“No, I didn’t ker-chew,” answered the Irish lad, with a wink at the others. “I don’t chew at all. My father won’t let me use tobacco, and so I——”
“Ker-chew!” broke in both of the sufferers.
“This is certainly queer,” said Joel Runnell, seriously. “What set you to sneezing?”
“Perhaps they tickled their noses wid straws,” suggested the irrepressible Teddy.
“I—I—ker-chew!—think there is pepper on my—ker-chew!—pillow,” spluttered Link.
Harry caught up his pillow and smelt of it.
“Sure as you—ker-chew! ker-chew!—are born,” he cried. “Now, who did this?”
He and Link looked at first one and then another of the party. All but Teddy looked perplexed. The twinkle in the Irish lad’s eyes was brighter than ever.
“Teddy Dugan, you did—ker-chew—this?” stormed Link, and made a dive for him.
“It’s snazin’ Injuns ye are now,” returned Teddy.
“Oh, I’ll fix you for this!” roared Harry, and catching up his pillow he hurled it at the Irish boy’s head. Link did the same, and down went Teddy flat on his back.
“Oh, stop!” he yelled. “I—ker-chew! Oh! Oh!”
He threw one of the pillows at Link. It struck Joe instead, and Joe sent it at Fred. Then the stout lad hurled it into the crowd. But it sailed too high, struck the fire, and the pillow burst open.
“Hi! hi!” called out Joel Runnell. “Take that out of the fire!”
“Can’t—it’s bursted,” answered Joe. He bent forward over the blaze. “Oh, what a smell! Ker-chew!”
The pepper was now burning, and the smell speedily became so strong that everybody had to sneeze and rush for the doorway. Into the open tumbled the boys, one on top of the other.
“Watch out; the shelter may get on fire!” said Fred.
“Oh, don’t say that,” groaned Teddy, becoming frightened on the spot. “Sure an’ I didn’t mane to carry the joke so far.”
“Then you did do it after all?” murmured Fred. “Well, it was a good joke all right enough.”
From the doorway Joel Runnell watched the progress of the fire. The pine needles soon died out, and the camp-fire became as before. But it was some time before they could stand the smell of the burnt pepper. The unburnt pillow was thrown out into the snow.
“It was only to git square for the Indian trick,” said Teddy. “Won’t you call it off now?”
“Yes, Teddy,” said Harry, promptly, and shook hands, and then Link did the same.
All would have overslept on the following morning had not old Runnell called them up ere it was daylight. He had already started the breakfast, and soon some of the others were helping him.
“Oh, must I get up so soon,” sighed Harry. “I could sleep three hours more.”
“No lazybones in this camp, young man,” cried Joe. “Remember, we are going to try to locate those tramps.”
It was a perfect day, with the sun shining brightly over the long stretches of ice and snow. There was no wind, and on every side all was as silent as a tomb, saving for the occasional cry of a winter bird, or the distant barking of a fox.
“This is genuine life in the open,” said Joe. “I tell you what, boys, we couldn’t have a finer outing.”
“I must try for some more pictures,” said Harry, and before he left the camp he loaded his camera with films, so that he would be prepared to “shoot” whatever struck his fancy.
From Teddy they had obtained all the information possible concerning the three tramps, and as soon as they were well on the road to the shore Joel Runnell allowed Teddy to go in the lead.
“Mind ye, I don’t say I can spot the rascals,” said the Irish lad. “But I’ll do me best.”
“That is all anybody can do, Teddy,” answered Joe. “Even if we don’t catch ’em it won’t be such a terrible disappointment, although I’d like to see the fellows brought to justice.”
“They ought to be brought to justice,” put in old Runnell. “Nobody in these parts will be safe with such rascals at large.”
“I wonder what has become of Dan Marcy and Hiram Skeetles,” mused Harry. “It’s a wonder they are not watching us, isn’t it?”
“Guess the cold snap was too much for them,” answered Fred. “I don’t believe old Skeetles cares much for an outing anyway. He’d rather stay in town and make money.”
“I’ve heard that he has been very mean to a great many persons,” said Link. “There was one old Irish washerwoman that owed him ten or fifteen dollars and he pestered the life out of her trying to get it.”
“That’s right,” came from Teddy. “It was the Widdy O’Rourke, an’ my folks and a lot of others made up a purse for her, so she could buy a railroad ticket to Caleville, where her married daughter lives. The daughter was too poor to pay for the ticket, but she wrote that if her mother would come on she would do the best she could to give her a home.”
“And did old Skeetles get the ten or fifteen dollars?” asked Bart.
“Sure he did. He wouldn’t let her leave town till she had paid. Oh, he’s a skinflint, he is,” concluded Teddy.
They reached the shore at a point where a long stretch of pines bent down heavily with their weight of snow. The scene was so beautiful that Harry stopped long enough to get two time exposure pictures, using very small stops, so that the outlines might be extra sharp.
“There must be a whole lot about photography,” observed old Runnell. “Those men that are in the business take fine pictures without half trying, while on the other hand I’ve been out with amateurs, as they called themselves, and they’d take picture after picture, but none of ’em seemed to amount to much. Some would be crooked, some wouldn’t be sharp and clear enough, and some would be printed too light or too dark.”
“Well, I just guess there is a good deal about it,” came from Bart. “I have a cousin who is learning the business in Boston, and he writes that I can’t imagine how many details there are. First one must have the right light and shade and the proper focus, and then, after the picture is taken, the plate has got to be developed just so, to bring out the negative to its best point, and then one must take great care in printing the paper. He tells me that sometimes a single drop of a certain kind of chemical will spoil everything.”
“Reckon, lad, it’s a good bit like hunting, after all,” said old Runnell. “Some folks think they can put a gun over their shoulder, run to the forest, and shoot down jest what they want to. Well, they can’t at all—you know that already. They have got to learn to shoot straight, and keep cool, and have lots of patience, and then they have got to learn about the habits of their game.”
“And some folks never become good hunters any more than they can become good photographers,” said Joe. “I guess one has got to have a strong fancy for it, in the first place.”
“Yes, and a strong fancy for anything that he really wants to succeed in,” said Joel Runnell.
When they went into a temporary camp for dinner Harry took a picture of the group, and then Joe took another, with Harry in the middle, holding a coffee pot in his hand. Nearly every young hunter had something—a gun, or a hatchet, or some kitchen utensil, and this photograph caused a great deal of laughter when it was shown around after they got home.
By moving slowly along the shore, and making a close examination of every sheet and drift of snow, Joel Runnell at last found the tracks of three persons who had come from the lake. The tracks were those made by three pairs of boots or shoes of good size.
“Those must be the tramps’ tracks,” declared Joe. “Teddy was right; they came almost directly across from the opposite shore.”
“And now the question is, How far have they gone since they crossed the lake?” put in Harry.
“That’s the worst of it,” said Fred. “For all we know, they may be miles and miles away from here by this time.”
“Tramps are great for stealing rides on freight trains,” ventured Bart. “How far is the railroad from this point?”
“At least four miles,” answered Joel Runnell, “and a very rough road at that. The nearest station is six miles. They couldn’t very well board a freight train that was moving.”
“I don’t believe tramps like to ride much in such freezing weather,” came from Link. “More than likely they have found some sort of a hangout around here, and are living off of what they can pick up, by honest or dishonest means.”
The matter was discussed for a short while, and it was concluded to follow up the footprints until nightfall if no longer.
“We may run across them sooner nor you expect,” said old Runnell.
The tracks led directly through the woods and then toward a rise of rocks which was swept almost clear of snow. Beyond the rocks was level ground, and here was a country road, connecting two small villages of that vicinity with Lakeport.
“We’re getting into civilization,” said Joe. “This feels almost as if we were going home.”
“I don’t want to go home yet,” said Harry.
“Nor I,” came in a chorus from the others.
The tracks led along the roadway for perhaps half a mile, and then turned still further from the lake.
“Well, I declare!” cried Joel Runnell. “Wonder if those chaps went over to Ike Slosson’s house.”
“Where is that?” asked Fred.
“About half a mile from here.”
“Who is Ike Slosson?” asked Link.
“He is a very peculiar man, who lives by himself up in yonder woods. Some folks say he is very rich, while others have it that he is poor.”
“Do you say he lives all alone?”
“Yes, and has for years. He used to have a son live with him, but the boy died and that kind of made the old man queer in his head. But he isn’t a bad sort by any means. Once, when I was caught in the woods in a blizzard he took me in and treated me well. But he don’t care for company.”
“He would be just the sort of man those tramps would rob,” put in Joe.
The tracks of the feet in the snow were plainly to be seen, and as they continued on their way Joel Runnell became more and more convinced that the three tramps had gone to Ike Slosson’s house.
“When we come in sight of the house, I want you to halt,” said the old hunter. “For all we know it may not be safe to show ourselves.”
On and on they went. In spots the way was very rough, and they had to help each other over the rocks. At one point they could see where the tramps had halted for a meal, and here in the snow lay an empty liquor flask.
“That is evidence to me that the persons are the tramps we are after,” said Joe. “They were all drinking men.”
They had now to force their way through some short undergrowth and then cross a small stream, which in the summer time flowed into the lake. The stream was now a solid mass of ice.
“The house is just beyond yonder belt of trees,” said Joel Runnell, at last. “You had better stay here while I investigate.”
“Let us go a little closer and hide behind the nearest trees,” suggested Joe, and after a few words this was done.
With his gun over his shoulder Joel Runnell continued to advance until he was crossing the small clearing directly in front of the house, which was an old affair, a story and a half high, and containing but four rooms. The place looked to be closed and deserted.
“Hullo, Ike Slosson,” sang out the old hunter, when within fifty feet of the doorway. “Hullo, I say!”
Scarcely had he called out when there was a commotion in the house. He heard a shuffling of feet and some excited talking.
“Go away!” cried a high-pitched voice. “Go away, I say! I want no strangers around my house! Go away!”
The words used were those which Ike Slosson had often uttered when folks of that neighborhood came around his house and he did not wish to entertain them. As Joel Runnell had said, the old man was very peculiar and at times he refused utterly to see even those he knew to be his friends. For strangers he had no welcome whatever. He knew old Runnell, however, and had treated him better than he had many another man. The hunter had once given him some fine rabbits and a partridge, and this had won Ike Slosson’s heart.
Joel Runnell halted, but did not retreat. The shuffling of several pairs of feet had not escaped his sharp ears, and now those ears told him that it was not Ike Slosson who was speaking, but somebody who was trying, in a crude manner, to imitate the hermit.
“I say, go away!” came in the same voice. “I want no strangers here.”
“Whose place is this?” asked old Runnell, calmly.
“It is my place, and I want you to go away, or I’ll set the dog on you.”
This reply made Joel Runnell smile to himself, for he knew very well that Ike Slosson despised dogs and would never have one near him.
“Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. I want you to go away.”
“Won’t you sell me a supper?”
“No. I have hardly enough for myself.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“Can’t help it. I have nothing to sell. Now go away, or I’ll put out the dog.”
“Don’t send out your dog; I’ll go,” cried Joel Runnell, in pretended alarm, and then turning, he made his way to the shelter of the trees.
“How did you make out?” whispered Joe.
“Hush! don’t speak,” said the old hunter, warningly. “Crawl back, or somebody may see you.”
The boys moved to a safe place, and then clustered around the old hunter for information. Joel Runnell was chuckling quietly to himself.
“Thought they’d play a joke on me, didn’t they?” he said. “But I’ll soon have the boot on the other leg.”
“What do you mean?” asked Harry.
The old hunter then told of what had been said. “It wasn’t Ike Slosson who was speaking at all,” he added. “It was some other man, and his voice was thick with liquor. I’ve a notion those fellows have done something to Slosson and taken possession of his house and all of his goods and money.”
“Can they have killed the old man?” asked Link, in quick alarm.
Joel Runnell shrugged his shoulders. “There is no telling.”
“Let us rush out, surround the house, and capture the rascals,” came from Bart.
“Hurrah!” shouted Teddy, enthusiastically. “Sure an’ we’ll have a regular Donnybrook Fair, such as me father often tells about.”
“No! no!” answered old Runnell. “Some of you would be sure to get shot or hurt in some way.”
“But we came for the express purpose of catching those tramps,” cried Joe. “I’m not afraid to tackle them.”
“We are seven to three,” said Fred. “Perhaps they’ll surrender, when they see how many there are of us.”
“Not if they have done something to Ike Slosson, lad. They’ll fight hard to get away. I have another plan. Five of us can watch the house while the other two tramp to the nearest village and get some officers. Then we can pounce on ’em while they are asleep.”
This was considered excellent advice, and it was speedily decided that Harry and Bart were to go to the village of Bralham, two miles away. The others were to surround the house and keep a close watch so that none of those inside could escape.
The sun had now set and it was quite dark by the time Harry and Bart struck the road leading to Bralham, a place consisting of half a dozen houses, a store and a grist mill. What help they could muster at such a place was still a question.
“Perhaps nobody will care to take hold with us,” observed Harry, as they trudged along. “Some of these country constables are mighty afraid of their hides, when it comes to catching a criminal.”
There was no moon, but countless stars shone in the dear sky, making the path fairly light. All was very quiet, until directly over their heads an owl let out a mournful hoot.
“Oh!” cried Bart, and leaped back several feet. “What was that?”
“An owl,” answered Harry, with a laugh.
“How he scared me.”
They could not see the owl, or Bart might have taken a shot at the creature. The scare made the lad nervous, and he trembled a little as they continued on their journey.
“I don’t know as I should care to walk this road alone at night,” he said. “I am glad we live in the town and not out in the country or in the woods.”
“I fancy it is what one gets used to, Bart. I’ve heard it said a countryman can’t sleep in the city for the noise, and some city folks can’t sleep in the country because it’s too quiet.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too. But I think—Oh, my, what was that?”
Both boys halted as some dark object passed across the road a couple of rods in front of them. What the object was they could not discern.
“I guess it was a rabbit or else a fox,” said Harry, as lightly as he could. “Come on.”
“Could it have been a—a bear?”
“No, it wasn’t large enough for that. Come on,” and now Harry urged Bart along. A little while after this they came within sight of the light in a farmhouse kitchen, and then both boys felt much relieved.
Going up to the door of the house they knocked, and a burly farmer answered their summons.
“Good evening,” said Harry, politely.
“Good evening, lad, what can I do for you?” questioned the farmer, gazing at both boys curiously. He saw that they had guns, but no game, and concluded they were hungry and wanted supper.
“Will you tell us where we can find a constable, or some other officer?”
“Want a constable, eh? Did somebody steal your game?” And the farmer smiled, quizzically.
“No, we want the constable to arrest three tramps who are wanted for stealing.”
“Shoo! You don’t say!” Farmer Libby was all attention. “Where are the tramps?”
“Over to Ike Slosson’s house. They have taken full possession.”
“Where is Slosson?”
“We don’t know. The tramps must have done something to him.”
“I always said somethin’ would happen to Ike,” put in the farmer’s wife. “It hain’t human for him to be a-livin’ alone as he does. Samuel, you must help in this.”
“Guess I must,” said Samuel Libby. “But I’ll have to tell Constable Peabody, and big Jim Bowman, too. Jim’s a powerful fellow when there’s trouble to be met.”
The farmer wanted the two boys to tell their tale, and they did so without delay. While they talked he put on his overcoat and got down his shotgun; and five minutes later all three were on their way to where Constable Peabody resided, in the center of the village.
The constable was found in the village store, comfortably fixed on a soap box, and narrating for probably the fiftieth time how he had once caught two lumber thieves on the lake single-handed. The crowd had heard the tale many times, but as the constable always added fresh particulars at each telling, they were willing to listen again.
“So you want me, do you?” he said to Samuel Libby and the two young hunters. “All right, I’m your man. What is it, fire away?”
When he was told what was desired he looked grave.
“This ain’t no ordinary case,” he argued. “Them tramps must be des’prit characters. I’ll have to take a posse along.”
“No posse needed, Peabody,” said Farmer Libby. “Take Jim Bowman and myself. Remember, old Joel Runnell is a-watchin’ ’em with four young fellows. Ten men and boys ought to be enough to capture three good-for-nothing tramps.”
“Are you going back with us?” asked the constable of Bart and Harry.
“Certainly we are,” answered Harry. “My brother and I want to learn what became of his watch, if we can.”
It was not long after this that big Jim Bowman was found, a lumberman reputed to be the strongest fellow for miles around. He said he would go willingly, and took with him a stout club.
“Don’t much need it,” he said to the young hunters. “When I get in a mix-up I like to use my fists.”
“Well, it’s a good thing to know how to use your fists sometimes,” answered Bart.
The late moon was now coming up, so the roadway was lighter than it had been. Both Bart and Harry were tired because of all the tramping they had done, yet they did their best to keep up with the others. Jim Bowman led the way, taking strides that no one could have equaled.
“He must know how to handle lumber,” whispered Harry to Bart. “Just notice how muscular he is.”
“It is the constant outdoor life that has made him so strong, Harry.”
On they went until the bypath was gained. The constable had brought along a lantern, but this was not lit, for the rising moon was making it lighter every minute.
At last they halted and Harry gave a low whistle—a signal which had been agreed upon. A low whistle came in return, and almost immediately Joel Runnell came into view. He knew the constable by sight and Samuel Libby personally and nodded to them.
“Haven’t heard anything more out of ’em,” he said. “I’ll guess they think I went away.”
“Any light in the place?” asked the constable.
“Yes, a candle light in the kitchen. I wanted to crawl up and take a peep inside, but thought I wouldn’t risk it, for fear they’d spot me and try to dust out.”
After this the others were called up and a regular council of war ensued. Constable Peabody took charge, and he asked all to march up with him and surround the house. Then, taking Jim Bowman with him, he knocked loudly on the back door.
“Who’s there?” asked a rough voice, and then the voice was changed to an imitation of Ike Slosson’s and the speaker continued: “Go away! I want no strangers here. Go away!”
“Look here, this Tom-foolery won’t do!” cried the constable. “Open the door, or I’ll have it broken down.”
At this there was an added commotion in the house. Two men came to a window and peeped out.
“Hullo! there are half a dozen men out there,” muttered one.
“And they have got guns,” growled the other. “Muley, I reckon de jig’s up.”
“Who are you?” asked Noxy, the man at the door.
“An officer of the law, and I demand that you surrender,” shouted Constable Peabody, pompously.
“Boys, we must skip,” whispered the tramp called Stump. “If we don’t we’re sure to do time.”
“Are you going to open up or not?” demanded the constable.
To this there was no answer.
“Jim, I reckon you had better try your strength,” went on the officer.
The big lumberman was only too willing. He put his shoulder to the door and it went in with a crash.
“Now come out of that, one at a time,” sang out the constable. “And remember, we are ten to three, so it won’t do you any good to fight.”
“Are there ten o’ ’em?” gasped Noxy.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” growled Stump. “That feller who was here before must have told the sheriff. Say, wot are we goin’ to do?”
“Hang me if I know.”
The three tramps stared blankly at one another. They were caught like rats in a trap. They tiptoed their way to the next room, and looked forth from the windows.
“I see four men and boys,” said one.
“An’ three on this side,” came from another. “There must be ten o’ ’em after all. Boys, our goose is cooked.”
“Are you coming out, or have we got to fire on you?” continued Constable Peabody.
“I’ll give ’em a dose of buckshot,” put in Joel Runnell, although he had no idea of firing for the present.
“That’s it,” sang out Joe, who was likewise fooling.
“No! no! don’t shoot!” howled Stump, who was the most cowardly of the trio. “Don’t shoot!”
“Will you come out?”
“Yes.”
“Then come, and put your hands over your head.”
Looking decidedly sheepish the tramp marched out of the house, holding both hands over his head. In a moment Constable Peabody was behind him and had the rascal handcuffed.
“Now you other fellows come out, too,” said the officer. “One at a time, and with your hands up. If you try any funny work I’ll order my men to fire.”
There was a pause for a moment and then Noxy slouched out. He was quickly followed by Muley, who looked as if he wanted very much to run away. But the tramps were given no chance to escape, and soon all were tightly handcuffed.
“Well, how do you like the situation?” asked Joe, as he faced Muley. “Can’t you tell me what time it is?”
The tramp looked at the young hunter and then fell back a step.
“You!” he gasped.
“I say, can’t you tell me what time it is? If you’ll remember, you have my watch and chain.”
“Say dis beats de nation,” murmured Muley. “Did youse fellers follow us up?”
“We did.”
“What have you done with my brother’s watch?” asked Harry.
“I ain’t got de watch,” growled the tramp. But later on, when he was searched, the watch and chain were found in his pocket, he having no chance to sell or pawn the articles.
While this talk was going on Constable Peabody was questioning Stump and Noxy about what had been done to Ike Slosson. At first neither of the tramps wanted to talk, but at last Stump confessed that they had gotten the old man away from home by delivering to him a bogus telegram, stating that a rich relative had died in Springfield and that there was much money awaiting him. The hermit had been just simple-minded enough to go away, and as soon as he was gone they had taken possession of his house, where they had expected to remain until it was time for Slosson to get back.
“Well, you’ll not stay here any longer,” said Constable Peabody, grimly. “You’ll spend a good part of the future in the lockup, if I know anything about it.”
“I reckon I missed it when I took dat young man’s watch an’ chain,” said Muley, with a hitch of his shoulders. “But I never t’ought he’d follow us like dis, never.”
Another conference was held, and as a result it was decided that the constable, assisted by big Jim Bowman and Farmer Libby, should march the prisoners to a temporary lockup and later transfer them to the Lakeport jail, there to await the action of the court. It may be added here that this was done, and the three tramps received sentences which kept them from doing further harm for some time to come.
“Well, we won out that time,” said Joe, as the young hunters and Joel Runnell started, the next day, for the camp on Pine Island. “I am glad we went after those tramps before they had a chance to leave Ike Slosson’s house.”
“We’ll have to give Teddy credit,” said Harry. “He’s the one who made this capture possible.” And the Irish lad was warmly praised, much to his satisfaction.
All were anxious to learn if the shelter on the island had been disturbed during their absence. When they arrived at the spot they found everything as they had left it, much to their satisfaction.
“I’m going to take it easy for a day,” said Joe. “I think we all deserve a rest.”
“Second the commotion,” said Fred, and so they rested.
“I’ve got to go home,” said Teddy. “I’m sorry to leave you all, but it can’t be helped.” And he left them that noon, all hands giving him a rousing cheer as he departed. He carried with him four rabbits taken from the traps and also a very fat turkey which Joel Runnell managed to lay low for him.
The boys all felt that their hunting tour must soon come to an end, and having rested, they resolved to make the most of the time that still remained to them.
“We may never get another chance to go out like this,” said Harry. “One thing I’d like to bring down before we leave. That is a moose.”
“I guess a moose would suit all of us,” cried Link. “But I don’t think we are going to get any. Moose are mighty scarce around here.”
“Link is right,” put in Joel Runnell. “But for all that we may spot one before we go.”
“Oh, have you seen any signs of a moose?” ejaculated Harry.
“I’ve seen some signs that may have been made by a moose, although a big deer would leave the same marks.”
The shelter was now a very cozy place, for all of the boys spent their leisure time in fixing it up. They had long ago named it Two-Tree Lodge, and Fred had cut out a sign with his jackknife and this was hung over the doorway.
“If folks only knew what a fine camping-out spot this island is, I dare say there would be many more people here,” declared Bart.
It must not be imagined that Joe and Harry had forgotten about Hiram Skeetles’ missing pocketbook, that which contained the papers of so much value.
“We must hunt for those papers, Joe,” said Harry, and they went out not once but several times. But, although they hunted high and low, among the bushes, rocks, and in the snow, the pocketbook and the valuable papers failed to come to light. The most they found was the real estate dealer’s business card, which Joe picked up late one afternoon.
“Hullo! I’ve found old Skeetles’ card,” he sang out, and Harry rushed to his side to look it over.
“Anything else, Joe?”
“No. But this card shows that we are on the right track.”
“That is true.”
After the card was found they hunted around until long after dark, but nothing else was discovered, much to their disappointment.
“Perhaps the pocketbook was washed into the lake after all,” said Fred, who was very much interested, and who had hunted some on his own account. “If you’ll remember, we had some pretty hard rains before winter set in.”
One day all of the boys went gunning deep into the woods back of the shelter. They went on their snowshoes, and managed to scare up eight rabbits, four squirrels, and seven partridges. It was a beautiful day for such sport, and in addition to bringing down his share of the game, Harry procured several photographs, one showing Joe in the act of bringing down two partridges with one shot.
“That will prove that you are an out-and-out hunter, Joe,” said Harry, after the snap shot was taken. “They can’t go back on a picture.”
“Oh, you must remember, there are lots of trick photos,” said Joe, with a laugh. “Don’t you remember that one we saw of a man shooting at himself?”
“Yes,” put in Link, “and I once saw a picture of a man riding himself in a wheelbarrow. But we can all testify that this is no trick photo.”
Sunday the boys took it easy, and it was a rest well earned and well needed.
“Now for the last of our outing,” sighed Harry. “This week will wind it up.”
“Let us look at the traps,” came from Bart, and he and Link and Fred did so, and found in them two rabbits and a squirrel. There were also signs of a wolf around two of the traps, but they did not catch sight of the beast.
“I fancy that wolf wanted to get one of our rabbits,” said Link. “Perhaps we scared him off just in time.”
“I want nothing to do with wolves,” said Bart. “If they’ll let me alone, I’ll let them alone.”
A couple of days later old Runnell came in somewhat excited. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have seen the track of a moose,” he said. “I am going to follow up the tracks. Who wants to go along?”
Who? All of them, and they said so in chorus, while each reached for his gun. Old Runnell made them put on their snowshoes and fill their game bags with provisions.
“We may be gone until to-morrow,” he said. “Running down a moose is no easy thing, even if the snow is deep.”
The route lay along the shore and then across the lake to the mainland. They struck the shore at a point where the pines were heavy, and Joe Runnell showed the young hunters where the moose had stopped to feed.
“He’s after some tender bark,” said the old hunter. “See how he nosed around in the snow for it.”
After a brief rest they continued their journey, but night found the game still out of sight, and they had to go into camp in the best shelter they could find.
“Never mind,” said Harry. “A moose isn’t to be found here every day.”
“No, nor every week, either,” added old Runnell. “So far I haven’t heard of a single one being brought down this winter.”
They were up again before sunrise and following the tracks as before. These now led up a rise of ground and Joel Runnell went in advance.
“The tracks are getting fresher,” he announced. “I don’t think he’s a mile off at the most.”
They went on for a short distance farther, and then Joe put up his hand.
“Hark!” he said, in a low voice. “What sort of a noise is that?”
They listened, and from a distance heard a scraping and sawing that was most unusual.
“We’ve got him!” said old Runnell. “That’s the moose rubbing himself on a tree.”
He crept forward, with the others close behind. Soon they came to a little opening in the forest. Here were several rocks backed up by a clump of hemlocks. Against one of the hemlocks stood a tall, magnificent moose, with wide-spreading antlers. He had been scraping his back on the rough bark, and now he proceeded to repeat the operation.
“You boys can all fire at the same time,” whispered Joel Runnell. “I’ll wait and see what you can do.” And giving them time to take aim, he gave the signal.
The guns rang out together almost as one piece, causing a tremendous report to echo throughout the forest, and filling the little opening with smoke.
“You’ve got him!” shouted Joel Runnell, with as much joy in his voice as if he had brought the game down himself. And when the smoke lifted they saw the moose totter and pitch headlong. Once, twice the animal tried to rise up, then over he went with a thud on the rocks, gave a kick or two, and lay still.
With loud shouts of triumph the young hunters rushed in. But old Runnell held them back.
“Beware,” he cried. “He may give a last kick that will split some one’s head open. Wait!” And they waited until they were certain that life was extinct.
“What a beautiful haul!” came from Bart. “And see, every one of us hit him in the neck and breast.”
“I’m glad we didn’t hit him in the face,” said Joe. “We can mount that head and it will be something fine.”
“Yes, but who is to keep it?” asked Harry.
“We can take turns,” was the answer, and this caused a laugh.
To get such large game back to the camp at Needle Rock was not easy, and it took them until long after nightfall to cover the distance, and then all were thoroughly exhausted. The moose was placed in a safe place, and they retired without taking the trouble to cook a regular supper.
Noon of the next day found Joe walking along the lake shore some distance below the camp. On the outing the day before he had lost a glove and he was trying to locate it in the snow.
“I’m pretty sure I dropped it somewhere along here,” he told himself. “I know I had it on just before we came to those bushes yonder.”
He was still some distance from the bushes when he espied a dark object hanging from one of the branches, among some dried leaves. Thinking it was either the lost glove or the remains of an old bird’s nest, he went over to investigate. The next instant he set up a shout of joy:
“The pocketbook! The pocketbook at last!”
He was right; the pocketbook was there, hanging down from the long string which had been wrapped around it—a dingy, brown affair, well worn at all of the corners and containing two pockets.
With a heart that thumped wildly in his breast, Joe took hold of the pocketbook to examine it. Scarcely had he done so when he gave a groan and his hopes fell as rapidly as they had risen.
The pocketbook was empty. It contained absolutely nothing at all.
“Sold!” he muttered, laconically. “Sold, and just when I thought I had it!”
“What have you found, Joe?” came in Harry’s voice, and a moment later his brother came up.
“Here is Hiram Skeetles’ pocketbook—but it is empty.”
“You don’t say!” Harry looked at the object a moment. “Was it hanging like that when you first saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps the contents dropped out, or was shaken out by the wind.”