Nugget dashed by Clay without stopping, and crossed the stream, close to the lower end of the pool, in two or three frantic leaps.

Clay was frightened himself, but observing that the rustling noise in the thicket had ceased, he boldly stood his ground, taking the precaution, however, to exchange his fishing rod for the gun.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, turning warily toward Nugget, who was on the opposite side of the stream with one hand clasping the low boughs of 3 pine tree.

"There's some wild animal in there," cried Nugget hoarsely. "It looked at me with its shining eyes, and then growled. Shoot it quick, before it comes out."

Just then the rustling in the thicket recommenced, and with wonderful celerity Nugget disappeared into the heart of the tree.

But the creature, whatever it might be, was going in the opposite direction from the pool. This emboldened Clay, and without hesitation he started in pursuit, paying no attention to Nugget's appealing cries. Guided by the threshing of bushes he pushed on for ten or twenty yards.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that the animal might be a wildcat or even a bear, that had strayed down from the mountains. A close encounter of this nature was by no means to Clay's liking. He stopped, and was just about turning back, when he saw a dark object passing through a break in the thicket about thirty feet away.

The shadows were too deep to afford a good glimpse of the animal, but Clay did not hesitate. Drawing the gun to his shoulder he took quick aim and fired.

When the smoke cleared the creature had vanished, but from a distance came a queer grunting noise mingled with the hasty crashing of the bushes.

"I believe that was a bear," muttered Clay, "and unless I'm greatly mistaken I put a few shot into his hind quarters."

He stood listening until the sounds had died away, and then retraced his steps toward the pool, satisfied that no more trouble was to be apprehended from the unwelcome prowler.

Nugget was still in the tree, and came down very reluctantly, even when he knew what had happened. Then the boys shouldered their fishing rods and hurried back to camp, arriving there just as Ned and Randy paddled up the mouth of the stream.

Clay's adventure—which he related with conscious pride—caused somewhat of a sensation. Randy and Nugget wanted to break camp at once, and Clay was more than inclined to side with them.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Ned. "I don't believe it was a wild animal at all, and even if it was it would hardly come near here again after being shot at."

"Then what could it have been?" demanded Clay a little sharply.

"Some stray domestic creature, as likely as not," answered Ned.

Clay did not reply. He was far from unwilling to accept this version of the affair, though he still had his doubts.

The others were reassured by Ned's words, and when the fruits of the foraging expedition were taken from the canoes all else was forgotten but supper.

"Won't we have a feast?" said Randy. "Just see here, fellows. Fresh, yellow butter, a pail of milk, three pies, two loaves of bread, a cup of cheese, a picked duck, and potatoes and apples! We had a time to get them, though—a mile and a half down the creek, and half a mile over the fields."

It was nearly dark when supper was ready, and the meal was eaten with such slow enjoyment that nine o'clock arrived before the last of the dishes were washed and put away. Then the tired boys went to bed, after securing the tent flaps with more than usual care.

No alarm disturbed their sleep that night. Wednesday dawned clear as a whistle. Before the sun was fairly up the boys took a plunge in the cool depths of the pool, and the result was such a crop of voracious appetites that Randy predicted another foraging expedition before the day was over.

After breakfast Ned sat down on a stone, and spreading a lengthy paper on his knees, began to study it intently.

"What have you there?" asked Randy.

"A map of the Cumberland Valley," replied Ned. "Do you know, we almost forgot about our mail arrangements? It's a good thing I remembered it this morning. If this stream we are camping on now is Otter Run—and according to the-map it is—then West Hill is only half a dozen miles due east of us.

"That is the first place we were to expect letters, and we won't get any nearer to it than we are now. I think I'll walk over. You may go with me, Clay, if you like. The distance is too much for Nugget, and it's Randy's turn to stay in camp."

No objection was made to this arrangement, and all hurriedly produced paper and pencils and sat down on the grass to write letters home.

"I'm asking for a cake," said Randy. "Where shall I have it sent?"

"Carlisle," answered Ned. "We will be there next week. Tell them to make it a big one."

"And not to forget to put icing on it," added Clay.

"Oh, that goes without telling," said Randy laughingly. "They know what I like."

In half an hour all the letters were sealed and addressed. Then Ned and Clay brushed off their clothes and put on neckties, greatly to Randy's amusement.

"What are you laughing at?" exclaimed Ned. "Don't you know that we may be invited out to dinner at West Hill? I wish I had a dress suit with me."

"What a pity you haven't," said Randy mockingly. "Nugget will lend you his yachting cap."

"Of course I will," said Nugget in all seriousness. "Say, Ned," he whispered, coming up close, "I—I have a white shirt in my bag and a dotted vest. I thought they might come in handy. You are quite welcome to them, you know, if—"

Nugget's indiscreet confession went no further. Ned rolled on the ground, choking with laughter. He actually couldn't help it.

Clay and Randy had heard every word, and poor Nugget was finally obliged to take refuge in the tent.

"This won't do," said Ned, struggling to keep a sober face. "We must be off. I hope you won't get in any fresh scrapes while we are away, Randy. You had better stay about camp. You may look for us back some time this afternoon—not later than four o'clock."

"Oh, I won't have time to get in mischief," laughed Randy. "It will take all day to write my log book up to date. I haven't touched it since night before last."

It was about half past nine o'clock when the boys started. They paddled across the creek and landed at the foot of the hill. Randy accompanied them in the Water Sprite, so that he could tow the canoe back with him.

"Just you fellows sing out," he said. "I'll hear you and come across."

"All right," returned Ned, as he commenced the steep ascent of the hill, with Clay at his heels.

Reaching the summit they turned and waved their hands to Randy, who was slowly paddling toward camp, far below them.

Of the camp itself not a vestige could be seen, even from this elevation.

Then the boys set their faces toward the east, and strode briskly through the pine forest that covered the level plateau. For a mile or two the land was very rugged and lonely. Then open fields began to appear here and there, and an occasional farmhouse nestled amid orchards in a valley, or standing boldly against the sky from a hill top.

Such implicit faith did Ned place in his map that he shunned the roads, and did not think it worth while to stop at any of the farmhouses to ask information. With a view to reaching the village in the most direct manner, he cut straight across country, skirting fields of grain and corn, it is true, but taking everything else as it came—hills, ravines, orchards, and meadows.

And all this time the boys were making one of the most foolish blunders that can well be imagined—taking into consideration, of course, the peculiar nature of the creek and the constantly shifting scenery through which they were passing. Later on, when the consequences of their thoughtlessness stared them in the face, they wondered how they could have been so blind.

When the farmhouse bells began to clang from distant points the boys knew that it was half past eleven o'clock.

"We have surely covered six miles in two hours," said Ned. "West Hill can't be far away. No doubt we will see it from that next ridge."

But when the ridge was gained no village was in sight. Something else was visible, however—a narrow country road, running at right angles to the direction from which the boys had come; and nailed to the fence was a sign post, inscribed in crooked black letters as follows:

To West Hill
3 Miles.

There was nothing for it but to go on, and that they did in a weary, dispirited manner.

"The map can't be wrong," said Ned, "the trouble is that we veered a little too far south in our course. We'll make a nearer cut of it on the return trip. Walk a little faster, Clay; it will be a tight squeeze to reach camp by four o'clock."

It wanted a little less than three hours to that time when the boys reached the little cluster of six houses which comprised West Hill. The signboard had probably told only half the truth in regard to distance—as country signboards usually do.

The postoffice was, of course, combined with a produce store. At this time of day its only occupants were the proprietor and a grizzled old farmer puffing at a corncob pipe.

The letters were soon mailed, and in response to Ned's inquiry he was handed a weighty hat box addressed to Randolph Moore, and a batch of half a dozen letters.

"I'll bet a dollar that's a cake," said Clay. "It will tickle Randy."

"It wouldn't tickle him if he had to carry it about nine miles," replied Ned ruefully, "and the box says 'handle with care,' too."

However, the cake could not be left behind, and the boys agreed to carry it by turns.

"How far is Otter Run from here in a straight line?" inquired Ned of the storekeeper.

"'Bout eleven mile," was the reply. "Ain't that kerect, Bowser?"

"It's mor'n that by road," said the old farmer, taking his pipe from his lips. "It's a good thirteen mile to Tanner's Dam, an' the run comes in just below the mill race."

The boys exchanged glances of dismay.

"That map fooled me after all," muttered Ned. "The camp can't be anywhere near Otter Run."

He then explained the situation to the two men, describing as minutely as possible the location of the camp. Both wagged their heads dubiously.

"I can't fix it to a sartainty," said the storekeeper.

"Nor kin I," observed Mr. Bowser. "There air heaps of jest sich runs, an' high hills an' bits of bad water—same as you chaps tell about."

It was evident that no positive information could be obtained, so the boys said "good day," and left the store.

"Under the circumstances we won't risk making a bee line for camp," said Ned. "If we had any landmarks to go by it would be different."

"Then must we go back the way we came?" asked Clay.

"Exactly; we have nine weary miles to tramp. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. Just think of a good supper and a snug bed, Clay, and you won't mind the distance so much."

"It's this confounded box that worries me," muttered Clay. "I believe I'd sooner carry a feather bed. The crazy thing jerks when I stick it under one arm, and if I hug it to my breast it hits me on the chin every few seconds. It's so heavy that the cords cut my hand if I try to carry it that way. I wish I could balance it on my head."

Clay did not exaggerate the perverse and obstinate nature of that hat box. It changed bearers no less than six times before the mendacious signpost was reached, and then its victims were so exhausted that they had to lie down on the grass and rest.