It was Sunday morning in Camp Golden. The name had been bestowed by Paul, always fond of the high-sounding or romantic. And although David, with customary pessimism, proposed that the broad, shelving ledge be called "Camp Golden—It's-Barely-Possible" instead, Jones' suggestion was accepted; partly because no one cared, in particular; partly because his name possessed euphony, if not positive significance.

Anyway, Sunday morning it was and breakfast of coffee, corn cakes and bacon, with strawberries after, rather than before the principal part of the meal, was just over. The Auto Boys, in various attitudes of ease, made no immediate haste to clear away the dishes.

Paul Jones sat on a cushion on the ground, with legs crossed like a tailor on his bench. Billy made himself comfortable, on a convenient box, both hands clasped around an up-turned knee—a favorite attitude of his,—while Phil and Dave in equally unconventional positions occupied camp stools. Their places were at opposite sides of an old-time trunk which, turned half over, served as a table. Newspapers—quickly disposed of in the fire when soiled,—no need to wash them—did duty as a tablecloth.

It was a cheerful, pleasant scene, there amid the shade and sunshine and green leaves. A low tent was erected with its back to the rocky cliff at the rear of the ledge. Here were accommodated two beds of hemlock twigs spread upon the ground and covered with blankets, also a box which, in addition to holding wearing apparel and the like, served as a kind of center table. Its lid was pretty well littered with an assortment of young gentlemen's belongings this morning—an odd mixture of neckties, collars, socks, clothes-brush, shoe brush, a revolver, fishing tackle, a hatchet and a bottle of olives. Larger items of wearing apparel hung on a line along the tent's rear wall.

In the shallow cave shelves formed by building up broad, flat stones like a series of steps, accommodated sundry tinware, dishes and canned provisions. A perfect cooling system, made by diverting a part of the water from the spring to a small excavation in the gravelly floor of the cave, afforded proper storage for a crock of butter and a pitcher of milk set down in the little pool. Here, also, a bucket of other provisions of a perishable nature was similarly disposed. Not even the famous spring-houses of early days could have been more serviceable or delightful.

The campfire was placed not quite in front of the tent, as the custom is if prevailing winds do not blow the smoke in, but quite to one side. It was the width of the ledge, rather than the winds, however, which in this instance made desirable the location chosen. It would not do for Chef Billy to have to work at the extreme edge of the declivity that broke sharply down to the valley below—the "jumping off place," Jones called it.

The improvised table was almost directly in front of the tent, but slightly toward the right, the fire being on the left. Still further to the right was a rough shelter for the car made of poles with a tarpaulin and sundry green branches spread over them. Here were stored, likewise, a couple of axes—brought all the way from the Retreat in Gleason's ravine—and numerous other tools, spades and a pickaxe included.

"And now we're so comfortably settled, the pity is it's Sunday, and—"

"And we told the folks we'd keep track of the days of the week, and they sort of took it for granted from that that we'd observe the seventh," broke in Phil Way, finishing the sentence Billy Worth began. "Pretty good day to write some letters home, for one thing. And those other matters you may have in mind, such as certain things that have been in the woods, all undisturbed for a good many years, will probably keep till to-morrow."

"If there had just been a text announced we'd have had a regular sermon already," quoth Paul Jones, with that inimitable grin that made his plain, freckled face delightfully attractive.

"Why, if a text is all you want, I'll give you one," spoke Way instantly. "It isn't from the Bible but is a good text, anyway. 'To thine own self be true.' It means just this: That we should not, away off here in the wilderness, and no fellow should when away by himself anywhere, be any less decent and respectable than he would be where everybody knows all that is going on. It means enough more than this, but the point for us is that it is just as much Sunday here as it is at home. We'll be civilized."

"Well, that is a sure-enough sermon and a pretty good one, too," said MacLester, quite soberly. "We'll sing something, and it will be the same as going to church, almost."

Dave liked singing at any time, it may be remarked parenthetically, and his bass and Paul's tenor did make the vocal efforts of the quartette very pleasing. So now they sang "America," "Lead, Kindly Light," "The Old Oaken Bucket," "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground." And although it must be admitted that their selections were of wide variety, they were all full of the spirit of love, thanksgiving and kindness and certainly not the slightest irreverence was intended if any there was.

"No, sir! We'll sing no more till the dishes are washed and the camp, to say nothing of ourselves, put in some kind of order," announced Billy Worth in answer to Dave's, "What else do we all know?" He began a rapid collection of the tin plates, cups and the like, but suddenly paused.

"Automobile!" cried Paul at the same instant.

All four boys rushed to an extreme point of the ledge, which commanded a partial view of the public road. Again the horn of a car sounded and they were just in time to see a heavy roadster, laden with traps and baggage and three lads of their own age as passengers, sweep over the bridge and, more slowly, up the stiff rise beyond.

"Pickton and Gaines and Perth!" cried Worth in astonishment. "And—"

"What do you know about that?" demanded Mr. Paul Jones in similar tones; and again he said, "What do you know about that?"—not, apparently, because he had reason to suppose that any of his friends had information pertaining especially to the Chosen Trio, or even because he expected to gain intelligence of any description. Perhaps he really looked for no answer to his inquiry. (In which case it would be difficult to say just why he made it.) At any rate he received none.

"Well, sir, I never thought they'd have the gumption to carry out their scheme of following after us," was Phil's comment. "If they only knew how close they were just a minute ago!"

"Wouldn't make much difference," observed MacLester, dryly. "They'll locate us now, but if we keep our wits about us they won't locate anything else."

"Nothing of the kind!" Worth ejaculated. "Their hustling by so fast is good enough evidence that they think we are still on ahead somewhere. They'll never think of this woods, but likely only of the races."

"Sure thing!" put in Paul Jones, in his very positive, opinionated way. "Nothing to it but keep out of their sight. They'll go clear through to Queensville, likely. In three days more the whole county around the race course will be alive with strange automobiles. They'll never get a line on us if we keep out of sight. Simply means we've got to watch them some, though, so's to be sure they aren't watching us."

"Maybe we had better look into what they're doing," Phil acquiesced and all heartily agreed. The fun of the situation, a hide-and-seek game in automobiles with the whole vicinity of the Gold Cup race course—a stretch of territory twenty-five miles in length and as many broad—as the grounds of action, appealed instantly to each one.

The best part of it, too, was that the Chosen Trio were "It"—the ones who must do the searching. The desirable side of the game, as the ones who were hunted, had fallen to the Auto Boys. Believing as they did, that their hiding place was reasonably secure against discovery, too, and there being never a rule of play to require them to call out or give any sort of clue to their whereabouts, the prospect became all the more interesting to the lads as they talked it over.

One thing of which all four boys assured one another was that they had too much at stake to incur any sort of risk of their camp being found. Also, they were agreed, there must be no underestimating of the resourcefulness and cunning of the Trio. It was really surprising that the latter had succeeded so well thus far in finding the route the Thirty traversed. Their evident perseverance in doing so was, as well, ample indication of their serious intention to do all they threatened—find out the meaning of the mysterious expedition and play mischief with that undertaking generally.

All day Saturday the Auto Boys had spent in erecting their permanent camp and in establishing connections for such part of their food supply as they could best obtain from some farm. The latter had not been easily accomplished. There was little cultivated land in the immediate neighborhood of the great woods. The nearest farmhouse was a half-mile away and the next one an equal distance beyond.

Unluckily, too, it had been found necessary to go to the second of the farms in order to obtain milk. It would mean a two-mile tramp each morning, there and back. Either this or a trip in the car, and on account of the rough ground between the camp and the public road, the latter method was hardly desirable, as a daily practice.

Aside from this inconvenience the young campers were highly pleased with their location. They had yet to make arrangements for sending and receiving mail, but this they had planned to do on Sunday afternoon. Their letters home having been written, the most convenient grocery or other source of general supplies discovered, and all the odd tasks incident to getting settled cleared away, they would be ready on Monday morning, they planned, to begin the long contemplated attack upon the secrets of the great, silent woods.

But now had come the unexpected arrival of Messrs. Gaines, Pickton and Perth much nearer these scenes than any of the four friends had supposed they ever would be. It might make an entire revision of the program necessary.

"As to that same, we shall see," said Billy Worth, looking up from the letter writing on which, barring numerous interruptions, all were engaged.

"How d'ye spell 'barnacles'?" demanded Paul Jones, insistently, the same moment.

"Huh! Barnacles! I'll bet that's the Trio," laughed Billy.

"Lot Jones knows about barnacles," sniffed MacLester.

"That so? Listen to my letter: 'The insectivorous barnacles on the face of nature'—meaning Gaines and his bunch, of course—'them would-be cutaneous young billy goats'—meaning Gaines and the rest again—'have hurled their preposterous physiognomy unfrequented and unbid into this locality.'"

A merry laugh greeted Paul's conclusion and he grinned his own delight with himself.

"Still, I bet he don't know what a barnacle is," persisted Dave with good-natured derision.

"Why, you certain species of shell fish! What do you mean by your insolence?" demanded Jones, with mock dignity. "Barnacles—from the Latin word 'barn,' meaning a kind of stable, and the Greek word 'culls,' meaning an inferior kind of anything. Together, then, barnacles—an inferior kind of stable, a—a pig sty, say? So there you have it; but you might have let it go without forcing me to use such a low word as 'pigs' in the presence of gentlemen, just to make myself clear in your laborious mental processes."

Phil and Billy laughed at this sally but went on with their writing. Dave must give one return shot, and it was:

"Jones, if words were water, you'd have been drowned long ago. The way you flounder around in 'em makes me think of a tumble bug climbing upstairs backwards."

Paul responded only with a solemn "Pooh! pooh!" as if he could not take time to notice seriously any such childish prattle. And while it must be admitted that there was nothing at all brilliant or elevating in the exchange of youthful repartee that had taken place, who shall say that both did not profit by it?

They had made each his thrust and parry and, give or take, without a thought of losing temper. They had had a few seconds' practice in quick thinking, which is always desirable. The whole difference between a brain of snap and vim and one both slow and dull, is likely to lie in practice in rapid, accurate work, or the lack of such training, rather than in an original difference in capacity.

Yet it must not be supposed that even Paul and Dave were constantly in an offensive and defensive attitude toward one another. That would never have done at all. Sooner or later such a manner would have become irritating. The tongue whose words are too frequently sharp, or by constant habit, other than kind and considerate, will make trouble inevitably.

By themselves Jones and MacLester rarely indulged in such exchange as that of this morning. The fun of it was lacking when Phil and Billy were not by to serve as an audience. Alone together, the two were harmonious as could be. They were much more apt to differ at other times. An instance when they did not, however, occurred directly after the verbal contest lately recorded.

"We will make a run to Queensville, get a light lunch there and have dinner in camp to-night," remarked Chef Billy, sealing the letter he had written. He brought his fist down with a whack upon the envelope, not for sake of emphasis but to make sure of the flap being fast.

"Aw, Bill! I'm most starved now!" protested Paul.

"Here, too!" MacLester urged. "Something in this air seems to make a fellow want to eat all the time."

"Well, the point is, we've got to be starting. It's nearly noon," Worth answered.

"Yes, that's so," Phil Way agreed. "Maybe we better have an egg sandwich or something like that, all around, and it will do for now."

"Sure!" chirped Jones, emphatically. "Stuff will only spoil if we don't eat it up."

"Risk anything spoiling around here," was Billy's earnest comment; but he ordered that frying-pan and eggs be brought him forthwith, while he proceeded to rake together the remnants of the fire.

The route to Queensville was, for the first part, straight ahead upon the road bordering the Ship woods. Six miles distant, westerly, this road effected a junction with a thoroughfare running to north and south. Distant a mile or two, in the former direction, was the direct road to Queensville. This and the north and south road were both a part of the twenty-six-mile race circuit.

It was easy to locate the road to Queensville once Gilroy, with its one general store, half dozen straggling dwellings, a church, a school and blacksmith shop, was reached, for numerous automobiles were traversing the course of the races in both directions. And how the Auto Boys scanned every car! And what a collection of machines it was!—Runabouts, roadsters and nondescript contrivances, the identity of the manufacturers of which even Billy Worth could not determine. Some had been rebuilt in one way, some another and some were of strictly home production. But among all the cars, fine and otherwise, the lumbering black and gray Roadster Mr. Soapy Gaines called his own, was not seen.

In a quiet side street of Queensville the four friends left the Thirty. They were but a few steps from the main thoroughfare upon which the business section was situated, and directly before them, as they turned into the street was a sign: "Alameda Headquarters."

"Here's one of the likely cars, now," exclaimed Phil. "Jim Wilder, cousin of our Mr. Wilder at home, drives her and he's great, they say!" He would have added: "Let's see what they're doing," but already Billy, Dave and Paul had hastened forward, bent on that very mission.

As the lads approached, the crowd about the entrance to the building surged suddenly away and, waving his hand to all to stand back, a man in overalls and jumper pulled the heavy door about and it swung shut with a bang. The curious ones thus barred from further view of what was within—the racing car and drivers, probably—formed an assemblage so dense that those nearest the door were not visible to the Auto Boys, at the edge of the gathering. But immediately the people began dispersing. A minute later, through the thinning ranks, Paul Jones suddenly discovered the Chosen Trio.

He had just time to whisper and, with his friends, slip back of a group near the curbing when Gaines, Pickton and Perth passed at the inner side of the walk. There appeared no room to doubt the Trio would go straight forward and, when they were fairly beyond the crowd, Billy and Phil, still watching them, stepped back into the open to get a better view.

The movement was unfortunate. Freddy Perth chanced to turn and his eyes rested at once upon the lads. With a gay laugh he caught the hands of Pickton and Gaines, wheeling them around. Pointing with his thumb, his arm half outstretched:

"How do you do-o-o?" he called triumphantly to the crestfallen Way and Worth.

"Hello!" Phil responded with a frown, but looking about as if to see how Billy was bearing up, he was astonished to find himself alone.