At six o’clock that night the two boys stood on the summit of Bulwagga Mountain, or on one of the summits, for Bulwagga has two peaks. It was the hardest afternoon’s work they had ever undertaken. Long before they threw down their burdens, two thousand feet above sea level, Gordon had ceased to talk and devoted his breath to panting. It was a tough, tedious climb, but the game was well worth the candle. They looked off upon an endless landscape, dotted here and there with toy houses and pigmy villages.

“What’s the use of sawing wood and laying bricks and building houses and churches,” said Harry, “if that’s all they amount to?”

Indeed, Bulwagga, standing silent and serene, close to the shore of the great lake, seemed to belittle everything. There lay Crown Point, a modest little cluster of tiny buildings. There lay the lake, almost under them, with all its little juttings and indentations plain to view. There was the Crown Point peninsula curving out into the middle of the lake and pointing northward like a great, clumsy thumb. Inside it was Bulwagga Bay.

Once upon a time, more than three centuries ago, the adventurous Champlain sailed up this great lake which bears his name, with an exploring party of merry Frenchmen. Instead of turning their prows eastward into the narrow channel formed by the peninsula, they sailed gayly into Bulwagga Bay, supposing that an open path lay before them. But the bay proved to be a trap. Down out of the fastnesses of the old mountain came the Mohawk savages, and the gay little company was caught like a rat. Harry, who knew the history of the lake, now saw just how it had happened. Many a time and oft had the bloody Mohawks made good use of this deceptive bay, and many who were caught and slaughtered there supposed they had reached the end of the winding sheet of water, for there was no sign posted on the end of the peninsula informing the explorer to turn to his left.

But now the old mountain, which had so long been the secret ally of the bloody Mohawk tribe, gave up the secret, as if to say: “You see how we worked it. Wasn’t it a great scheme?”

“Harry,” said Gordon, “I’m all in—let’s rest.”

“Your motion is unanimously carried,” said Harry, sitting down on a rock. “If I saw the camp ten feet in front of me now, I wouldn’t budge. Now that’s just about where I think the smoke was,” he continued, pointing down into the woods which extended from the base of the mountain to the lake; “and if I’m right, we’ve got a grandstand view on them, provided there’s a moon. Just as soon as they get their old logs blazing, we’ve got them. If—”

“Now you spoil it all when you say if, Harry. It isn’t necessary to say that. We’re sure to see them from up here. We’ve got them, sure, Harry.”

There was some reason for his hopefulness. Bulwagga Mountain is, indeed, a mighty grand stand built on the shore of Lake Champlain. It is long and narrow, its length running parallel with the lake. There are two peaks, precisely placed, one at the northern, one at the southern, end of the ridge. By reason of Bulwagga Bay, the northern half of the mountain actually forms the shore, descending sheer like a great wall, as if to crowd the railroad into the water. The southern half sits back like a dress circle in a theater, or rather the lake flows wide of it, leaving a stretch of flat, wooded country between. Here the mountain slopes down from its southerly peak, admitting of a descent, if you are cautious and care to undertake it; but there is no way to descend from the northern peak eastward except to go to the edge and jump off, a method which has never been popular with tourists.

On his western extent old Bulwagga is more amiable. There is a road which works its way up toward the northern peak, as many a tired horse knows, but it does not get to the top; and you alight and plod on till you look straight down into the bay and can see the ruins of the Crown Point fortress on the end of the chubby peninsula. The southerly summit looks down with lofty scorn upon the touring parties that make the ascent of his brother peak, for he encourages no sightseers to come too near and trifle with his lonely majesty.

It is all very well for Bulwagga to raise his twin crowns proudly and make a great show to summer boarders, but I can tell you that he might better bow his heads in shame, for he has a most bloody and disreputable history. I dare say there is not a mountain along the whole stretch of Lake Champlain and Lake George that has gotten itself mixed up in so many massacres. For years its fastnesses echoed with warwhoops and with the cries of the dying. It was a favorite stronghold of the savage and treacherous Mohawks. But all that is past.

It was the baffling, lonely, wild southerly peak of old Bulwagga that the boys had succeeded in mounting. There was no road, no path, nothing but their compass to guide them. They had come up from the west and the spot where they threw themselves down commanded an unobstructed view of the stretch of woodland between them and the lake. As they looked down, a sudden jut of white smoke rose under the precipitous northern end of the mountain, the column traveling diagonally across the base of the peninsula toward the lake.

“Listen,” said Harry, and they heard the distant rattle of a hidden train, as it rushed across the peninsula to regain the shore.

“My, but it’s lonely up here, isn’t it, Harry? When are we going to eat, anyway?”

“As soon as little Gretchen brings in the firewood. I’ve got to sit right here so as to keep that woods down there in view. It wouldn’t be safe for me to move.”

“It wouldn’t, wouldn’t it?” said Gordon, pushing his staff against Harry’s chest and toppling him over backward. “Get up and pitch camp, you lazy thing!”

They set to work putting up their shelter, and in a little while the frying pan sent forth its savory odor.

“Let’s have some more of those bacon sandwiches, Harry. Where are the figs?”

“All gone. Want coffee?”

“I certainly do.”

“It’ll keep you awake.”

“Never! A brass band wouldn’t keep me awake up here.”

“All right, hand me over that egg powder. Could you eat an omelette?”

“Could I? Here you go, catch this—catch this chocolate, too.”

“What’s that for?”

“Scrape some into the egg powder, Harry. It’ll make a sort of chocolate omelette.”

“Why not put some cereal in, too, while we’re about it?”

“Just the idea, and we’ll have a new breakfast food—choc-chocerealeg.”

“Reminds you of the Champastic Motor,” laughed Harry. “I wonder how the little chap’s getting on with his model.”

“We’ll get him in the troop, hey, Harry?”

“By all means.”

After supper, to which both did full justice, they sat back to await the darkness. They had hoped to see some smoke which might indicate a cook fire, in the woods below, but supper time had come and gone and there had not been the faintest suggestion of any. It was true their outlook was by no means limited to the woods directly east of them. By shifting their position somewhat they could scan the country far to the west and south. But the woods to the east afforded an ideal spot for a camp; there was the lake just beyond—it was just such a spot as Red Deer would have chosen and near enough to show the trained vision of a scout the smoke of its cook fire. But there was none, and both boys rather dreaded the approach of darkness with, perhaps, its greater disappointment. For Gordon enthusiastically, and Harry quietly, had set their hopes all day on what a view from this old mountain might reveal.

“I know one thing,” said Harry, “and that is, if we stay here over to-morrow, I’m going to find a place where little fishes dwell. Methinks I could dally with a fried trout, Sir Gordon.”

“But why should we hang around here over to-morrow, Harry?”

“Because, my son, we don’t happen to be weather-vanes on the top of a steeple. If we don’t spy anything down there, we’ve got to get over that way till we can command the west,—savvy?”

“That’s a good expression, Harry, ‘command the west.’”

“You like it?”

“It’s all right.”

“If I happen to use an expression you don’t like, just mention it.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Gordon.

Ten o’clock arrived—eleven. No sign of a camp-fire. Weary, sleepy, and disappointed, they turned in for the night.

The morning broke damp and foggy, with a drizzling rain veiling the country roundabout. The wind was east, the sky dull and heavy, giving no promise of clearing.

sang Gordon, cheerfully. “It’ll be a good day for fishing, anyway. I’m going after minnows. We’ll see if that trickle of water doesn’t broaden out some, hey?”

“I can tell you that without going,” said Harry. “It does. It flows into the lake.”

“Rises in Bulwagga Mountain,” said Gordon, “takes an easterly course, and flows into Lake Champlain. Correct; be seated, Master Lord.”

“A little south by east,” said Harry, looking at his map.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Gordon answered. “A sail on the weather bow, Cap’n.”

“Look here, Kid, we’ll have to stick it out up here to-day, and if there’s any sign of clearing by afternoon we’ll move over through this clump where we can command the west.”

“Don’t talk about commanding the west, Harry. Last night you were going to command the east, and now the east has got you rattled. I don’t see us commanding this old country at all. It seems to me the country is having a great laugh on us. Look at this game that we’re mixed up in now. This rain wasn’t on the map, was it? You give me a pain with your ridges and outlooks and things—and so does Red Deer with his blackboard charts! You call this a peak? I don’t see any peak to it. It’s a jungle—that’s what it is! Where’s the peak?”

“We’re on it.”

“Harry, you’re crazy. There’s no sign of a peak here.”

“Isn’t that other one a peak, Kid? Well, over there this one looks the same.”

“All right,” said Gordon, as if to make allowance for his friend’s peculiarities, “only don’t talk about ‘commanding the west.’”

“Getting discouraged, Kiddo?”

“No, I’m trusting to luck. I’m usually lucky. I found a quarter and a dime and a gold ring and a watch charm last year, and I believe I’ll run up against camp—that’s all.”

“Good for you! Well, now, give me your ear. I was just going to rise to remark when you made your little speech, that we’ll go over to the western side of this sharp peak, this tack point, this spire—”

sang Gordon, doggedly.

“Keep still!”

“Well, then, you keep still.”

“Kid, all you need is an apple. Now listen to your patrol leader. It’s a scout’s duty to obey his leader. You need to brush up on the law a little.”

“I suppose that precipice over there is what you call a contour line,” said Gordon, with deep sarcasm.

“That’s what Uncle Sam’s surveyors call it, but, of course, anything you say—”

“And when it comes to the law,” continued Gordon, “you just want to read up General Baden-Powell—what he says about chivalry. It’s a scout’s duty to recount his adventures to maidens.”

“Well, if I’d recounted a thrilling adventure like a rescue, she might have cried, Kid.”

“Maidens don’t cry—they weep.”

“Well, this mutiny has got to be put down, anyway,” said Harry. “I order you to dig a hole and bury this refuse, as per camping regulations of the Boy Scouts.”

The odds and ends of breakfast (and they were not many) were soon disposed of “as per,” and Harry outlined his idea for exhausting all the possibilities of spying which the mountain afforded, before, like the famous Duke of Yorkshire, they marched down again.

Despite the drizzling rain, they made their way to where the little neighboring rivulet formed a pool with a bright, pebbly bottom, and here they scooped up minnows almost by the handful, until their pail was thick with the little, darting, silvery fishes.

These Harry fried in cracker crumbs, and they sat under their little shelter and enjoyed them, Gordon keeping up a running comment on their tastiness and flavor. And I can tell you that if you happen to be on a lonely mountain on a drizzly day, you cannot do better than arrange yourself comfortably under your shelter, enjoy the remoteness, the wildness, laugh at the weather, and eat fried minnows.

In the afternoon Harry, who was a true philosopher, took both camp cushions, which they had filled with balsam the night before, spread his blanket, pressed all available clothing into service to form a means of reclining, and settled back comfortably with a paper copy of “Kidnapped,” which he had taken the precaution to bring against the possibility of just such weather as this.

“If any one calls, Kid, I’m not at home—office hours after six.”

Gordon knew what that meant. He hated Robert Louis Stevenson as a rival. As sure as a rainy day came, Harry would double up in a corner somewhere,—in his room, in the library, in the troop room,—and be dead to the world. At such times Gordon was powerless, nothing could rouse his friend. He had hoped that Harry might get through with this trip without an attack of the kind. But now it had come. Stevenson, like rheumatism, was always to be counted on in bad weather.

“Why don’t you tackle ‘Brave and Bold,’ Kid?” said Harry, as he settled down. Gordon chose to interpret this as a cowardly and slurring attack on Alger, and he disdained to reply.

“If you’re going to be knocking around in the Scotch Highlands all afternoon, I might as well take a walk.”

“Don’t fall off the peak.”

Gordon scorned this shallow attempt at humor. “How near through are you, anyway?”

“Eight more chapters.”

“That’ll take you two hours. Good-by.”

“Here, take the compass—and don’t trip over those contour lines.”

Gordon caught the compass, but his scout smile was conspicuous by its absence. The rain had held up somewhat, and he picked his way through the thick brush, every stir of which shook water upon him, for old Bulwagga was thoroughly soaked from the continuous drizzle.

Stumbling and creeping on, he soon found himself in a labyrinth which it was impossible to pass through, so interwoven were the limbs and vines. He retraced his path and was able to pick out a comparatively open way around this tangled spot. Never had he seen such wildness. There was not a thing to indicate that any human being had ever before set foot on this rugged mountain top. Great bowlders, covered with tenacious vines and sheltered by crooked sinewy branches, lay about in tumbling confusion.

“This is a peak, I don’t think!” he sneered, and brushed the water from his clothing. He came to a black pool in which broken twigs lay motionless, and there was the pungent odor of rotting wood and wet foliage. A few feet away stood a tall hemlock which seemed to rear its head out of the pandemonium of rock and thicket, into the light of day. As he looked about him in the silence of this untamed spot, it seemed as if all the materials of creation, rock, water, trees, creeping vines, had been thrown here in an indiscriminate heap.

It occurred to him that if he could get to the top of this big tree he might obtain an unobstructed view of all the country, north, east, south, and west. The trunk was large and the lowest branches a good distance from the ground, but he noticed that a young spruce rose within its spreading radius. He hung his hat and khaki coat on a projecting bush, wet his finger and made a mystic circle on his forehead for good luck, embraced the spruce, placed the wet soles of his sneakers against it, and went up like a monkey. Transferring himself to the lowest branch of the hemlock, he paused for refreshment, producing from his trousers pocket a fishline, two sinkers, a jack-knife, an oval pebble, and a lead-pencil eraser. An exploration of the opposite pocket proved more successful, yielding half a handful of shelled nuts. He sat on the bough, dangling his legs and eating these. Then up, stepping from bough to bough.

He had not gone far when he was conscious of a slight movement on the branch where his foot rested, and looking down he saw two little eyes gleaming at him out of what looked at first like a knotty projection of the wood. He moved his foot, and the little animal stirred correspondingly. It was no bigger than a cat.

Gordon was a scout, and he had no wish to harm the animal, whatever it was; but he was also Master Gordon Lord, and he was very curious. He let himself cautiously down and straddled the branch, facing the two eyes. The little creature, frightened at this move, backed out toward the end of the bough and Gordon crept nearer. Presently, they were at close quarters, and for a moment his quarry seemed undecided what to do. It scanned the tree above, then looked to the ground, then backed another inch or two—as far as it could go. Gordon’s next move decided it. It gave a tremulous whine. Instantly there came from below a sort of restrained howl, and Gordon saw, climbing up the trunk of the tree, a good-sized gray animal with catlike eyes and a little bushy beard under its chin. He suspected it was a lynx.

The boy was about halfway out on the limb, the frightened kitten crouching ludicrously on the end, and its mother, presumably, coming to its rescue. Gordon’s predicament was not a pleasant one, and again the words of Red Deer came jumping into his head: Always use your brains first; then your hands and feet.

A move in either direction would hasten the animal’s ascent. The three participants in the affair paused motionless, staring at each other, the large animal’s body flattened against the trunk. Then, with its cold eyes fixed cautiously on Gordon, it resumed its climb, growling irritably. Gordon fumbled for his jack-knife and opened it. The lynx paused again with its narrow eyes fixed upon him. The kitten humped its back and glared in a way that would have been amusing if the situation had not been dangerous.

With as little stir as possible, Gordon pulled the fishline out of his pocket, which, being unwound and somewhat tangled, brought one or two of his precious possessions with it. He distinctly saw his lead-pencil eraser strike a branch below and bounce off into the pool. Binding the open jack-knife against the end of his stick, he had a spear long enough, if effectual, to reach below the lowest branch and prevent the mother’s gaining a vantage ground above. He moved inward, much to the little animal’s relief. Growling menacingly, the mother stealthily mounted, inch by inch. She was just making a quick movement to gain the lowest bough when she encountered the large open blade of Gordon’s jack-knife. Her mouth opened in a hissing growl as her paw cautiously felt the end of the stick. Then she glided upward and Gordon pricked her vigorously. With a howl that woke the forest, she crouched back and gave a spring, her fore paws clutching the lowest branch.

By this time the kitten was thoroughly frightened, crowding back on the end of the bough and whining piteously. This only served to make the mother more frantic. Gordon stood on his branch, bracing himself against the trunk, and fought back the infuriated creature. And with every prick of his makeshift spear, it crouched back and advanced with renewed rage. It was a difficult and perilous encounter for the boy, for should he lose his foothold or pause but for a second the lynx would gain the lowest branch and it would be hopeless to try to check it. As long as he could keep it hugging the trunk, his chances were good, and this with all his might and main he strove to do, manipulating his weapon with the greatest dexterity to prevent the animal’s getting it between her teeth. Each time he withdrew the stick, the beast gained an inch or two, retreating with each fresh thrust. Its mouth was dripping blood and its paws were stained, but it fought with increasing fury, howling in a way to strike terror to the boy’s heart.

The jack-knife began to wobble on the stick, and presently it fell to the ground. The animal seemed to appreciate this advantage to itself, for it straightway made a savage onslaught. Gordon waited till its mouth opened wide in a menacing hiss, then thrust his stick between its jaws and pushed it vigorously from him. There was a moment’s terrific struggle, the stick broke in the middle, and the lynx, clutching the end of it, went to the ground.

Like lightning, Gordon moved out toward the little animal and shook the branch desperately. But he could not shake it off. The mother was halfway up the trunk again, howling and climbing rapidly. There was no time to think. Neither was there another small branch which he could quickly detach. In his desperate plight he stood above the infuriated creature, clutching the tree and kicking wildly with one foot. But he wore only sneakers, and presently he withdrew his leg, very much the worse for the encounter. He had gained time, however, to perform the acrobatic feat of tearing off his flannel shirt with one hand. Hastily getting a match from his hat, he set fire to the shirt and held it down above the animal’s head. Singed and howling, it backed away from this new weapon. But the shirt was presently all aflame and Gordon could not hold it. Reaching as far down as he could, he dropped it against his enemy’s face.

Then arose such a howl as he had never heard. Backing down the trunk, principally by means of its hind legs, the animal tried to rid itself of the blazing garment by its fore paws. The result was that its claws caught in it. Presently it bounded from the trunk to the ground, freeing itself from the burning shreds. Gordon saw that he had but a moment in which to act. If he failed now there was no other weapon available.

He moved rapidly out toward the little creature. It whined as he approached, and an answering whine came from below. The mother, its front hair singed, was again on the tree trunk. He feared if he went farther the limb would break, but it was his only hope, for he could not shake the little creature off. So he moved out, the branch crackling ominously beneath him, and grabbed it by the nape of its neck. It whined piercingly and clung to the tree. He wrenched it off just as the lynx had reached the same branch. Holding it up so that its mother might clearly see what he was doing, he threw it into the pool below. At this moment the infuriated mother was within five feet of him. What she might have done if he had thrown her baby to the ground is uncertain. Seeing it in the pool, she did not hesitate. With the hatred of water which all the cat tribe possess, she could not trust her kitten to its dangers. With a shriek she sprang from the bough, and ran excitedly round the pool. Then the necessity gave her courage and she swam to the little one’s rescue. Dripping with the slimy water, her head woefully singed and matted with blood, Gordon saw her bring the little one to shore in her mouth and trot silently off into the thicket.

“If she had only known,” said he, “that I didn’t mean to hurt it.”

The creature had given him a great scare and called forth all the agility and ingenuity that he possessed, but now that it was over he felt nothing but admiration for his foe. And afterward, when he “recounted the adventure,” he always made a great point of its plunging into the pool and coming out, dripping and bloody, and trotting off with the kitten into the forest.

He had lost all desire to climb the tree, his leg was badly scratched, and his nerves on edge. He knew that he had come in a southerly direction from camp and that he had only to work his way northward through the woods to return. And though the way was tangled and baffling, he could have managed it except for one trifling circumstance.

He had lost the compass.

It was now late in the afternoon, and the drizzling rain had stopped; but the sky remained dull, and a chill wind was blowing. The sun, which might have guided him, had not shown itself all day. He tried vainly to find it by holding his knife blade vertically on his thumb and twirling it round in hopes that it might reveal a faint shadow. He might have secured an outlook from the top of the hemlock, but his leg was scratched and sore and one sneaker torn almost apart. He realized now how exhausted he was. For a moment a panic fear seized him; then he remembered what Red Deer had once told him, in case he should be lost in the woods, “Don’t get rattled—keep your shirt on.”

“But I can’t even do that,” said Gordon.

He sat down on a bowlder. “If I ever hear Harry call this a peak again, I’ll—” Suddenly a thought came to him. The wind had not shifted; it was still in the east. He stood facing it, holding his left arm outstretched, sideways. “That ought to be the north,” said he. Looking where his hand pointed, he noticed a small hole in a tree trunk near him. A worm seemed to be hanging out of it, but as he approached it gave a sudden whisk and disappeared. It was no worm, but a mouse’s tail, and he recollected with great elation (for he seldom forgot anything) that a field-mouse almost always dwells on the south side of a tree. So, with the wind and the mouse-hole agreeing as to the compass points, Gordon started north.

He believed that camp was a mile and a half or two miles distant, and he sorely regretted now that he had not blazed the way for his return. But he went straight ahead, as he thought, pushing through the underbrush until he found himself in comparatively open land. There was no outlook here, and he was too stiff to climb a tree. Nevertheless he fancied that one or two objects were familiar, and was convinced that he was heading directly for camp.

Wet, shivering, sore, and tired, he plodded on. When he believed he was within call, he shouted, but there was no answer. He would give another shout a little farther on. Presently he came to a thicket, and in a few moments stood, limp and weary, staring about him in amazement, in the very spot of his fight with the lynx. There was the hemlock. There was the pool.

Very much discouraged, he sat down to rest, kicked off his battered sneaker, which was of no further use, and took a long “think.” He knew that he had done what people lost in the woods are almost sure to do—walked in a large circle.

“That’s a funny thing when you come to think of it,” he said; “we must be built lopsided.”

As he tugged his rebellious stocking into place, another idea came to him. Well he recollected one evening when Red Deer (in his civilized role of Dr. Brent) had sat on the porch talking with Mr. Lord. He, Gordon, had sat in the background catching and retaining everything like a sponge. He remembered Dr. Brent’s telling his father an interesting theory to account for this tendency of people to walk in a circle. The theory was that the heart, beating on the left side, throws extra strength and activity into the left leg, so that one unconsciously edges to the right. “Now,” thought Gordon, “if I just limp a little more on my sore leg, that ought to straighten things out.”

So, when he had rested, he started north again, resolving to keep this mischievous inclination of the heart in mind and counteract it by limping uniformly with his left leg. That his limping very nicely balanced the extra strength was demonstrated (to his own complete satisfaction, at least) when an hour later, shoeless and shirtless, but with a radiant smile, he limped into camp just as Harry was beginning to think of going in search of him.

“Harry, I don’t have to limp as bad as this, but I’ve made a wonderful discovery.”

“Where’s your shirt?”

“Wait till you hear—I’ve had a great adventure! You know we’re all lopsided, Harry, on account of our hearts; we’re not built true, and I’ve thought of a way—”

“All right, come in here and get dressed. Lucky you’ve got another shirt and a pair of sneakers. What have you been into now, you little son of trouble?”

“Shall I begin at the beginning, Harry?”

“Certainly! Let’s hear it all!”

So Gordon recounted his adventure with his wonderful discovery as a climax, and Harry listened with a dry smile. “Guess it was a lynx, all right,” he said.

After supper Harry displayed an elaborate drawing of a model aeroplane which he had made on the inside cover of his book. Ever since he had left Mr. Danforth’s hospitable roof, his thoughts had run somewhat on Penfield and his model. The result of his studying the diagram was that he had written Penfield a letter on the fly leaves of the book and stuffed it in his pocket to mail as soon as he should strike a post-office. It read:

The night continued cloudy, and the boys had no alternative but to turn in again with neither information nor clue. And this was especially unfortunate since the moon was rising later each evening and soon all hope of night searching would have to be abandoned.

“Kid,” said Harry, “I don’t think they’d have gone north of this—I can’t get that woods down there out of my mind. But we could never follow the stream down, old boy, not with your leg as it is. It means more climbing than walking. It looks to me as if the stream would be a series of waterfalls. Then I wouldn’t dare go far from it without a compass.”

“Harry, now don’t spoil it all, whatever you do. I won’t vote for sending up a signal—there’s no use asking me. We’re going to find them. And everything is going fine. Gracious, I was scared when I lost that compass, but now I know it’s the regular thing to do, Harry. Now, there was a fellow they called the Black Ranger, and he did the same thing, and it said that without food or compass and limping from his wound, he pressed on with dauntless courage. And we’ve even got the limp, Harry—if it don’t go and get well before we find them. We ought not to find them, Harry, till we are well-nigh exhausted.”

“How’s that?”

“We ought to drag ourselves, weary but triumphant, into camp.”

“Hmmm,” said Harry.

He lay awake long, thinking. They might kindle a large signal fire on the mountain, but that, if it were seen, would lessen the triumph of finding the camp. It would be, in a way, calling for assistance, and he did not like the idea any more than Gordon did.

The morning dawned dull and cloudy; it bade fair to be a repetition of the previous day. Gordon slept long, and when he awoke he found the shelter empty save for himself. While he was pulling on his things, Harry came in, his mood wholly out of keeping with the weather.

“Hello there, Kiddo! Here are some minnows for breakfast.”

“Hello! I guess we won’t see any sign of campfire to-night. Doesn’t this weather beat all!”

“Don’t grumble about the weather now. This is just the day to do my sewing. I’ve got to patch up your stocking and fix you up generally, so that if you should meet any maidens you’ll be in shape to recount your adventures.”

“What’ll be our next move, Harry?”

“Our next move will be to explore that woods down there. That’s the likeliest place for camp that they could strike in this vicinity, it seems to me. It’s between the two forts, it’s flat woodland, and it’s got a stream running through it—this stream that begins up here. So I think we’d better get right down there and not waste any more time up here.”

“But when we get down on the mountain side, Harry, we won’t be able to see where we’re going.”

“We’re going down just the way we came up,” said Harry, “and strike into the Port Henry Road. I think we’ll hit a road that goes around the northern end of this old mountain and skirts the shore, and we’ll follow that along till we strike the stream in level country. If they’re down there at all, they’re near the stream—you can be sure of that; and we’ll follow along the stream to the lake. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if we found them.”

“But if we don’t?”

“Then we’ll go on to Port Henry, and I’ll buy a regular spyglass there if they have such a thing—and on to Bald Knob.—And if the collar button’s under the bed, we’ll find it, or break our necks in the attempt!”

“Or drop in our tracks is better, Harry.”

“Well, we’ll do that, then. So now for minnows and coffee and—do you want bacon?”

“Surely.”

“Bacon it is, and then the sewing circle. Dump that spool of thread out of the coffee pot, will you? Kid, you’re a horrible sight! You look as if you’d been through a sawmill.”

By ten o’clock they were picking their way down the western slope toward the Port Henry road. It is probably the easiest descent from the southern peak, but it was difficult for all that. Noontime found them again in open country, trudging along the road toward the little village of Port Henry, which is on the lake shore about three miles north of the mountain. Instinctively, each took a side of the road, watching it closely as they went along. Now and then Harry would pause to examine a trampled spot near the roadside. Every suspicious stone was carefully scrutinized, then kicked aside for any secret it might be hiding. Usually their inspection was only casual, and they discovered nothing which justified them in pausing. Footprints were out of the question considering the length of time which had elapsed and the rain which had fallen. Every time Harry paused, Gordon looked expectantly over and asked, “What did you strike?” and Harry would answer, “Nothing.”

They had almost reached the crossroad when Harry stopped to examine a little hole in the ground, no larger in circumference than a broom stick. He stuck a twig into the hole, finding that it was about six inches deep.

“Locust hole?” asked Gordon, going over.

“Don’t think so,” Harry answered, pulling the grass carefully away from it. “It’s octagon-shaped, isn’t it? Let’s have a match.” He held the match down. “Humph, seems to go to a point, doesn’t it?”

They stood looking at each other.

“Morrel has an octagon-shaped staff, hasn’t he, Kid!”

Gordon’s face was an ample substitute for the recreant sun.

“We’ve found them! We’ve found them, Harry!” he shouted.

“Let’s sit down and think,” said Harry, quietly. “Kid, that crossroad ahead there would take us round under the mountain, under the precipice, and so into the woods below.”

“Harry, we’re on their trail!”

“You don’t call a hole in the ground a trail, do you? This is nothing but a poor, weak, sickly little apology for a clue. So don’t go up in the air. In the first place, has Morrel an octagon staff, or hasn’t he?”

“He has, Harry.”

“All right, now you’re talking. Evidently they stopped and talked here. That stick must have been stuck down pretty well into the ground to leave a hole that would stay there after the rain we’ve had in the last couple of days. But if they knew they wanted to get into that woods, why didn’t they come up the shore? What were they doing away in here west of the mountain? Let’s take a look at that road for a little way.”

They could see by the map that the crossroad skirted the northern slope of the mountain and ran along the bay shore, under the precipitous east wall, and thence into the woods. But surely if the Oakwood troop had come up from Ticonderoga knowing their destination, they would have taken another and easier way to reach it.

With their inspection of the crossroad, the weak, sickly little clue grew to robust proportions.

“Here’s where Mac got hungry, Kid,” Harry commented, kicking a piece of silver paper. “Let’s see, now, if we can make anything out of all this.” He looked smilingly round.

Meanwhile, Gordon’s observant eye had discovered something which gladdened his heart,—a true, out-and-out scout sign. A little way down the crossroad, along the right-hand side, a small square was scratched with stone on a rock, with an arrow pointing from one of its sides. It did not take Gordon long to take three paces from this stone in the direction of the arrow.

“Let’s have your ax, Harry.”

In a minute more, both boys were sitting by the roadside poring over a few words written on a piece of paper, which puzzled them more than they helped, however. It simply said, in what appeared to be a hasty scrawl:

“If any of you come back this way, follow blazing.”

“If any of them come back this way,” repeated Harry. “What in the dickens have they done—separated?” In a moment the answer came to him. “Kid,” he said, “I may be all wrong, but I have an idea that some of them went on into Port Henry to hire boats. That’s why they were up as far as this. Probably they couldn’t find half a dozen canoes and dories farther down. Here’s where they separated. Some went on, and the rest stayed here—you can see they loafed around here—look at the chocolate wrapper. Mac can’t sit down a minute without eating—he’ll weigh a ton if he keeps on. Maybe the fellows that went on expected to make arrangements for boats and perhaps come down the lake in them. Anyway, the boys that waited here probably thought that some of them might come back along this road expecting to find them, so when they decided to go on they left this. I can’t make it out—they’ve been here, that’s sure, and they’ve blazed a way off this road down a ways. Come on!”

They started down the road, watching carefully for any signs. Gordon was almost too excited to speak.

“Oh, Harry, won’t it be great when we find them! What’ll we say?”

They came to a blazed tree and turned into the woods. Other trees were blazed at intervals of a few yards, leading deeper and deeper into the forest. They were now shut off from any outlook and did not know in what direction they were traveling; but they followed the blazing, and before long the lake showed in silvery patches through the trees.

“Harry,” said Gordon, stopping, “let’s decide how we’ll act. I say, let’s just walk in as if nothing had happened and sit down. When they ask us questions we’ll just answer kind of careless, and stretch ourselves, you know, as if we didn’t want to be bothered. I’ve been thinking, Harry, and I believe that’ll be better than dragging ourselves into camp, hungry and exhausted, but with dauntless courage. You see, the trouble is, Harry, there’s really enough food left in our packs for several days more. By rights we ought not to find them till about three days after our—what is it they call food, Harry?”

“Grub?” suggested Harry.

“No—means of something or other—”

“Means of sustenance?”

“That’s it, Harry,—till our means of sustenance is exhausted. Then again, Harry, I don’t really look so very bad—I mean I don’t look bad enough.”

“You look very dressy, Kid.”

“Now, keep quiet about that, Harry. I mean I don’t look as if the bleak wind had penetrated to my very—”

“You look as if you needed a pair of stockings,” said Harry. “We’ll have to get some in Port Henry. You’ve got an extra pair, but you ought to have two good pairs in case we should happen to go—”

“Ha! What did I tell you? Didn’t I say you’d be going there again? And now you want to use me for a scapegrace!”

“A what?”

“Well, you know what it is when you want to do a thing and lay the whole blame on somebody else.”

“Oh, that’s a scapegoat.”

They had walked on and now reached a spot where they stopped short. It was within a few yards of the shore. Before them was a large charred spot, covered with ashes. A rough pole rested horizontally between two saplings. A stream flowed into the lake near by. The ground was trampled, and they could plainly see stake holes. Clearly, there had been a camp here.

Both boys stood silent, contemplating the deserted spot.

“Well, what—do—you—think—of—that!” said Gordon.

“Kid,” said Harry, after a minute, “this is where we saw the smoke from Dibble Mountain—just about where I thought. We didn’t see it from Bulwagga that first night because it wasn’t here.”

“Correct; be seated, Master Arnold.”

“What do you say, Kid?”

“I have only one thing to say, Harry. We have been handed a large and juicy lemon.”

“Let’s go down and look around the shore.”

The shore was sloping in one place—an ideal spot for hauling up canoes; but no sign was there, not the slightest ruffle in the sand, to indicate that any boats had been there.

“Maybe they went back the way they came, Harry.”

Harry paid no heed to this remark, but walked about the shore, stooping now and then, examining it closely. He walked along the stream to its nearest point to the deserted camp, but found nothing. Gordon sat on a large rock by the shore, watching him.

“Harry, you look like an Uncle Tom’s Cabin bloodhound.”

Harry, meanwhile, had taken a stick and prodded it into the water under the rock. “Pretty deep, eh?” he said. Then he felt of the rock by Gordon’s side. His finger rested on what appeared to be a wet spot, but it was perfectly dry. He leaned down and smelled of it. “Take a whiff of that, Kid.”

Gordon smelled it. “You can’t prove anything by me, Harry.”

Harry vaulted on to the rock and sat by Gordon’s side. “You’d better read up what your old college chum, General Baden-Powell, has to say about smelling clues, my son,—that’s a grease spot.”

“Maybe somebody laid a frankfurter there,” suggested Gordon.

“More likely it was an oily rag out of a motor-boat. Now, kindly keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen; the show is not over.”

But Gordon, heedless, had taken a flying leap, and was sniffing the spot with inquisitive enthusiasm.

“I smell it! I smell it!” said he. “Oh, Harry, I smell it! It’s gasoline! Eureka! Excelsior! or whatever they call it!”

“I think not,” said Harry, quietly. “It was a wipe rag. Probably the engine went on strike—as it naturally would if Walden monkeyed with it. I never thought Walden’s bungling would be any use, but I believe he’s done us a good turn here. Let this be a lesson to you, my son, never to smoke cigarettes.”

“Harry,” said Gordon, dramatically, “I never shall. But kindly tell me what that’s got to do with a motor-boat—or with Walden, either—he doesn’t smoke.”

“No, nor any other scout. And you show me a fellow that smells an oil stain in the open air after two days of rain, and I’ll deduce for you whether he smokes cigarettes or not. You can take that little sermon from your patrol leader, and if you don’t believe me, ask Red Deer.”

“If I ever see him again, Professor Arnold.”

“You’ll see him again, all right,” said Harry, examining the grease spot. “Do you understand Latin?”

“I can tell if there’s any quinine in a prescription, Harry.”

“Well, listen to this: In hoc signo vinces.”

“Harry, don’t tell me they’re in hock!”

“No, some one came down here in a motor-boat, got the rest, and went chugging back again.”

“You’re a perfect ghoul!,” cried Gordon, mimicking Miss Crosby. “You’ve picked up a loose chug—you know you have! It’s just wonderful!”

“Do you want to know what In hoc signo vinces means, you little monkey?”

“I shall never be happy till I find out.”

“Well, then,” said Harry, pointing to the grease spot, “it means, “By this sign thou wilt conquer.”

“But I don’t see how you know they went off in the motor-boat, Harry. Even supposing there was a motor-boat here, there’s nothing to show the fellows went off in her. It might have been just somebody that stopped here to visit the camp.”

“Well,” said Harry, “they didn’t go back the way they came, that’s sure. They’d never have left that note under the rock if they’d gone right back past it. There’s no other road leading away from here, and I don’t believe they’d have struck right across country. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t follow the railroad track either, so there’s nothing left but the motor-boat. We shall now count the railroad ties from here to Port Henry.”