  Merritt made a spring up the side of the steep-walled little ravine. He succeeded in grabbing an outgrowing bush and drawing himself up to a ledge about ten feet above the ground. Tubby followed him. But the fat boy’s weight proved too much for the slender roots of the plant. It ripped out of the cleft in which it grew, and Tubby, with a frightened cry, went rolling over and over down the steep acclivity. He fell right in the path of the advancing stag. The creature saw him and prepared to gore him with its horns. But just as Tubby was giving himself up for lost, an inspiration seized Merritt. A big stone lay close at hand. He grabbed it up and hurled it with all his might at the buck. The lad’s experience on the baseball diamond stood him in good stead at this trying moment. The rock, with all the power of Merritt’s healthy young muscles behind it, struck the buck between the eyes. The animal staggered and snorted. For one critical instant it hesitated, its sharp forefeet almost on the recumbent fat boy. Then, with a shrill sort of whinny of terror, it swung, as swiftly and gracefully as a cat, and clattered off, running at top speed. Merritt lost no time in clambering down to Tubby, who was sitting up and looking about him in a comical dazed way. “H-h-h-has it gog-g-g-gone?” he stammered. “I should say so,” laughed Merritt, “it stood not on the order of its going, but—got! as they say in the classics.” “I’m glad of that,” remarked Tubby, getting up slowly, “I could almost feel those antlers investigating my anatomy. Let’s see how far he’s run.” The two boys made for the entrance of the ravine. Gaining it they had a good view up and down the beach in either direction. On a distant projection of rock stood the buck. He was looking back. As he saw the boys he wheeled abruptly and dashed into the forest. “Too bad,” said Tubby shaking his head with a serious air. “What’s too bad?” asked Merritt, struck by the other’s pensive air. “Why, if he’d stood still a little longer and we’d had a gun we might have shot him,” rejoined Tubby with a perfectly serious face. They turned, and as they did so a shout burst from the lips of both. Bobbing about serenely on the placid water, not half a mile in the other direction, was the red canoe. “I’ll bet the others are ashore right there, too,” cried Tubby. As he spoke the stout boy dashed off at surprising speed for one of his build. It was all Merritt could do to keep up with him. It was as Tubby had suspected. The blue and the green canoes lay on the beach, their bows just resting on the sand. The paddles were in them and it was an easy task to embark and capture the red craft. This was made fast to the one Tubby paddled and the boys, congratulating each other warmly, set out for the camp. As they glided along Tubby uplifted his voice. “R-o-o-w, brothers, row! The stream runs fast! The rap—ids are ne-ar And the day—light’s past.” “Ro-o-w——” “But it isn’t rowing, it’s paddling,” objected Merritt. “Whoever heard of a rhyme to paddling?” demanded Tubby, “you might as well expect one to motor boating,” and he resumed his song. As they drew near to the spot where the camp had been pitched they saw the black figure of Jumbo on the beach. Tubby hailed him in a loud voice. Instantly the negro looked up, and as his eyes fell on the canoes he tossed the frying pan he was scouring high into the air. It descended on his head again with a resounding whack. But that African head seemed hardly to feel it. Bounding and snapping his fingers in joy, Jumbo raced up to the camp, electrifying everybody with the glad news that the canoes had been found. “How on earth did you discover them, boys?” demanded the major, as the prows grated on the beach and a glad rush of excited feet followed. “Simple,” said Tubby, with a grand air and a sweep of his hands, “simple. They were up in a tree, just as I suspected.” Before long Merritt had to tell the real story. But when they looked about for Tubby to congratulate him that modest youth had slipped away. He was found later, devouring a raisin pie of Jumbo’s baking. “You deserve pie and anything else you fancy,” said the major warmly. “There’s only one thing I’d fancy right now,” rejoined Tubby. “What is that?” “I’d like to have hold of Freeman Hunt for about ten minutes.” An examination of the canoes showed that, as Tubby had guessed, their mooring ropes had chafed through during the wind storm of the night before. This set them wondering how Hunt and his companions could have escaped from the cove. The next day on resuming their journey they examined the place—the entrance to which was not found without difficulty—but of Hunt and his gang no trace was found but the embers of the camp fire. Rob and Jumbo viewed with interest the rope ladder which lay in a heap at the foot of the cliff, just as it had fallen on the night that they made their escape. Further investigation showed that, by walking along the lake shore, the rascals who had harried the Boy Scouts must have managed to find a place to climb up to the forests above. “I’m sorry they got away,” said Merritt. “So are we all, I expect,” said the professor. “I don’t suppose we shall ever see them again now.” “I hardly think so,” agreed the major. “Dere’s only one man ah’d lak ter see ag’in,” put in Jumbo. “Who is that?” inquired Rob. “Dat five hundred dollah baby wid de black whiskers,” was the prompt rejoinder; “de nex’ time ah gits mah han’s on him ah’m gwine ter fin’ de bigges’ chain ah can, den ah’m gwine ter fasten dat to de bigges’ rock ah kin fin’ an’ den ah’s gwine ter k’lect!” “I hope for your sake and for that of law and order that you succeed,” said the major, “liquor is vile stuff, anyhow. It’s bad enough that it is made legally in this country. It is ten thousand times worse when laws are broken to distil it. I’m afraid, however, that all the rascals have slipped through our fingers. We shall hardly set eyes on them again.” How wrong the major was in this supposition we shall see before long. Such men as Stonington Hunt and his chosen companions are not so easily thrown off the trail for a rich prize. The thought of the treasure was in Hunt’s avaricious mind day and night, and already he was plotting fresh means of wresting the secret from its rightful possessors. Possibly, if the major had seen an encounter which took place in the woods not so many hours before our party landed in the hidden cove, he might have felt less easy in his mind. Black Bart, in his flight, had encountered Hunt’s party. Creeping through the woods he had seen the light of their camp fire. He had approached it cautiously. But as he neared it, keeping in careful concealment, he recognized his erstwhile comrades, Dale and Pete Bumpus. Hesitating no longer to declare himself in his half-famished condition, he had come forward and been greeted warmly. What he had to tell of his meeting with Rob and Jumbo, held, as may be imagined, the deepest interest for Hunt and the others. The consultation and plan of campaign that resulted therefrom, were fraught with important results for our party. What these were we must save for the telling in future chapters. But stirring events were about to overtake the Boy Scouts and their friends. |
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