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The tent was soon staked under the shellbark trees, and the canoes were carried out beside it. The Jolly Rovers now felt as safe as though they were fifty miles down the creek. Being pretty well exhausted by the interruption of the previous night and by their long paddle, they made pillows out of their blankets, and went to sleep on the grassy floor of the tent.

But it is not an easy matter to turn day into night, and so the boys found it. Ned awoke about noon, and threw the flap open so that the sun could stream into the tent—as much of it at least as came through the thick foliage. It was sufficient to rouse Randy and Nugget. Clay was missing, but as his fishing rod had also disappeared, no alarm was felt over this fact.

Of course, dinner immediately suggested itself, so Ned started to make the fire, while Randy inspected the supplies to see what was available.

"Damp crackers and cold meat are about all we can count on," he announced dismally. "There are only a half a dozen potatoes here. You might boil some oatmeal, though."

"We must get along with what we have," replied Ned. "This afternoon some of us must make a foraging expedition. We can't be very far from a farmhouse."

The fire was soon blazing merrily, and just as Ned placed the coffee pot on the bars, a cheery whistle rang through the woods, and Clay appeared at the head of the pool.

"See what you lazy fellows have missed," he exclaimed, holding up a string of speckled brook trout. "I caught all those in the last two hours, and tramped more than a mile up stream to get them."

The boys were delighted at this unexpected addition to their dinner, and the spotted beauties were soon ready for the frying pan. Hunger made a piquant sauce, and the crackers, meat and fish vanished in short order.

"I intend to let you fellows wash the dishes this time," said Ned, when the meal was concluded. "I'm going after supplies. We certainly need them badly enough. Did you see any signs of a farmhouse when you were up the stream, Clay?"

"No indeed. The woods are thick in every direction, and I have no doubt they stretch clear to the mountains. It's awfully wild and lonesome along the stream."

"No use in trying that direction then," replied Ned. "I think I'll go down the creek in my canoe."

"Let me go with you," said Randy. "You may have a big load to carry back you know."

Ned hesitated an instant, and then gave his consent. He really preferred to be alone, but he saw that Randy was very sorry for his recent ill conduct, and wanted to make what amends he could.

Clay loaned Randy his canoe, and promised to repair the Water Sprite during the latter's absence. Then the foraging expedition paddled out into the creek, equipped with tin pails and canvas sacks.

Clay and Nugget were at no loss to find occupation. It required a good half hour to wash and dry the dishes, and after that a big stack of firewood was piled up. Then the Water Sprite was placed across two logs, and Clay proceeded to make the needed repairs. Having screwed the keel firmly in place, he thrust cotton under its whole length with his knife blade, and then put on a plentiful coating of white lead.

"There!" he exclaimed, as he surveyed his own work with satisfaction. "That canoe won't leak a drop in the morning. I say, Nugget, let's go fishing a little while. It's only five o'clock, and the boys won't be back for an hour or two yet."

Nothing could have pleased Nugget more. He made the proviso, however, that Randy's gun should be taken along.

"I don't know what you're afraid of," said Clay; "but I'll humor you anyhow."

He shouldered the weapon, first looking to see that it was loaded, and started up the stream. Nugget trudged behind with the two fishing rods.

Half a mile from camp the boys stopped by a deep pool that presented a very tempting aspect. The bushes and trees were dense all around it.

"This is where I caught my first fish this morning," whispered Clay, as he put a nice fat worm on the hook and dropped it in the water.

Almost instantly the line tightened, and the slender rod bent. Clay gave a quick pull, and something shiny whizzed through the air, landing with a dull flop some yards behind the boys.

"That was a big fellow," exclaimed Clay. "It flew clear off the hook. Get it for me, Nugget, will you? I want to catch another."

Nugget obligingly dropped the hook he was baiting, and crawled on hands and knees into the thicket.

A few seconds later he burst out, yelling wildly for help, while a crackling of bushes behind him told plainly that something or someone was in close pursuit.

* * *

* * *

CHAPTER X

A TRAMP ACROSS COUNTRY

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."