“Hope we don’t run into any counterfeiters,” said Pod. “I’ve heard that such people frequented lonely spots on the lake shore.”

“I’m afraid they are criminals of some sort,” said Chot. “Otherwise they would not be afraid of a bunch of young fellows like us.”

“Wonder where they went?”

“They started north, but may be going west or south by this time.”

They continued to discuss the strange incident during the meal. The thought that suspicious characters might be in the neighborhood did not disturb their appetites, however, and when at last they arose from their improvised lunch table, not a vestige of food remained.

Fleet, as usual, had carried on the brunt of the eating, and he grunted uncomfortably as he arose and signified his intention of going to bed.

“Don’t go to bed on a full stomach,” advised Chot.

“I’m not; I’m going to bed on my back.”

“Oh, pshaw! I cracked that one myself,” said Pod.

“No; not that one.”

“Well, one just like it.”

“I didn’t hear it,” said Fleet.

“Yes, you did hear it, and you’ve got to stop telling my jokes and palming them off for new ones.”

“Everyone knows that’s not new. I read that in one of the comic papers when I was a little boy.”

“You’re not much more than that now,” sniffed Pod.

“Go ahead,” said Fleet, good-naturedly. “You can’t make me mad after a meal like that.”

“Stop quarreling, you fellows,” said Chot. “I read that joke myself three years ago.”

“You see!” said Fleet, triumphantly.

“No, I don’t see,” said Pod. “The first time I ever heard it was when I cracked it.”

“Say, fellows, let’s have a few songs,” suggested Bert.

“What! on a full stomach,” protested Fleet.

“Not on a full stomach—on a bunch of notes,” said Pod, and burst into a roar of laughter. “Ha, ha ha! Got you that time, all right. You steal my joke from me, then I give it back to you with interest.”

“I don’t see the point,” said Fleet.

“No; but you’ll feel it if you sit down on that snake, there.”

“Wow!” cried Fleet, who was nearly in a sitting posture. He sprang into the air with more speed than grace. “Snake!” he cried looking about him. “Where’s any snake?”

“In your boots,” said Pod, and again the laugh was on Fleet.

Then the boys hummed a few airs to get in tune with each other, and finally broke forth with a volume of song that rolled out across the water and probably carried to the other shore, for sound carries well on a still night:

Here’s to good old Winton, drink her down,

Drink her down!

Oh, here’s to good old Winton, drink her down!

She is merry, she’s sublime,

We are here from every clime,

And we’re having a good time,

Drink her down!

Fleet had an excellent bass voice, and the boys followed the usual custom of singing the song down to the three lines which rhyme. Then they would pause and Fleet would come in with some new lines out of his inexhaustible supply, and the other boys would join in again on the last “Drink her down!” For instance:

Here’s to good old Winton, drink her down,

Drink her down!

Oh, here’s to good old Winton, drink her down!

Then Fleet alone:

We are on a trip, you know,

But we’re moving mighty slow,

Get up, boys, let ’er go——

Then all together:

Drink her down!

This was kept up indefinitely, for Fleet would improvise rhymes for his three lines as long as the boys cared to sing. These rhymes were not always sensible, but were often very funny, and it was in the hope that he would sing the funny ones, that the boys encouraged him.

After the “Winton” song, the boys drifted off into “Old Folks At Home,” “Old Black Joe,” “Nellie Gray,” and several other old melodies, and when the last note had died away over the lake, there was a pause. Then from Fleet:

Jim-uh Jackson was a great-uh big-uh fat coon!

He-uh didn’t want nothin’ but a chunk of the moon;

He-uh——

Here the others broke in, and forced him to desist. Fleet’s craze for “coon” songs was a sore spot with them. Not to be outdone now, however, Fleet went off into:

By the old mill stream I’m waiting,

Rosie, dear-r-r-r-r!

Fleet held the last note as long as possible, and the boys waited patiently until he had finished.

“Fleet’s a fine singer of illustrated songs,” said Chot. “He’s missed his vocation. Instead of going to school, he should be at work in a moving picture theatre.”

“Aw, cut that out!” growled Fleet. “I never sing a pretty ballad but what you tell me that.”

“It’s because we’re trying to rid you of your depraved taste for silly songs,” said Tom.

“Depraved taste!” snorted Fleet. “I’d like to know why you’re always telling me that?”

“Because,” said Tom, “those songs are composed merely to suit the popular taste. Many of them bring their publishers fabulous sums, but they are mighty poor contributions to our American music, though I’ll admit that they have their place.”

“Tom is right,” said Chot “Lots of songs are written in half an hour. A music publisher gets an idea. He rings up his lyric writer and tells him about it. The lyric writer gets busy, and probably dashes off two or three verses in ten minutes, much the same way as you compose yours, Fleet. Then the composer takes the words, and very often within the same space of time he has fitted a melody to them. Then, of course, the orchestration has to be made, the song is given to the printers, a lurid cover is designed, and the first thing you know it’s in the music stores, selling at the rate of many thousand copies a day.”

“Oh, well,” said Fleet, “your sermons are very pretty, but I don’t see why I should not sing what I please, when I please.”

Fleet always made some such reply as this, but invariably he did not sing any more ballads or “coon” songs for some time.

“By the way,” said Pod, “speaking of birds——”

“Who said anything about birds?” demanded Fleet.

“Well, speaking of them, anyway, did it ever occur to you that they were especially noted for their courage?”

“They’re not,” said Fleet “Most of them are cowards.”

“Well,” said Pod, “they die game.”

“They die ga——oh, gee! that’s a bad one. I’m going to bed on that,” cried Fleet.

“Glad I found something to send you to bed on besides a full stomach,” laughed Pod.

Fleet did not reply, but began making preparations to lie down under the tent. The other boys gradually arose, stretched themselves and also prepared to retire.

While they were fixing their blankets, there was a sudden low cry from Chot.

“Sh! Listen!”

For a few seconds there was a profound silence.

Then the sound of voices, came to their ears from up the lake, mingled with the muffled splash of oars. Someone was approaching camp in a rowboat; that was evident, though nothing could be seen. It was very dark now, the camp fire having almost entirely died away. True, the stars were out, and the boys could see their reflection in the waters of the lake, but beyond imagining that they could see a dark splotch on the surface of the water, they could make but nothing.

As the boys stood listening, the talking ceased, but every few seconds the soft splash of an oar, or the clank of an oar-lock came to them from the lake.

“Someone is trying to surprise us,” said Chot, in a low whisper, as the others gathered around him. “It may be the men whom we saw earlier in the evening. They may be figuring on holding us up.”

“Say, they wouldn’t get much,” whispered Pod.

“Sh! Let’s gather a big bunch of that dry grass we used to kindle our fire with, and have it handy where we can touch a match to it. Then we’ll wait for these men to land, and see what their intentions are.”

Pod agreed to get the grass ready and he crept silently off to the right, where he gathered quite a pile of it. He also put a lot of dry boughs and twigs on the hay, so that once a fire was started it would continue for some time after the hay had been consumed. Then he rejoined the others.

The low murmur of voices could again be heard, followed, by the splashing sound as before. The boat was evidently approaching slowly.

“They’re wondering if we’re asleep,” whispered Chot. “And of course, we are, to all intents and purposes.”

Not a sound was made in the little camp, and gradually the noise from the lake grew louder. Soon the splash of the oars could be plainly heard, and then the sound of voices speaking in whispered tones. What was said could not be made out for they did not speak loud enough to have awakened even a light sleeper.

Then the sound of a boat being drawn partly upon the beach came to them, and a low voice said:

“Make her fast, Hank!”

There was a low-muttered response to this, which the boys did not catch, and then by lying close to the ground, they could make out the figures of two men against the starlit sky. The figures moved slowly up the slight incline leading from the edge of the lake to the Comrades’ camp. So softly did they come that save for the occasional snapping of a twig, not a sound was made.

“It’s a good thing we were not asleep,” thought Chot. “They’d have caught us napping, sure.”

“I wonder where they are, Dave?” said a low voice, after a moment “I’m sure this is the spot.”

“Sure, it’s the spot. Didn’t we hear ’em singing down this way not fifteen minutes ago?”

“That’s right.”

“Guess they must ’a’ thought there wasn’t no one about.”

“Guess they must have. Say! what was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

It was Pod, who, at Chot’s order, was crawling again toward the pile of dry hay and sticks, with the command to touch them off the minute Chot whistled twice.

The men were nearly upon them now, still moving cautiously, when suddenly one of them made out the dim outlines of the tent.

“I see something white,” he said in a low, startled tone.

“Yes; I see it, too,” was the reply. “Get ready to rush ’em, Hank!”

The words were hardly uttered when Chot gave the signal to Pod. There was the crack of a match, the hay ignited quickly, and as the flames sprang up, throwing a yellow glare over the camp, the boys sprang to their feet, prepared to grapple with the intruders. But imagine their surprise when they found themselves gazing into the barrels of four revolvers, and a stentorian voice cried out:

“Hands up! By thunder, we’ve got you now!”