope, which he hastily tore open.

"Hurrah, hurrah!" he shouted. "Fellows, what do you think of this?"

Scrambling excitedly back to the wharf, while the others crowded eagerly around, he read: "The 'Rambler,' presented to Robert Somers by his father."

It seemed as if the boys had suddenly taken leave of their senses. Joining hands, they danced around and around, and a succession of lusty shouts echoed over the surrounding hills.

At length the very violence of their exertions caused a cessation of the impromptu celebration, and they threw themselves on the ground, thoroughly exhausted.

"Well, of all things in the world," burst forth Sam Randall, "isn't this the grandest?"

"What a glorious surprise," panted Bob, enthusiastically.

"Three cheers for Mr. Somers!" cried Dick Travers, and again their shouts floated over the air.

The boys were entirely unaware of the fact that their excited actions had been observed by a pair of very sharp eyes, and consequently when a step sounded close at hand it startled them not a little.

Looking up, they saw a small, unkempt individual, with a grizzly iron-gray moustache and a nose that deviated considerably from any recognized standard of beauty. He was gazing toward them with a severe frown, and, indeed, presented a rather threatening aspect. In one hand he clutched a heavy, knotted stick, while the other held a sadly battered straw hat.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, in husky tones, as he arranged the first named article in such a manner as to assist in the task of standing erect. "Have you kids plumb lost your senses? What do you call such doings as them, anyway?" The frown deepened. "Who does this here new-fangled tub belong to?"

"To me, or, rather, the Rambler Club," answered Bob, proudly.

"I thought so, I thought so!" returned their visitor. "The way youth is pampered now, beats my comprehension. No son of mine would get any of it."

"Don't doubt that, 'Major,'" ventured Dick Travers, with a broad smile.

Zeke Tipson, or, as he was more generally called, the "Major," an appellation the source of which no one ever learned, lived in a tumble-down shack on the river's bank about a half mile distant. He cultivated a small garden, but, believing that hard work injured his constitution, managed to abstain from active employment the greater part of the time. To small boys he was an object of fear, to larger ones, the butt of their pranks, and to the older element, an eccentric character whose quaint ways furnished amusement.

"And what is going to be did with this here boat?" he went on, with cheerful disregard for grammar.

"We are going to have the grandest hunting and fishing cruise that was ever heard of, eh, Tom?" replied Sam Randall, his face shining with enthusiasm.

"Oh, don't wake me, anybody; it's a dream; it's too good to be true," said Tom, blissfully.

Zeke Tipson shook his head disapprovingly. "It ain't right—it ain't right that a parcel of boys should be allowed in a cockle-shell like that," he grumbled. "Then, like as not, you'll be taking each other for deers or bears, and a load of buckshot ain't any too healthy, I can tell you that. Why, I once know'd a—"

"We've hunted before this," put in Bob, hastily, for the "Major" had a habit of relating certain extraordinary remembrances, all noted for their length.

"Well, you might get took with some sickness," persisted Zeke, who seemed to be in a very pessimistic mood. "Now you needn't laugh. There was three fellers I know'd once, and—"

"Oh, look, here comes Nat Wingate!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, suddenly. "I believe he has been following us."

Nat, dressed with his usual care, approached jauntily across the clearing, and nodded to the boys. Then turning, he said: "Hello, 'Major,' how do you find yourself?"

"None the better for looking at you," growled Zeke, a strange light coming into his eyes.

But it is doubtful if Nat heard his remark, for he stopped short and gave a whistle of astonishment, as he took in the graceful lines of the motor boat.

"Gracious, what a beauty!" he exclaimed. "Where did it come from?"

As there was no immediate response, he continued: "Who in the world does it belong to? The 'Rambler,' why, it can't be that—"

"Yes, it's the boat that is going to carry the Rambler Club on its famous voyage," said Bob Somers, smilingly.

"But I thought you were going in the 'Lively,'" said Nat.

"So did we," returned Bob. And then he briefly explained how their good fortune had come about.

"Well, I must say that you are the luckiest fellows I ever heard of," declared Wingate, with a long breath. "It's a beautiful little craft." Then he added, glancing quickly toward Bob: "Are you really going to visit your father's land?"

"We certainly are," replied Somers.

"And leave me out, after all?"

It was an appealing question, and the silence that followed was due to the fact that the members of the club had almost exhausted their vocabulary of declinations.

Nat walked forward. "See here, fellows," he burst out, with all the earnestness at his command, "why can't you let me in? I'm willing to pay more than my share of expenses; come now, what's the use of having hard feelings?"

"We haven't any, I'm sure," responded Bob, who understood the quick, meaning glances of his companions; "and I hope you won't feel offended; but we got up this little club without ever intending to increase the membership."

"Don't let him in," growled the "Major," at this point. "He's bad enough on land, and you can't tell what he might be when he gets out on the water."

"But what harm could it do to have one more?" pleaded Nat, who allowed this remark to pass unheeded.

He spoke in such a quiet, contained tone that the Ramblers could scarcely realize that it was the usually hot-headed Nat Wingate who was talking.

"No harm, of course," responded Bob, slowly; "only, for the reasons I have so often given, the club is to be just an exclusive little affair among ourselves."

"Good!" observed the "Major," approvingly. "You kids ain't such a pack of ninnies as I first suspicioned."

Nat Wingate's manner began to change. "Don't pay any attention to him," he said, as his brown eyes flashed ominously. "For the last time, won't you vote me in, as member number six?"

Bob smiled, but shook his head slowly.

"So I'm finally refused, eh?" exclaimed Nat, his voice betraying the fact that pent-up indignation was fast getting the better of his calmness.

"Certainly," interposed Zeke.

"Your grand club is mighty exclusive, I'm sure," continued Wingate, perceiving that his last words had made no impression on the Ramblers. "You've treated me in the meanest fashion, and I'll make you regret it, mark my words. The whole thing has been just a piece of spite work."

Nat, as he spoke, walked up and down, darting angry glances from one to the other, and his tightly clenched fists showed to what extent his passions had been aroused. Evidently the sight of the motor boat had added not a little to his already intense desire to join the party.

"You're a fine one to talk about spite work," broke in Dick Travers, whose temper was hasty. "I think you had better try to remember some of the mean things you did at school."

Bob Somers gave his friend a look which effectually stopped him from continuing, but the "Major" added fuel to Wingate's passion both by action and words. He pointed his stick threateningly toward him, exclaiming emphatically: "I ain't the kind what likes to mix up in other people's affairs, but I say, boys, you did well to keep this young scamp out."

"And what is it to you?" retorted Nat, furiously. "You and your old shack are a disgrace to the neighborhood."

"Look here, boy, you'd better be a little careful," warned Zeke. "Only the other day, about five big rocks hit my door, and I know who done it, too."

"Elect him an honorary member of the club," sneered Nat. "Oh ho, I can tell you fellows one thing, you needn't think that you are the only boys who can get up a club. As sure as my name is Nat Wingate, I'll form another; and not only that," he continued, excitedly, "but we'll follow that old mud scow and make things hot wherever you go!"

"Oh, come, Nat," returned Bob, calmly; "you seem to have misunderstood the matter entirely. Look at it in a sensible fashion."

But Nat had worked himself up into a towering rage, and refused to be conciliated.

"You'll wish you had let me join," he shouted. "I never swallowed all those insults you gave me without making up my mind to pay the crowd back. And I'll remember you, too, old Zeke Tipson. Get out of here."

Had Nat looked at the "Major" he might have seen that his sharp eyes were glaring in a most peculiar fashion. The two had had several encounters, and whenever Zeke calculated the amount of damage resulting therefrom, it made him very angry indeed.

"Get out of here yourself," he cried. "I won't stand any impudence, mind you—go on, now."

Accompanying these words, he made several movements with his stick, which brought it dangerously close to Nat's ankles.

"Hold on!" protested Bob Somers. "We don't want any trouble here."

"No, no!" chimed in Brandon.

But Nat, thoroughly enraged, sprang forward with fist upraised. "I'll teach you some manners, you miserable beggar!" he shouted, with flashing eyes.

Zeke parried the blow. Then the angry man jumped forward while Nat, well aware of the fact that he was no match for him, leaped aside.

The Ramblers were about to rush between them to prevent further hostilities, when Nat himself saved them that trouble.

In his eagerness to escape, he had not taken sufficient heed of his surroundings. His spring away from Zeke landed him on the very brink of the river, where the bank was steep and slippery. His feet flew from under him, and as he began sliding down the declivity, he grasped frantically at the top of the bank. His fingers touched it, but he succeeded only in tearing out a handful of grass. "Grab me, somebody; I'm falling in!" he shouted wildly.

But it had happened so quickly that the Ramblers were powerless to render any assistance. The unfortunate Nat shot downward at an estimated speed of not less than ten feet per second and struck the water with a tremendous splash. The spray dashed in all directions, and over the placid surface wide circles moved one after another in undulating lines.

"My goodness, he has disappeared completely," exclaimed Bob.

Consternation reigned, but only for a moment. A hand was thrust above the surface, then a head, and Nat, puffing and blowing, rose to a standing posture, with the water up to his waist.

"Where's that old scarecrow?" he cried, as soon as he could get his breath. "I'll make him pay for this."

It was strange how a few moments had altered his appearance. With the water pouring off him in streams, his hair matted fantastically to his forehead and his face streaked with mud, he presented such a ludicrous spectacle that the Ramblers could hardly keep from bursting into roars of laughter.

Nat waded a few feet and seized his hat, which was just about to sink. "Don't let him get away," he cried. "If nobody ever saw an awful row before, they'd better wait until I get on that bank."

Disdainfully refusing any assistance, the speaker made his way to a place where he could climb up, and a few moments later, was standing on the greensward. His fists were tightly clenched and he presented a picture of the most uncontrollable rage. Apparently having formed an intimate acquaintance with the mud at the bottom of the river, his wet, clinging garments were decorated with generous patches of assorted shapes.

Nat's first act was to pick up a handful of loose earth, which he hurled spitefully at the "Major." "You—you," he began, his words almost choked by passion, "you old villain; you'll be in jail for this before night. My uncle will—"

But Zeke Tipson's face was stinging where some of the earth had landed with unwonted force, and he was in no humor to stand any of Nat Wingate's threats. The words were hardly out of the speaker's mouth when he once more sprang toward him, with uplifted stick.

Nat was far from being taken unawares, and this time he used commendably good judgment in his actions. He sprang nimbly to one side, and, despite the handicap of his wet clothing, began to travel over the ground at an astonishing rate. The incident was thus abruptly closed, for Zeke's clumsy movements were in striking contrast.

"He's fast as one of them new-fangled flying machines," observed the "Major," unable to repress a smile. "And I wager he won't care for no perlice to find out what he done."

At this instant, a figure was seen hastily approaching from the direction of the woods.

"My goodness, it's father!" exclaimed Bob.

CHAPTER IV

A TRIAL TRIP

The extraordinary appearance of Nat Wingate was, of course, observed by Mr. Somers, but the gentleman did not have his curiosity immediately gratified. He was surrounded by the members of the Rambler Club, and the hearty expressions, appreciative of his kindness, which poured from the boys' lips must have been very gratifying.

He explained that the mysterious letter had been written by his chief clerk, and further told them that for a long time he had contemplated the purchase of a motor boat.

"I thought, boys," he added, "that it might be well to hasten its acquirement, in order to afford you the opportunity for a safe and pleasant trip. And I am sure you will consent to allow me the occasional use of it."

Bob's answer was to seize his father's hand and wring it heartily.

Mr. Somers deplored the unfortunate result of Nat Wingate's hasty temper, and laughed when the boys told him about his threat to form a rival organization for the purpose of following and annoying them.

"I hardly think that his uncle would humor him to the extent of supplying a motor boat," he remarked, dryly. "It is scarcely worth while to pay any attention to his foolish language. And now let us take the 'Rambler' on a little trial trip."

"Hurrah! Come on, boys," shouted Bob. It is certain that each boy felt a thrill of delight when he stepped on board.

The "Rambler" was about twenty-five feet long, rather wide of beam, built more for safety and convenience than speed. It was covered for more than half its length, and provision made for drawing down awnings at the sides. In the forward part was a cuddy sufficiently large to accommodate whatever supplies might be needed for the trip, while beneath the shelter were several seats, which also served as lockers. The wheel was situated immediately back of the cuddy, from which point an unobstructed view was to be had. Conveniently near to it stood the motor. Few working parts were visible, pistons, crank shaft and other details of the mechanism being enclosed within the castings. Two vertical cylinders and a small, but heavy fly-wheel were the most prominent features.

It seemed hard for the boys to realize that such a small, compact apparatus could drive the boat at any speed.

Mr. Somers, however, assured them that it was of many horse-power.

"Of course," he said, "this is a gasoline motor. You all know that gasoline is highly inflammable, and consequently dangerous to handle. Its vapor mixed with air is explosive, so you must understand the necessity for extreme care in its use."

Continuing, Mr. Somers delivered a short lecture, which was eagerly listened to. He told the boys how the power was derived from the explosions of gasoline vapor mixed with air, the charges being fired by an electric spark. Their attention was drawn to the valves controlling the supply of gasoline, the batteries and connecting wires.

Continuing, Mr. Somers said: "An engine of this kind has no power to start itself. It is necessary that the fly-wheel should be given several turns. This forces the explosive mixture into the upper part of the cylinders and ignites it, which starts the engine. Here, Bob, is a book of instructions."

"Can't we start right away?" asked his son, eagerly.

"Certainly!—Tom, cast off the lines. Dave, your arms look pretty strong; give the wheel a couple of turns."

"All right, sir!" responded Brandon, as the two proceeded to carry out directions.

A sharp detonation came from the motor, followed by a steady and rapid succession.

The effect was immediate. With a gentle, rocking motion, the "Rambler" began to glide forward, while the water at its stern was churned into foam and the ripples lapped against its sides.

"Hurrah!" cried Bob, enthusiastically. "This is what I call great!"

"Nothing could be finer," chimed in Dick. "See how far we have come already."

When the boys looked around, they were surprised to see what a distance separated them from the wharf.

Bob, at the wheel, managed it skilfully. The "Rambler" described a wide curve and was headed down-stream.

Close at hand rose the dark, wooded slope of Fir Island, a low, rounded hill that divided the stream into two channels. They watched its form becoming clear and distinct, and compared the trip with others that were made in the "Lively."

To say that the performance of the "Rambler" was up to expectations is expressing it very mildly. The island was reached and passed in an astonishingly short space of time.

"A daisy trip ahead of us, that's sure," cried Bob. "Doesn't it skim along smoothly, eh, Chubby? No trouble at all to run it."

"You are pleased, then, boys?" queried Mr. Somers, with a smile.

"No words for it," drawled Dave.

"You must, as the poet laureate, include the 'Rambler' in one of your verses."

Dave smiled.

"Very likely I will," he said.

"Just see what a distance we've come already!" exclaimed Dick Travers.

"Never thought motor-boating was as fine as this," put in Tom Clifton. "Can't blame Nat Wingate for wanting to join the club. Maybe he isn't sore, fellows," and Tom laughed at the recollection.

"Pretty bad day for Nat," remarked Dick. "He'll get square with old Zeke Tipson."

"And with us, too, if he gets a chance," said Bob.

"I am just as well pleased that young Wingate is not going with you," declared Mr. Somers. "He seems to be a trouble maker."

The cheerful chug-chug of the engine was music to their ears, and Bob, at the wheel, could scarcely contain his delight, as the "Rambler" glided smoothly over the rippling surface of the river. Mr. Somers, too, seemed to enjoy the experience, and continued to give them bits of helpful advice.

The stream at this point was about a quarter of a mile wide, and they were afforded a series of ever-changing views. Wooded hills rose on either side, bathed in the white, sparkling light of an early summer morning, but the monotony was relieved by ravines, fields and areas of deep shadow. There were a few sailing craft about, while, upon the opposite shore, several clumsy canal-boats were slowly making their way up the river.

In a little over half an hour, the "Rambler" had traversed four miles.

"Well, boys, what do you think of it?" inquired Mr. Somers.

The chorus of enthusiastic replies more than convinced the gentleman that the five boys were thoroughly delighted, and he was almost sorry to give the order to turn back.

"I am not able to spare any more time from business," he said. "You may come out again to-morrow."

"And when shall we start on our trip, father?" asked Bob, anxiously, while the rest of the Ramblers listened in expectant silence.

"Well, let me see—to-day is Tuesday; I think that the first of next week would be soon enough. By that time, you should be so well acquainted with the boat that I need have no fears regarding your safety."

Notwithstanding the impatience of his hearers, they could only accede to this reasonable demand with good grace.

Landing at the little wharf was not accomplished as easily as Bob hoped, but Sam Randall stood by with the fenders, while Tom and Dick secured the lines.

Even when Mr. Somers took his departure, the Ramblers could not tear themselves away from the boat.

"And just think, we were going in the 'Lively,'" observed Dick Travers, in a tone of deep disgust.

"Don't you dare to slander that grand old hulk," laughed Dave. "I've written two poems about her already."

"When we are on this trip, you'll have to write poems, and read them, too," exclaimed Sam, "otherwise you shall be deposed from position of poet laureate and made to cook."

"In that event, the journey would come to a disastrous end," returned Dave, smilingly; "doctors are few and far between in the region where we are going."

Meanwhile, as they enjoyed themselves in conversation and planning, the time slipped rapidly away. It was now fast approaching one o'clock, so they took a final glance at the "Rambler," and began their journey homeward.

None of the five caught a sight of Nat Wingate that day. But it fell to the lot of Dave Brandon to encounter him early on the following morning. While on his way to meet the other members of the club, he found Nat reclining on the big boulder, which had become a sort of favorite haunt with him. He was engaged in earnest conversation with a chum named John Hackett.

To Dave Brandon's intense surprise, Nat greeted him without any show of ill feeling.

"Oh ho, Davy!" he exclaimed, with a peculiar glance at his companion. "Oh ho! So you are really going on that little trip to the wilds?"

"Certainly," responded Brandon.

"They'll have a great time, eh, John? Awful prospect ahead for the birds and beasts of the forest."

"Wish I could go, too," drawled John. "Not taking in any new members, are you?"

"No! It's an exclusive organization—only the élite admitted," laughed Nat. "And such luck, too, to have a beautiful little boat just thrown at them, eh?"

"Wonder if any other fellows around here could ever have a piece of good luck like it," grumbled John. "I say, those motor boats must be great—no sails to bother with, or oars to pull."

"That will just suit Dave," commented Nat. "Guess you'll lie on your back and read poetry all day?"

"Very likely," smiled Dave; "and perhaps write some, too."

"Worse and worse. Hope no one will be compelled to read it." Nat gave a comical grimace, while John Hackett burst into a loud laugh.

When Dave took his departure, he could not help wondering at Nat's cheerful demeanor, and mentally concluded that he must possess a much better disposition than the Ramblers had given him credit for.

On meeting his friends at their appointed rendezvous, he was surprised to find among them the dignified Professor Hopkins, glancing over the rims of his spectacles in his usual awe-inspiring manner.

"Well, David," he said, "you have kept us waiting just a fraction over five minutes." Then he added: "Mr. Somers kindly asked me to take a trip on the motor boat. That accounts for my presence here."

Professor Hopkins was principal of the Kingswood High School, and might be described as a typical pedagogue, having a very stately bearing and a scholarly manner.

He expressed his admiration for the "Rambler," which appeared to the boys handsomer than ever, but seemed rather fearful of venturing on board.

"Are you quite sure that it is safe, Robert?" he asked, nervously. "You know I can't swim. Be careful, it's tipping over."

With much assistance, the professor was finally led safely on board, and a trip up the river began.

Bob found no difficulty whatever in handling the engine, and the ten mile trip passed without incident.

Professor Hopkins took occasion to talk to them about their proposed long journey.

"Remember," he said, "that each boy cannot invariably have his own way. In matters where differences of opinion arise, there should be no disputes, but the quietest and most thoughtful judgment exercised. You must meet each other half way, and be prepared to follow the guidance of your recognized leader."

These words were spoken as the boat was being headed in shore on the return trip, and the speaker almost immediately afterward declared that they must be extremely careful in regard to their dealings with strangers. "Treat all people pleasantly," he said; "avoid rough-looking characters, and say little about your plans to any one."

The boys listened attentively, in spite of the professor's solemn manner and the fact that they felt perfectly able to take care of themselves.

"Who is that standing on the wharf?" spoke up Sam, at length, as he shaded his eyes to get a clearer view. "Looks like Mr. Wingate."