THE FIRE-BELL

Bob Somers, in his room on the upper floor of Pembroke Hall, was busily engaged in working out an algebraic equation. The cozy little study adjoined his bedroom, and was situated almost underneath a tower which rose above the surrounding trees. On the walls several engravings and photographs were tastefully hung, while close to the desk before which Bob was seated stood a table covered with the various odds and ends which boys are apt to possess.

It was one of those cold, keen winter nights when the comforts of a warm and cozy room seem especially attractive. The weather was clear, but the streets were white with snow, and a slight breeze made the tree-tops sigh and murmur.

Suddenly Bob Somers raised his eyes from the paper before him and listened intently.

The booming of a bell came over the frosty air, now very faint, then rising clearly, as the sound of the breeze sank to a low, droning whisper.

"My gracious!" cried Bob. "The fire-bell!"

For a second time, the ominous notes pealed forth, two coming close together, then, after a brief pause, seven in succession.

"Box twenty-seven! I wonder where it is."

The fire-alarm was seldom heard in the quiet little town of Kingswood, and the sound made his pulse quicken.

He hastily opened a door and made his way to an iron staircase which led to the tower. Up two steps at a time he bounded, until a small square room was reached. It had windows on all sides and commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country.

Bob Somers peered eagerly out at the icy winter scene. The limits of the snow-covered grounds of Pembroke Hall were defined by a row of electric lights on the highway. Beyond, several residences appeared faintly against the sky, but nearly all else was lost in gloom. Myriads of stars shone brilliantly.

A faint, hazy patch, as of smoke illuminated by an electric light, appeared above a dark line of trees.

"That must be the fire," murmured Bob, in some excitement. "Great Cæsar! It's near the schoolhouse."

Dashing down-stairs, he quickly donned his overcoat and hat.

"Fo' goodness' sakes, what am de matter?" inquired Peter Lexington, the colored boy, in astonishment.

"There's a fire, Peter! Can't stop to talk now."

"Fo' de lub of goodness! a fire?"

The surprising intelligence seemed to deprive Peter of all movement, and before he could utter another word, Bob was off.

In a moment, he had passed between the tall gate-posts at the entrance.

The air was sharp and keen. Great banks of snow, heaped up along the sides of the street, shone brightly in the glare of electric lights.

As Bob Somers neared the scene, he learned to his astonishment that the high school was on fire.

Kingswood, a wealthy community, had an excellent fire department. It was equipped with a ladder truck and an automobile fire-engine, the motor of which also operated the pumps.

The high school stood back from the street, surrounded by spacious grounds. In the centre of the three-story stone building rose a cupola of attractive design. About a hundred feet distant, the road was bridged over a large pond.

Bob Somers, breathing hard after his run, mingled with the excited groups in front of the school.

A cloud of whitish smoke partially obscured the building, its heaviest portion being toward the western end.

"It's getting away from them, sure," said a man close by. "If they don't hustle along that steamer from Rockville pretty soon the place is a goner."

Breaks in the curling wreaths of smoke revealed a ladder leaning against the wall and a line of hose entering the window above it. The shouts of the volunteers rose above the continuous roar of the Kingswood engine and the excited murmur of the crowd.

"That man is right," thought Bob, with a tremor of excitement; "I only wish something more could be done."

From the midst of the crowd, at a point some distance away, rose a peculiar shout, somewhat like the hooting of an owl.

Instantly Bob Somers threw back his head, and made a similar sound. This was a special signal often used by the Ramblers to call each other.

"Hello, Dave Brandon!" cried Bob, lustily.

"Hello yourself!"

In a moment the stout boy hurried forward.

"Isn't it awful, Bob, to see the old school going up like this?" he said.

"How did it start, Chubby?"

"Guess no one knows. Let's find the other fellows. Give a whoop, Bob!"

"Hello, Sam Randall!"

"Hello, Dick!"

"Hi, hi, Tom Clifton!"

In a few minutes, the Ramblers had managed to locate each other.

"Maybe we can save something yet," cried Bob. "Let's go into the grounds."

There was no railing, consequently they had free access, and the frozen crust presently began to crack sharply beneath their feet.

"Professor Hopkins is over there!" exclaimed Bob Somers. "He just came out of the door."

Bob darted between the groups of people, with the others close at his heels.

"Professor Hopkins!" he cried.

The principal, enveloped in a long coat, seemed almost overcome with emotion. He was staggering along under a load of books.

"Somers!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, sir! We're going to try and save something!"

"I am ruined!" gasped Professor Hopkins, apparently not hearing his words. "The fire is steadily gaining—my office is doomed."

"Come on, fellows!" shouted Bob.

The moment he reached the doorway, Professors Hughes and Ivins came out, each carrying an armful of books.

"Don't go in there!" shouted the former, warningly; "you'll be stifled."

"If the Rockville engine was only here, Professor Hopkins' office might be saved," exclaimed Professor Ivins.

"Boys!" cried Dave Brandon; "I've got an idea. We'll form a chain and get water from the pond."

"Splendid, Chubby! You've struck it!" broke in Bob, enthusiastically.

"There are plenty of people around who ought to help us," added Dick Travers; "it must be a double line—one to pass back the empty buckets."

The students turned toward the crowd.

"Who wants to join a bucket brigade?" yelled Dave Brandon.

"I do!" shouted one.

"Count me in," added another.

The crowd, as if ashamed of its former inactivity, became animated with life. Strangely enough, it had not occurred to any one before that some use might be made of the pond.

Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by several others, started off in search of buckets. An axe was procured—then the frozen surface of Deal's pond began to resound to the sturdy blows of the volunteers.

In the meantime Bob Somers and Dave Brandon had entered the building. Choking and sputtering, they reached the main corridor and saw bright tongues of flame mingling with the smoke.

From the floor above came excited shouts and the sound of axes chopping through rafters and beams.

Bob Somers and Dave Brandon did not care to tarry long. Their eyes ached and choking sensations gripped their throats.

"Unless the fellows hurry up, it will be too late," gasped Dave, as the two made their way out and stood upon the steps.

"Let's make a dash for the president's room, and get out some of his things," cried Bob Somers. "Come on, Dave Brandon!"

Both boys again disappeared in the smoke-laden atmosphere.

THE BUCKET BRIGADE

It was a rather perilous undertaking. Professors Hughes and Ivins, both elderly men, did not dare to again brave the danger.

"Come back, boys—come back!" called Professor Hughes, distractedly.

But Bob Somers and Dave Brandon were already groping their way toward the president's office, which was situated to the left of the entrance. They knew that it contained some of the most prized possessions of Professor Hopkins. Besides books and scientific instruments there were rare collections of butterflies and other insects.

The Ramblers knew where the cases were kept, and their efforts to reach them proved successful. A few moments more and they were staggering toward the entrance heavily laden.

"Bravo, boys!" cried the professor of mathematics, seizing the precious trays.

"Hurrah for the bucket brigade!" shouted Bob Somers. "Here comes the water."

Two lines of men and boys, reaching from the schoolhouse steps to the pond, were ready and eager for work. In a moment the first bucket had arrived. Bob Somers seized it and rushed inside.

The buckets began to follow each other in rapid succession, and the volunteers, in relays, fought the flames with determined efforts.

Dave Brandon continued to work in the president's office, and as fast as articles were brought out other students carried them to the home of Professor Hughes, almost opposite the school. At length they had the satisfaction of taking over the last tray.

Suddenly the clang of a distant bell came over the air.

"The Rockville engine!" cried Bob.

In a few moments it rumbled over the bridge, leaving a trail of embers, which the breeze caught up and danced merrily along the snow-covered street.

Then the tender, with loudly clanging bell, passed between the crowds which had hastily parted to the right and left.

Bob and his companions felt that their services were no longer needed, so they threw aside their buckets and walked across the street to the engine.

It had taken a position beneath an electric lamp, its polished surfaces glistening brightly. Several firemen were already attaching the suction hose. Another was piling on fuel and the peculiar smell of soft coal smoke mingled with the pungent odor of burning wood from the schoolhouse. A hissing sound showed that the steam had reached a high pressure. It was an interesting moment to the boys.

"Come on with the water!" shouted a voice. Instantly the engineer turned the valve, and a loud puffing began, while a shower of sparks shot upward through the smoky air.

By this time, the fire had worked its way through the central portion of the school and found a vent in the cupola. The windows had been broken by the heat and long streamers of flame pierced the whirling smoke.

An extension ladder was placed against the eaves and a number of firemen ascended to the roof, where, almost hidden by the smoke, they dropped a rope and began hauling up another line of hose.

But the fire in the cupola was rapidly increasing. The flames having united into a solid body leaped furiously upward, presenting the appearance of a gigantic torch surmounted by a column of smoke and burning brands.

Within a few minutes, the scene had wonderfully changed. The entire mass of smoke seemed to be drawn upward by the rush of air, and mingling with that from the cupola, stood out with a deep, sullen red from a background of starlit sky.

The electric lights began to look pale and ghostlike, and a ruddy glare suffused the landscape, while myriads of embers drifted slowly earthward.

"My eye, that certainly is a pretty sight, eh, Somers?"

A very tall, thin youth standing close by uttered this exclamation.

"Hello, John Hackett!"

"Hello! Say, you fellows look like a minstrel show! What's happened?"

"Didn't you see us hauling out stuff from the president's room, and helping to carry water?"

"My eye! Were you in that—and Chubby, too?"

"Of course," replied the stout boy. "Look, fellows, there goes the water."

A swish and a hiss sounded, as a heavy stream suddenly poured upon the cupola. The flames slowly began to die down, and a great cheer arose from the crowd.

"Must be an awful mess inside," observed Hackett, meditatively. "Isn't it too bad?"

"Yes! and it knocks us out of study for about two months," replied Dave Brandon.

"Maybe they will get a hall somewhere," suggested Tom Clifton.

"Oh, look!" cried Bob, suddenly.

As he spoke, the half-burned timbers of the cupola collapsed and fell with a muffled roar. Then a huge puff of smoke rolled upward, accompanied by a fitful glare of red, while the voices of the crowd swelled into an excited murmur.

The firemen on the roof struggled forward, turned the stream down into the opening, and the last glimmer of light began to slowly fade.

There was much excitement in the crowd, as this seemed to be the critical moment. The Rockville engine fairly roared and shook.

"I'll bet it's under control," said Bob, at length.

"Yes, they've got it now, that's sure," exclaimed Dick Travers.

"Thanks to the Rockville fire company," added Sam.

"Hope you're not going home yet," said Hackett. "I wouldn't mind staying out all night."

"You wouldn't catch me doing it," declared Tommy Clifton decidedly.

"If the moon was up, I'd like to go skating," added Hackett, boastfully, "and I wouldn't sleep all day to-morrow, either."

"I know what you mean," said Dave, with a good-natured grin, "and I suppose I ought to feel pretty badly about it."

"I advise you to stop writing poetry," continued Hackett; "then you won't need so much sleep."

"But then I don't write the kind that puts others to sleep," laughed Brandon, "and that ought to make the matter square."

"In that case, you are forgiven," exclaimed Sam Randall.

"How is Nat Wingate, 'Hatchet'?" asked Bob Somers, at this juncture.

"The doctor says he will have to keep out in the open air as much as possible," replied Hackett. "His lungs seem to be a little weak. Nat thinks of going to some lumber camp—and, by jingo—"

"What's the matter?"

"An idea just struck me," answered Hackett, "and a fine one, too."

"Let's hear it."

"Well, if the school is put out of commission for a month or two, I might manage to go with him."

"Wouldn't it be a great idea for the whole of us to go?" spoke up Bob Somers, turning to the others.

"That's the way to talk," exclaimed John Hackett, enthusiastically. "We could camp in the wilds—hunt, fish and have no end of sport."

"It would be mighty cold out there in the woods," ventured Tom Clifton, the smallest member of the party, "and the snow is ever so deep. Whew! There's twelve o'clock striking."

"Let it strike! Say, fellows, what do you think of this scheme?"

"Simply great! But it all depends upon whether they can find a place for the school," said Bob.

"There isn't a hall large enough in this little town—you know that. Might use a barn, though," grinned Hackett. "Fine to see Professor Hopkins standing on a bale of hay and conducting the opening exercises."

"Well, I'd like to go—but, and it's a great big but," sighed Dick Travers, "my dad might not look upon it the way I do."

"My fix, too," added Tom.

"Guess we could arrange that all right," said Bob, hopefully. "I think my father will agree to it."

"Anyway, we'll have to talk over this again," exclaimed Hackett. "Nat would certainly be glad if you fellows could go. How about meeting in your barn, Somers?"

"Come over day after to-morrow, and bring Nat with you," replied Bob.

"You can just bet I will," said Hackett. "My eye! How I hope we can arrange it!"

The Rockville steamer was still sending up a stream of sparks, but the excitement was now entirely over. The boys accordingly took leave of each other, and set out for home.

OFF TO THE WOODS

Early next morning the grounds about the high school were crowded with students. The building presented a sorry appearance, with its broken windows and smoke-begrimed walls. An odor of half-burned, water-soaked wood came from within.

Bob Somers produced a copy of the Kingswood "Times," and passed it around. The paper stated that the fire had been caused by an overheated furnace, and that the damage would amount to over five thousand dollars.

Professor Hopkins approached a group, among whom were Dave Brandon and several other members of the Rambler Club.

"Isn't this an unfortunate occurrence, boys?" he said; "I can scarcely believe that we all assembled here for study only yesterday morning. I want to thank you for your work last night."

"I'm very glad that we were able to do some good," said Dave. "How long do you think it will take to repair the damage, professor?"

"Months," replied the president, with something like a groan. "And I doubt whether we shall be able to find any place to hold the exercises."

Then, with a bow, he turned, and walked slowly away.

Soon after this, the group broke up, and, at an appointed hour next day, met in the hay-loft of Mr. Somers' barn.

Peter Lexington's ebony-hued countenance wore a broad grin, as the boys began to come in. Hackett and Nat Wingate arrived last.

Nat seemed to have lost some of the dashing air which formerly characterized him. His face was pale and drawn, while his movements lacked their accustomed energy.

"Fellows, this is a great scheme you've gotten up," he exclaimed, enthusiastically.

"Yes! My father says it's all right," declared Bob Somers.

"And they haven't been able to find a hall large enough," added Hackett, with a grin. "Professor Ivins told me so this afternoon."

"Anything else?" queried Sam Randall.

"Yes, he said that classes could not be resumed for about two months. How about you, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton? Think you'll be able to go?"

Both boys cast grateful looks toward Bob Somers.

"It's all right, Hacky," said Travers, gleefully. "When Bob told my father about the trip, and how much Mr. Somers would be pleased for the whole crowd to go, he consented."

"The same here," put in Tom Clifton, with a glowing face.

"And you, Chubby?"

Dave Brandon laughed. "I managed it easily," he said. "My folks have an idea that I don't exercise enough, and they think a trip of this kind will be just the thing."

"So it will be," said Nat. "You're beginning to look like a fat boy in a five cent show."

"Do you think there will be much work to do?" asked Dave, with pretended alarm.

"Well, rather—chopping wood, building camps, tramping twenty miles on hunting trips—oh, I guess you'll find enough to keep you busy."

"I 'clar' to goodness, boys, yo'll be froze," said Peter Lexington.

"A little snow and ice doesn't scare us, Peter," rejoined Bob, smilingly.

"Talk about hunting," put in Hackett, bringing a stick up to the level of his shoulder and squinting one eye along it. "I can hardly wait. Just let me get a crack at something—the bigger the better."

"That's the ticket," chimed in Nat. "It will beat a summer trip all hollow. Say, fellows, what will we need?"

"Help, befoah de voyage am over," interrupted Peter, with a loud chuckle.

"Now don't begin any croaking, Peter, or you'll scare our little friend from going."

"Indeed he won't do anything of the kind," retorted Tom Clifton, indignantly.

"We'll need lots of stuff," said Sam Randall; "tea, coffee, sugar, spices, flour, canned goods, potatoes, beans, molasses, bacon, blankets, skates, and snow-shoes."

"We can pack the whole business on a couple of sleds," observed Dick Travers; "and send them by freight to some station near the backwoods. Got your map, Bob?"

"Sure."

In a short time, seven boys were bending over a map which Bob had spread out on a bale of hay.

"Stony Creek—that looks like a good place to start from," said Bob, indicating a point with his forefinger.

"From there, we might hire a sleigh to take us to Mapleton," put in Dave Brandon, with a yawn.

"A good idea," said Bob. "The whole thing is settled, fellows. Now when shall we start?"

"The sooner, the better," declared John Hackett. "Who's going to buy the grub and other stuff?"

"Draw lots," suggested Dave Brandon, lazily.

"Skip around, Peter, and find a piece of paper," said Bob. "We want to fix this thing up right away."

"I can see my finish," groaned Dick Travers, comically.

The stable boy soon procured a piece of brown paper, which he tore in seven pieces. These were numbered consecutively and dropped in his cap.

"Shake 'em up, Peter," said Bob. "Fellows, the two who draw numbers three and five can consider that they have a job ahead of them."

The grinning Peter vigorously stirred up the bits of paper, then held his cap high over his head.

There was an interval of silence, after which seven boys eagerly glanced at the papers they had drawn.

"Stung!" groaned Sam Randall, with a comical grimace.

"Same here! I told you how it would be," added Travers.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Peter Lexington. "You fellahs certainly done got left—ha, ha!"

"Somebody make out a list," said Dick, with a sigh of resignation, "and we'll attend to it."

Bob Somers got to work. In addition to the articles mentioned by Sam Randall, he added a few simple remedies, such as they had taken on their previous trip.

"Now, you unfortunate chaps—hustle," said John Hackett, with a broad grin. "Don't hang around here. Wow! I'm thinking that by the time we get through, there'll be a few less deer and wildcats to roam around, eh, Nat?"

And the prospect of thinning out the animal kingdom made Hackett execute a few fancy steps around the hay-loft, much to the amusement of Peter Lexington.

Sam Randall and Dick Travers set about their allotted tasks with vigor. Before night, everything needful, including three sleds, had been purchased, and was ready for shipment to Stony Creek, the nearest railroad station to the village of Mapleton.

Some portions of the state of Wisconsin are wild and desolate, and the boys had selected a region where there was every likelihood of finding game in abundance.

Thus, two days after their meeting in the barn, on a cold, clear day in the early part of January, seven boys, attired in suitable fashion to withstand the rigorous climate, met at the Kingswood railroad station. They presented a very formidable appearance, Bob Somers and John Hackett carrying repeating rifles and the others shotguns.

"Did you get our stuff off to Stony Creek all right, Steve?" inquired Nat Wingate of the ticket agent.

"Sure thing! Where are you fellows bound for now?"

"To the woods," replied John Hackett; "and we are going to do some tall shooting."

"You will, at any rate," said the agent, with a grin, as he surveyed Hackett's long figure. "When a wildcat comes over to say how-de-do, them legs of yourn ought to be mighty useful. Here comes number ten, right on the minute."

A whistle sounded, the train rounded a curve, and, in a few minutes more, the boys had clambered aboard.

"If anybody had told me about this last week, I wouldn't have believed it," said Sam, in great glee, settling himself comfortably in a seat. "Eh, Dave?"

The stout boy nodded, and closed his eyes.

"I'm going to make up now for all that hard work I did at the fire," he said with a laugh.

The train sped on, past snow-covered fields and rolling hills, over trestles, allowing momentary glimpses of ice-bound creeks, or ravines, purple and gray in the morning shadows.

At various towns, the train came to a halt. Several were manufacturing centres, where smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and jets of steam rivaled in their whiteness the dazzling snow. But the distances between these stopping places grew longer and longer, and when, at length, the conductor called out, "Stony Creek," the last town had been left miles behind.

"Wake up, Chubby!" cried Bob, giving the stout boy a vigorous shove. "Here's where we get off."

Dave stretched, yawned and rose to his feet just as the cars came to a stop.

"It doesn't look as if we were anywhere," he said.

"We'll have to get up a searching party and try to find the town," said Nat.

When the boys stood on the platform and gazed after the fast receding train, they felt that they were already on the edge of the wilderness.

Beyond the small ticket office was a freight house, while a lone residence, with a veranda at the side, stood opposite the station. A road skirted the railway tracks, and from this two others branched off, winding their way between broad fields, patched here and there with dark, gaunt trees.

"Looks like the arctic regions," said Nat.

"And feels like it, too," observed Tommy Clifton, pulling his coat collar closer around his neck. "Guess only birds live here."

"We'll have to rout somebody out and see about our stuff," said Hackett. "Hello, here he comes now."

A rather tall, spare man with a red, scraggly beard emerged from the ticket office and lazily ambled toward them.

"How d'y do, boys!" he said, with a broad grin. "Be you looking for anybody who lives hereabouts?"

"Is that the town, Jack?" asked Nat Wingate, pointing to the house opposite.

"Well! The idea! How did you guess my name?" exclaimed the station-master, with a look of pleased surprise. "Reckon I never seen you before, neither."

"We're the bounding brotherhood of brilliant guessers," grinned Nat. "Now, Jack, a few words with you; we want to know if you have a lot of boxes and sleds for us."

This rapid flow of words quite bewildered the old man. He scratched his head. Then an idea seemed to dawn upon him.

"Be them yourn?" he said. "A hull lot of stuff, an' sleds, too?"

"Now you're talking, Jack, old boy," said Hackett. "Trot out your papers, Somers, and show him."

"They're all in the freight house. You boys a-going ter stay in town fer a spell, I reckon, ain't yer?"

"Where is it?" asked Nat.

"Where?"

The station-master paused. A look of aggrieved surprise came over his rugged, honest face.

"Where?" he repeated, reproachfully. "'Tain't fur." He waved his arm in a wide circle. "Over there. Bless me—the idea! Sich a question."

"Can we get something to eat around here?" asked Dave Brandon. "I'm almost starved."

"Over to Hiram Sladder's, I reckon. 'Tain't more'n one o'clock, now. Going to stay in town long?"

"We'll keep right on to Mapleton," volunteered Nat. "How do we get there?"

"To Mapleton, eh? Well, there's two ways I know of, jest two of 'em."

"How?" asked Nat.

"One of 'em's walking, and the other's riding," replied "Jack," laconically.

"Ha, ha! Bully for you," roared Hackett. "Wow—that's a good one. 'Jack,' you're all right."

The station-master grinned, and looked at the boys with a mildly indulgent air.

"You certainly ain't a-going camping out, air you?" he asked.

"Of course we are," answered Bob. "But for that, we wouldn't be carrying around these guns."

"Jack" shook his head.

"A risky business—a purty risky business fur boys, I call it. Why, there's wolves—"

"And there's a gun all ready for 'em," interrupted John Hackett, holding up his rifle.

"An' wildcats."

"Well, we have some more guns."

"An'—an'—well, I call it a purty risky business. However, 'tain't none of my affair. Yonder right hand road takes yer to Sladder's."

"Come on, fellows," said Dave; "I'm hungry as a bear."

The stout boy jumped off the platform and began striding across the road. They toiled up a gentle incline, trudging in the middle of the highway. Once at the top, they saw a long descent. A flagpole was visible, rising above the crest of another hill.

"Where there's a flagpole, there's a house," observed Hackett.

His long steps soon put him in the lead.

"Oh, I say, hold on, 'Hatchet,'" puffed little Tommy Clifton; "this isn't a race."

"You want to hurry and grow a bit, Tommy," laughed John.

At length they began the ascent of the hill. The ruts in the road made walking difficult, and all breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the top. As they did so, the peaked roof of a building came into view, rising higher and higher until the entire structure was visible. It proved to be a long, two-story building, painted a dingy gray.

But what interested the boys most of all was an inscription across the front that read:

Roadside House
Hiram Sladder, Proprietor
Accommodation for man and beast

"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Now for something to eat!"

"UNDENIABLE FACT"

Before the boys could reach the entrance, the door was opened. A very big man, with a very red complexion and prominent features, stood surveying the group, his face wreathed in smiles.

"Good-afternoon, young gentlemen!" he exclaimed, in a hearty voice. "Step right in—a warm room and nice, comfortable chairs ready for you."

"Can we get something to eat now?" asked Dave, with a touch of apprehension in his voice.

"All you want, sir—an undeniable fact," replied the hotel keeper; "of the best, too—nice, hot coffee, roast beef, potatoes,—an' what would you say to a few buckwheat cakes, with maple syrup?"

"Um—um—ah—but don't say a few," remarked Dave.

"An undeniable fact that they are just the thing for a cold day like this. Put your guns in the corner, boys. Mom!"

Mr. Hiram Sladder's stentorian voice soon brought a response. A pleasant-looking woman bustled into the room.

"What's this, Hiram, a meeting?" she asked, looking at the boys with a smile.

"Undeniable fact that it looks like it," said Mr. Sladder. "But these young gentlemen want something to eat, and want it quick. Is Tim around?"

"No, Hiram. He just went off with Billy Musgrove."

"Too bad! But never mind. Get out the best you have in the house."

The boys drew up chairs around the bright stove, and settled down to solid comfort, while Hiram Sladder perched himself on a stool of rather ancient appearance.

"Strangers around these parts?" he remarked, affably, his eyes roving from one to another.

"You've struck it," said Hackett; "we've been trying to find out ever since we got here where the town is."

"And why they call it Stony Creek," added Tom Clifton.

"Well, just beyond the hill is as purty a little town as you want to see," confided the hotel keeper; "and it's an undeniable fact that the stoniest creek you ever laid your eyes upon flows close't to Bill Manley's blacksmith shop. Going to stay here long, young gentlemen?"

"No, we're off on a hunting trip," said Hackett, carelessly; "after big game."

"Sho! Know much about gunning?" asked Mr. Sladder, incautiously.

"Do we know much about gunning?" echoed John, with withering sarcasm. "Well, say—I've had a few tilts with wildcats, myself, and I'm here yet."

"Um—you can't always tell by looks," said Mr. Sladder, anxious to appease the tall youth's ire. "My son Tim—too bad he ain't here—is a born hunter. The way that boy can shoot and trap! Why, it's an undeniable fact that there ain't nobody in town can beat him. If the young gentlemen want a few good points where to go fur game—"

"Yes—that's the idea!" cried Bob, enthusiastically, drawing forth his map.

Hiram Sladder spread it out on a near-by table.

Surrounded by all save Dave Brandon, he placed a very broad finger on a spot indicating the position of Mapleton, then slowly passed it along the course of a river, and finally stopped at a lake.

Then he said: "Thereabouts! No better place in the state of Wisconsin."

"Plenty of wildcats, and wolves, I hope," said Hackett, with a sly glance toward Tom Clifton.

"Why bless you, you may get more'n you bargain for," replied the hotel keeper. "Now in my younger days—"

"Hiram, it's ready! An' I guess the boys is too," interrupted Mrs. Sladder, at this interesting point.

The dining-room of the Roadside House was large and comfortable, and a bountiful meal had been prepared. From the kitchen came a delicious odor of buckwheat cakes, which caused a look of great satisfaction to come over Dave Brandon's face.

Mrs. Sladder regarded the remarkable manner in which the viands disappeared as a tribute to her culinary skill, and surveyed the boys with a benevolent smile.

"It's an undeniable fact that the walking ain't just what it might be," said Mr. Sladder, who had entered the room. "Now, I've a sleigh—"

"Just the idea," broke in Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "Eh, fellows?"

"Then I'll have it ready for you in a jiffy. I take it that you want to leave pretty soon. Mapleton's a good fifteen miles."

The boys finished their meal, and sat around the table engaged in conversation until word was brought that the sleigh was ready. A moment later, the jingling of bells was heard, and it drew up to the front door.

"I'll be mighty glad to see you again, boys, any time," said Hiram Sladder, as the fellows clambered in.

"Get up, you Prince! Hi, hi, you Bobby!" yelled the driver, cracking his whip, and the sleigh began to glide over the snow-covered ground.

Upon reaching the freight house at the Stony Creek railroad station, "Jack" assisted the boys in loading the various boxes and packages upon the sleigh. Some of their supplies had to be tied upon the sleds, which, in turn, were secured in such a fashion as to trail at the rear.

"Hope yer found the town," remarked the station-master, dryly; "never had sich a question asked me before."

The boys laughed, and waved their hands, as the sleigh began to draw away from the platform.

"Hurrah! Now for the wilderness!" cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "We can't get there too soon."

The driver again cracked his long, snake-like whip, and the sleigh-bells jingled merrily.

Up and down hill, between dark, sombre woods, over bridges which spanned frozen streams, then past bleak, barren stretches of fields, dazzlingly white, they went, until the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, and a yellow glow suffused the west.

"'Tain't fur now," volunteered the driver—he pointed with his whip—"jest over that there hill. Drat that bay—the pesky brute's a-stumbling—whoa, Prince—yes, jest over that next hill."

"And it's an 'undeniable fact' that I'll be glad to get there," laughed Dick Travers.

In the course of about fifteen minutes a house was passed, then another, and finally they saw a frame building somewhat larger than those around it.

"The hotel," said the driver.

This information was scarcely necessary, as a large sign in front announced to all that the Backwoods Hotel provided the best of accommodations for travelers.

"Hunting parties sometimes stop at Silas Riggs'—he's the boss," explained the driver. "A fust-rate fellow he is too."

He drew up to the entrance, and the boys jumped out, a trifle stiff after their long ride.

Silas Riggs was "right glad" to see them. His son, a sturdy young specimen of humanity, ambled forward and surveyed them with a frank, good-natured stare.

Arrangements were quickly made for rooms and supper.

Silas Riggs was a jolly old fellow, and told jolly stories—which was better, and the evening passed very quickly indeed. The boys were reluctant to leave the nice, cheerful stove and pleasant room. The wind had sprung up, and, as it moaned and sighed around the corner of the "Backwoods Hotel," sending the old sign creaking forth and back, to mingle its dismal sound with the soughing of the tree-tops, it made the comfortable interior seem all the more agreeable.

But the boys were anxious to get up early next morning, so they bade Silas Riggs and several of the guests a cheery good-night and repaired to their rooms.

Immediately after breakfast, boxes and packages were opened.

"We ought to be well fixed, with all that stuff," observed Dick Travers.

"Rubber blankets enough to start a store," put in Sam.

"An' you'll need 'em," drawled Silas, Junior. "Cold—h'm; an' jest wait till a blizzard gets a-going. An'—an'—but I don't want to scare you fellers none."

"Don't stop on our account, Silas, old boy," laughed Nat; "we're ready for anything that comes along."

Axes, hatchets, hunting-knives, guns and snow-shoes, besides provisions, were securely strapped to the sleds, and, at length, they were ready to leave.

"Old" Silas gave them minute directions as to the best route to take, and other bits of helpful advice.

"On the eastern side of the lake, near the south end, you'll find a cabin," he said. "'Tain't much to look at, but if nobody ain't thar, it may save yer the trouble of building a camp.

"Good-bye, boys," he added, grasping the hand of each in turn; "an' don't forgit to drop in an' see 'Old' Silas when ye come back."

The air was clear and crisp, and the wind had greatly moderated. Before them was a short stretch of open country, and beyond, glistening in the early morning light, rose the rounded tops of several hills.

Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton took the first turn with the sleds.

"How long is it going to take us to reach Lake Wolverine, Bob?" asked Tom Clifton.

"If we don't get tangled up in the woods, we ought to get there some time this afternoon."

"This snow makes hard walking," grumbled Dave. "Say, boys, I've got an idea. I think we're a lot of duffers. What are snow-shoes made for, eh?"

"Yes, what are they made for, indeed?"

"I'm going to put mine on, anyway," said Dave.

"And so am I," added Hackett.

Seven pairs of the long shoes were extracted from the piles on the sleds, and the boys began to strap them on.

"Oh, but it feels funny," said Tom Clifton, as he stood upright. "Wow! Don't think I can manage to walk with them."

"Strike out, like a little man," said Hackett. "Here goes!"

He started off with great confidence, but the end of his shoe caught on the almost concealed edge of a stump, sending the long-legged youth floundering in the snow.

"Hi, hi! You struck something sure, 'Hatchet,'" exclaimed Tom, mischievously.

Hackett's face was very red, indeed, when he picked himself up.

"Talk about mean luck," he growled. "Quit your laughing, Tommy Clifton. Just watch me, I'll do better this time."

Hackett took the lead. Right after him came Dave Brandon, while Bob Somers and Nat Wingate trailed in the rear, all moving in an awkward fashion. But at length they mastered the new form of locomotion sufficiently well to make good progress.

"My eye! look at that whopping big long-ears over there," cried Hackett; "if I'd only had my gun in hand," he added, regretfully, as the bunny disappeared.