“How you going to spend your holiday?” asked Bad of Hal the next morning when the two chanced to meet on the campus.

“Sh! Not so loud,” was the reply. “I’m going to explore Kenyon Cave.”

“But the doctor—”

“He said we could do as we pleased to-day. I’m going to see if I can’t get that gun again.”

“And hunt the lion? But it’s under the falls.”

“I don’t think it is. That lion hit Mr. Miles hard enough to knock him down. That gun must have gone a-flying. Maybe it dropped in shallow water. And the biggest part of the falls is on the other side anyway. I’ll chance it.”

“And we could take some grapple hooks—”

“We?” asked Hal.

“Sure. I’m going along. Suppose that lion’d show up—”

“Yes, suppose. What’d you do? Save my life by running away and getting the cat to follow you?”

“Never mind. You ran from it yourself the other day. You just watch me when we find it again. I’ll—”

“Clout it in the jaw?” laughed Hal.

“I know where there’s grapple hooks,” Bad suggested. “I’ll get them.” And away he went, to return in a few minutes with a tangled mass of cords and hooks stuffed under his coat. “Ready to go now?”

“Soon as I get a lantern. I hid one inside the hollow elm next to the road. Come on.”

So the two started out on their three-mile trudge, stopping to pick up the lantern and a lunch that was likewise hidden within the tree. “Divvies,” said Hal generously as he shoved this into his pocket.

It was not long before Mummy CaÑon was in sight. They crossed the bridge and made their way slowly along the path toward the Screaming Cataract. Just before they came to the bridge they stopped. Bad sat down and began to pull off his shoes and stockings, but Hal merely stood looking at the water, that was boiling and foaming even along the shore.

“It can’t be very deep in there this side the falls,” he observed. “The gun could easy have fallen right in next to shore. Of course it could have gone the other way, but that ain’t likely, as the lion hit Miles in this direction. If it did go toward the middle we’ll never get it—unless we happen to grapple it.”

“What you going to do? Try to grapple it first or dive?”

“Or wade if it isn’t too deep. But first of all I’m going to take a look inside the cave. I want to see if that rock is wedged in hard like it looked from above.”

“What for? Suppose the lion’s in there!”

Hal laughed. “He got too good a scare in there yesterday to come back right away.”

“But why not find the gun first? What good’ll it do you if the rock isn’t tight. Come on, I’m going in.” And Bad continued taking off his clothes.

“No, I’ll cool off first. You go ahead. I’ll go up on the bridge and show you where the gun most likely fell.” He gathered a handful of small stones and standing on the bridge, began to throw them into the water, marking off a small circle that extended from the edge of the falls to the shore. “It ought to be inside that.”

“All right. Here goes,” called Bad as he began wading away from the bank. “U-u-gh! it’s cold. So deep,” he added, ducking himself under to the chin, pretending he had found a step-off—to come up to his waist a minute later.

“Call me if you find it,” Hal said, after lighting his lantern with a match, Boy Scout style being too slow just then. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

He disappeared within the cave, and Bad continued wading out toward the edge of the fall, feeling for the gun with his toes. This was an easy matter, as the bottom was a firm sort of sand-mud, smooth and gently sloping. The water deepened till it was up to his neck, but that was all. Out under the falls it was doubtless many times deeper, but here the thin trickle from above had not worn any hole.

“I guess I’ll cut in toward the bridge,” he said to himself, “and then work over along the bank.” As he came under the bridge he stood there a moment, holding to one of the timbers, for at this point the undertow from the falls was rather strong.

As he stood there his mischievous spirit prompted him to play a trick on Hal. Wouldn’t it be a lark to climb up under the bridge and stretch himself out along the timbers and wait there for Hal? What would he think when he came out and found no Bad in the water? He had laughed at Bad’s scare when the plank tipped, that night when Kenyon Cave was discovered. Here was a good chance to get even.

So Bad wormed himself up one of the posts, and after a good deal of squirming found himself a firm and fairly comfortable resting place where two bracing timbers formed a V-shaped bed. Right above him was a large knothole, within a few inches of his eyes. He lay there and waited some time, his only view the tumbling water just beneath, and above, a knothole sight of the cliff and a patch of blue sky.

Once he was tempted to call, but waited. Then, above him, on the boards of the bridge, he heard a quiet footfall. It sounded like bare feet; perhaps that was why Hal had been so long—he had stopped to undress. The footfalls ceased. Bad fancied he heard a curious sniffing noise, that kept up till it got on his nerves. What could Hal be doing that would make such a funny noise! Bad tried to look through the knothole. Only blue sky and gray cliff could be seen. But still that sniff-sniff kept up.

Putting his mouth to the knothole, he drew in his breath and then “Wow!” he shouted.

But the answer was not what he expected. A low snarl came in reply, and the snarl was too animal-like to have come from Hal. Bad almost fell from his perch in his sudden fright. Again he put his eye to the hole, but jerked back with a scream. A cold, damp something had touched his face, and that something he knew instinctively was the muzzle of an animal.

Perhaps it was this thought that made him lose his balance. At any rate, almost before he realized it, he had toppled out of his seat and into the water. For an instant he floundered, then struck out, under water, to get as far away as he could. He did not stop to reason that the animal, whatever it was, would hardly attack him in the water; he merely wanted to get away.

Then suddenly he stopped and came to his feet. His hand had struck something solid. It felt not unlike the branch of a tree or a stick—or a rifle barrel. It was standing straight up in the water. For a second he groped about, then struck it again. With a feeling of triumph he grasped it and gave a tug that freed it from the mud. It was the rifle.

Then he looked toward the bridge. There, its teeth bared in a snarl, was the mountain lion of the day before. It was not crouched, but stood there, its head going from side to side in an impatient shake, its tail beating the bridge floor angrily. But for an instant only it remained so.

With an alert turn of the head it directed its attention to the cave. It had heard something. Bad heard the same sound; it was Hal coming out, and Bad stood as if paralyzed.

“Stay in the cave!” he yelled, suddenly regaining command of his voice.

“I’m coming,” came the indistinct reply. “Did you find the gun?”

“Stay in the cave! The lion’s on the bridge!”

“I can’t understand you.” Bad had difficulty in hearing the words, broken by the irregularity of the passage and drowned by the noise of the falls. “I’m coming fast as I can—my lantern’s out.”

“Oh-h—” groaned Bad, “what shall I do? Don’t come out!” he shrieked again. There was no reply. The lion had not stirred, crouching expectantly at the opening. When Hal appeared, it would spring—and Bad shuddered at the thought.

But the gun! Suddenly he remembered that. He looked at the breech; it was unrusted. He threw a shell into place; then he thought of the barrel. One glance told him it was choked with mud.

What could he do? He remembered hearing of a gun that had burst because there was mud in the end of the barrel. True, that was a shotgun. Dared he risk it? He brought the gun to his shoulder—then hesitated.

Bad was no coward, but he knew the risk. “Hal!” he yelled for the last time. There was no reply, but the click of footsteps and a loud “Ouch!” told him his call had done no good. He saw the lion crouch still lower, the leg muscles tightened, and then—Bang!

Bad had shut his eyes as he pulled the trigger. Furthermore, he had not held the rifle very tight to his shoulder; he picked himself out of the water and gave a frightened look toward the bridge. The lion was still there but no longer crouching. He was whirling round and round, a struggling bundle of rage and scratching claws. His savage whines sent the cold chills up and down Bad’s back. Coming too close to the edge of the bridge, the lion rolled off—and Bad hastily scrambled his way toward the bank.

“Hello!” called Hal, appearing just then in the cave entrance. “What’s up, Bad?”

“Nothing,” said Bad limply.

“Nothing? Is that what makes you look so sick? What you been doing with the gun?”

“Nothing.” Then he added slyly but shakily: “I just clouted Mr. Lion in the jaw.”

“The lion! Was it you that shot? Where is he?” came in rapid succession.

“I believe he went downstairs there to get a drink,” laughed Bad, his voice and legs getting stronger. “If you’ll help me to fish him out, we’ll lug him back to Lakefarm, and s’prise the natives.”

And that was certainly what they did, as, a couple of hours later, they arrived, fagged out but proud, at Lakefarm Institute and dropped their trophy at the feet of Mr. Byrd, who, with Mr. Frankland and Mr. Miles and Mr. Porter, as well as all the Boy Scouts, was waiting to receive them.

“And who shot him?” asked Dr. Byrd, after the slain beast had been inspected and admired to the full expectations of the two heroes.

“It was Frank,” Hal replied.

“Not Bad?” asked Dr. Byrd, quite seriously.

“No—Frank. Bad has made good, and he’s been promoted. From now on he’s Frank.”