While gathered about the breakfast table—if table, it could be called—the next morning, the campers heard the boy’s story. Len Haley had by this time thoroughly recovered from his fright, and he related in a timid, halting fashion how he had come to be alone on the mountain in the dead of night.

An orphan, living with his uncle, James Haley, near the little village of Armsdale in the valley, he had worked for years in a truck garden. Neither James Haley or his wife had experienced any affection for the lad, but seemed bent only upon making him carry on his young shoulders the burden of running their little farm.

Len, a willing worker, had accepted his lot as a matter of course. But when the hours grew longer, and he was forced to rise before daylight to milk the cows and feed the horses, and was not allowed to retire until the same services had been performed late at night, with hours of drudgery in the field, during the intervening time, he had rebelled, only to be soundly beaten by his uncle, and told to return to his work under the penalty of being beaten till he was black and blue.

The boy had stood this as long as he could. Then he resolved to run away. He kept this purpose to himself, however, waiting for the proper opportunity to present itself.

The previous night James Haley had gone to the village about eight o’clock. Mrs. Haley was feeling badly, and it was necessary to fill a prescription at the drug store. Why Len was not selected for this mission he could not imagine, for usually his uncle took a keen delight in rousing him out of bed at all hours of the night.

It had seemed to the boy to be an omen in his favor. James Haley apparently believed him to be asleep at the time of his departure for the village. The boy had really gone to bed, but lay there thoroughly dressed. Soon after his uncle left the farm, the boy had crept softly down the stairs in his stocking feet, then out of the house. Putting on his shoes out by the barn he had immediately struck out for the mountains, not realizing what a terrible thing it was for a boy to be alone in the woods in the night time.

When finally this realization was brought home to him, he became frightened. But he gritted his teeth, resolved not to turn back. He knew full well that the beatings he had received in the past would be as nothing compared to what the future would hold in store, if James Haley ever laid hands on him again.

He wandered on up the mountainside as the hour grew late, until, driven almost into hysterics by the dreadful lonesomeness about him, he had cried out for help, hoping, he said, to attract the attention of some people he knew lived in this vicinity.

The first response to his cries had been Jim’s “Hello!” So overjoyed was Len at hearing a human voice again that he had come near fainting.

Now that the dreadful trip was a thing of the past, and the boy had an opportunity to think calmly over the matter, he feared that his cries had been heard in the valley, and it would be only the question of a few hours until his uncle would be searching the mountain.

The sympathies of the entire party, particularly those of Dorothy and Aunt Betty, were with the unfortunate boy, and what action was to be taken to keep him out of his uncle’s hands was to all a pertinent question.

“Don’t let them take me back there,” Len begged, while they were discussing the matter. “I’d rather die—honest to goodness, I would!”

“Oh, we just can’t let you go back,” was Aunt Betty’s rather grim resolve. “It’s against all the principles of human nature to stand by and see a young boy like you abused. You shall stay with us, Len; you shall be under our protection. We’ll find some way to circumvent your uncle and keep you out of his hands.”

Tears came into the boy’s eyes, and he flashed her a look of gratitude.

“We might take Len back to Baltimore with us and find him a position,” said Dorothy.

“There is enough work at Bellvieu alone to keep him busy for many months,” returned Aunt Betty. “Ephraim is getting old, and Metty is occupied with the care of the horses and cattle. Len shall be our yard boy for a while, if he desires.”

Len did desire, and did not hesitate to so express himself. He would work hard for Mrs. Calvert, he said, until he was old enough to strike out for himself.

This part of the matter was soon settled to the satisfaction of all. It was then decided that Len should remain in the seclusion of one of the tents during the day, so that he would be out of sight from anyone approaching Camp Breck from either direction. Aurora had brought a bundle of reading matter, including several illustrated papers, and these were placed at Len’s disposal. The boy had had several years of schooling previous to the death of his parents, and was a fair reader. Like most boys who have been restrained through one cause or another from reading all the books they desired, he was ready and anxious to devour anything that came his way.

Jim and Gerald put their heads together, and resolved to circumvent James Haley should he appear on the scene in search of Len.

“We’ll lead him away from the camp,” said Jim, “without telling him any deliberate untruths—send him off on a false scent. Aunt Betty is right, you know; we can’t let him go back to a life like that.”

“No,” said Gerald; “it would be a pity. If his uncle’s treatment was bad enough to make Len take to the mountains in the night time, it must have been at least a mild sort of an inquisition.”

The boys congratulated themselves later on planning matters out in advance, for the forenoon was barely half gone when two horsemen rode out of the woods to the south of the camp and turned their horses in the direction of the tents.

Jim was the first to see them.

“Don’t be startled, folks,” he said, “and please don’t turn and ‘rubber,’ for there are two men coming toward camp on horseback.”

“Oh!” gasped Molly. “Poor Len!”

“Poor Len, nothing!” Jim returned. “I know it is hard for a girl to refrain from doing something she’s been asked not to, but if you turn your head, Molly Breckenridge, or let on in any way that you’ve seen those horsemen, you need never call me your friend again. We must act like we haven’t seen them, until they hail us. Ephraim, you sneak into the tent, without looking to the right or the left. Then hide Len under the cots or somewhere where they won’t find him. Gerald and I will talk to the men when they arrive.”

The girls and Aunt Betty kept their presence of mind very well, considering the fact that they were laboring under no little excitement.

Ephraim went carelessly into the tent, as Jim had bade him, where he concealed the runaway lad in a very natural manner under a heavy quilt. It mattered not that the weather was excessively warm this time of day; the old negro figured that the exigencies of the case demanded desperate measures, and as for Len, he accepted his punishment without a whimper.

By the time the men had drawn rein before the tents, Ephraim was sitting calmly in a chair, an illustrated paper in his hand, puffing complacently at his pipe.

“Good morning,” greeted the larger of the two men.

“Good morning,” returned Jim, pleasantly. Then he and Gerald went forward to meet them.

One of the riders, a rather pompous-looking individual, with a long, drooping mustache, dismounted and threw the reins over his horse’s head.

“I’m Sheriff Dundon of this county, boys,” he said. “The gentleman with me is Mr. Haley. We’re searching for a boy named Len Haley—Mr. Haley’s nephew, in fact. He left his home down in the valley some time in the night. We thought perhaps you’d seen him.”

Jim and Gerald exchanged feigned glances of surprise, which was part of the plan they had mapped out to save Len.

“It must have been him we heard cry out in the night,” said Jim.

“Yes,” Gerald responded. “Too bad we didn’t know it was only a boy.”

“You heard someone cry out in the night, then?” the sheriff asked, while the man on the horse eyed them keenly, and flashed curious glances about the camp.

“Why, yes,” Jim returned; “Old Ephraim, our darkey, woke us up in the night to hear some mournful noises which he said came from somewhere down the mountainside. We listened and heard someone crying out at intervals for help. But having no fire-arms, and not knowing whether it was a drunken man or a lunatic, we were afraid to venture very far away from camp.”

“What time was this?”

“Must have been in the neighborhood of two o’clock.”

The sheriff shot a questioning glance at Mr. Haley.

“It was Len; no doubt about it,” said that worthy, nodding. “He’s only a kid and I s’pose he got scared when he found himself alone in the dark.”

“You don’t know which way he was going at that time?” asked the sheriff, turning again to the boys.

“It would be hard to say. At one time the cries seemed to be nearer, then got farther, and finally ceased altogether. We all heard them, including the ladies, and none of us went back to bed until everything was quiet.”

“Let’s see,” said the sheriff; “I didn’t quite catch your names.”

“Mine’s Jim Barlow. This is Gerald Blank. We’re members of a camping party from Baltimore. We arrived in the mountains yesterday morning for a two weeks’ stay.”

“Blank?” repeated the sheriff. “Blank? Any relation to Blank, the broker?”

“He’s my father,” said Gerald.

“That so? Then I’m right glad to meet you.” The sheriff extended a horny hand, which Gerald shook. “I knew him years ago. Didn’t realize he had a boy as old as you. Well, we must be getting on. Sorry you can’t give us a clue to the boy’s whereabouts.”

“It is too bad,” said Gerald. “When we last heard the cries they came from about that direction,” and he extended his finger down the mountainside. “Then they grew fainter and seemed to be moving off to the east. We’d like very much to help you, sheriff. If we’d any idea it was only a boy, and a scapegoat, at that, we could have caught and held him until your arrival.”

“Well, I could hardly expect that,” returned the minion of the law, with a good-natured smile. “Come, Haley, let’s be off. He can’t have gone far between midnight and now, so we’re apt to overhaul him at some of the farm houses up the valley. Good-by, boys—see you later!”

The men tipped their hats to the ladies out of courtesy for their presence, and rode away.

“Hope they don’t see us later,” said Jim, as he stood with Gerald gazing after their receding forms.

“No; for he might catch us at an inopportune moment. If they ever found Len in our camp there’d be the very dickens to pay.”

“Couldn’t do anything to us, Gerald, and I don’t believe he’d have any right to take Len, unless there’s some papers filed in the court of this county, appointing James Haley his guardian. Just merely because he’s an orphan don’t give a man a right to take him and hold him against his will—even if he is his uncle.”

“Boys, I really must congratulate you on your presence of mind,” said Dorothy, when the riders had disappeared from view. “You handled the matter perfectly. Wait till I tell Ephraim to let Len come out from under cover,” and she left them to enter the tent.

Len was nearly roasted when he emerged from beneath the quilt, for the weather was excessively warm and his clothes were not as thin as they might have been. But he was smiling bravely through the perspiration, and rejoiced with the others that he had been so lucky as to escape being returned to captivity.

“I don’t understand how my uncle ever influenced the sheriff to help him hunt for me,” he said. “I know Sheriff Dundon, and he’s a mighty good man. He knows very well the way I was treated, so Uncle James must have pulled the wool over his eyes some way. Well, I reckon it don’t matter much now. They’re gone and I hope they’ll never come back.”

“It won’t do to take any chances, yet, Len,” said Aunt Betty. “You’ll have to spend most of your time in the tent, with someone constantly on watch outside. It will be pretty hard on you, but better than going back to the life you left.”

“I don’t mind in the least, Mrs. Calvert—staying in the tent, I mean. I’d do anything to escape my uncle. He’s certainly the meanest man on earth.”

Aunt Betty’s plan was followed during the next few days, but neither Sheriff Dundon or James Haley put in a further appearance at the camp. Aunt Betty cautioned Len, however, to keep out of sight until the end of the trip, at which time he was to be piled into the big auto and taken with them back to Baltimore.

The party had been in the mountains a week before Jim and Gerald decided to put into practice their oft-repeated resolve to go fishing. Dorothy and Molly begged to be taken along, and to this the boys reluctantly consented.

The trout stream in the valley was the objective point of the pilgrimage. Here, in the spot where Molly had discovered the fish swimming about in plain view of those on shore, they would try their luck.

Aurora, interested in a book, refused to be tempted by the other girls, and stated her intention of remaining in camp with Aunt Betty, Ephraim and Len.

With a bundle of sandwiches and their tackle, the fishing party got away from camp in the early morning, planning to spend the better part of the day in enticing the denizens of the deep to nibble at their flies. Then the return to camp could be made in the cool of the evening between sundown and dark.

By nine o’clock they were seated on the bank of the stream, poles in hand, and lines cast far out into the stream.

At first the girls kept up an incessant chatter, in spite of the warning from Jim and Gerald that if they did not stop they would scare the fish away.

“Nonsense!” cried Molly, laughing aloud at the warning. “Fish can’t hear.”

At this Jim and Gerald exchanged glances of amused tolerance.

“Told you we should have left ’em at home,” said the latter.

“I knew it,” Jim replied. “It was only through the kindness of my heart that I agreed to let them come.”

This statement only served to amuse Dorothy and Molly, and their laughter rang out over the water so loudly, that Jim and Gerald, with sighs of resignation, began winding in their lines with the evident intention of departing.

At first this increased the merriment of the girls. But when they saw the boys taking their poles apart, and stowing the sections away in their fishing bags, they realized that they had really incurred the displeasure of their young friends by what they had intended as a joke.

“Come,” said Dorothy, soberly. “You boys are not going home?”

“Oh, aren’t we?” demanded Gerald.

“Yes; we’re going home,” Jim said, rather curtly. “Where did you think we were going—to the village?”

“Oh, come! You must have known Molly and I were only joking?”

“Of course, they knew it,” Molly chimed in, in a careless tone.

“There’s such a thing as carrying a joke too far,” said Gerald.

“No use to argue with a couple of girls, Gerald,” said Jim. “Let’s take ’em home and come back to-morrow.”

“Suits me,” responded his chum. “I hate to think we’ve had this long jaunt for nothing, but there’s an old saying to the effect that we must learn by experience.”

Their poles “knocked down,” and stowed away in their canvas cases, the boys picked up their coats and prepared to move.

“Oh, I say, this is a shame!” cried Dorothy. “I had counted on having such a good time.”

“So had I,” echoed Molly—“such a good time!”

“So had we,” said the boys in unison.

“But we didn’t,” Jim added.

“No; we didn’t,” echoed Gerald.

“Well, it wasn’t our fault,” said Dorothy.

“We thought you could take a joke,” said Molly.

“We can,” Gerald replied. “It’s a good joke. We’re willing to admit it’s on us. You asked to come; we consented. That was our fault, not yours.”

“Yes,” Jim put in, “we thought you knew at least the rudiments of fishing.”

Molly shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, dear, what a fuss over nothing,” she groaned. “And to think I started it all by remarking that fish have no ears. And I’ll stand by my statement. I’m sure I am right.”

“No use to argue with a girl,” said Jim.

“Not a bit,” Gerald replied. “Let’s get ’em back to camp.”

“I refuse to go!” The fire fairly flashed from Dorothy’s eyes. “I came down here to fish, and fish I shall until I get ready to stop, and you’re a bigger ‘it’ than I think you are, Molly Breckenridge, if you let two unruly boys bluff you into doing as they wish.”

“Then we’ll have to leave you here,” said Jim, in the most matter of fact tone he could muster.

Gerald nodded assent.

Then both boys assumed an independent air, and acted as if they were going to leave—as much as to say that settled the matter.

“Well, let’s be going,” said Gerald, casting a sly glance toward Dorothy, and noticing that she made no move to wind in her line. He picked up his basket and threw an inquiring glance at Jim.

“Of course, if the girls agree to keep still, it won’t be necessary for us to go,” said Jim.

“Too bad we didn’t think of that before we wound in our lines,” Gerald lamented.

“Well, it’s never too late to let them out again,” Dorothy said, coolly.

“Will you promise to be quiet, Dorothy?”

“I promise nothing, Jim Barlow!”

“Oh, come now; don’t act contrary!”

“It’s not me who’s contrary, and you know it very well.”

“You said you were going back to camp. Why don’t you go?” Molly flung at them, tauntingly.

“Well, by cracky, we should; it would serve you right,” Gerald responded, slightly impatient. “You girls have no right to treat us this way. We brought you with us to give you a good time, and it seems that you might respect our wishes a little. No one can catch fish with a regular gab-fest going on on the bank.”

“Go along and don’t bother us,” admonished Dorothy.

At that instant her floater began to bob fiercely up and down. There was a strong tug on her line, and the reel began to revolve at a high rate of speed, as Mr. Fish, evidently aware that in snapping what appeared to be a nice, fat fly, he had gotten decidedly the worst of it, made a desperate effort to get away.

“Hold him!” cried Molly, rising on the bank and waving her arms excitedly.

“Oh, yes, hold him,” said the boys, exchanging glances of amusement.

“Hold him?” Dorothy gritted her teeth. “You just know I’ll hold him! We’ll show these young gentlemen that fish can be caught when there is noise on the bank. Oh, we’ll show them!”

The reel was revolving more slowly now, and before the end of the line was reached, had ceased altogether. Then the girl, a light of triumph in her eyes, began to wind in her prize. It was a slow task and a hard one, for when the denizen of the river found he had again encountered resistance, he renewed his struggle for freedom. Once he nearly jerked the girl off the bank into the water, greatly to the delight of Jim and Gerald, who had settled in a comfortable nook under the trees with the avowed intention of being “in at the finish.” That Dorothy would fail to land the fish they were quite sure, and to be on hand with a hearty laugh when her disappointment came, would in a measure atone for the trouble of bringing the girls on the trip.

Little by little the struggling fish was brought nearer, until, with a quick jerk of her pole, the girl lifted him clean of the water and swung him over her head to the shore.

So quickly did it happen that Jim was unable to get out of the way, and the fish, which was a three-pound trout, struck him squarely in the face, bowling him over in the grass, and causing him to drop the fishing tackle he was holding in his hands, long enough to brush the water from his eyes.

Now it was the girls’ turn to laugh, and they did not neglect the opportunity.

“Thought I couldn’t catch a fish, didn’t you, Jim Barlow?” cried Dorothy. “Well, I trust you now see the error of your judgment. I caught him, and you caught him, too, only you caught him where I didn’t—across the face.”

At this both girls burst out laughing again, and Gerald, no longer able to restrain himself, convulsed at the sight of Jim as he went tumbling backward with his eyes and nose full of water, was forced to join them. They laughed so loudly that Jim first smiled, then burst into a guffaw himself. He had been inclined to be angry at the humiliation imposed upon him by the fish, but now the ludicrous side of the affair appealed to him. He admitted that Dorothy had all the best of the argument and wound up by declaring that he intended trying his luck at the fish again.

Dorothy, in the meantime, had walked over and picked up her squirming catch, which she detached from the hook and dropped in the basket she had brought with her for that purpose.

“Here goes again!” she cried, and fastening a new fly on her line, she cast it far out into the stream. “Better hurry, you people, or I’ll have the record for the day.”

Gerald and Jim, thus admonished, began undoing their fishing tackle, and soon the quartet were fishing as if their lives depended on what they caught that afternoon. And the strangest part about it was that nobody—not even the girls—said a word! Silence reigned supreme. So, although Dorothy had triumphed in showing the boys the folly of keeping absolutely silent, the boys had also won their point in getting the girls so interested that neither cared to talk.

The fish began to bite with unusual frequency, and soon each member of the party had a fine string in the basket. Lunch was forgotten, so eager was each to beat the other’s record, and so nearly equal were the numbers of fish caught by each, they were afraid to stop to count them for fear they would be losing valuable time.

But finally, when the declining sun told them that the afternoon would soon be gone, with the pangs of hunger gnawing at their stomachs, a general agreement caused all to wind in their lines.

The fish were counted and it was seen that Dorothy had made the best record with seventeen trout of various sizes. Gerald came a close second, having sixteen, while Molly and Jim followed in the order named with fourteen and twelve respectively.

Lunch was eaten—or rather devoured, for they were ravenously hungry—in the shade of the big trees on the bank before preparations were made for the return to camp.

“Wish those fish were up the mountain,” sighed Jim.

“Oh, it will be easy to carry them,” said Molly.

“Yes; easy for you, because Gerald and I will have to carry all you’ve caught as well as our own.”

“How clever of you to guess that,” Dorothy said, laughing. “You’re a bright boy, Jim.”

“Yes; a little too bright sometimes,” he returned. “Next time I come fishing I hope I shall be bright enough not to invite you girls.”

“You did not invite us; we invited ourselves,” said Molly with some spirit.

“And they should be well satisfied,” said Dorothy. “If it had not been for us they would have gone back to camp before the fish commenced to bite, and then we would have had none.”

“Pooh, pooh!” said Jim.

“And again pooh, pooh!” said Gerald.

Then, without further ado, the boys picked up their loads and the climb back to the camp was begun.

They reached their destination tired from the exertion of the climb and generally weary from the day’s strenuous outing, but soon the odor of fried fish made them glad they had taken the trip and that the results had been so satisfying.