The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frank Merriwell in Maine; Or, The Lure of 'Way Down East

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Title: Frank Merriwell in Maine; Or, The Lure of 'Way Down East

Author: Burt L. Standish

Release date: February 29, 2020 [eBook #61535]

Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL IN MAINE; OR, THE LURE OF 'WAY DOWN EAST ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Frank Merriwell in Maine, by Burt L. Standish

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

The cover image was repaired by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous right-thinking man.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—Frank Merriwell’s School Days

By Burt L. Standish

2—Frank Merriwell’s Chums

By Burt L. Standish

3—Frank Merriwell’s Foes

By Burt L. Standish

4—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West

By Burt L. Standish

5—Frank Merriwell Down South

By Burt L. Standish

6—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery

By Burt L. Standish

7—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour

By Burt L. Standish

8—Frank Merriwell in Europe

By Burt L. Standish

9—Frank Merriwell at Yale

By Burt L. Standish

10—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield

By Burt L. Standish

11—Frank Merriwell’s Races

By Burt L. Standish

12—Frank Merriwell’s Party

By Burt L. Standish

13—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour

By Burt L. Standish

14—Frank Merriwell’s Courage

By Burt L. Standish

15—Frank Merriwell’s Daring

By Burt L. Standish

16—Frank Merriwell’s Alarm

By Burt L. Standish

17—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes

By Burt L. Standish

18—Frank Merriwell’s Skill

By Burt L. Standish

19—Frank Merriwell’s Champions

By Burt L. Standish

20—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale

By Burt L. Standish

21—Frank Merriwell’s Secret

By Burt L. Standish

22—Frank Merriwell’s Danger

By Burt L. Standish

23—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty

By Burt L. Standish

24—Frank Merriwell in Camp

By Burt L. Standish

25—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation

By Burt L. Standish

26—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise

By Burt L. Standish

27—Frank Merriwell’s Chase

By Burt L. Standish

28—Frank Merriwell in Maine

By Burt L. Standish

29—Frank Merriwell’s Struggle

By Burt L. Standish

30—Frank Merriwell’s First Job

By Burt L. Standish

31—Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity

By Burt L. Standish

32—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck

By Burt L. Standish

33—Frank Merriwell’s Protégé

By Burt L. Standish

34—Frank Merriwell on the Road

By Burt L. Standish

35—Frank Merriwell’s Own Company

By Burt L. Standish

36—Frank Merriwell’s Fame

By Burt L. Standish

37—Frank Merriwell’s College Chums

By Burt L. Standish

38—Frank Merriwell’s Problem

By Burt L. Standish

39—Frank Merriwell’s Fortune

By Burt L. Standish

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To Be Published in July 1922

40—Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian

By Burt L. Standish

41—Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in August, 1922.

42—Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit

By Burt L. Standish

43—Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in September, 1922.

44—Frank Merriwell in England

By Burt L. Standish

45—Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in October, 1922.

46—Frank Merriwell’s Duel

By Burt L. Standish

47—Frank Merriwell’s Double Shot

By Burt L. Standish

48—Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in November, 1922.

49—Frank Merriwell’s Confidence

By Burt L. Standish

50—Frank Merriwell’s Auto

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in December, 1922.

51—Frank Merriwell’s Fun

By Burt L. Standish

52—Frank Merriwell’s Generosity

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in January, 1923.

53—Frank Merriwell’s Tricks

By Burt L. Standish

54—Frank Merriwell’s Temptation

By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in February, 1923.

55—Frank Merriwell on Top

By Burt L. Standish

56—Frank Merriwell’s Luck

By Burt L. Standish

Frank Merriwell in Maine

OR,

THE LURE OF ’WAY DOWN EAST

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous MERRIWELL STORIES.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1898

By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell in Maine

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign

languages, including the Scandinavian.

FRANK MERRIWELL IN MAINE.

CHAPTER I.

A LIVELY TIME.

Chu! chu! chu!

The sound came from the exhaust pipe of the little steamer.

“Chew! chew chew!” grunted Bruce Browning, lazily looking up at the escaping steam. “Do you know what that makes me think of?”

“Vot?” asked Hans Dunnerwust, who did not like the glance that Browning gave him, and who felt mentally sore because he had been laughed at for trying to get sauerkraut for breakfast. “Vat vos id you makes id t’ink uf?”

“Of the time you kicked that hornet’s nest, supposing it to be a football.”

“Py shimminy, uf dot feetpall did gick me und gid stung in more as lefendeen hundret blaces, id didn’t chewed me!”

“No, but you chewed the tobacco to put on the stings, and that old exhaust pipe sounds just like Merry, when he kept saying to you, ‘Chew! chew! chew!’—and you chewed like a goat!”

“Und peen so seasick vrom id! Ach! I vish dot dose hornets hat kilt me deat ven I stinged dhem.”

“Speaking of a goat,” remarked Hodge, “I saw one aboard a while ago. It belongs to the little boy that came on the boat with the lady as we were getting our things down to the landing.”

“Shouldn’t think they’d allow a goat on the steamer,” said Diamond, in disgust. “This isn’t a stock boat.”

“No, but it looks like a lumber van,” declared Browning, glancing about the deck, where some new furniture had been stowed, destined for Capen’s, or perhaps Kineo. “I guess it carries about everything that people are willing to pay for.”

“The man who can deliberately grumble on such a morning and amid such surroundings, ‘is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils,’” declared Merriwell, looking admiringly across the water. “Tell me if any of you ever saw anything finer.”

Frank Merriwell and a party of friends were on the steamer Katahdin, out in the roomy sheet of water known as Moosehead Lake. The Katahdin had left the town of Greenville, near the southern extremity of the lake, some time before. Its ultimate destination was Kineo, the objective point of many tourists, but it was to stop at Capen’s, or Deer Isle, to put ashore some supplies there, together with Frank Merriwell’s party, consisting of Merriwell, Bart Hodge, Bruce Browning, Jack Diamond and Hans Dunnerwust, all friends of his at Yale.

They had left Greenville in a thick fog, which had at length rolled away, giving them a view of surpassing beauty. The water crinkled under the light breeze like a sea of silk. The sky was of so clear a blue that the black smoke from the little funnel trailed across it like a blotch of ink.

All round were the lake’s grassy, timbered shores. In the northwest, the brown precipice of Mount Kineo lifted its hornstone face to a height of eight hundred feet. It was named for an old Indian chief, who lived on its crest for nearly fifty years. The volcanic cone known as Spencer Peaks rose in the east, while beyond them towered the granite top of Katahdin. In the southwest was the rugged head of “Old Squaw,” named for the mother of Chief Kineo, who dwelt on its top, as her son dwelt on the top of the mountain that bears his name.

Diamond glanced back toward Greenville, and sang, rather than said, “Farewell, Greenville!”

This started Frank Merriwell, who got out his guitar, put it in tune, then leaned back on the camp stool with which he had provided himself and sang:

“Farewell, lady!

Farewell, lady!

Farewell, lady!

We’re going to leave you now.”

Jack Diamond, who sang a fine tenor, joined him in the chorus, which in spite of its jolly words, floated over the water in a way that was almost melancholy:

“Merrily we roll along,

Roll along,

Roll along,

Merrily we roll along,

O’er the deep, blue sea!”

“That sentiment would be all right, now, if we were on one of those new-fangled roller boats,” observed Browning, “but it hardly fits the present occasion. I’d suggest that you change that to ‘skim along,’ or ‘steam along’; we’re certainly not rolling. There isn’t enough sea going on this old lake to make a birch canoe roll!”

Diamond did not seem to hear this. There was a faraway look in his eyes that made Merriwell wonder if Jack were not thinking of a girl to whom he had said farewell at Bar Harbor earlier in the summer.

Merriwell started another old song, whose music and words were sad enough to bring tears, and Diamond’s rich tenor took it up with him. It was a song of the friends of long ago, and the last stanza ran:

“Some have gone to lands far distant,

And with strangers make their home;

Some upon the world of waters

All their lives are forced to roam;

Some have gone from earth forever,

Longer here they might not stay.

They have found a fairer region,

Far away, far away!

They have found a fairer region,

Far away, far away!”

“I vish you voult quit dot!” implored Hans, digging some very fat knuckles into some very red eyes. “Dot make me feel like my mutter-in-law lost me. I feel like somet’ing gid behint me und tickle dill I cry.”

He was interrupted by a warning scream, in a woman’s voice.

“Here, Billy! Look out! Look out!” was shouted.

At the same instant there was a blow, a sound of smashing glass, and with a squawk of astonishment and fright, Hans Dunnerwust shot forward and into the air, as if hit by a pile driver. Something had “tickled” him from behind, in a most unexpected way. It was the goat, of which Hodge had spoken.

“Wow! Mutter! Fire! I vos shot! Hellup! Ye-e-e-ow!”

Hans clawed the air with feet and hands in a frenzy of alarm. Then he came down on the goat’s back and began to squawk again:

“Safe me! I vos kilt alretty! Somet’ings vos riting me avay! Hellup! Murter!” as the goat, frightened by Hans’ fall upon his back, made a forward dash.

Hans had been seated on a stool, which was a part of the new furniture stowed on the deck. A mirror leaned against this stool, the mirror being also a part of the furniture.

The goat was supposed to be kept somewhere below, but it had refused to remain there, and in its peregrinations over the vessel had finally wandered to the upper deck.

The boy had followed it, with the intention of taking it below again, but it had scampered by him.

Then it had suddenly become aware of the fact that there was another goat on the steamer. This new goat was in the mirror. The new goat looked pugnacious and put down its head in a belligerent way when the other goat put down its head. This was too much for any right-minded goat to endure, and so Billy made a rush with lowered head and smashed the mirror goat into a thousand pieces.

Fortunately it struck below Hans and merely hoisted him forward and upward. Its impact was like that of a battering-ram, and if it had butted him fairly in the back it would have inflicted serious injuries. Still though not at all hurt, Hans thought himself as good as dead, and bellowed right lustily.

The other members of the party sprang to their feet, quite as startled, while the boy raced across the deck to stop the goat’s mad career, and the boy’s mother screamed in alarm.

Hans’ fat legs flailed the air, as the goat made its rush, then he tumbled off, with a resounding thump.

“Hellup!” he roared. “Something vos kilt py me! I vos smashed indo more as a hundret and sefendeen bieces!”

Seeing he was not injured, his friends began to laugh.

Hans rolled over, gave them a hurt and angry look, then glanced in the direction taken by the goat.

It had faced about and now stood with lowered head awaiting the turn of events. Plainly it was bewildered. The disappearance of the other goat was to it a puzzling mystery.

“Ba-a-aa!”

Its warning note sounded, as Hans lifted himself on his hands and knees. He was facing the goat, in what the goat thought a threatening attitude. Billy’s fighting instincts were aroused and he was ready for any and all comers, whether they were goats or men.

The comical pugilistic attitude of Hans and the goat was too much for Frank Merriwell’s risibilities. He shouted with laughter. And even Bart Hodge and Jack Diamond, who seldom laughed at anything, laughed at this. Bruce Browning dropped limply back on his stool, haw-hawing.

“Yaw!” snorted Hans. “Dot vos very funny, ain’d it? Maype you seen a shoke somevere, don’d id? You peen retty to laugh a-dyin’, ven I vos kilt. Oh! you gone to plazes! I vos——”

The boy dashed by him toward the goat and Hans lifted himself still higher on his hands and knees.

This was too much for the goat.

“Ba-a-aa!”

Whish! Whack!

He made for Hans with lowered head, passing the boy at a bound, and struck a blow that tumbled Hans down on the deck. But the fire and force were taken out of the goat’s rush, for the boy caught him by his short tail as he passed, and gave the tail such a yank that the goat was skewed round and struck Hans’ shoulder only a glancing blow.

Hans went down in a bellowing heap, and the goat squared for another rush.

“Safe me!” Hans yelled. “You peen goin’ let me kill somet’ing, eh? Wow! Id’s coming do kill me again! Hellup! Fire! Murter! Bolice!”

Diamond picked up a rope’s end and gave the goat a whack across the back. It was like whacking a piece of wood. The goat did not budge.

The boy caught it by the tail. Hans lifted himself, and the goat, dragging the boy, made for him again.

This time Hans fell down without being touched.

Diamond leaped after the boy and sought to take the goat by the neck. It flung him off.

“Ba-a-aa!”

Whack!

That was the goat’s reply to Diamond for his attempted interference. The blow fell on Diamond’s legs, knocking them from under him, and the young Virginian promptly measured his length on the deck.

The goat wheeled again and struck at Bruce Browning, who was crawling off his easy stool. It missed Bruce.

The boy had lost his grip on the goat’s tail, after having been yanked about in a neck-breaking manner.

“Ye-e-ow!” screeched Hans, rolling over and over in a wild effort to gain a place of safety. “I pelief dot vos a sdeam inchine run py electricidy! Led id gid avay vrom me qvick! Somepoty blease holt me dill I gids avay vrom id! Hellup! Murter!”

Browning dashed to Diamond’s assistance, and was joined by Merriwell and Bart Hodge. But they could not hold the goat. It squirmed out of their hands like an eel and scampered to the other side of the deck.

Whish! Spat!

A stream of water from the steamer’s hose struck the goat amidships, at this juncture, and fairly bowled it over.

Some of the crew had decided to take a hand, and were now training the hose on the pugnacious creature.

The goat shook itself and lowered its head as if for the purpose of attacking this new foe. But it quickly changed its mind, and raced from the deck, followed by the stream, sending back a defiant “Ba-a-aa!” however, as it disappeared.

Hans climbed slowly and hesitatingly to his feet, ready to drop down at the first warning. He steadied himself on his fat, shaky legs, and looked round the deck with owlish gravity, as if he doubted the goat’s disappearance.

“Are you hurt?” Merriwell sympathetically asked, advancing.

“Vos you hurt!” Hans indignantly squealed. “Dunder und blitzens! I vos kilt more as sefendeen hundret dimes, alretty yet! I vos plack und plue vrom your head to my heels.”

“Diamond caught it, too,” said Browning.

There was a faint smile on his face, which Hans did not let pass unnoticed.

“Dot vos de drouble mit me! You didn’t nopoby gatch id! Uf you hat gatched it, id vouldn’t haf putted me down so like a bile-drifer! Yaw! You vos a smart fellers, ain’d id! You vos a plooming idiot, und dot’s vot’s der madder mit me!”

“Better hunt up the goat and shake hands with it, and tell it you didn’t mean it!” suggested Browning, who couldn’t keep back a smile and some pleasantry when he saw that Hans was really not hurt in the least.

Hans turned away in disgust and sought his stool.

“You don’t know a shoke ven id seen you!” he declared. “Uf you vos murtered pefore my eyes, you voult laugh!”

He turned the stool over and jammed it down on the deck, causing a shower of glass to fall.

Although thoroughly disgusted and angry, Diamond decided not to make himself ridiculous by showing it.

An officer came forward to look at the broken mirror, and a man appeared with a broom to sweep up the glass and throw it overboard.

Merriwell picked up his guitar and began to strum the strings, and soon he and Diamond were again singing, and the laughable, almost disagreeable incident seemed on the way to speedy oblivion.

Hans maintained a glum silence, however, till the steamer reached Capen’s, now and then rubbing some portion of his anatomy as if to make certain it was all there and not violently swelling as a portent of his speedy death.

The lady apologized for the unruliness of the goat, and paid for the damage done to the mirror.

“Here we are,” announced Merriwell, as the steamer rounded to at the boat landing at Capen’s.

The boy came on deck with the goat, leading it by a rope, and Hans dodged behind the Virginian.

“Uf I see dot feller meppe he gid his mat oop again,” he muttered, “und uf I don’t see me he von’t knew me!”

But the goat seemed now to be very peaceably disposed. It obediently followed the boy and was led ashore by him.

The furniture was landed at Capen’s, too; and soon the steamer, with a much lighter burden, was standing off toward the northwest in the direction of Kineo.

One of the first things Merriwell did when they were comfortably located in the hotel was to inquire for a guide. He had written to Capen, explaining his needs, and he found Capen ready to supply them.

Merriwell’s party was in the Moosehead Lake region, in the tourist season for sport.

Not sport with the gun, however, in the ordinary sense, for it was the close season on all large game; but for a few days of the enjoyment of camping out.

Merriwell intended to do his hunting with a camera, he said; and had brought with him a fine, yet small and handy camera, well adapted to his purposes. He did not desire to shoot any large game, but he hoped to be able to snap the camera on something of the kind that would be worth while.

Above all, however, they intended to lounge and loaf and enjoy themselves without unnecessary exertion, for the time was right in the middle of August; and in August it often gets very hot, even along Moosehead Lake, as they well knew.

Capen, when spoken to by Frank about the promised guide, announced that he was ready to furnish the best and most reliable guide in all that country, and sent for the guide at once.

He came, an Old Town Indian, bearing the name of John Caribou.

Merriwell looked him over and nodded his approval.

“I think he’ll do!” he said.

“Do!” said Capen. “You couldn’t find a better, if you should hunt a year!”

The other members of the party were in the room, closely studying the face and figure of the guide. They saw an Indian of more than ordinary height and strength, dressed in very ordinary clothing, with long hair falling to his shoulders. This hair was as black as a raven’s wing, but not blacker than the keen eyes set between the heavy brows and high cheek bones. The face was grave and unreadable, and the man’s attitude one of impassive silence. An observer might have fancied that the conference did not concern the Indian at all.

Capen offered to furnish the guide, two tents, two birch-bark canoes and supplies for the contemplated trip, for a certain sum, which was agreed to without haggling.

Then Frank Merriwell turned to the guide, who had, so far, not said a word.

“When can you go?” Merry asked.

“’Morrow,” said Caribou, with commendable promptness. “If want can go to-day.”

“He’ll be ready long before you are, gentlemen,” declared Capen. “I don’t doubt he could go in fifteen minutes should it be necessary. But I shall have to get an extra canoe which I can’t do before morning, as he knows, and with your permission I’ll send him for it.”

“Why didn’t he get us a white man?” grumbled Diamond when both Capen and John Caribou were gone. “Of course, it’s to his interest to brag about the fellow. I’m not stuck on Indians myself. It’s my opinion that you can’t rely on them; that they’re all right only so long as everything goes all right, and they’re treacherous, ungenerous and ungrateful. If our Indian guide doesn’t make us sorry we ever met him then I miss my guess.”

“I’m sure he’s all right!” asserted Merriwell. “I studied his face closely while we were talking. It’s Indian, to be sure, but there is no treachery in it. I’ll put my opinion against yours that we’ll find John Caribou as faithful, honest and true as any white man.”

Statements are not always convincing, however, and the Virginian remained unchanged in his belief.

Who was right and who was wrong? We shall see.

CHAPTER II.

DIAMOND’S ADVENTURE.

“Caribou is starting out well, at all events,” said Merry, speaking to Bruce Browning.

The guide had built a rousing fire, which had now died down to a bed of coals, on which he was getting supper, handling coffeepot and frying pan with the skill that comes from long experience in the woods.

The light of the fire flung back the encroaching shadows of night and sent a red glare through the woods and across the surrounding stretches of water.

Frank Merriwell’s party was camped on one of the many small islands in Lily Bay, in the southeastern angle of Moosehead Lake, not a great distance from the mainland, which at this point was well wooded.

The tall pines were visible from the island in the daytime, but nothing could be seen now at any great distance beyond the ring of light made by the camp fire.

The wind was stirring in the tops of the low trees of the island and tossing the waves lappingly against the sterns of two birch-bark canoes that were drawn up on the shore and secured to stakes set in the earth.

John Caribou rose from his task, and stood erect in the light of the fire, a long bread knife in his hand. He presented a striking appearance as he stood thus, with the red fire light coloring face and clothing.

“That fellow is all right, even if Diamond thinks he isn’t!” declared Merriwell. “I’m willing to bank on him.”

The hoot of an owl came from across the water. Caribou started at the sound, stood for a moment in a listening attitude, then, observing that he was noticed, he resumed his work of getting supper.

They had reached the island, coming from Capen’s, late in the afternoon. But their two small A tents were already in position, and everything was in readiness for an enjoyable camping time.

Though there were so many tourists at Greenville and Capen’s that Frank and his friends had begun to doubt that they would see any game at all round Moosehead Lake, their present location seemed wild and remote enough to satisfy their most exacting demands.

They had already discovered there were trout in the lake, and big, hungry, gamey ones at that. The odor of some of these, which Caribou was cooking, came appetizingly on the breeze. It was the close season for trout as well as game, but fish wardens seldom trouble campers who catch no more than enough fish for their own use, and Caribou had declared that he would assume all responsibility.

Frank Merriwell got out his guitar again after supper. And what an enjoyable supper it was! Only those who have experienced the delights of camp life in the odorous woods, with the rippling music of water and the song of the wind in the trees, can have any true conception of its pleasures. Cares indeed “fold their tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away.”

The shadows advanced and retreated as the fire flared up or sank down, some wild beast screamed afar off on the mainland, a sleepy bird hidden somewhere in the bushes twittered a sleepy response to the music of the guitar and the words of the song, and the note of the owl heard earlier in the evening came again.

Merriwell played the guitar and he and Diamond sang until a late hour, when all retired, to speedily fall asleep. The night was well advanced, and there was a light mist on the face of the water, when Diamond roused up, pushed aside the canvas flap of the tent and looked out. The moonlight fell faintly.

The young Virginian had a feeling that something or somebody had disturbed him. Unable to shake this off, he crept softly into his clothing and slipped out of the tent. The fire had died down, but some coals still glowed in the bed of ashes.

He was about to put wood on these, when he heard a rustling.

“What was that?” he asked himself, turning quickly.

Then he saw the form of a man stealing away from the vicinity of the camp.

“That’s the guide,” he whispered, his suspicions instantly aroused. “Now, I wonder what he’s up to?”

He saw the form melting into the darkness, and wondered if he should call Merriwell or some member of the party.

“No, I’ll look into this thing myself!” he decided.

He had no weapon save a pocket knife; but, nevertheless, he set out after the gliding form he supposed to be the guide.

“I must be careful, or I’ll miss him!” he thought, stopping when clear of the camp. “He walks like a shadow.”

He heard the bushes rustle, and, guided by the sound, hurried on, and soon came again in sight of the stealthy figure. He was still sure it was the guide, and was much exercised as to why the man should be astir at that hour of the night.

Straight across the island went the man, with Diamond hanging closely behind.

“He’s gone!” Diamond whispered, in astonishment, stopping again in the hope that other sounds would guide him.

When he had listened for full two minutes, he heard a splash like the dipping of a paddle blade in the water. It was at one side and some distance away.

He dashed through the bushes and stood on the shore of the lake. A canoe was vanishing in the mist.

“That rascally guide is up to some dirt, sure as I live!” he muttered. “I’ll just go back and rouse up the boys, and when he returns we’ll demand an explanation!”

With this resolution, he started back across the island, puzzling vainly over the guide’s queer actions.

Scarcely had he left the shore when he tripped and fell.

“Chug!”

“Spt! Spt! Gr-r-r!”

The first sound was made by Diamond dropping into a hole between some roots or rocks; the other sounds revealed to him the unpleasant fact that he had tumbled into some den of wild animals.

“Goodness! what can they be?” he cried, scrambling out with undignified haste and retreating toward the high rock that he saw towering just at hand. “Wildcats, maybe! They sound like cats!”

There was a scratching and rattling of claws and an ugly-looking brute poked up a round, catlike head and stared at him with eyes that shone very unpleasantly in the moonlight.

Jack Diamond was not a person to scare easily, even though he was unarmed.

Another head appeared close by the first; then the two big cats crawled out on the ground, and sat erect like dogs, looking hard at him.

They were right in the path he desired to take.

“If I had a gun, I’d have the hide of one of you for your impudence!” he thought, returning their look with interest. “It would make a pretty rug, too.”

As he studied them, the knowledge came to him that they were the ferocious lynx called by the French Canadians loo-sevee—loup-cervier. There was a silky fringe on the tips of their ears, and they had heavy coats, sharp claws and cruel teeth.

Having decided that they were loup-cerviers, and believing that he had tumbled into their den, where were possibly some young, the Virginian, courageous as he was, lost much of his desire to fight.

He began to retreat, thinking to make a circuit and pass them.

“We’ll have fun with you in the morning!” he muttered. “There’s never any close season against loup-cerviers.”

But the lynxes seemed quite willing that the fun should begin then and there. As he retreated, they advanced, convinced, probably, that he was cowardly.

Thereupon, Diamond backed up against the rock, and picking up a stick, hurled it at them.

“Gr-r-r!”

Instead of frightening them, they came on faster than ever, uttering a sound that was nearer a growl than anything to which Diamond could liken it.

The young Virginian did not like the idea of turning about in an ignominious flight, so he climbed to the first shelf of the rocky ledge, feeling with his hands as he did so in hope of finding something that would be a valuable weapon.

“If I ever leave camp again without a rifle, I hope somebody will kick me!” he growled.

The loup-cerviers came up to the foot of the ledge and sat down like dogs, just as they had done before; and there remained, eying him hungrily, and evidently determined that he should not pass.

“This is decidedly unpleasant,” was his mental comment. “I guess I might as well call for help. If I’m kept here too long, that guide will have a chance to get back and declare that he hasn’t been away from camp a minute.”

Then he lifted his voice.

“Yee-ho-o!” he called, funneling his hands and sending the penetrating sound across the island like the blast of a bugle. “Yee-ho-o! Come over here, you fellows, and bring your guns with you!”

That ringing call roused out the boys at the camp on the other side of the little island.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Browning.

Hans Dunnerwust drew back, shivering, and covered his head with the blanket.

“Oxcoose me!” he begged. “Shust tell dem dot you sawed me. I vos doo sick do gid up, anyhow. I don’d t’ink anypoty lost me, dot I shoult go hoonding vor mine-selluf. Oxcoose me!”

“That sounds like Diamond,” said Merriwell. “Is he gone? Hello! Jack old boy, are you in your tent?”

To this there was, of course, no reply.

“It’s Diamond all right, I guess,” said Hodge, tumbling out. “At any rate, he isn’t in his blanket.”

“Is anyone else missing?” asked Merriwell.

He looked around on the gathering company. John Caribou was there, and had been one of the first to appear.

Merriwell funneled his hands and sent back a resounding “Yee-ho-o!” Then he shouted:

“All right, old man; we’ll be with you in a minute!”

Hans Dunnerwust pulled the blanket down off his face and inquired timidly:

“Is I goin’ do leaf eferypoty? I dink somepoty petter sday py me till he come pack. I don’d pen britty veil!”

“Perhaps some one had better remain at the camp,” said Merriwell, with a wink. “Otherwise the wolves will come and eat up our provisions.”

Hans came out from under the blanket as if he had been suddenly stung by wasps.

“Vollufs!” he gasped. “Meppe dey voult ead der brovisions instit uf me, t’inkin’ I vos dhem! Shimminy Gristmas! Vollufs! Vy didn’t you tolt me dere vos vollufs on dis islant?”

Merriwell did not answer. Having sent back that call to Diamond, he hurried into his clothing. Then he ran from the tents in the direction of the calls, with John Caribou running at his side, and the other members of the party trailing behind.

“Vait!” Hans was bawling. “Vot made me in such a hurry do run avay from you?”

Then he heard the crashing of the bushes, and, thinking the wolves were coming, he picked up a gun and a heavy case of ammunition and hastened out of the tent.

“Vait!” he screeched. “Vait! Vait!”

He was in his white nightshirt, and his head and feet were bare. With the gun in his right hand and the heavy ammunition case tucked under his left arm, he was as comical a figure as moonlight ever revealed, as he wallowed and panted after his comrades.

“This way!” shouted Diamond, hearing their movements.

The big cats began to grow uneasy, for they, too, heard that rush of footsteps across the island, though the sound was still some distance away. One of them got up and walked to the foot of the ledge, as if it had half a notion to climb up and try conclusions with Diamond at close quarters. But it merely stretched up to its full height against the rock and drew its claws rasping down the face of the rock as if to sharpen them.

“Not a pleasant sound,” was Diamond’s grim thought.

The loup-cervier retreated, after having gone through this suggestive performance, and again sat bolt upright beside its mate and stared at the prisoner with shiny bright eyes.

But they became more and more uneasy, as the sounds of hurrying feet came nearer and nearer, and at last rose from their sitting posture.

Once more Diamond funneled his hands.

“Don’t come too fast,” he cautioned. “There are some wildcats here that I want you to shoot. You’ll scare them away.”

“All that scare for that!” laughed Merriwell, dropping into a walk. “I thought he was in some deadly peril.”

“I’m just wanting a wildcat,” said Hodge, pushing forward his gun to hold it in readiness. “No close season on wildcats, is there, Merry?”

“Think not,” Merriwell answered. “You go on that side with Browning and Caribou, and I will go on this side. Look out how you shoot. Don’t bring down one of us, instead of a wildcat.”

“Vait! Vait!” came faintly to their ears from Hans, who was struggling through the bushes, having fallen far behind in spite of his frantic haste. “Vai-t-t!”

As a seeming answer came the report of Merriwell’s gun.

One of the cats, scared by the noise of the approaching force, sprang away from the foot of the rock and scampered toward the cover of the trees. Merriwell saw it as it ran and fired.

Instantly there was an ear-splitting howl.

The other cat leaped in the other direction and was shot at by Bart Hodge.

The young Virginian descended from the ledge in anything but a pleasant mood.

“They’re loup-cerviers, and they had me treed nicely,” he said; “but you got one of them, for I heard it kicking in the bushes after it let out that squall. I tumbled into their nest a while ago and that seemed to make them more than ordinarily pugnacious. I came——”

He stopped and stared. At Merriwell’s side he saw John Caribou, and he had been about to announce that he had followed Caribou and seen him row out into the lake. Clearly he had been mistaken.

“What?” asked Merriwell.

“Better see if I’m right about that cat,” suggested Diamond, his brain given a sudden and unpleasant whirl.

He was not in error about the cat, whatever he had been about the guide. The biggest of the loup-cerviers was found dead in the leaves, where it had fallen at the crack of Merriwell’s rifle.

While they dragged it out and talked about it, the young Virginian gave himself up to some serious thinking. If that was not John Caribou he had followed—and he saw now that it could not have been—who was it?

The question was easier asked than answered.

However, he decided to speak only to Merriwell about it for the present, and began to frame some sort of a story that should satisfactorily explain to the others why he had left the camp.

Hans Dunnerwust came flying into their midst, dropping his gun and the case of ammunition.

“Vollufs!” he gurgled. “One py my site peen shoost now! I snapped his teeth ad me. Didn’d you see him?”

Hans’ wolf was the loup-cervier, which had run close by him as it scampered away.

“Only a wildcat,” Merriwell explained, as he turned to Diamond.

“A viltgat!” screamed Hans. “Dot vos vorser yit. Say, I peen doo sick do sday on dis islant any lonker. Vollufs mid wiltgats! Dunder und blitzens! Dis vos an awvul blace!”

CHAPTER III.

HANS GOES FISHING.

The next morning the ledge of rock was visited where Diamond had his adventure with the big cats, and he and Merriwell searched along the shore for some marks of the canoe in which the nocturnal visitor had made off. No young loup-cerviers were found, though a hole was discovered between some roots near the base of the rock, which the cats had no doubt used.

“I don’t understand it,” the young Virginian admitted, referring to the man he had seen sneak away from the camp. “The only thing I can imagine is that it must have been some one who hoped to steal something.”

“Yes,” said Merriwell, thinking of the suspicions Diamond had harbored against the guide. “Do you suppose Caribou could give us any ideas on the subject, if we should tell him about it?”

“Don’t tell him,” advised Diamond, who still clung to the opinion that John Caribou was not “square.”

The coming of daylight drove away the terrors that had haunted Hans Dunnerwust during the night. He became bold, boastful, almost loquacious.

When the sun was an hour high and its rays had searched out and sent every black shadow scurrying away, Hans took a pole and line and some angle worms and went out to a rocky point on the lake, declaring his intention of catching some trout for dinner. He might have had better luck if he had pushed off the shore in one of the canoes and gone fly fishing: but no one wanted to go with him just then, and he was afraid to trust himself alone in a canoe, lest he might upset. This was a very wholesome fear, and saved Merriwell much anxiety concerning the safety of the Dutch lad.

“Yaw!” grunted Hans, after he had found a comfortable seat and had thrown his baited hook into the water. “Now ve vill haf some veeshes. I don’d peen vrightened py no veeshes. Uf I oben my moud and swaller do dot pait mit der hook on id, den der veeshes run mit der line and blay me!”

He had slipped a cork on the line. The cork gave a downward bob and disappeared for a moment in the water.

But before Hans could jerk, it came to the surface; where it lay, without further movement.

“Dose veeshes vos skeered py me, I subbose!” soliloquized Hans, eying the cork and ready to jerk the moment it appeared ready to dip under again.

Finally he pulled out the hook and, to his delight and surprise, found that the bait was gone.

“Hunkry like vollufs!” he said; then glanced nervously around, as if he feared the very thought of wolves might conjure up the dreaded creatures. “Vell, I vill feed mineselluf again mit anodder vorm.”

Baiting the hook he tossed it again.

Hardly was the cork on the wave when it went under. Instantly Hans gave so terrific a jerk that the hook went flying over his head and lodged in the low boughs of a cedar.

“A troudt!” gurgled Hans, in a perfect spasm of delight. “Vot I tolt you, eh? A trout gid me der very virst jerk! Who vos id say dose veesh coultn’t gadch me?”

A little horned pout, or catfish, about three inches long, was dangling at the end of the line. It had swallowed the hook almost down to its tail.

Hans Dunnerwust’s fat hands fairly shook as he disengaged the line and tried to get the hook out of the pout’s mouth.

“Wow! Dunder und blitzens!” he screeched, dropping the pout with surprising suddenness and executing a war dance on the shore, while he caressed one of his fingers from which oozed a tiny drop of blood.

“Shimminy Gristmas! I ditn’d know dot dose troudt had a sdinger like a rattlesnake. I vost kilt!”

He hopped up and down like a toad on hot coals.

“Hello! What’s the matter?”

Frank Merriwell came round the angle of the rocky shore at that moment, seated in one of the canoes.

“Why are you dancing?” he asked.

Hans subdued the cry that welled to his lips, trying to straighten his face and conceal every evidence of pain.

“I shust caught a troudt,” he declared, with pride, “und scracht mineselluf der pushes on.”

He held up the little horned pout that was still on the hook.

Merriwell propelled the prow against the shore and leaped out, drawing the canoe after him.

“Yes; that’s a fine fish,” he admitted, trying to repress a smile of amusement.

Hans was so jubilant and triumphant that it seemed a pity to undeceive him.

“Und dot hunkry!” cried Hans, forgetting the pain. “He vos more hunkrier as a vollufs. See how dot pait ead him und den dry do svaller der line. I don’d know, py shimminy, how I dot hook gid oudt uf my stomach!”

“Cut it open,” Merriwell advised.

“My stomach? Und me alife und kickin’ like dot? Look oudt! Dot troudt haf got a sdinger apout him some blace.”

Merriwell gave the pout its quietus by rapping it with a stick on the head, and then watched Hans’ antics during the cutting out of the hook.

“Uf dey are hunkry like dot,” said Hans, tossing the line again into the water, “ve vill half more vor dinner as der troudt can ead.”

“Spit on the bait,” suggested Merriwell. “It makes the angle worm wiggle and that attracts the fish. If you had some tobacco to chew I expect you could catch twice as many.”

Hans made a wry face.

“Oxcoose me! I vos—— Look oudt!” he squawked, giving the line another terrific jerk. “Shimminy Gristmas! Did you seen dot? Dot cork vent oudt uf sight shust like a skyrocket.”

The bait was still intact and he tossed in the line again.

“Dere must be a poarting house down dere someveres dot don’t half much on der taple, py der vay dose troudt been so hunkry,” the Dutch boy humorously observed. “Look oudt! he vos piting again!”

He gave another jerk, and this time landed a pout double the size of the first.

His “luck” continued, to his unbounded delight; and in a little while he had a respectable string of fish.

“Who told me I couldn’t veesherman?” he exultantly demanded, struggling to his feet and waddling as fast as he could go to where the last pout was flopping on the grass. “He haf swallered dot hook again clean to his toes. Efery dime I haf do durn mineselluf inside oudt to gid der hook!”

The horns of the pout got in their work this time, and Hans stumbled about in a lively dance, holding his injured hand.

“Dose troudt sding like a rattlesnake,” he avowed. “Der peen leetle knifes py der side fins on, und ven he flipflop I sdick does knifes indo him. Mine gootness! Id veel vorser as a horned!”

“Shall I send for John Caribou?” asked Merriwell. “He has some tobacco.”

Hans glanced at him in a hurt way, then extracted the hook, put on another worm, and resumed his fishing.

A pout bit instantly, and Hans derricked it out as before; but the line flew so low this time that it caught Hans about the neck, and the pout dropped down in front, just under his chin, where it flopped and struggled in liveliest fashion.

“Dake id off!” Hans yelled. “Dake id off!”

Merriwell tried to go to his assistance, but only succeeded in drawing the line tighter about Hans’ neck.

“If you’ll stand still a minute, I can untangle the line, but I can’t do anything while you’re threshing about and screeching that way,” he declared.

The pout flopped up and struck Hans in the face, and thrust the point of one of its fins into his breast as it dropped back.

This was too much for the Dutch boy’s endurance, and the next moment he was rolling on the ground, meshing himself more and more in the snarl of the line, and getting a fresh jab from one of the pout’s stingers at each revolution.

“Hellup! Fire! Murter!” he yelled.

Finally the pout was broken loose, and Merriwell succeeded in making Hans understand that the dreaded stingers could no longer trouble him.

Hans sat up, a woe-begone figure. He was bound hand and foot by the line as completely as Gulliver was bound by the Lilliputians.

“Are you much hurt?” Merriwell asked.

“Much hurted?” Hans indignantly snorted. “I vos kilt alretty! Dose knifes peen sduck in me in more as sefendeen hundret blaces. Bevore dose troudt come a-veeshin’ vor me again I vill break my neck virst.”

It was impossible to untie the line, so Merriwell took out his knife and cut it.

“This was an accident,” he said. “I shan’t say anything about it to the others. Take the fish to camp, and we’ll have them for dinner. They’re good to eat.”

As indeed they were.

Thereupon Hans’ courage came back. He washed his hands and face in the lake, carefully strung the pouts on a piece of the severed line, then waddled to camp with them, with all the proud bearing of a major-general.

Frank Merriwell sat for a time on the point of rock, looking out across Lily Bay. Then he started, as the sound of the deep baying of hounds came to him from the mainland.

“They’re after some poor deer, probably,” was his thought. “The only way to make a deerhound pay attention to the close season is to tie him to his kennel.”

Though the sounds drew nearer, the dogs were concealed from view in the woods of the mainland by a bend of the island.

At last there arose such a clamor that Merriwell entered the canoe and paddled quickly round the point in the direction of the sound.

He came on a sight that thrilled him. A large buck, with a finely-antlered head, had taken to the water to escape the hounds, and was swimming across an arm of the bay, with the dogs in close pursuit. Only the heads of the dogs were visible above the water, but he saw that they were large and powerful animals.

At almost the same moment Merriwell beheld John Caribou rush down the opposite shore and leap into a canoe—the other canoe belonging to the camping party.

“What can Caribou have been doing over on the mainland?” thought Frank. “Oh, yes; probably looking for another camping place, for we were talking about changing last night.”

Caribou cried out to the hounds, trying to turn them from their prey; and, failing in this, he pushed out in the canoe and paddled with all speed toward the buck.

The hounds had overtaken it, and it had turned at bay, having found a shallow place where it could get a footing.

The largest hound swam round and round it, avoiding its lowered head; then tried to fasten on its flanks.

The buck shook it off, and waded to where the water was still shallower, in toward the shore.

The dogs followed, circling round and round.

Caribou shouted another command and paddled faster than ever.

The shout of the guide and the buck’s deadly peril now caused Frank Merriwell to push out also, and soon he was paddling as fast as he could toward the deer and the dogs. But the separating distance was considerable.

The shallower water aided the biggest hound, for it got a footing with its long legs and sprang at the buck’s throat. The buck shook the hound off and struck with its antlers.

“That’s it!” Merriwell whispered, excitedly. “Give it to them!”

The attacks of the three dogs kept the buck turning, but it met its assailants with great gallantry and spirit. When the big hound flew at its throat again, it got its antlers under him and flung him howling through the air, to strike the water with a splashing blow and sink from sight.

“Good enough!” cried Merriwell. “Do it again!”

The other hounds seemed not in the least bit frightened by this mishap to their comrade, but crowded nearer, trying to get hold of the buck’s throat.

The big hound came to the surface almost immediately, none the worse for its involuntary flight and submergence, and swam back to the assault.

Merriwell looked at Caribou, who was now standing up in the canoe and sending it along with tremendous strokes.

“Hurrah!” Merry cried, not taking time to stop, however. “I’m coming, Caribou, to help you.”

The largest hound again flew at the buck’s throat, while one of the others, getting a foothold, climbed to the buck’s back.

But the advantage of the hounds was only temporary. The big hound was again caught on those terrible antlers, impaled this time, and when it was hurled through the air to sink again on the lake it did not rise.

The hound that still remained in the water in front of the buck, now caught the latter by the nose, and the buck fell with a threshing sound. It rose, though, shaking off both hounds.

“Hurrah!” screamed Merry, sending his canoe skimming over the water. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

So admirable and plucky was the fight the buck was making that he was fairly wild with admiration and delight.

John Caribou was close to the buck, and still standing up in his canoe.

The hound that caught the buck by the nose now received a thrust that tore open its side and put him out of the fight; but the other one again leaped to the buck’s hip and hung there, refusing to be dislodged.

At this hound John Caribou struck with his heavy paddle.

The blow was a true one. It tumbled the hound into the water, where the guide came near following.

While Caribou sought to recover his balance, the buck, mistaking him for a new enemy, turned on him and made a savage dash that hurled him from the canoe.

Frank Merriwell was now so near that he could see the buck’s fiery eyes, note the ridging of hair along its spine, and could hear its labored and angry breathing. Its tongue protruded and was foam-flecked.

Caribou tried to seize the sides of the canoe as he went down, but the effort only served to hurl it from him, and send it spinning out into the lake.

The buck put down its head for a rush; while the hound that the guide had struck with the paddle blade did not try to renew the fight, but began to swim toward the shore, which was not distant.

“Look out!” cried Merriwell, warningly.

Caribou heard the cry, saw the antlers go down and tried to dive. But he was not quick enough. Before he was under water the buck struck him a vicious blow.

Though half stunned, he clutched it by the antlers, to which he clung desperately, while the buck struck him again, this time with one of its sharp hoofs.

Caribou, realizing that his life was in peril, tried to get out his knife, but the enraged and crazed buck bore him backward with so irresistible a rush that Caribou was kept from doing this. Then he went under the water again.

This time the buck seemed determined to hold him down till he was drowned. Merry saw the guide’s hands and feet beating the water, and knew from their motions that he was rapidly weakening.

“I’m coming!” he shouted, though he must have known that the guide could hardly hear or comprehend.

With one deep pull on the paddle he put the canoe fairly against the buck; then rising to his feet, he brought the blade down with crushing force across the animal’s spine.

The buck half fell into the water and the antlered head was lifted.

When John Caribou came to the surface Merriwell clutched him by the hair and pulled him against the side of the canoe, regardless of the buck’s threatening attitude. Then, seeing that Caribou was drowning, he lifted him still higher, so that the water no longer touched Caribou’s face and head.

The buck put down its horns as if it meditated another rush. Merriwell remained quiet, holding the guide’s dripping head. He had a rifle in the bottom of the canoe, but he did not wish to use it unless driven to kill the buck in self-defense. More than all else he did not want to let go of the guide.

The buck stood for a moment in this pugilistic attitude; then, understanding it was not to be attacked, it turned slowly and waded toward the land.

The hound that had preceded it had disappeared, and the other two were dead.

“How are you feeling, Caribou?” Merry anxiously asked, drawing the guide’s head still higher.

There was no answer, and Merriwell lifted the guide bodily into the canoe. Great caution was required to do this, together with the expenditure of every ounce of strength that Merriwell possessed.

A ringing and encouraging cheer came from the shore of the island, where the other members of the party had gathered, drawn by the baying of the hounds and the noise of the subsequent fight.

Merriwell had no power of lung to send back a reply. Instead he sank down by Caribou’s side and began an effort to restore him to consciousness.

This was successful in a little while. The guide opened his black eyes and stared about, then tried to get up. He comprehended at once what had occurred, and a look of gratitude came to his dark face.

“You’re worth a dozen drowned men,” announced Merry, in his cheeriest voice. “If you can lie in that water a little while without too much discomfort, I’ll try to catch your canoe with this one. The waves are carrying it down the bay.”

John Caribou did not seem to hear this. His eyes were fixed on Merry’s face.

“Caribou, him not forget soon! Not forget soon!”

Only a few words, but they were said so earnestly that Merriwell could not fail to understand the deep thankfulness that lay behind them.

CHAPTER IV.

HANS DUNNERWUST SHOOTS A DEER.

Two days later Merriwell’s party moved from the island to a high, dry point on the mainland, where the tents were repitched and where they hoped to spend the remainder of their stay on Lily Bay. It was an ideal camping place, and freer from mosquitoes than the island had been.

Hans told Merriwell quite privately that the stings of those island mosquitoes were almost as bad as the stings of the “trout” he had caught.

Except that the sun was torridly hot during the midday hours, the weather was almost perfect. The skies were clear and blue, the bay placid. Trout, genuine trout, took the hook readily. The canoeing was all that could be desired. Merriwell, too, had secured some splendid views of wild life with his ever-ready camera. One of the finest of these was a trout leaping. When developed, the photograph showed the trout in the air above the surface of the lake, with the water falling from it in silvery drops, and its scales glinting in the sunlight.

Another fine view was a moonlight scene of a portion of Lily Bay, from the headland where Hans had done his fishing.

“I shall always regret that I didn’t snap the camera on that buck while he was making such a gallant fight against those dogs,” Merriwell often declared. “That would have been great. But really, I was so excited over the buck’s peril that I entirely forgot that I had a camera.”

But he had caught other scenes and views, that were highly satisfactory, if they did not quite compensate for the fine scene of the combat between the hounds and the buck. Whose the hounds were they had no means of knowing, but Caribou suggested that they probably belonged to a gentleman who had a cottage not far from Capen’s.

Highly as Merriwell regarded John Caribou, there could be no doubt that there was something mysterious about his movements. Merriwell had once seen him steal out of camp in the dead of night, an act for which the guide had no adequate explanation when questioned. In fact, Merriwell’s questioning threw Caribou into singular confusion.

The day the camp was moved, Jack Diamond saw the guide meet a stranger in the woods, to whom he talked for a long time in the concealment of some bushes, in a manner that was undeniably surreptitious. Still, Merry clung to his belief in the guide’s honesty.

Hans Dunnerwust had become valiant and boastful since his great success at catching “trout.” He wanted to further distinguish himself.

“Uf I could shood somedings!” Merriwell once overheard him say in longing tones.

This remark, which Hans had only whispered to himself, as it were, came back to Merriwell with humorous force a couple of days after the setting up of the camp on the mainland.

“If only Hans could have come across this!” he exclaimed.

It was a dead doe lying in the woods not far from the camp. It had been shot, and after a long run had died where Merriwell had found it, nor had it been dead a great while.

“The work of poachers,” said Merriwell, with a feeling of ineffable contempt for men who could find it in their hearts to slaughter deer in this disgraceful and unlawful manner. “I wish the strong hand of the law could fall on some of those fellows.”

This was not the first evidence he had seen that poachers were carrying on their dastardly work around that portion of Moosehead Lake known as Lily Bay. A wounded deer had been noticed and distant shots had more than once been heard. He was beginning to believe that the dogs which had followed and attacked the buck belonged to these poachers.

After pushing the deer curiously about with his foot, Merriwell was about to turn away, when he chanced to see Hans Dunnerwust waddling down the dim path, gun in hand. It was plain that if Hans continued in his present course he could hardly fail to see the dead deer.

“Just the thing!” Merriwell whispered, while a broad smile came to his face. “If I don’t have some fun with Hans I’m a Dutchman myself!”

He put down his camera and rifle, and, lifting the body of the doe, stood it up against a small tree. By means of ingenious propping, he contrived to make it stand on its stiff legs and to give it somewhat of a natural appearance.

“It’s natural enough to fool Dunnerwust, anyway!” he muttered, picking up the camera and gun and sliding into the nearby bushes.

Hans came down the path, carrying his rifle like a veteran sportsman. He was looking for game, and he found it. His eyes widened like saucers when he saw the deer standing in the bushes by the tree.

“Shimminy Gristmas!” he gurgled. “Id don’d seen me, eidher! Uf dot deer don’d shood me, I like to know vot vos der madder mit me, anyhow! You pet me, I pud a palls righd t’rough ids head und ids liver. A veller can shood a teers dot don’d ged any horns, I subbose, mitoudt giddin’ arresded py dose game vardens! I vill shood him, anyhow, uf I can. Yaw! You pet me!”

He dropped to his knees, then began a stealthy approach, for the purpose of putting himself within what he considered good shooting distance. He was less than eighty yards from the game when he first saw it, but he knew so little about rifles that he doubted if his gun would carry so far. It is not easy for a fat boy to crawl stealthily sixty yards on his hands and knees, dragging a gun along the ground, but that was the task that Hans Dunnerwust now set for himself.

Merriwell, hidden in the bushes, shook with laughter, as Hans began this cautious advance. When half the distance was passed, Hans rose to a half upright posture and stared hard at the deer. This was an opportunity for which Merriwell had been waiting. He drew down on Hans the camera, but scarcely able to sight it accurately for laughing. The picture caught, showed Hans all a-tremble with eagerness, his mouth wide open, his eyes distended and staring.

Assured that his game was still in position by the tree, Hans got down on his hands and knees again and made another slow advance.

When no more than twenty yards separated him from the deer, he lifted himself very cautiously and drew up the gun to take aim. He was shaking so badly he could hardly hold the weapon. Merriwell focused the camera on him at this instant and caught another view of this great hunter of the Moosehead country.

As he took the camera down, he saw Hans trying to shoot the gun without having cocked it. Again and again Hans pulled the trigger, without result.

“If only some of the other fellows were here!” Merriwell groaned, fairly holding his sides. “He’s shaking so I’m afraid he won’t hit the deer, after all.”

He had arranged the deer so that the slightest touch would cause it to fall.

Hans put down the gun and anxiously turned it over. Then Merriwell saw his puzzled face lighten. He had found out why the weapon would not go off.

This time when he lifted the rifle it was cocked. Then he pressed the trigger.

When the whiplike report sounded, the deer gave a staggering lurch and fell headlong.

Hans Dunnerwust could not repress a cheer. He sprang to his feet, swinging his cap, and ran toward the fallen doe as fast as his short, fat legs would carry him.

“Id’s kilt me! Id’s kilt me!” he was shouting.

Fearing it might not be quite dead, he stopped and drew his hunting knife. It did not rise, however, it did not even kick, and, made bold by these circumstances, Hans waddled up to it and began to slash it with the fury of a lunatic.

“Whoop!” he screeched. “I god id! I shooded id! I vos a teer gilt! Who said dot Hans Dunnerwust coult nod shood somedings, eh?”

Merriwell trained the camera on him once more, as he stood in this ferocious attitude, with the knife extended, from which no blood dripped, and looked triumphantly down at the deer at his feet. Then Merry rose and advanced.

Hans turned when he heard the snapping of the bushes, and was about to bolt from the place, but, seeing that it was Merriwell, he changed his mind and began to dance and caper like a crazy boy.

“You see dot?” he screeched, proudly pointing to the dead doe. “Dot vos a teer vot kilt me shust now. Tidn’t you heered id shood me?”

Merriwell’s face assumed a look of consternation.

“I’m very sorry you did that,” he declared.

“Vy? Vot you mean py dot?” Hans gasped.

“The game wardens are likely to hear of it.”

The face of the Dutch boy took on such a sickly look of fright that Merriwell relented.

“But you didn’t think, I suppose?”

“Yaw! Dot vos id.” Hans asserted. “Id shooded me pefore I know mineselluf.”

“Perhaps it will be all right for you to take the head in to show the boys what you have done,” Merriwell suggested.

This was pleasing to Hans, and so in line with his heart’s desire, that he immediately decapitated the doe, and proudly bore the head into the camp, as proof of his skill as a deer-stalker.

CHAPTER V.

MOOSEHEAD EXPRESS.

“A moose!”

“Cricky! Isn’t he a fine one?”

“Him plenty big!”

The first exclamation was from Merriwell, the second from Bruce Browning, the third from John Caribou, the guide.

The three were in a canoe, which had been creeping along the wooded shore of a narrow arm of Lily Bay.

“Reach me the camera,” whispered Merriwell.

The camera was at Browning’s feet and was quickly handed up.

John Caribou was sitting in one end of the canoe as silently as an image of bronze.

The big moose that had not yet seen them, stepped from the trees into full view, outlining itself on a jutting headland, as it looked across the sheet of water.

Even the impassive guide was moved to admiration. A finer sight was never beheld. The moose was a very giant of its kind. With its huge bulk towering on the rocky point, its immense palmated antlers uplifted, its attitude that of expectant attention, it presented a picture that could never be forgotten.

Frank Merriwell lifted the camera, carefully focused it on the big beast and pressed the button.

He was about to repeat the performance when something stirred in the trees a hundred yards or more to the left, and Hans Dunnerwust came into view.

He did not see the canoe and its occupants, but he saw the moose, and he stopped stock still, as if in doubt whether to retreat or proceed on his way.

The moose had turned and was looking straight at him, with staring, fear-filled eyes. Then it wheeled with surprising quickness for so large a beast and shambled off the headland toward the water’s edge.

This increased Hans’ courage. He was always very brave when anything showed fear of him. He had been on the point of turning in flight, but now he sprang clear of the trees, and ran toward the moose with a shout.

“A teer! A teer! Another teer!” he screeched, waving has hand and his gun.

Merriwell snapped the camera on the moose as it scrambled down the slope.

“Might have another negative of it standing, if Hans hadn’t put in an appearance,” he declared, feeling at the moment as if he wished he might give the Dutch boy a good shaking.

But he had reason in a little while to call down blessings on the head of Hans for this unintentional intervention.

Frightened by Hans’ squawking and the noise he made in running, the moose dashed up and down the shore for a few moments, then took to the lake.

“There he goes,” whispered Browning, roused to a state of excitement.

“Plenty skeer!” said Caribou. “Sometime moose him skeer ver’ easy.”

“He’s going to swim for the other shore,” declared Merriwell, putting down the camera and then picking it up again.

For a few yards the frightened moose made a tremendous splashing, but when it got down to business, it sank from sight, with the exception of its black neck and head and broad antlers, and forged through the water at a very respectable rate of speed.

Merriwell focused the camera on the swimming animal and was sure he got a good picture, then put down the camera and picked up his rifle. He wanted to get nearer the big beast, and he knew he would feel safer with a weapon in his hands in the event of its urgent need.

“Fun now, if want?” said the guide, suggestively, looking toward the moose with shining eyes. “Much fun with big bull moose in water some time.”

“A little fun won’t hurt us, if it doesn’t hurt the moose,” responded Merriwell, who as yet hardly knew just what was in the guide’s mind. “Eh, Browning?”

“Crowd along,” consented Browning. “I don’t mind getting close enough to that fellow to get a good look at him. If it wasn’t out of season I’d have that head of horns!”

“Aren’t they magnificent?” asked Merriwell, with enthusiasm.

The guide looked at Merriwell as if to receive his assent.

Hans Dunnerwust had rushed to the shore in a wild burst of speed, and was now hopping wildly.

Suddenly he caught sight of Merriwell and the others in the canoe.

“A teer! A teer!” he shrieked. “Didn’t you seen him? He roon vrum me like a bolicemans, t’inking dot he voult shood me. Put noddings vouldn’t shood me oudt uf seasons!”

“I don’t know about that,” grunted Browning. “Fools, as game, are never out of season, and the fool-killer is always gunning for them.”

“Yes; go on,” said Merriwell to the guide. “As I said, a little fun won’t hurt us if it isn’t of a kind to hurt the moose. See how he is swimming! That’s a sight to stir the most prosaic heart.”

John Caribou did not need urging. He dipped the paddle deeply into the water, and the canoe shot away in pursuit of the swimming animal.

The moose was already some distance from land, and forging ahead with powerful strokes; but under the skillful paddling of the guide the canoe quickly decreased the intervening distance.

It was worth something just to watch John Caribou handle the broad-bladed paddle. He dipped it with so light a touch that scarcely a ripple was produced; but when he pulled on it in a way that fairly bent the stout blade, the canoe seemed literally to leap over the waves. Every motion was that of unstudied grace.

Browning could not remain stolid and impassive under circumstances that would almost pump the blood through the veins of a corpse. He grew as enthusiastic as Merriwell.

“See the old fellow go!” he whispered, referring to the speed of the moose. “He’s cutting through the water like a steamboat.”

The guide rose to his feet, still wielding the paddle.

“We’ll be right on top of him in a minute,” said Merriwell. “Look out there, Caribou! He may turn on us. We don’t want to have a fight with him, you know.”

Caribou did not answer. He only gave the canoe another strong drive forward, then dropped the paddle and caught up an end of the canoe’s tow line, in which he made a running noose.

He stood erect, awaiting a good opportunity to throw the line. The canoe swept on under the propulsion that had been given it. Then the noose left Caribou’s hand, hurled with remarkable precision, and fell gracefully over the broad antlers. Instantly Caribou grasped the paddle and whirled the canoe about so that the stern became the bow.

“Hurrah!” cried Merriwell, half expecting that the moose would now turn on them to give them battle. “That was a handsome throw. I didn’t know you were equal to the tricks of a cowboy, Caribou.”

The guide did not answer. Very likely he did not know the meaning of the word cowboy.

In another instant the line tightened, and they were yanked swiftly along.

“Towed by a moose!” exclaimed Browning. “That’s a new sensation, Merry!”

“Yes; this is great. This is what you might call moose-head express,” laughed Frank.

“It’s enough to make a fellow feel romantic, anyway,” grunted Browning. “Pulled by a moose on Moosehead Lake, with an Indian guide to do the steering.”

The moose was now badly frightened, and showed signs of wanting to turn around, whereupon the guide picked up the paddle and gave it a tap on the side of the head.

This brought a floundering objection from the scared animal, but it had, nevertheless, the desired effect, for the moose again started off smartly for the opposite shore, drawing the canoe after it.

The big beast did not seem to be tired, but it puffed and panted like a steam engine.

“That’s right, Caribou,” cried Merriwell, approvingly. “Just hang on and let him go. I don’t mind a ride of this kind. It’s a sort of sport we weren’t looking for, but it’s great, just the same.”

“Much fun with big bull moose in water some time,” Caribou repeated. “Drive big moose like horse.”

Then the guide gave them an exhibition of moose driving. By yanking this way and that on the line, he was able to alter the moose’s course, and that showed that he could turn it almost at his will.

Not once did the moose seek to turn and fight as Merriwell had thought he would do if lassoed. It seemed only intent on getting away from its tormentors, and appeared to think the way to do that was to swim straight ahead toward the land as fast as it could.

Hans was still hopping up and down on the shore, and now and then sending a screech of excitement and delight across the water.

After he had shown that the moose could be turned about if desired, Caribou let the scared animal take its own course. The distance across was considerable, and he knew the moose would be tired by the swim.

He held the line, while Frank and Bruce sat in their places enjoying the novel ride to the fullest extent.

Thus the canoe was towed across the arm of the bay, giving to our friends an experience that few sportsmen or tourists are able to enjoy.

As the moose neared the shore, Caribou severed the line close up to its antlers and let it go. It was pretty well blown, as the heaviness of its breathing showed.

Scrambling out of the water, it turned half at bay, as if feeling that, with its broad hoofs planted on solid ground it could make a stand for its life; but when the occupants of the canoe showed no intention of advancing to attack it, it gave its ungainly head a toss and shambled away, the severed end of the noose floating from its antlers.

Merriwell caught up his camera and snapped it on the moose before it entered the woods, so getting a picture of a moose fresh from a swim in the lake, with its shaggy sides wet and gleaming.

Then the moose broke into an awkward run, and was soon lost to view.

A half hour later, while they were still paddling along the shore, they heard a shot from the woods, in the direction taken by the moose.

“Poachers?” said Frank, questioningly. “Do you suppose somebody has fired at our moose?”

CHAPTER VI.

AN UNPLEASANT SITUATION.

That afternoon an eccentric figure came capering through the woods, bearing a strange burden. Perhaps capering is not the exact word to use, for the figure was that of a rotund and fat-legged boy, and it is hard for such a person to caper. Ever and anon this figure sent up a pleased exclamation or a cry of delight.

“Anodder teer’s head!” he shouted, when he came in sight of the camp. “A moose’s teer head this dime, I pet you!”

It was Hans Dunnerwust, and the burden under which he waddled was the head of a moose. He tried to hold it triumphantly aloft as he shouted his announcement, and while making this attempt struck a foot against a protruding root, and went down in a heap, the antlered head falling on top of him.

“Mine gootness!” he gasped, sitting up and rubbing his stomach, while he looked excitedly around. “I t’ought, py shimminy, dot somepoty musd hid me, I go town so qvick!”

His eyes fell on the head, and the pleased look came again into his face.

“I pet you, I vill pe bleased mit Merriwell, ven he seen dhis. Dot odder teer got no hornses, und dis haf hornses like a dree sdick up. Id must pe vort more as lefendeen tollar, anyhow!”

After climbing to his feet and assuring himself that he had not sustained any serious injuries or broken bones, he picked up the heavy head and again hurried on, giving utterance to many exclamations of pleasure and delight.

Hans had found the head hanging in the branches of a tree, in a way to keep it out of the reach of carnivorous animals. Had he not been looking for a red squirrel, that had gone flickering through these very branches, he never would have discovered the head, so cleverly was it hidden.

“Dot is a petter head as dot odder vun I got,” he had whispered, wondering dully how it chanced to be there, but not for a moment thinking of poachers.

There were marks on the earth and grass showing where the moose had been skinned and cut up.

“Dose vellers don’d vand der head,” was his final conclusion, “und day chust hang id ub here. Vale, I vill dake id mineselluf, den!”

Then he had fastened his knife to a stick and, after many futile attempts, had succeeded in cutting the string by which the head was suspended from the bough.

“Whoop!” he screeched, when he drew near the tent. “Yaw. See vot got me, eh? A moose’s teer head got me de horns py!”

It was a hot afternoon, and the sweat was fairly streaming from his round, red face. He was panting, too, almost as loudly as the moose had panted while it drew the canoe across the water.

Merriwell and Diamond came to the door of one of the tents, and Browning, Bart Hodge and John Caribou looked from the other.

A more astounded party would have been hard to find.

“Where did you get that?” asked Merriwell, thinking at once of the shot they had heard in the direction taken by the moose.

“Id is a moose’s teer head,” announced Hans, holding it up. “See mine hornses?”

“I can see that it is a moose head; but where did you get it?”

The other members of the party were as surprised as Frank and equally as anxious for an answer to his questions. The guide looked as if he might have given an answer himself, but he only folded his arms and stared at the head with shining eyes and impassive features.

“Pushes vos hanging to him in a dree,” said Hans, and then, in his own peculiar way, he proceeded to make them acquainted with the manner in which he discovered it.

He put it down on the grass in front of the tent, where it was closely scrutinized.

“Same moose we saw this morning,” declared Bruce Browning, very emphatically. “Do you see that peculiar turn of the horn there? I noticed that on the fellow that towed us. Some scoundrel has shot him.”

“There can’t be any doubt of that, I guess,” admitted Merriwell, in a grieved tone. “What a magnificent beast he was, too! It is a shame. I hope the rascal will be caught and punished, but I don’t suppose he ever will be. This is a pretty wild country out here.”

“I tell you what,” said Hodge. “Whoever killed that moose will come back for the head. Those antlers are worth something, and he won’t want to lose them. How would it do to hide out there and see if we can’t capture him?”

“The only trouble about that,” objected Diamond, “is that we’d have to take the scamp before some justice of the peace and waste a lot of time in trying to get him convicted. Nothing is slower than the law, you know.”

“See there!” exclaimed Merriwell, who had been closely examining the head. “He was shot in the head, just back of this ear.”

John Caribou pressed forward and looked at the bullet hole. He carried a rifle himself that threw a big ball like that.

Merriwell did not know whether to reprove Hans or not for bringing the head to camp, and let the question pass, while they talked of the dead moose and the poachers, and discussed the advisability of trying to capture those slippery gentlemen.

John Caribou disappeared within a tent and came out shortly with his long rifle.

“Where are you going?” Merriwell questioned. “Not after the poachers now?”

Caribou shook his head and held up his empty pipe.

“Tobac’ all gone,” he said. “No tobac’, Caribou him no good. Friend down here got tobac’. Come back soon.”

He waved the pipe toward the timber as if to point out the direction of the home of this friend.

There was an unfathomable look on Caribou’s face which Frank did not like. The guide had said nothing about being out of tobacco before that time, and the conviction was forced that this was merely an excuse to enable him to get out of the camp.

Jack Diamond, who had all along doubted John Caribou’s honesty, gave Merry a triumphant and questioning glance.

“I don’t think you had better go just now,” objected Merriwell. “We may need you here in the camp.”

“No tobac’,” said Caribou, doggedly. “Must have tobac’!”

He did not try to parley, but threw his gun on his shoulder and struck out for the woods.

“That fellow is up to some dirt,” averred Jack Diamond. “You mark my words now. He has plenty of tobacco. If I’m not mistaken, I saw him have a whole pouchful this morning.”

Merriwell wanted to defend the reputation of the guide, but he felt that he could not satisfactorily explain Caribou’s queer action.

“Let’s not judge him hastily. He has certainly been all that the most exacting could ask of a guide, and I don’t see why we should now conclude that he will act otherwise.”

That was as much as Merry could say.

Not having decided what to do with the head of the moose, it was permitted to lie on the ground in front of the tent, where Dunnerwust had put it.

Caribou had said he would be back soon, but the slow hours went by without bringing him.

“He’s up to some deviltry,” said Diamond. “I saw it in his eye when he started. Of course, I haven’t an idea what it can be, but we’ll know soon enough, I don’t doubt.”

To this Merriwell could not make a satisfactory reply. Still, he believed that John Caribou was all right, in spite of his strange actions, and so expressed himself, though he could not deny to himself that he was beginning to feel uneasy as the time passed without bringing the guide.

“There he comes,” announced Hodge, shortly before sunset.

Bart was collecting fuel for a fire. This was work devolving upon the guide, but the guide’s continued absence required them to set about preparations for getting supper themselves.

Merriwell, who was standing near him, looked in the direction indicated, where the form of a man was to be seen moving among the trees.

“Caribou’s coming,” he cried, putting his head into the tent where Diamond sat with Bruce Browning.

“It isn’t he, though!” corrected Hodge, almost instantly. “The chap is a stranger. Yes; and there are others with him.”

All the members of the party now came out in front of the tents and looked at the men emerging from the woods.

The men were armed, and came straight toward the camp. As they drew near they glanced with meaning smiles of satisfaction at the antlered head of the elk.

Merriwell did not fancy their appearance nor the way in which they stared at him and his friends.

As he looked at them, like a sudden blow came the intuitive knowledge that these men were game wardens. There could have been no more damaging evidence against a camping party than the head of a freshly slain moose found in the camp at that time of year.

“I could wish that moose head was in the lake,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s going to put us in a bad hole, if these chaps are game wardens.”

Still he maintained the utmost outward composure.

The largest of the men stepped forward, dropped a hand menacingly on his gun, and sternly announced:

“You are under arrest!”

Hans Dunnerwust gave a shriek of fright and dived into the nearest tent.

Diamond’s dark face flushed angrily, while Bart Hodge and Bruce Browning variously showed their surprise and displeasure.

“On what charge?” Merriwell demanded, though he did not need to ask.

“Killing game out of season,” said the spokesman, glancing at the head of the moose. “I am a game warden, and these are my deputies, and the law makes it our duty to arrest you.”

“Just a question,” interrupted Diamond. “Did anyone send you here to make this arrest?”

The officer hesitated, then, without answering, took out a pencil and a piece of paper.

“There is a reward, is there not, for information leading to such an arrest?” continued Diamond. “I am sure there is, so you needn’t answer that question if you do not choose.”

Merriwell did not need to inquire what Diamond meant by those interrogations. The belief had come to Diamond that John Caribou had hurried to these officers, and, for the expected reward, had told them that the people in camp on the shore of Lily Bay were poachers.

“Going into the business pretty bold,” observed another of the officers, discovering the head of the doe, which had been tossed out some distance from the tents. “A moose and a deer. Dead to rights on two heavy charges, anyway.”

“See here,” said Merriwell, striving to remain cool. “I will agree that appearances are against us; but I declare to you, just the same, that we are law-abiding people and not poachers. If you will listen to us we can tell you just how we came by both of those heads.”

“I’ll take your names first,” said the officer with the pencil and paper, in a skeptical tone.

The names were given.

“Frank Merriwell, Bruce Browning, Jack Diamond, Bart Hodge and Hans Dunnerwust,” read the officer, when he had penciled the names on the paper, “I arrest you for the violation of the game laws of the State of Maine, and shall hold you to answer accordingly.”

A gurgling speech of fear came from within the tent, where Hans was trying to hide himself under some blankets.

“Now I’ll hear your story,” said the officer, glancing at the sun, “but I warn you that we must be in a hurry, if we are to get very far on our way to-night.”

Merry reddened a little under this, in spite of his effort to keep from doing anything of the kind. The words were so palpable an indication that the officer did not intend to give the story credit!

As Merriwell had always been the soul of honor, it cut him to the quick to have his statement doubted thus in advance.

“I see that you have made up your mind against us already, Mr.——”

“Parker is my name,” said the warden, when Merriwell hesitated.

“I see that you have made up your mind to believe us guilty, Mr. Parker, in spite of anything we can show to the contrary, which you must admit is hardly fair.”

“It is not my place to decide whether you’re guilty or innocent,” said Parker. “The justice of the peace will do that.”

“I should like to see your authority for making this arrest,” demanded Diamond, firing up. “You say you are a game warden, but how do we know it? You won’t believe us, why should we believe you?”

Merriwell was intending to make this point, though in a milder way.

Parker merely smiled and drew another paper out of his pocket, which he handed to Diamond to inspect. It was a legal certificate of his official position.

“What is the penalty for violation of this Maine game law?” Hodge asked, as Diamond passed back the paper.

“One hundred dollars for each animal shot,” answered Parker.

“And an informer gets half of that for his information leading to the arrest?” said Diamond, with a keen look out of his dark eyes. “But you haven’t proved us guilty yet.”

“Pretty good proof,” declared one of the deputies, kicking the moose head. “Here’s the bullet hole, too!”

“I want you to take notice,” requested Merry, speaking to Parker, “that that hole was evidently made by a bullet much larger than anything our guns carry.”

“Not larger, than the gun shot by your guide,” was Parker’s reply.

“What do you know about him?” Diamond quickly asked.

“Your guide is John Caribou,” Parker answered. “I thought him all right, but he was seen to shoot a deer only day before yesterday. He is wanted, too.”

“Your informer was mistaken in that,” Merry very positively declared.

Diamond was bewildered. Parker’s statement was a puzzler and did not coincide with his idea that the guide had played into that officer’s hands. He knew Caribou did not shoot either the deer or the moose.

“You must be lying, that’s all,” he thought, looking the warden inquiringly in the eyes.

“Where are we to be taken?” asked Browning.

“County seat,” said Parker. “I’ll leave a man with your things here.”

“You haven’t given me a chance to explain how those heads happen to be here,” said Merriwell. “After that you may not want to hold us.”

Then he proceeded to tell why they had been brought into camp.

While making these explanations, Merry was so struck by the improbability of the account that he began to doubt if he would believe it himself, if he were in the game warden’s position. The discovery of the moose head by Hans would not have been an unlikely thing, but when to that was added the statement of why the deer head had been brought in, the entire narrative seemed to take on a fishy odor.

Parker’s face clearly showed that he thought the story concocted for the occasion.

“There’s one thing you didn’t tell,” he said, with some sarcasm, when Merriwell had concluded.

“What was that?” Frank asked.

“How you noosed the moose on the lake. One of my men saw you do that.”

“I didn’t think to mention that,” said Merriwell. “It didn’t occur to me that it had any particular bearing on the present case.”

“Why doesn’t this Dunnerwust speak for himself?” Parker asked. “I should like to have him show us where he found the moose head.”

“Hans, come out here!” Merriwell called. “The warden wants you.”

This was followed by a silence like that of the grave.

“Hans!” Merriwell sharply called again. “Come out here!”

“Maybe he’s sneaked out by the back of the tent and made a run for it,” one of the deputies suggested.

Parker stepped to the door through which he had seen the frightened Dutch boy disappear.

“By ginger, I believe you are right, Sam!” he declared. “He doesn’t seem to be in here.”

Sam darted to the rear of the tent, and Parker pushed in, followed by Merriwell, who knew that Hans was hiding.

“Where are you, Hans?” he asked, in peremptory tones.

Thereupon followed a movement of some blankets, and Hans thrust out his head like that of a turtle emerging from its shell.

He gave a squawk and drew the blanket over his head again when he saw the gun Parker carried.

“Oxcoose me! I ton’d peen to home this efening,” he chattered.

Merriwell drew away the concealing blanket, under which Hans tried to hide and to which he clung to the last moment.

There was a broad grin on Parker’s face. Hans’ terror greatly amused him, but at the same time it aided in convincing him that the party was guilty of the unlawful death of the moose.

“I peen sick py my sdomach,” Hans groaned, trying to stand on his shrinking legs. “Misder Game Varden, you don’d vos going to put yourselluf in chail, vos you? Dot mooses didn’t kill me; id fint my head ganging in dot dree. I hobe I may cross my heardt und die uf dot ain’d so!”

One of the deputies who had come to the tent door and now saw and heard Hans, broke into a roar of laughter.

“Vot vos dot vool laughing py me?” Hans snapped, his anger for the moment overcoming his fright.

“This officer wants you to take us to the place where you found the moose head,” said Merriwell.

He was thinking of Caribou, even as he said this, and vainly trying to find a reason for the guide’s strange departure and stranger absence.

Jack Diamond was also thinking of Caribou, while his heart warmed loyally toward Merriwell. He had not set his opinion against Merry’s because of any pig-headed obstinacy. It hurt him to think ill of the guide; still, he believed he was correct in his first opinion that Caribou was not a man to be trusted, and he was equally sure now that Caribou had sold the party into the hands of the game warden for the purpose of obtaining a reward. If the guide got fifty dollars for each man convicted and for each case against that man, he would receive five hundred dollars, an immense sum to such a man as John Caribou.

“I peen sick,” Hans alleged. “I don’d tink I coult fint dot dree again, so hellup me!”

“Hans will take us there all right, I’m sure, unless he should miss the way,” said Merriwell, turning to Parker, “but it’s too late to talk of leaving here to-night. We can stay in the camp till morning and make a good start then. I know that you are mistaken, that you are barking up the wrong tree, as the saying goes, but I’m not foolish enough to resist an officer. So, if nothing turns up to show you that you really are mistaken, we will go with you, but I beg that you won’t ask us to start till morning. Hans, show us now where the head was found.”

Merriwell was diplomatically fighting for time, which he hoped would bring the return of the guide. In spite of the fact that Parker said Caribou was also to be put under arrest, he had a hope that Caribou’s coming might bring a favorable change in the situation. He was forced to confess, though, that this hope rested on no very good foundation.

CHAPTER VII.

A BIT OF MYSTERY.

Under Merriwell’s urging, Hans Dunnerwust set out to conduct the party to the spot where he had found the head of the moose.

He went shrinkingly enough, and, as they drew near the place, he retreated in sudden alarm, squawking:

“Look oudt! I vos seen someding dot dree py!”

Glancing toward the tree indicated, the others saw the bushes moving, but could make out nothing else.

“Id vos a man,” Hans declared. “A man mit a gun. Shimminy Gristmas, if I shoult shood me, vot voult he do?”

“He’ll not shoot you,” assured Merriwell.

Bart Hodge started to run forward.

“I’ll bet it’s the fellow who killed the moose.”

Parker and all the others, prisoners and officers combined, followed Hodge at a lively gait; but when the tree was gained, no living thing was to be seen.

“He couldn’t have got away,” said the game warden, looking into the boughs as if he expected to see a man hanging from one, as Hans had seen the moose head. “That is, if it was a man. You are sure you saw something?”

This last was fired sharply at Hans.

“So hellup me cracious, a man mit a gun seen me dot dree py!” Hans solemnly asserted. “He vos vly away, I subbose, like a canary pird. Dot vos like a sbirit doo much do suid me, alretty yet. Oxcoose me! I vos vanted dot camp py!”

“Here’s something,” announced one of the deputies, prodding with his gun some object that hung from a limb.

It was found to be a piece of moose meat, hung up, as the head had been. A little search revealed other pieces of moose flesh, all of which the Dutch boy had overlooked. But nowhere could anyone find a trace of the man Hans claimed to have seen.

“Just some animal or other, nosing after the meat,” said Parker, with an air of conviction. “When he saw us, he scampered away, and that was what shook the bushes.”

The sun had now set, and the light was not good under, the trees, but the officers and the members of Merriwell’s party proceeded to look for some traces of the man, animal, or whatever it was that shook the bushes, and also to examine the ground where the moose had been skinned and cut up.

Merriwell had tried to keep his temper well in check, but he was growing more and more humiliated and angry. Some of the words dropped now and then by the deputies were peculiarly exasperating, but Merry knew how unwise and impolitic it would be to give these men any excuse for charging that he and his friends had “resisted officers in the performance of their duties.”

What hurt Merry more than anything else, though, was the conviction that was slowly being forced on him that John Caribou was not the honest man he had thought. The guide had been gone many hours, now, after leaving under circumstances that were strangely suspicious. Why did Caribou not return?

Merriwell recalled the exciting combat between the dogs and the deer on the lake, when he had saved the guide’s life. Had the guide forgotten that service so readily, after declaring that he could never forget it? It would seem so.

“But I shall not give up yet,” Merriwell concluded. “Things are looking black against John Caribou, but there may be a reasonable explanation for it all. It hurts me to lose confidence in a man in that way, and I shall not do it till I have to. He may have injured himself some way, or shot himself, for all we know.”

The game warden glanced at his watch.

“It’s getting dark in here pretty fast,” he observed. “I don’t see that we’re to gain much by all of us staying here longer. I shall stay, with Sam Best, to watch for that man. Dutchy may have been right, though I hardly think he was; but anyway, whoever hung up this moose meat, if it wasn’t our friends here, will come for it, and very likely to-night. I want to trap him.”

“Shall we leave the meat?” one of the deputies asked.

“Yes, just as it is. Get us something up to eat and send it over right away.”

Some of the deputies were still scurrying round through the undergrowth.

Merriwell chanced at that moment to glance toward Dunnerwust, and was bewildered by the look that he saw come into the Dutch boy’s face.

Hans had seated himself on a log not far from the tree, to rest and recuperate while the examination of the ground was being made. As for searching for the man, Hans would not have done that, lest he should find him.

A peculiar look of horror had crept into Dunnerwust’s face, which grew rapidly more pronounced.

What was its cause?

Hans had felt something reach out from the log on which he was sitting and press against one of his legs. He thought it the head of a snake and that if he moved it would strike him.

Whatever it was pushed gently against his leg for a moment, then pushed a little harder, after which the pressure was withdrawn. The movement was really such as might have been made by some animal in the log trying to shift to an easier position.

Hans would have leaped up and shrieked out, but that he was made too weak by that queer touch. Then the pressure returned.

It was unbearable. He could not stand it, even to save himself from snake bite. His heart gave a great bound, and, as it drove the chilled blood through his veins, his strength came back.

“Wow! Hellup! Fire! Murter!” he screeched, jumping up as if he had been touched by a hot coal. “I vos kilt alretty!”

As he did so, he felt a human hand come out of the log and clutch one of his legs. This was more than flesh and blood could endure. Instead of running he fell flat to the ground, where he rolled and kicked and shrieked in a way to raise the dead.

Excited cries came from the game warden and his deputies and from the members of Merriwell’s party. All rushed toward Hans.

Then the log seemed to become alive. It rose into the air, and a man appeared. The log had been only a shell concealing this man.

More surprising than all, the man was John Caribou, the guide!

Parker, rushing toward the guide, whom he did not recognize, however, in the semi-gloom, was struck by a piece of the shell which the guide hurled at him and staggered back, dropping the gun he seemed on the point of lifting.

John Caribou darted into the bushes and was swallowed from sight almost instantly.

A shot was fired by some one, and there was a hasty, pursuit, which amounted to nothing.

Merriwell was standing in a half dazed and wholly uncertain state of mind as the unsuccessful pursuers came back. What did it mean? What was Caribou doing there? Why had he run?

He could not answer his own questions.

Then he was made aware by the whirlwind of excited talk that no one else knew the man was Caribou. He had been nearer the log than any other person except Hans, and so had a good view of the man’s face and form, which the others had not.

“Caribou!” he inwardly gasped. “Shall I speak out or hold my tongue for further developments. I can tell it later if I think it wise; but if I tell it now, I can’t withdraw the statement should there become need. I’ll keep still.”

Hans Dunnerwust was rolling over and over on the ground like some speared animal.

“I vos nefer so tead as I peen dis dime,” he was gasping. “I vos pite mineselluf py a snake, and ead my leg mit a vilt cad, und shood mineselluf py a mans, und boison me drough und drough. Vill some vun kilt me do keeb me vrom dying dot snake-pite py?”

Hans was in a terrible state.

“Get up,” Merriwell commanded, “and stop that blubbering. The fellow is gone. You aren’t hurt in the least. Get up, I tell you. You are acting like a baby.”

“I vish I vos a papy,” Hans groaned. “A liddle pit uf a papy dot couldn’t valk indo der voods.”

“Must have been the poacher,” said Hodge, looking longingly toward the point where the man had disappeared. “I wish we could have put hands on him.”

“Perhaps our good friends will not judge us so harshly, now,” suggested Diamond, in the hearing of Parker and one of the deputies.

“Dutchy saw a man all right,” said a deputy.

“No use watching the tree now,” said Parker, regretfully. “He must have heard what we said, and he’ll never come back for that meat.”

“And it was John Caribou!” thought Frank Merriwell.

CHAPTER VIII.

JOHN CARIBOU PROVES HIMSELF.

What of John Caribou, fleeing through the woods in that mysterious manner?

When the guide left the camp, declaring that he must go for some tobacco, the statement was only an excuse, as Diamond supposed. Caribou had tobacco, plenty of it; but he was determined to get out of the camp, and that was the first thing that came into his mind to give as a reason for his contemplated action.

He was sure he knew whose gun had hurled that heavy bullet crashing through the head of the moose and he was resolved to see that person.

The slayer of the moose was also the slayer of the deer and the committer of the other violations of the game laws of Maine, of which Merriwell’s party had seen so many proofs since coming to Lily Bay.

When the hoot of the owl came, the first night the party was in camp on the island, Caribou had recognized it as an old familiar call. The man who had given that imitation of an owl’s hoot had slipped up to the camp later to have a talk with Caribou, and had been frightened away by Diamond. Later still, Diamond had seen him talking to Caribou, though they were so far away that Diamond could not tell much about the man’s appearance.

That man was a half-breed, known as Penobscot Tom, and he was John Caribou’s half-brother; who, though in color a shade lighter than Caribou, so resembled the well-known guide that he often had been mistaken for him. It was this man who had been seen to shoot at a deer, a misdemeanor which, it will be remembered, was charged against the guide by Parker, the game warden.

Penobscot Tom was a very different man from John Caribou. He was a restless, roving vagabond, a thief and a jail bird, a violater of every law he did not choose to keep. The white blood in his veins was all bad, or at least it had made him all bad.

He had been in the State penitentiary at Thomaston for four years, from which place he had only been released a short time. Caribou, however, did not know his half-brother was in the Moosehead region, or in fact out of prison, until he heard that familiar hooting of the owl. That was a call he and Penobscot Tom had used together in the woods in their boyhood days.

When afterward seen by Diamond talking to Penobscot Tom, Caribou had been vainly endeavoring to get him to say he would give up poaching or leave the country.

Straight for the brush hut in the heart of the woods, where he knew his half-brother was staying, John Caribou pushed when he left camp on that pretended errand for tobacco. He was resolved to again beg Penobscot Tom to leave the woods; and failing in that he hoped to frighten him away by telling him the game warden had found the head of the moose and was on his trail.

He had reached the hut, had made his plea, told his story, and again failed.

On his return trip to the camp, he had gone by way of the tree in which Tom had confessed he had hung the moose head and some meat.

There he had been seen by Hans Dunnerwust, and with his Indian instinct aroused by the exclamations and rush of the party, he had slipped for concealment into the hollow log, which was half buried in leaves and brush, but which he had noticed on coming to the tree.

The party of white men had remained at the tree longer than anticipated. One of his legs had been cramped, and in trying to ease it while Dunnerwust sat on the log he was discovered. Then he had dashed into the woods a great and manly resolve in his heart, and headed straightway again for the little brush hut.

He knew that Merriwell’s party was under arrest for killing the moose, a deed done by his half-brother. To his mind there was but one way to undo that wrong. He hoped that his identity was not know, but, regardless of this fact, he resolved to do what he now considered to be his duty, no matter what personal disaster it brought. On this he was determined, though it should send him to prison.

When a half mile from the tiny hut, he stopped and listened, then crept forward with stealthy, Indian tread. Advancing to the flimsy door he put an ear against it. He caught the odor of smoke. Penobscot Tom was smoking his evening pipe.

Without warning, John Caribou crushed in the door and threw himself on his half-brother. Both went to the floor together. Penobscot Tom, filled with fear and fury, fought like an aroused demon. He tried to get out his knife, but Caribou caught his knife hand and held it.

“Curse you!” Penobscot Tom snarled, trying to set his sharp teeth in Caribou’s throat, “I’ll kill you for this. You sneak, you wolf, you——”

The words ended in a choking gurgle.

Caribou’s hand closed on Penobscot Tom’s windpipe in a deadly grip, and forced him into semi-consciousness and speedy subjection. When he came round, he found his hands and feet tied, and Caribou in possession of his weapons.

Though John Caribou delivered Penobscot Tom into the hands of the game warden for punishment on the charge of killing the moose, a deed which Tom brazenly confessed when he saw he was in the toils, thus bringing the immediate release of Frank Merriwell and his friends, Caribou refused to accept any reward other than a mere recognition of the fact that he was a reliable guide and an honest man.

“A better guide, a straighter fellow, a whiter man, regardless of the color of his skin, doesn’t live,” declared Frank Merriwell, warmly taking Caribou’s hand at parting. “I shall never forget you, John Caribou, never.”

“We be friends, great strong friends, always,” said Caribou, with kindling eyes. “Some day we meet ag’in, mebbe, an’ have heap better time. Good-by!”

This was the only further conversation that Frank Merriwell had with the Indian for the present at any rate. He and his companions had decided that they had seen all that there was to see at Moosehead Lake and they determined to push on to Bangor. On their way to Bangor they stopped off at Brownsville. As they came up over the Maine Central Railroad they agreed to return as far as Milo Junction over the Canadian Pacific.

Barely had they left Greenville when Hans Dunnerwust was taken ill from over-eating, and, by the time Brownsville was reached, the Dutch lad was in such a serious condition that Frank decided to stop off and see that he was properly attended by a physician.

Thus it came about that two of our friends were found at the one hotel of the little town on Pleasant River a few afternoons later when a dudishly dressed city sportsman was exhibiting his rifle to the crowd gathered in the office of the hotel. Hans was in bed, attended for the time by Hodge; Diamond was out strolling around the village, while Frank and Bruce were admiring the rifle of the dude in the hotel office.

Sitting on a chair near at hand, languidly inhaling the smoke of a cigarette, was the companion of the fellow who owned the rifle. He also was a dudish-looking sportsman, and his friend called him “Cholly.” He had registered as H. Charles Gates. The other chap had registered as Archie Elmer.

“This wifle is not satisfactowy,” drawled Elmer.

“Did you say the rifle is not satisfactory?” asked Frank, in surprise.

“Ya-as,” drawled Archie.

“What is the matter with it?”

“Well, weally, to tell the twuth, it doesn’t shoot as well as I had evrwy weason to expect it would.”

“Oh, is that it? Who did the shooting with it?”

“I did, awve course, thir! Do you suppose I would allow evwybody to shoot my wifle?”

“Oh, certainly not!” smiled Frank; “but do you think you gave it a thorough test? What kind of an opportunity did you have to shoot it?”

“Well, it was not entirely satisfactowy,” said Archie, slowly.

“Perhaps if you gave it another trial, it might show up all right.”

“Waugh!” grunted a rough-looking man, whose face was clean-shaven, with the exception of a bunch of reddish-brown whiskers on his chin. “Let somebody try it who kin shoot an’ she may show up all right. I’d like ter have her. I’ll give forty dollars cold cash for her now, an’ take my chances.”

“Thir!” exclaimed Elmer, haughtily, “I paid two hundred and fifty dollars faw that wifle.”

“That may be; but, ef she won’t shoot, you can’t expect to git much for her. I dunno w’at ye’re goin’ inter ther woods this season with a rifle for, anyhow. You can’t shoot deer or moose, for this is close time.”

“My fawther is thending me into the woods faw my health,” explained Archie, frigidly; “and I expect to remain there till late in the awtumn. I shall have a chawnce to use a wifle before I weturn, thir.”

“Waal, ye want ter be dern careful not ter use it in close time ter shoot at deer with, though I dunno’s it’d make any difference, fer you wouldn’t hit northing with it.”

“Don’t talk with him, Awchie, deah boy,” put in Cholly. “Such coarse, ordinary persons are verwy inthulting.”

“Ya-as,” agreed the owner of the rifle; “they are awfully wude. Give me a cigarwette, deah boy.”

“Say,” grunted Browning, speaking in Merriwell’s ear, “if those chaps escape from the woods alive it will be a marvel. Somebody will surely shoot them as curiosities, and have them mounted.”

“The only thing that will save them is the fact that it is close time,” laughed Frank.

The man with a bunch of whiskers on his chin laughed hoarsely and derisively, turned a chew of tobacco in his mouth, and then spit a great squirt of tobacco juice upon one of Archie’s handsome russet hunting boots. Then, with his hands in his pockets, he slowly strolled out of the office, leaving Elmer gasping for breath.

“Oh, the wude w’etch!” cried the dude, angrily. “Just see, Cholly, what the nawsty cwecher did!”

“By Jawve!” fluttered Cholly; “that was a terriwble inthult, deah boy! I would have satisfaction, Awchie.”

“I will!” panted the owner of the rifle. “I’ll have it wight away.”

“Good gwacious!” exclaimed Cholly, hastily rising, while his face turned pale. “What desperwate thing awe you going to do, Awchie?”

“I—I’m going to—to tell that w’etch that he is no gentleman!” shouted Elmer, as he hastily followed the man from the office.

“Oh, Awchie is such a desperwate man!” came from the other, as he dropped back on the chair.

The men in the office laughed outright. Some of them started to follow the angry dude, but they met him at the door, returning with great haste.

“I did it!” he cried, but his voice trembled and he seemed to be shaking all over.

“Did you weally?” gasped Cholly. “And what did he do?”

“He spit on my other boot, by Jawve!” exploded Archie; and, sure enough, both boots were now well bespattered with tobacco juice.

The crowd roared with laughter, for this was the kind of humor that struck them as being very funny. Archie took out a delicate handkerchief and gently dried off the drops of cold perspiration that were standing on his brow.

“What dweadful cwechers these men are!” gurgled Cholly, gazing haughtily at the laughing crowd.

“They are, indeed,” agreed Merriwell, repressing his amusement with great difficulty; “and I fear you will find them even worse when you get into the woods.”

“Is it possible? Weally, Awchie, I don’t believe we had better go any further, don’t yer ’now. These cwechers awe too much faw a sensitive man to endooah.”

“I’m afwaid you awe wight,” agreed Archie, sitting down weakly. “I weally wish I were at home now, deah boy.”

“If you do not go into the woods, you will not need that rifle,” said Frank. “I will buy it of you.”

“I shall not sell it, thir, till I have given it anothaw twial,” said Elmer.

“Let’s go out and try it now,” urged Frank. “I’d like to shoot it some.”

“Weally, thir, I could not think of letting you handle it; but, as I want to get away fwom these wude cwechers, I will go out with you and show you how it shoots.”

“All right,” smiled Merry. “I’ll take my rifle along and do a little shooting, too. It is in my room, and I will bring it down immediately.”

“All wight; I’ll wait.”

Frank went up to his room and took his rifle from its leather case. It was a plain weapon, but was good enough for any ordinary purpose.

A few moments later four persons left the hotel and walked along the street. They were the two city sportsmen, Gates and Elmer, accompanied by Merriwell and Browning.

“Where shall we go?” asked Elmer, doubtfully.

“Let’s go up the river a piece,” suggested Frank. “We must get out of the village and be careful not to shoot in a direction that will put anyone in peril. These rifles carry a ball a wonderful distance, and they are deadly. Every year from one to three or four persons are shot by accident while hunting up here in the Maine woods. Some excitable individual catches a glimpse of something moving far away in the forest, and he bangs away without investigating. As a result, if he hits anything, he stands a good show of shooting a man.”

The city sportsmen looked at each other in alarm.

“Good gwacious!” gasped Gates. “We must go where no othaw persons will come, Awchie.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find that difficult,” said Frank; “for I have been told that as soon as the law is off in the fall, the woods are full of hunters from the Iron Works to the Canadian line on the north. They fairly swarm in here.”

“Cholly,” said Archie, “I don’t know as I want to go any further into these dweadful woods. It is too dangerous, don’t yer ’now.”

“That’s wight,” agreed Cholly; “I think we bettah wecooperate at Baw Hawbah, and keep out of the blawsted woods, deah boy.”

CHAPTER IX.

SOME SHOOTING.

Getting out of the village, they found a favorable place beside the river to try their rifles. Frank had brought along a board which he picked up as he was coming out of the village. It was a foot in width and three feet long. On the one end of this he fastened an envelope, and, with a lead pencil, he made a black circle as large as a silver half-dollar in the center of the envelope.

“There,” said Frank, as he leaned the board against a tree, “that makes a good target.”

“By Jawve!” exclaimed Archie. “It’s verwy small, don’t yer ’now!”

“Oh, that is large enough. We will stand down there by that knoll. That is a fair shot.”

“What?” gurgled Archie, astonished. “Why, that is a dweadful distance!”

He walked off about fifteen yards, and then turned about, observing:

“I weally think this is faw enough.”

“Why, it will be no job to hit that spot every time at this distance,” said Frank.

“Haw!” exclaimed Elmer, giving Frank a scornful look. “Anyone would think you are weally a cwack shot to heah you talk.”

“I do not claim to be a great shot,” said Frank; “but it would be an accident if I missed that black spot at this distance once out of fifty times.”

“I don’t believe you can hit it at all,” said Cholly.

Frank was standing with his rifle half lifted, the side of the stock pressing against his hip. He had silently cocked it, and now, without lifting it to his shoulder, he fired.

Both the city sportsmen uttered cries of alarm and jumped away.

“Good gwacious!” fluttered Gates. “Did it go awf by accident?”

“No,” laughed Frank. “I fired at that spot on the board.”

“But you didn’t take aim, thir!” palpitated Elmer.

“I didn’t take the rifle to my shoulder, as it was not necessary at this distance. That I hit the board is certain, for it has fallen down. I think you will find I struck the spot with my bullet. We will go and see.”

When they picked up the board, Frank showed them that the bullet had pierced the black mark very near the center. For some moments both city lads were overcome with astonishment, and then Archie said:

“It must have been an accident. Of course, you could nawt do it again, thir.”

“I think I could,” smiled Merry, coolly.

“Well, weally you must have a most wemarkable gun, don’t yer ’now. I think I will twy it.”

The board was put up again, and they returned to their former position. Archie attempted to shoot the same as Frank had done, but his rifle was pointing toward the top of the tree against which the board leaned when he fired. Of course, he did not touch the board.

“I nevah pwacticed that way,” he said. “I will twy the wegular way.”

Then he took careful aim and fired.

Examination showed he had not touched the board or the tree.

“It’s verwy vexing!” he exclaimed. “Awfter all I paid faw this wifle, it is no good, don’t yer see?”

Again and again he fired, and, with his seventh shot, he hit the board near the bottom, so it fell over again. Both he and Cholly gave a mild shout of delight and hurried forward to see where the bullet had struck.

“I should not like to be anywhere in a strip of woods while that chap was shooting at a deer,” grunted Browning, with a lazy grin.

“If I were anywhere in the woods I should want to be in the deer’s place,” laughed Frank. “It would be the safest position.”

“Why do you want that rifle?” asked Browning. “We are going out of the woods now.”

“That’s all right. I don’t want it for myself.”

“No? Who for, then?”

“For John Caribou. He sacrificed his own half-brother to save us from being punished as poachers, and I’d like to send him that handsome rifle as a token of my regard for him.”

“It’s a good idea,” declared Bruce, at once, “if you can get that rifle at a reasonable figure, and it really will shoot all right. No one but you, Merry, would have thought of such a thing. Diamond was convinced at last that the guide, even though he was an Indian, was not treacherous; but neither he nor I thought of rewarding him for his true nobility.”

“I thought of it,” said Frank; “and I offered John money.”

“He would not take it?”

“Not a cent more than he had agreed to take to act as our guide. If I send him that rifle, providing it is all right, it will be something he will appreciate.”

By this time the city sportsmen were returning, having leaned the board against the tree once more. They were laughing with triumph, and Archie exclaimed:

“The wifle is beginning to shoot better, don’t yer ’now. Perhaps it may come wound all wight.”

“Let me try it?” asked Frank.

“No, thir,” said the owner; “I couldn’t think of it. You have youah own. Let’s see if you can hit that board again, thir.”

“Well,” said Frank, not permitting himself to become angry, “if I am going to do any shooting, I must get away at a reasonable distance.”

He walked back till he could barely see the black mark in the center of the envelope. Then he whirled about and pumped six bullets out of his rifle with such speed that Archie and Cholly were simply dazed. With the final shot the board fell over.

“Good gwacious!” gurgled Cholly; “what do you want to waste shots like that faw? You couldn’t hit anything shooting that way, thir.”

“If you do not find I have struck that envelope with every bullet I fired, I shall be surprised,” said Merriwell, quietly.

They walked up to the tree and picked up the board. Examination revealed the astonishing fact that every bullet had struck within the black circle, cutting out a ragged hole there.

The city sportsmen were dazed. To them it was a marvel they could not understand.

“Have you a pack of cards in your pocket, Bruce?” asked Frank, knowing the big fellow had taken a pack into the woods.

Browning produced the cards, and Merriwell selected the five-spot of spades from it. That card he fastened to the tree with two pins, and then they retreated till the spots could barely be seen. Frank refilled the magazine of his rifle, and began shooting at the card. He fired somewhat slower and more carefully. With the fifth shot, the card fell to the ground.

Archie hurried forward and picked it up. Then he leaned limply against the tree, staring stupidly.

“What has he done, deah boy?” asked Cholly, coming up.

“Look!” gasped Elmer, holding out the card.

Frank had shot the five spots off the card with five bullets!

“Weally, I nevah saw anything like that!” declared Archie. “He must have a splendid shooting gun, don’t yer ’now.”

“It is most remarkable,” drawled Cholly, still staring at the card.

Frank laughed as he refilled the magazine of his rifle with cartridges.

There was a chattering scream out over the river, and a kingfisher came flitting along like a blue streak.

Merriwell wheeled and took a snap shot at the bird. It was more of a chance shot than anything else, as Frank afterward confessed to Browning, but the bird dropped into the water and floated down the stream with the current, its head shot off.

That capped the climax.

“That is a wonderful gun, thir!” cried Archie, still failing to give Frank any particular credit for his skill, but seeming to think the gun was entirely responsible for the rather remarkable display of shooting.

“Yes; it is a very good rifle,” nodded Frank, smilingly; “but it is not such a handsome weapon as that one you have.”

“What is a handsome wifle good faw if it won’t shoot!” burst forth Archie’s friend.

“That’s it,” sighed Archie, himself. “I wish I owned that wifle,” he declared, looking longingly at Frank’s weapon.

“How will you swap?” asked Merry, promptly.

“Oh, I’ll thwap!” cried Elmer, eagerly. “I know I could hit thomething with that wifle. But I paid two hundrwed dollahs faw this one.”

“And I paid twenty-eight dollars for this one,” laughed Frank. “Quite a difference.”

“How much money will you give togethaw with that wifle faw mine, thir?” asked Archie.

“You must remember that I have not tried your rifle.”

“Well, thir, you can take youah chawnces on it.”

“But I would like to try it.”

Archie stiffly shook his head, fearing inwardly that Merriwell would not exchange at all if he tried the weapon.

“No, thir,” he said; “I have made a wule nevah to let anybody shoot my wifle. You know what I paid faw it, and I know what you paid faw yours. What differwunce will you give between them and take your chawnces?”

Frank thought swiftly. It was plain enough that Elmer did not consider his rifle of any particular value as a shooting gun, and he feared to lose a trade if Frank tried it. It was a Winchester, and had been especially decorated at the factory, so, in all probability, it was a perfect weapon. Otherwise, it would not have left the factory.

Had it not been plainly apparent that the city sportsman wished to beat him in trading, Frank would not have thought of making an offer, knowing his conscience might smite him afterward. Now he said, aloud:

“I don’t think we had better trade, for you will want to change back afterward.”

“No, thir!” cried Archie, stoutly. “If I twade with you, that will thettle it.”

At this moment a step was heard near them, and they turned to see approaching the man who had treated Archie with so much scorn at the hotel.

“Look har, young feller,” he said, glaring at Elmer, who shrunk away, “ef you’re goin’ ter dispose of that rifle, I want ter buy it.”

“What a dweadful cwecher!” gasped Gates, also showing agitation. “Don’t speak to him, Awchie! Cut him dead, deah boy.”

Instantly the man’s hand went into his pocket and came out again, holding a large revolver.

“Don’t try none of yer cuttin’ with me!” he cried. “I kin shoot quicker than you kin cut.”

Whereupon Cholly hastened to explain:

“I didn’t mean to weally cut you with a knife, thir; I thimply meant faw him not to speak to you. We nevah carry knives about us, thir.”

“Waugh!” grunted the man, failing to appreciate the humor of the situation. “It’ll be best fer ye ter say w’at yer mean up har in this country.”

Frank Merriwell had been unable to repress a smile, but he held himself ready to act swiftly, if necessary.

Browning neither laughed nor stirred; he simply yawned and looked disgusted.

The moment the man restored the revolver to his pocket, Archie recovered somewhat from the fear that had silenced his tongue, and he said, with an attempt to be very crushing:

“Go wight away fwom here! I do not want anything to do with such a wude perthon.”

“You’ll have ter have something ter do with me,” came grimly from the lips of the man. “My name’s Enos Dugan, an’ people what know me say I’m a bad article to fool with. I want ter buy that gun, an’ I made ye ther fust offer fer it.”

“You are interrupting us, sir!” said Frank Merriwell, calmly. “He wishes to trade for this rifle I have here.”

“Don’t ye do it, greenie,” said Dugan. “That’s a cheap rifle, an’ this chap is tryin’ ter stick ye. I’ll give ye fifty dollars in clean money fer your gun.”

A wave of anger ran over Merriwell, while something like a smothered growl burst from Browning, who seemed ready to go for the insolent intruder.

“Mr. Dugan,” said Frank, his words coming sharp and clear, “you have no right to say I am trying to stick him, for I have not even made him an offer.”

“Haw!” blurted the man, giving Merriwell a contemptuous look. “I’ll say w’at I dern please! I’m goin’ ter have that rifle, or I’ll break that chap’s neck.”

“And you are trying to scare him into selling it to you! That is a reprehensible thing for a big ruffian like you!”

Dugan started.

“Hey?” he roared. “Did you call me a ruffian?”

“Yes; for you have shown yourself all of that.”

“Waal, denied if I don’t wring your neck!”

He made a grab for Frank, but Merry dodged quickly.

“Hands off!” he cried. “If you try to touch me, I will——”

“W’at?”

Dugan struck at Merriwell. They were on the bank of the river, which at this point was about four feet higher than the water. Merry parried the blow, and came in at Dugan like a shot, his hard fist flying out and catching the man between the eyes.

Crack! the blow sounded like a pistol shot.

Fairly lifted from his feet, the ruffian was hurled down the bank and into the water, where he floundered about, making a great splashing.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Browning, in deep satisfaction. “I was reaching for him when you got in that crack, old man. It was a dandy!”

Archie and Cholly were frightened and astounded, for it had not seemed possible that the beardless boy would dare strike that man.

Dugan floundered about and arose to his feet, standing in about two feet of water. There was a terrible glare in his eyes as he again reached for his revolver. The language that came from his lips cannot be printed, but he swore he would shoot Frank.

Instantly Merry lifted his rifle and covered the man in the water.

“Take your hand away from that pocket!” he cried. “If you don’t, I’ll drop you for good! I can shoot first.”

The ruffian hesitated, and then he saw by the expression on the boy’s face that he really meant to shoot, and, snarling like a wild beast, he obeyed the command.

“You shall pay for this!” he howled.

“Come ashore,” commanded Frank, still holding his rifle ready to shoot. “Step lively, there!”

Sullenly Dugan waded out and climbed the bank.

“You couldn’t hit anything, anyhow,” he muttered.

“Show him that card, Browning,” directed Frank.

Bruce did so, telling how far Merriwell had shot in cutting out the five spots upon the card.

“Good gwacious!” cried Cholly. “He shot a bird that was flying in the air, too. He did it dweadful quick.”

Dugan began to look on Merriwell with more respect, although his hatred for the beardless youth who had struck him had not abated in the least.

“I have taken to carrying a revolver myself while in this region,” said Frank, and then, with a snap of his hand that was bewildering in its quickness, he jerked out a revolver and covered Dugan. “You will observe that I am able to draw pretty quick. It’s a trick I learned out West among the cowboys. In the future I shall be looking out for you.”

“All right!” snarled the man. “It’s war between us, an’ I’ll make ye sorry in the end.”

“Get out! I am not going to make any more talk with you. Go!”

“Will you take fifty dollars for that rifle?” asked Dugan, glaring at Archie, who shrank back, trembling.

“No, thir,” was the faint reply.

“You’ll wish ye had!” grated the man, as he turned away.

They watched him till he disappeared from view in the village, and then Cholly turned to Frank, exclaiming:

“How did you dare stwike such a dwedful wuffian?”

“I was forced into it;” said Merry, honestly. “I did not want trouble with him, but there was no way out of it.”

“Thir,” cried Archie, grasping Frank’s hand, “you did me a gweat favor by hitting him. I feel that I have been pwoperly avenged faw the inthult he gave me. If you will permit me, thir, I will make you a pwesant of this wifle.”

Frank was surprised by this sudden generosity of the dude, but he immediately declined to accept the weapon.

“I could not think of it,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. That man offered fifty dollars for the rifle. I will give you fifty dollars and this rifle of mine in exchange for yours. At the same time, I feel it my duty to tell you that, without doubt, I am getting the best of the trade.”

“It’s done, thir!” exclaimed Archie, in great satisfaction.

They exchanged at once, and Frank paid Elmer the money. He had obtained the weapon he coveted.

CHAPTER X.

THE STOLEN RIFLE.

“Now, by gwacious!” cried Archie; “I’m going to twy this wifle. Let me have a cawd out of that pack.”

Bruce did so, and Cholly hastened to pin the card onto the tree. It happened to be the ace of spades.

When the card was fastened to the tree, Archie retired a respectable distance and prepared to shoot.

“Right here,” said Frank, “is where he finds out it was not his rifle that caused his bad shooting.”

“And he is liable to want to change back after he finds it out,” grunted Browning.

“Well, I shall change with him if he does,” said Frank.

“What? You wouldn’t give up that rifle now you have it?”

“If he wants to do so, I shall change back without a word.”

“Well, you are queer!”

Archie lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed long and carefully. The weapon was seen to wobble in a way that was actually painful to witness.

“He couldn’t hit a house!” growled Bruce, in disgust.

Then the dude fired, and, accompanied by Cholly, he hastened forward to the tree.

A great shout went up from both city sportsmen.

“I knew it, deah boy!” cried Archie, in great delight. “Didn’t I tell you so?”

“Is it possible he hit the tree?” muttered Browning, in surprise, as he and Frank went forward to see what had happened.

“Look there, gentlemen!” cried Archie, proudly pointing at the card. “That shows what I can do with a gun that will shoot, don’t yer ’now!”

“By Jawve! it’s wonderful!” exclaimed Cholly, in amazement.

“Not at all, deah boy—not at all!” declared Archie, stiffening up. “I knew what I could do with a good wifle.”

“Of course,” agreed Cholly, doubtingly; “but it is—aw—ah—wemarkable what a differwunce there ith in the two wifles.”

“Well, may I be hanged!” grunted Bruce Browning, as he stared at the card, as if doubting the evidence of his eyes.

“He cut out the spot all right,” laughed Frank.

“I suppose such miracles do happen occasionally,” muttered the big Yale man; “but it seems hard to believe.”

“I’ll have to give my new rifle a trial now,” said Merry, as he took the cards from Bruce and ran them over till he came to the ace of clubs. “We’ll see if I can shoot with it.”

“But I hope, thir,” said Archie, quickly, “that you will not expect me to change back if you find you cawn’t hit anything with it?”

“Oh, no,” smiled Frank; “but I rather fancy it will shoot better than you thought, Mr. Elmer.”

“I gave it a verwy good twial,” said Archie, stiffly.

“Verwy,” nodded Cholly.

The card was fastened to the tree, and then they retreated till the spot upon it scarcely showed.

There was a hurriedly whispered conversation between the city sportsmen as Frank took his position and prepared to shoot.

Merry secured a quick but careful aim and fired. Then, with Bruce, he walked forward to see the result of the shot.

The result proved entirely satisfactory, for Frank had cut out the spot on the card.

“That settles it,” said Frank. “I knew well enough that this rifle must shoot perfectly unless it had been damaged since leaving the factory, Mr. Elmer.”

There was no answer, and both Yale men turned to look for the city sportsmen, expecting to find them near at hand. What was their astonishment to see Archie and Cholly hastening away toward the village as fast as their legs would carry them.

“Why, they didn’t wait to see the result of the shot!” exclaimed Frank, not a little surprised.

“Huh!” grunted Browning. “It’s plain they thought you wouldn’t hit the card; that’s why they didn’t stay.”

Frank began to laugh again.

“And I’ll wager something they were afraid I would want to trade back, for all of what I said.”

“That’s it,” grinned Bruce. “That’s why they are running away.”

“Well, let them go. Perhaps Elmer would not have been so perfectly satisfied with his trade had he remained to see me try this rifle. Of course, I did not want to beat the fellow, for he had a generous fit after my little encounter with Dugan, and he actually offered me the weapon as a gift.”

“Under the circumstances, you may be well satisfied with what you did, for you gave him a rifle he coveted and fifty dollars in money in exchange for what he had offered you as a present.”

“Still, he is such a tenderfoot that it almost seems like taking an advantage.”

Frank took a silver half-dollar from his pocket and flung it far into the air; as it turned, glittering in the sunshine, he fired at it, hit it, sent it flying far out into the stream.

“That is quite enough,” he decided. “Now I know this rifle will shoot just as well as the other one. John Caribou will be well pleased with it.”

“It will be a fine present for the Indian.”

“But not more than he deserves.”

“No.”

“I read the fellow’s character aright when I first saw him. I have seen all sorts of Indians, and I will say that, as a rule, a redskin can’t be trusted. The Indians of the West are treacherous, and still, occasionally, one is found who has all the high ideas of honor and justice entertained by the simple aborigines of early days. When such a one is found, you may trust him with your life. I studied Caribou, and I saw he had a good head, a kind face, and eyes that looked squarely and frankly into my own. Then, despite Diamond’s prejudice against the fellow, I trusted him. I do not believe I could send him anything that would be valued more by him than this handsome rifle.”

“You are right in that, Merry. It is because you remember your friends and show them that you appreciate their friendship that you have so many of them all over the country.”

“I have observed,” said Frank, slowly, “that human beings are prone to forget friendly acts of others. They may feel grateful for a short time, but human nature is fickle, and without meaning to be ungrateful, a man often fails, when he has the opportunity, to return good for good, much less good for evil. But come, let’s go back to the hotel. It’s getting late, and I don’t know what time we have supper. I’m rather anxious about Hans, too.”

“Oh, the Dutchman is all right. He’ll come round to-morrow. All the matter with him is that he tried to eat everything on the table at the hotel in Greenville.”

“He said he was trying to keep up with you,” smiled Merry.

As they entered the village they came upon Enos Dugan, who seemed to be waiting for them. Frank watched the man narrowly, not knowing what treachery he might attempt.

Dugan’s eyes lighted with an evil look as he saw the handsome rifle Merriwell was carrying; his face flushed, and he stepped toward the lads.

“So ye got it?” he growled, glaring at Frank. “All right! But I don’t fergit that you struck me.”

That was all he said, and then he wheeled squarely about and walked away with a swinging stride.

“I’m glad we’re going to get out of this town to-morrow, if Hans gets able,” said Bruce. “I believe that man would kill you, Frank, if we remained here.”

“He might do so in a fit of passion,” nodded Merry; “but I hardly think he would do such a thing in cold blood.”

“I don’t know. He has a bad face.”

On reaching the hotel, they went directly to the room occupied by Hans. The doctor, although he had visited the Dutch boy once before that day, was present.

He was a young man, lately settled in Brownville, and he was letting slip no opportunity to get as many dollars as possible out of strangers whom he never expected to see after they left the place.

“You will be all right to-morrow, Mr. Dunnerwust,” he was saying. “My medicine is bringing you round.”

“Vale,” grunted Hans, “I peen dot much a hurry in to got vell, toctor, dot I vould took your medicines if I knewed it vould kill me.”

At this the doctor laughed heartily, and Frank, coming in, paid him for his call. The doctor was something of a sportsman, and he expressed great admiration for the rifle, which Merry stood in a corner of the room.

“I think it is the handsomest weapon I ever saw,” he said.

“Yaw,” said Hans, “id peen der handsomest vepons I nefer sawed, und I never sawed dot. Shust holdt it ub so id can seen me, Vrankie.”

So Merriwell held the rifle up for the Dutch boy’s inspection, telling him how he came to get it and what he intended to do with it.

“That is very generous of you,” said the physician. “Caribou is a good guide. I was up in the woods last fall, and he was one of the guides for our party. He went out with me one day, and got me two fine deer that I should not have seen at all. Both times he gave me the chance to shoot, and I was fortunate enough to get my game. He can do some good work with that old large bore rifle of his, but he will be delighted to get a new one like this.”

The doctor told some stories of his adventures in the woods, and soon the supper bell rang.

“I’ll leave the rifle here in the room with you, Hans,” said Frank, as he went out, following the others.

“All righdt, Vrankie; id vill vatch me, so I vill peen safe. Don’d let me vorry apout dot.”

But when Frank Merriwell returned from supper he found Hans fast asleep, and the rifle——

Was gone!

Frank looked all round the room for it, thinking it possible Hans had arisen and looked at the weapon while they were down to supper, leaving it in some other place when he had finished inspecting it.

It was not to be found.

“What’s the matter, Merry?” grunted Browning, who had lazily followed Frank to the room, Diamond and Hodge having gone out for a stroll.

“Matter!” cried Frank. “Matter enough! My new rifle has vanished. It is gone!”

“Gone?” echoed Bruce, in a dazed way. “How can that be?”

“Some person must have taken it!”

Then Frank shook Hans, awakening him.

“Have you touched my rifle since I left it in that corner?” he asked, as the Dutch lad stared up at him stupidly.

“Vot?” mumbled Hans. “Haf der rifle touched me? Vale, I guess nod! Der ped haf peen righd here in me all der dime, so der rifle couldn’t touch me uf I tried. Vot vos der madder?”

“It is gone! Somebody has taken it away!”

“How could it haf daken somepody avay?” exclaimed the Dutch boy, sitting upright. “I has peen here vatching myselluf dot rifle mit all der dime!”

“Little watching you have done!” exclaimed Bruce. “You were fast asleep. Some person slipped in here and took the rifle while you were sleeping.”

“You don’d pelief me!” gasped Hans. “I don’d see how dot rifle could took anypody right from der room oudt dot vay.”

Merriwell lost no time in hastening down to the office and telling the landlord what had happened. Browning thought it barely possible that Archie Elmer might have repented of his trade and sought to recover his rifle, but this turned out untrue. And a thorough search of the hotel failed to bring about the discovery of the rifle.

“It has been stolen, Merriwell,” said Browning, grimly, “and you must suspect who took it.”

“I do!” came grimly from Merriwell’s lips. “We will search for Enos Dugan.”

Nowhere in Brownville could Dugan be found. Rifle and man had vanished together.

“But I will have that rifle back, even though I have to chase him into Canada!” vowed Merriwell.

CHAPTER XI.

IN PURSUIT.

“Vanceborough! Vanceborough!” cried the brakeman on the accommodation train that was rattling into the little village on the west bank of the St. Croix.

Beyond the river lay New Brunswick. Vanceborough was the last town on the American side.

As the train drew up at the station, Frank Merriwell, an alligator skin grip in his hand, swung down from the steps.

He was quite alone, and he looked dusty and tired, but there was a determined expression on his face.

“Is there a telegraph office in the station?” he asked, speaking to a small boy who was looking at him curiously.

“Sure,” answered the urchin, promptly. “Feller that looks after it’s seein’ to the freight now, though. He’ll go in soon’s the train leaves.”

“Where is he?”

“Right over there.”

The boy pointed out the operator, and Frank gave him a quarter. The urchin stared at the piece of silver with bulging eyes, forgetting, in his astonishment, to even say thank you.

“Crickey!” he finally gasped. “That chap must have money to throw at ther birds!”

Then he scudded away to spend the quarter at the nearest store.

As soon as the operator went into the office, Frank sent this message to Brownville, Me.:

“MR. BRUCE BROWNING: Traced Dugan to Vanceborough. Shall try to recover rifle. Party come on to Mattawamkeag, and wait for me there.

“FRANK MERRIWELL.

Then he inquired the way to the hotel.

Frank was tired. By sharp detective work, he had discovered that Dugan had hired a team at Henderson, the nearest town to Brownville, the very night the rifle was stolen, and was driven to Lake View. The following morning Frank learned that the thief belonged over around Grand Lake, on the New Brunswick line. Then it came about that Merry had traced his man to Vanceborough. Advices received by him at Mattawamkeag from an officer in Vanceborough stated that Enos had arrived there and left for parts unknown on the lake steamer.

At the hotel Merry registered and asked when dinner would be ready. Finding he had almost an hour to wait, he inquired for the officer from whom he had obtained information concerning Dugan.

In a little while the officer appeared at the hotel, accompanied by the boy who had been sent for him.

A brief talk with this man convinced Frank that Dugan had his rifle beyond doubt, although the thief was carrying it wrapped in a blanket.

“Dugan lives up around Forest City somewhere,” said the officer. “He is a rough fellow, and has a bad reputation. Although nothing has ever been proved against him, it is said he is a smuggler. I don’t know that anyone around here is sure just where he does live, but I’ve heard he has a handsome daughter who is often seen in Forest City.”

“Which is the best way to get to Forest City?” asked Frank.

“There are but two ways. You can take a train back to Forest Station, and hire a team there to carry you up onto the Peninsula; or you can take the lake steamer here, which will carry you straight there.”

“How far is it from Forest Station to Forest City?”

“About seventeen miles over the roughest road you ever struck.”

“Then you think I had better go by boat?”

“Yep; that’s the best way.”

“When does the boat leave?”

“Noon to-morrow, if she gets in on time to-night.”

“Great Scott! I don’t want to waste all that time.”

“You look as if you needed it to get rested in; but, if you’ll take my advice, you won’t follow Enos Dugan up into that section.”

“Why not?”

“The chances are about five to one that you’ll never be heard from again if you do. You’ll disappear.”

“What?” cried Frank. “Has Dugan such a reputation as that? Why, I should think he’d be taken care of by the officers.”

“It’s never been possible to prove anything against him. One or two government officers, looking for smugglers, have vanished very mysteriously after going up the lake. It is thought that Dugan knows something of what happened to them, but nobody can tell. They’re afraid of him up there, and nobody dares say anything against him. If they know anything, they keep still. Every little while he goes off somewhere, and it’s said he disposes of the stuff that has been smuggled over the line. He’s just returned from one of those trips.”

“Well, Mr. Dugan is turning out to be a far more interesting individual than I imagined he could be when I first saw him,” declared Merry.

“Oh, he’s interesting enough, but he’s dangerous. You’ll be spotted as soon as you go up there. If you take my advice, you’ll let that rifle go.”

“What’s that? Not try to recover my rifle?”

“Better lose a rifle than lose your life.”

“I vowed I’d recover that rifle at any cost when I found it was stolen. I shall not be scared out of making a determined attempt to keep that vow.”

“Well, I’m speaking for your good, young man. Dugan is connected with a gang. It’ll not be a case of coping with one man; there will be five or six against you.”

“The more the merrier,” said Frank, grimly, without the least swagger or air of bravado. “I will have that rifle!”

“All right. I’ve warned you, that’s all I can do.”

“I’d like to hire you to go along with me.”

Instantly the man shook his head.

“Can’t,” he shortly declared.

“Why not? Your authority will permit you if Forest City is in this county.”

“Oh, Forest City is in Washington all right; but it’s close to the line, and no trouble for a man to get over into Aroostook or to jump into New Brunswick. If you get back that rifle, you’ll have to do it on your own hook.”

It was plain that the officer did not care to take any part in the pursuit of Dugan. He showed that he, like others, feared the man with the bad reputation.

“All right,” said Merriwell, stiffly. “I’ll get the rifle, and I’ll do it alone. How far does the steamer run?”

“To the head of the lake.”

“What other places are there up that way?”

“Weston, South Bancroft and Orient on the west side of the lake; Pemberton Ridge and North Lake on the New Brunswick side.”

“All small places?”

“Yes.”

“How much do I owe you for the trouble you have taken?”

“No trouble, young fellow; so you don’t owe me anything. But take my advice, stay here and get a good rest to-night. You can go up the lake on the steamer to-morrow and have a fine sail. Perhaps you will not be able to get a team at Forest Station to land you in Forest City to-night if you go there. You are taking chances.”

“This seems to be a game of chance, anyway,” laughed Frank; “but I am bound to play it to the limit.”

Frank remained in Vanceborough and slept well that night, which really put him in “fighting trim.”

It was with great difficulty that he repressed his impatience the following morning. It seemed hard to wait for the steamer, and he was tempted to try to reach Forest City by land. However, the landlord advised him to go by water, and so he waited.

Just before time for the steamer to sail, Frank, who was standing on the upper deck, watching the freight as it was taken on board, saw a handsome young lady and a ministerial-looking young man come down the plank. The young lady was scarcely more than a girl, for she was not over eighteen or nineteen. She had red lips, dark hair and eyes, a stunning figure, and was dressed in a stylish gown. In her arms she carried a tiny black and tan dog.

Frank was struck by the appearance of this girl, for, despite her stylish clothes and decidedly “swagger” appearance, there was that about the healthy tint on her checks that told she was not merely a common rusticator from a city, who had ventured out in the sunshine for the sole purpose of getting a “tan” that would tell her friends she had been spending her vacation in the country. Besides that, although she seemed demure enough at first glance, Frank instantly decided that she was rather reckless in her ways and “had a temper of her own.”

The ministerial-looking young man was dressed in black clothes, with a long coat and silk hat. He carried a cane. His face was rather long and solemn. Plainly he was the girl’s companion and escort.

These two passengers took a seat aft, and, a little later, as Frank was strolling around, the man was saying to the girl:

“I feel that I have been called to carry the Word to these out-of-the-way places. It is my mission, and I am performing it according to my light. I have been blessed wonderfully in my labors up this way, for I have won the hearts of many sinners by my methods of traveling from house to house and calling the people to repentance. I am certain I shall yet be able to prevail upon your father to make a move on the road that leads to everlasting life.”

“Well, you may,” said the girl; “but I have my doubts, Elder Jones.”

“You must assist me in my efforts to soften his heart.”

Frank passed on, so he was unable to hear more of the conversation, but now he was satisfied that the young man was a minister, just as he appeared.

At last the boat started, and soon Vanceborough was left behind. Frank strolled about restlessly, but finally settled down aft, finding the minister and the girl had gone inside. He enjoyed the magnificent scenery as the boat ran up one of the most beautiful of the Maine lakes. So absorbed was he that he scarcely noticed the return of the couple that had interested him so much.

His attention was called to them by a ringing laugh from the girl. He looked up to discover that she was gazing straight at him. Their eyes met, and, after one brief glance, her dark lashes drooped.

There was something about that glance that caused Frank’s heart to give a thump, for there was deep meaning in it. The drooping of the eyelashes was the most artistic coquetry. It was apparent that this handsome girl was inclined to flirt, and she had been attracted by the manly-looking stranger.

But Frank was not the only one who had seen the glance and understood its meaning. The girl’s companion intercepted it, and he glanced round at Frank in a sour manner, after which he said something to the girl in a low tone. His words brought a rebellious curl to her lips, and then, as if in defiance of her companion, she gave Merriwell a pronounced smile.

Then the minister was angry, for his thin face flushed, and he looked as if he longed to do something to Merriwell. He got up and started to go away, but seemed to change his mind, for he sat down again, which brought another laugh from the girl.

Merry was amused, but he felt that he was certain to cause trouble if he remained. Still he would not rise and leave at once, as that would seem as if he had run away. He resolved to remain a short time, but he would give his entire attention to the scenery. With one last look at the girl, who was caressing the little dog, which she still held in her arms, he turned away.

It was plain enough after that that the girl made several attempts to attract Merry’s eyes. She had a laugh that was not exactly “cultivated,” but there was something alluring about it, and it made Frank feel more and more that he wanted to know her.

But it was plain enough that the minister was in love with her himself, or was watching over her as he believed to be his duty; and so, although the society of a bright, pretty girl would have been very pleasant on the trip up the lake, Merry gave her no further attention.

After a time the girl seemed piqued by her non-success with the attractive stranger. She began to tease her companion. Before long it seemed that a quarrel was taking place between them. She turned her back to him and caressed the little dog.

Suddenly there was a scream, and the girl jumped up, wildly crying:

“Save him! Oh! save him!”

Frank was startled. His first thought was that the minister, in a fit of desperation, had thrown himself into the lake; but the moment he turned his head, he saw this was not true, for Elder Jones was still there.

The man and girl had leaped to their feet and were looking over the stern of the steamer. Frank looked back along the wake made by the boat, and he saw the little black and tan dog bobbing in the water like a cork.

Then a remarkable thing happened.

Having made a frantic appeal to her companion, the girl saw he had no thought of taking any kind of risk in order to save the little dog, and, the next moment, she leaped upon the seat and dived headlong over the rail into the water!

CHAPTER XII.

FRANK TO THE RESCUE.

Elder Jones made a wild grab at the girl just as she leaped over the rail, but he failed to catch hold of her.

“Merciful goodness!”

He gasped the words as she struck the water like a professional diver and disappeared from view.

Then he ran frantically about, hoarsely shouting:

“Stop the boat! Stop the boat!”

Frank Merriwell was astounded by this rash act of the handsome girl, but barely had she disappeared beneath the surface of the lake when he began to tear off his outer clothing with a haste that indicated his purpose.

As Frank tugged at his shoes he saw the girl come to the surface, and, hampered by clothing though she was, strike out toward the little dog, which was trying to swim toward her.

Wildly waving his arms, the ministerial young man shouted:

“Hilda! Hilda! Stop the boat! Hilda, swim this way! She will be drowned!”

Not a word did Frank Merriwell say, but with one bound he shot into the air and plunged out over the stern rail of the steamer, his body making a graceful curve in the air and plunging head downward into the white water.

Merry quickly came to the surface, and started swimming after the girl, who was still paddling toward the little dog, although it was plain that her clothing greatly impeded her progress.

She did not look back, but kept straight on toward her imperiled pet, her one determination seeming to be to save him or perish with him. Her handsome and costly hat had been torn from her head as she struck the water, and she was swimming with her head bare, her dark hair seeming blacker than ever now that it was wet.

Merry struck out with powerful strokes, hearing a sudden tooting of the steamboat whistle, which told him that the pilot knew what had happened.

He grew to admire the girl more and more as he watched her, for he could see that, were it not for her clothing, she was a very good swimmer.

“She is either foolish or fearless,” he decided. “I do not think it is the former, and she has a face that indicates fearlessness.”

Behind Frank and the girl the little steamer was slowing down, while men were running about on her, shouting and throwing life preservers overboard.

It was a scene of great excitement, but still the strange girl swam on toward her dog, without once turning to look back.

Nearer and nearer to her Merriwell drew, forging through the water as rapidly as he could, and feeling that his progress was far too slow.

He saw that she would reach the dog before he could reach her, and this was what happened, but he was close to her as she came near enough to touch the whining little fellow.

“Good Jack—dear boy!” she called, encouragingly. “Keep up, Jack! They’ll get us out!”

Then, having reached the little fellow, she turned about and saw Frank Merriwell close at hand. She did not seem in the least alarmed, but a smile of pleasure crossed her face, and then she laughed outright.

“Dear me?” she exclaimed. “What made you?”

“I am here to assist you, miss,” said Frank; “but you are a wonderfully good swimmer. Your clothes will become heavy soon, and I shall find it a pleasure to help you keep up till the steamer comes to our rescue.”

“But you are a stranger, and——”

“Do you think we really need an introduction now?” smiled Merry.

“No; but I had no right to expect this of you—don’t be frightened, Jack—Elder Jones should have been the one; but it is plain he is a physical coward, no matter what he is morally.”

Her lips curled a bit as she spoke of the man who had been her companion on the boat, making it plain she entertained a feeling of loathing for him.

“Can I help you now in any way?” asked Frank. “You swam so hard to reach your dog that it must have taken your breath and strength.”

“I don’t need any help just now,” she said: “but if you will aid Jack to keep up, poor little fellow!”

Then Frank took the dog, placed him on his shoulders, and paddled along in that way, with the animal crouching on his head and shoulders.

The girl laughed. It was the same bewitching laugh that had so attracted Merriwell on the boat.

“You can’t imagine how funny you look!” she said.

“This is the latest style of headgear for gentlemen,” Frank laughed back. “It is a dog-gone good thing.”

“Oh, what a horrid pun!” exclaimed the strange girl. “If you make puns, I shall be sorry you jumped over to help me.”

“But if I do not make puns—what then? Will you know me after the boat is reached?”

“I trust, sir, you do not think me utterly devoid of any sense of gratitude? It was so good of you, an entire stranger, to do such a thing.”

“Oh, it was nothing. You are beginning to find it difficult to keep up. Your wet clothing is dragging on you now.”

“I can keep up till they reach us. They have stopped the boat—they are turning.”

But Frank could see that her desperate exertion to reach the dog had exhausted her more than she thought at first, and her wet skirts were winding about her ankles and hampering the movements of her lower limbs, making it very difficult for her to swim.

Now that Frank was so close to her and she had been deprived of her hat, which might have added to her attractiveness, he could see that she was fully as handsome as he had thought her at first glance, for not even the plunge into the water had made her seem otherwise. She had such dark eyes, and they expressed so much! Of course, the water had taken the curl out of her hair, and that, with the loss of her stylish hat, was the test that proved her beauty, for she had lost not a bit of her attractiveness.

Her face was oval and finely molded, having just the needed roundness and fullness to relieve it of delicacy, and not enough to make it seem at all coarse. Her lips were still red, despite her plunge into the lake. Her teeth were milky white and regular, and she showed them to advantage when she laughed, without making too much of a display.

It was plain enough to Frank that she was far from an ordinary girl. He had seen other girls like her in Maine, at Rockland, Camden, Belfast and Bar Harbor, but she seemed out of place in the wooded country up around Grand Lake.

She saw him looking at her, and she smiled back at him, still seeming in no way alarmed by what had happened and by their position.

“I know what you are thinking,” she declared.

“Then you must be a mind-reader,” he returned.

“Sometimes I think I am something of a mind-reader—keep still, Jack! You are all right.”

“Of what was I thinking?”

“You were wondering what sort of girl I could be. Confess it! I saw it plain enough in your eyes.”

“Well, I was thinking that you did not seem like an ordinary girl,” acknowledged Frank.

“Ordinary girl?” Her red lips curled. “What can an ordinary girl do? No; I hope I am not an ordinary girl.”

She was breathing heavily.

“Let me aid you,” he urged. “It will be some time before the steamer reaches us, and——”

“You have enough to hold Jack up. He must be considerable weight on your head. You are very kind.”

“Oh, it’s nothing! I can aid you. You must rest a little to get back your strength. Put your hands on my shoulders. That is it—one on each shoulder. There, now I will simply paddle to keep us afloat, while you rest.”

“How do you dare trust me this way?” she asked. “I may get frightened—seize you around the neck—drown us both.”

“I will take my chances on that. Just keep that dog still, if you can. It’s harder when he is moving around.”

“He can swim a while now,” she said, pushing him off into the water. “It’s too much for you to support us both. It would be selfish of me to expect so much.”

The little dog paddled about them, whining. Merriwell was not attempting to make progress; he was simply keeping afloat without exhausting himself.

“They are taking time enough with the steamer,” he said.

“What if we give out before they can reach us?” she half murmured. “I have no right to drown you!”

“We were strangers, but circumstances have made us acquainted. Rest more upon my shoulders, please. I can keep us up.”

“If we get out all right, I shall not forget this,” she said, her voice assuming genuine earnestness. “It was a brave and noble thing for you to do; but, do you know, I was sure you would do it.”

“You were?”

“Yes.”

“Why so?”

“I saw it in your face the moment I looked at you. Your face told me you would not hesitate at danger.”

“I saw your friend, Mr. Jones, did not intend to——”

“Don’t mention him! Why, father actually wants me to marry him; but now I never will—never in the world!”

Frank could not blame her. Indeed, he thought that, had not the man declined to leap into the lake to her rescue, he was not the kind of a man to become the husband of such a girl.

“I’m not going to marry at all!” she declared. “Of course, I may be drowned, and that will settle it. But I’m not going to marry, if I am not drowned. Two-thirds of the girls cannot get the one they really want, and so they take the best they can get. If I can’t get the one I want, I won’t have anybody.”

Then she laughed a little.

The steamer had turned about and was coming.

Frank saw something bobbing in the water and slowly paddled toward it. The little dog, whining and trying to climb on the shoulders of his mistress, swam along with them.

What Frank saw proved to be one of the life preservers that had been tossed overboard. He secured it, uttering an exclamation of satisfaction.

“Now you are all right!” he cried. “Let this life preserver buoy you up. The boat will reach us soon.”

She did as directed.

“But how about you?” she anxiously asked.

“I am all right. I believe there is another!”

In a few moments he had secured two more. On one of these he placed the dog; and the little creature clung to it, scrambling onto it again when he partly fell off.

“Hurrah!” cried Merry. “Now we are all right! Why, this is simply a little adventure to relieve the monotony of the trip up the lake.”

Pretty soon the steamer ran down close to them, lines were thrown out, and they were drawn on board, the girl first, Frank following, with the dog in his arms.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SMUGGLER’S DAUGHTER.

In the captain’s private room Frank Merriwell stripped off his wet clothes. The captain provided him with a dry suit of underclothes, a pair of trousers, socks and a woolen shirt. His coat, vest, shoes and hat were brought him, and he made a very respectable appearance when he came out.

In the meantime, in another room the girl was making such changes as were possible.

It was nearly an hour later when Frank found her seated on the sunny side of the boat, wrapped in a blanket and holding the little dog in her arms. On her head was a handsome hat, and her hair had been dried and combed. She laughed when she saw him.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “no one would know you had been in the water! As for me, my dress is ruined. It was fortunate I had other dresses aboard and I could get to my trunk. I was so chilled that I came out here and kept this blanket about me at first. I don’t need it now.”

She let the blanket slip from her shoulders, and Merry was amazed to find her dressed in another suit that was quite as stylish and handsome as the first. Again she seemed to read his thoughts, for she said:

“I’m just back from Boston, you know. Father lets me go up twice a year, and I always get a full supply of clothing while I am there. That’s how I happened to have a trunkful on board.

“You were fortunate.”

“Wasn’t I? Bring that stool and sit here by me. It’s delightful in the afternoon sunshine.”

Frank was ready enough to do as she directed, and soon he was seated at her side, chatting with her freely. She thanked him earnestly for what he had done, and again declared she could never forget it. They laughed over the adventure, as if it had been of no consequence.

She was lively company, as he soon found, and she made that hour spent thus with her pass most pleasantly and swiftly. She was witty, too, and only occasionally did she drop into slang.

After a time, Merry thought he would try to discover how much she really knew. Her language seemed to indicate that she was intelligent, but he was surprised to find her something of a scholar and a great reader.

“You see, reading is nearly all the amusement I have at home,” she said; “and so, whenever I go to the city, I buy a stack of the latest books. I have a large box of books on the way down home now.”

He found she had read something besides the ordinary gushing love story, for she could talk with him of “David Copperfield,” “Vanity Fair,” “Ivanhoe,” “The Scarlet Letter,” and so forth. But he was most surprised when she informed him that Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” was her favorite book.

“There is something about the men in that book that attracts me,” she declared. “I have seen such men as Silver and Israel Hands.”

“You have?” cried Frank. “Why, they were desperate characters!”

“Well, you can find desperate characters not far from here. You are on ‘the line’ now. It’s easy for a man who commits a crime to cross over and get away.”

“Where do you live, if I may ask?”

“On Blank Island.”

“Where is that? Anywhere near Forest City?”

“North of Forest City. It is on ‘the line,’ so they say; one-half the island is in Maine and one-half in New Brunswick.”

Frank was more than ever astonished, for it seemed most amazing that such a girl could live on an island away up there in the lake. He did not wish to seem too curious, and so he did not ask other questions just then.

But she took her turn, for she led him to tell how he came to be there. She listened attentively to his story of adventures around Moosehead. He told how Hans had been taken ill, and they had stopped at Brownville. He explained how he had acquired the handsome rifle, and how it had been stolen from him by a man named Enos Dugan, whom he had pursued to the Grand Lake region.

“Perhaps you know something about Enos Dugan?” he said, in conclusion.

“Yes,” she slowly answered; “I do.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He is a second Long Jim Silver. You had better give up this pursuit.”

“So I was told at Vanceborough; but I vowed that I would have that rifle, and I will!”

“You may lose your life instead of recovering the rifle. Enos Dugan is a man to shun.”

“I have heard that he is a smuggler. Do you know if it is true?”

“I believe they tell such things about him, but it is hard to prove. In fact, it is next to impossible to prove anything against him. He will soon find out you have followed him, if he does not know it now, and you will be in terrible peril. I beg you to give up this search and go back at once!”

Her earnestness was impressive. All the laughter was gone from her face now, and she was looking at him with those dark eyes in a manner that stirred his heart, for he realized that she was moved by feelings which her eyes revealed, despite herself.

Her hand, now neatly gloved, rested on his arm, and it trembled a little.

“Promise me you will do as I ask?” she urged.

“I can’t promise you that,” he said, gravely. “I cannot break my vow.”

“Not even for me?”

“Please don’t put it that way! You will make me seem rude, and it seems that I have proved that I am ready to do almost anything for you—even get wet. I shall be forced to appear at a decided disadvantage if you urge me.”

“You are obstinate!” she cried.

“No; simply determined.”

“It’s the same thing. I am sorry you came here—yes, sorry, though this has been a pleasant hour!”

She uttered the words in a desperate way, and then she leaned toward Frank till she was very close to him, her handsome face upturned pleadingly, and made a last appeal.

As she was thus, speaking swiftly in a low tone, Elder Jones, who had been sulking by himself ever since she had given him the cold shoulder after the rescue, came around from the stern, and stopped, looking straight at them.

To him it must have seemed that Frank and the girl were astonishingly intimate on short acquaintance, for their postures were almost lover-like, the girl’s being especially so. He did not understand her words, but he knew she was pleading with Frank.

The face of the minister grew livid with rage, and he seemed to shake in every limb. He stood there staring some seconds, and then he turned about and walked away. As he disappeared, what sounded like an oath came to Frank’s ears.

“It’s too bad!” exclaimed Merry. “Now he is furious!”

“Who cares!” came recklessly from the girl. “He is nothing to me. I never promised to marry him, and I never will. Once I thought I might, but I have changed my mind since—since—a little while ago.”

Frank understood her, and he realized that he was in a very awkward position. His bravery in rescuing the girl, his chat with her, his general manliness, had led her to fall in love with him.

He looked at her, and she saw that he had read her secret. The hot color came to her face with a rush and swept down her neck.

“I am a fool!” she exclaimed, angrily. “I don’t know what you will think of me! I can’t help it; think what you like. I was brought up in the woods, and a few years at boarding school have not made me strictly proper and conventional. I hate shams and deceptions! There! As long as you will not do what I wish, I must do what I can for you, and you may find me a friend worth having. Perhaps I can recover that rifle for you without trouble. I will try it. Do you know, although we seem well acquainted now, I have not even learned your name?”

“And I am equally at a disadvantage in regard to you. My name is Frank Merriwell.”

“I like the sound of that name. It seems to fit you. Mr. Merriwell, I will try to recover your rifle for you. If you will come up to Blank Island to-morrow afternoon, I think I will have it for you.”

Now Merriwell was astounded.

“Why, how can that be?” he cried.

“Never mind. Come to-morrow afternoon. Will you?”

“Why—of course—yes——”

“I have your promise. Here is Forest City, and the boat is going to stop. You had better get off here. I will leave it at the island. Good-by.”

The little steamer was swinging in to the landing at the settlement. But, just then, Frank Merriwell had eyes for no one save the handsome girl at his side. She held out her hand and he took it. He started a bit, realizing she had removed the glove from that hand, and it was warm and plump in his grasp.

“Good-by!” she whispered.

“But there is one thing you have forgotten,” said Frank, hastily, looking down into her eyes and feeling himself drawn toward her by a strange attraction.

“What is it?”

“Your name.”

“So I did.”

The boat swung gently in to the landing, was made fast, and the plank run out.

“She will not stop here long,” said the girl.

“But your name?” urged Frank. “You have not told me yet.”

“It is Hilda.”

“Hilda what?”

“Isn’t Hilda enough?”

“No! no! Tell me your whole name!”

“Well, then, it is Hilda Dugan!”

“Dugan? Is it possible that——”

“Yes; it is possible. I am the daughter of Enos Dugan; but I am your friend just the same, Frank Merriwell. Come to the island to-morrow afternoon. I will wait for you. Good-by.”

CHAPTER XIV.

WORDS OF WARNING.

“Hilda Dugan! Hilda Dugan!”

Frank repeated the name in a dazed way, as he sought the captain. That worthy met him.

“Needn’t bother to change,” he said. “You may keep the togs till yours are dry, young man. Leave them with Jim Popps. I’ll get ’em. You’re a nervy chap.”

Frank thanked the captain, and soon he was going ashore with his grip and his wet clothing done into a neat bundle. He looked back for a glimpse of Hilda, but she was not to be seen, and, although he lingered till the boat swung off and bore away up the lake, he saw nothing more of her.

But he could remember just how her warm, firm, shapely hand felt as it lay in his own, and he seemed to see her handsome face upturned to his, while her dark eyes looked straight into his own.

Frank gave himself a shake.

“What’s the matter with you?” he growled to himself. “Are you going to get broken up over this girl? Not much! Have a little sense, you chump!”

He found accommodations, and then set out to learn what he could about the man he had pursued to that wild region. He went straight to “The Store,” in front of which several men were loafing in the sunshine. The men gazed at him with great curiosity.

“Can some of you gentlemen tell me how to get from here to Blank Island?” he asked.

“Ye might have gone right up on the bo’t,” said one.

“I want to go up to-morrow afternoon.”

“What ye goin’ up thar fer?” grunted another man, suspiciously.

“Oh, business.”

“Business, hey? There hev people gone up thar on business that never got back. Better stay away, young man.”

“Who you goin’ to see?” asked a third.

“Miss Hilda Dugan,” answered Frank.

“Hum! Thought it couldn’t be Dugan hisself ye wanted ter see. Does he know ye’re comin’?”

Frank was growing restless under this questioning, and he rather sharply answered.

“I do not presume Mr. Dugan knows I am coming.”

“Then ye’d best keep erway. Give us a chaw of terbacker, Joe.”

“Why don’t ye buy some terbacker of yer own?” grumbled Joe, as he fished down into a pocket and drew out a plug. “You never hev any.”

“Times is so darn hard I can’t raise money enough fer rum an’ terbacker this year. Ef we warn’t right on ‘the line,’ I wouldn’t git more’n two ur three drinks a day.”

For the moment Frank seemed ignored, but he spoke up sharply:

“I want to hire a man to take me to Blank Island to-morrow afternoon, and I will pay well for it. Who will take the job?”

The men looked doubtfully at each other, and one of them said:

“I don’t know anybody har as keers to kerry yer up to Dugan’s Islan’, young feller.”

“But don’t you know of anybody in the town who will do it?” asked Frank, desperately.

“It’s mighty doubtful if ye kin find anybody,” was the answer.

“I don’t understand it!” exclaimed Merry. “I saw several sailboats down at the landing, and——”

“Oh, thar are plenty of them har, but folks have been warned ter keep erway from Dugan’s, and they know better’n ter go agin’ any warnin’ frum him, you bet!”

The others nodded and grunted, wagging their jaws over the tobacco they were industriously chewing.

“It’s strange!” said Frank.

“If you’ll take my advice, young feller,” said an old man with one eye that squinted, while the other stared, “you’ll keep clear of Dugan’s.”

Again there was more nodding and grunting.

“Why?” asked Frank.

“Waal, ter be plain with yer, Dugan don’t think much of the young fellers what git ter runnin’ arter his gal. He’s nigh kilt several on’ em.”

“That’s so,” said some of the others.

“Thar was that summer dude that kem up hyer from Bangor last y’ar,” the old man with the squint eye went on. “Why, Dugan ketched him, tied him ter a tree, an’ nigh beat him ter death with birch withes. Ther feller was sick fer two month arter that.”

“An’ then there was that Vanceborough chap,” said another. “The gal uster meet him till Dugan got onter it. When he found it aout, he laid for ’em, an’ ketched ’em. He broke one of the feller’s arms with a club an’ laid his head open. That cooked that feller, you bet!”

“You bet!” echoed the others.

“So you’d better go back an’ let Dugan’s gal alone,” advised the squint-eyed man.

By this time Frank’s face was crimson, but he bit his lips and held his temper, speaking coolly, even smiling:

“That is all right, gentlemen; but it is purely a business matter between me and Miss Dugan. I don’t care what happened to those other chaps, I am going up to Blank Island to-morrow. If I can’t get anyone to take me there, I’ll hire a boat and go alone. Now, who owns a good sailboat that I can get?”

“I own one,” admitted the squint-eyed man; “but I don’t want ter take chances of lettin’ her to you.”

“I’ll pay. I will give you ten dollars for the use of your boat to-morrow afternoon, providing she is satisfactory.”

At this the old man’s squinting eye squinted all the more, while the other eye opened wider and stared hard at the determined lad.

“Hev ye got ther money?”

“Yes; here it is.”

Frank was careful not to display a large roll, but took out a ten dollar gold piece, which he held up in view.

An avaricious look instantly settled on the old man’s face.

“Waal, I’ll let ye my bo’t fer that,” he said, “an’ take chances on her; but if you hev her more’n to-morrow arternoon you must pay a dollar an hour for her.”

“After what time?”

“Ten o’clock ter-morrer night.”

“All right. If I am not back before that, I shall not return till the next day. Here is a dollar to bind the bargain.”

Frank found the people of Forest City would not say much about Enos Dugan, save that he was a bad man to have anything to do with. He was told that Dugan sometimes came into the settlement on a drunk, and then everybody steered clear of him, for he was liable to do injury to his friends, if he could find no enemies on which to wreak his wrath.

Of course, Frank did not tell them that he had struck Dugan with his fist and knocked the man into the river at Brownville, for he realized that he would be regarded as a liar. And he did not tell them why he had followed Dugan to that wild part of the country. He let the impression get out that it was Hilda Dugan he especially wished to see.

No one in Forest City spoke of Dugan as a smuggler. It was plain to Frank that not a single person in the place cared to talk about smugglers and smuggling.

Directly after dinner on the following day, Frank was ready to leave Forest City. He had been given directions how to find Dugan’s Island, and he felt sure he could not miss it.

The owner of the boat was on hand to see him off, and collected the remainder of the ten dollars in advance.

There was a good steady breeze, and, after getting up the “leg-o’-mutton” sail, it was not long before Merry left the settlement behind.

The owner of the boat had whispered a last warning to him, asking him if he had a revolver, and telling him to keep clear of Dugan if possible.

The boat did not prove to be fast, but she was fairly satisfactory, and Frank enjoyed the sail thoroughly.

The shores of the lake were wooded, and there were numerous islands, but Frank watched for the one that had been described to him, and, after an hour’s sail, saw the blasted pine on a rocky bluff, telling him he was approaching his destination.

It must be confessed that Merry was not entirely without apprehensions on approaching the island, for he realized that Dugan was an unscrupulous ruffian, and was on his own stamping ground. It was pretty certain the man would not hesitate at any crime.

It seemed almost impossible to Merry that such a man could be the father of such a daughter, for Hilda seemed even more handsome and attractive as he remembered her than she had while he was in her society, and that is saying a great deal.

To Merry the girl was a marvel. He could not understand how such a girl could be reared under such circumstances. The only thing that seemed to offer the least explanation of it all was the fact that she had spent some years at a boarding school.

Remembering what she had said to him, Frank was convinced that Hilda thoroughly understood the desperate character of her father. And yet she had invited Frank to come to the island.

The only explanation to this seemed to be that she had believed Dugan would not be at home.

This thought caused Merry to hesitate. He might bring about an embarrassing state of affairs by visiting her while she was alone at her home on that island in the midst of the border lake. He had seen beyond a doubt that she was possessed by a strong liking for him, and he was determined that nothing he would do should lead her to regard him with greater affection. For all of her outer polish, she was a girl of the woods, and she might openly declare her love. Then, if she were told by Frank that he could never love her in return, her affection might turn to hatred.

But she had promised to aid him in recovering the rifle, and he would go to the island. There was a floating landing, moored to the shore, and alongside this Merry ran the sailboat. He made the boat fast, and then went ashore. A path led up into the woods.

“This leads to her home,” he thought.

He started into the path. The woods were thick on either hand, and the ground was soft beneath his feet. Away in the woods a squirrel chattered. He came upon a partridge that, with a brood of little ones, was crossing the path. The mother bird actually flew at him with great fury when he attempted to capture one of the chickens with his hands. The moment she saw all the little ones had hidden, she fluttered into the woods and disappeared.

Laughing over this adventure, Merriwell went on his way. He chirped to a squirrel that chattered saucily from a limb. The odor of the woods was sweet in his nostrils, and he felt that it was a grand thing to be living in such a beautiful world.

The path gave a sudden turn, and Frank halted with an exclamation.

Before him, standing full in the path, was Enos Dugan, holding a rifle that was leveled straight at the lad’s heart.

“Up with yer hands!” snarled the man, his face showing his terrible rage. “Up with them instanter, or by ther Lord Harry, I’ll shoot ye dead whar ye stand!”

Dugan meant it, and Frank saw he was fairly trapped.

“Up they go,” he laughed, as he lifted them. “I am not anxious to be shot this afternoon.”

CHAPTER XV.

FRANK’S FRIGHTFUL PERIL.

Dugan laughed, showing his yellow teeth.

“Oh, I’ve got ye!” he declared, triumphantly—“I’ve got ye foul this time!”

“It looks that way,” admitted Frank, coolly. “Now you have me, what are you going to do with me?”

“Don’t git anxious; you’ll find out soon enough.”

Frank was watching the man narrowly, hoping to catch him off his guard, and the smuggler seemed to realize this, for he said:

“Don’t try any tricks. You can get your pistol out mighty quick, but I can pull a trigger before you can pull the pistol. I’ll drop you where you stand if you try it!”

Frank started in to talk to the man, hoping to obtain an advantage that way, but again Dugan seemed to read his thoughts.

“It won’t work, young feller. Keep them hands up. I don’t want to shoot you here, but I’ll do it quicker than you can spit if you make one false move. Steady, now.”

Frank heard a step at his back, but he could not look round. He knew Dugan was not alone, and, a moment later he was grasped by a pair of masculine hands.

Dugan advanced, still holding his rifle ready for use.

Frank’s hands were wrenched back behind him and held thus. Then, while Dugan held the muzzle of the rifle within two feet of the head of the captured lad, Merry’s wrists were securely tied by a stout cord.

“Make the knots solid, Huck,” directed the smuggler. “This chap is pretty slippery.”

“Oh, I’ll fix him so he’ll not slip us,” was the assurance of the man behind Frank.

The voice caused Merriwell to start, for it sounded natural.

“It can’t be!” thought Merry. “I am deceived!”

Soon he was tied so that he could not move his hands, and then Dugan lowered the rifle, laughing again in his evil, triumphant manner.

“You didn’t know the kind of man you was dealing with when you hit me,” he said. “As you are no more than a boy, I thought I’d let you off by taking your rifle, which I was bound to have anyhow; but, now that you have followed me here, I’ll put you where you’ll never worry your friends again.”

Frank understood the meaning of the man, and he fully realized the peril of his position. That Dugan meant to murder him he had no doubt, and now he was sorry that he had not made some kind of effort when he came face to face with the man, even though he had been shot down at once.

He turned to look at the man who had come up behind him, and he saw Elder Jones! But what a change in the appearance of the man! No longer was he the sleepy, long-faced, ministerial-appearing person Frank had seen on the boat. His black clothes had been cast aside, and he was roughly dressed, like Dugan, his trousers being tucked into his boots.

This person gave Frank a vicious look of hatred.

“So it is you!” exclaimed the captive. “Well, I must say this is queer business for a minister of the gospel!”

“Bah!” exclaimed Jones. “You are a fool!”

“Possibly you are right,” was Merry’s calm admission. “I acknowledge I am beginning to feel rather foolish just now. It is somewhat disgusting to think I could be trapped so easily.”

“You thought you were cutting lots of ice with Hilda Dugan,” said Jones, tauntingly; “but she was pumping you, and she found out the things we wanted to know. When she made an appointment for you to meet her on this island it was for the purpose of trapping you just as you were trapped.”

These words gave Merry a shock, but he refused to believe them. He did not wish to think the beautiful girl could be so treacherous. Besides that, it was a blow to his self-esteem to think that he had been deceived thus easily.

“I do not believe it!” he said, firmly. “She would not do such a thing!”

“That shows how much of a fool you are. Do you think she would betray her own father to a stranger like you? You must be a chump! She never intended to meet you here.”

“Still I refuse to believe it!”

“Waugh! Who cares!” growled Dugan. “We’ve got ye, and we’ll fix ye so you’ll never worry anybody again. We can’t stand here and chin all the afternoon with ye. Face around. So. Now march.”

Back along the path Frank marched, with his hands tied behind his back, his ruffianly captors following him. Now he knew Elder Jones was no true minister, but was an impostor. Without doubt Jones was a smuggler, like Dugan.

Back to the float they went, and the men made Frank get into the boat. They entered also, put up the sail, cast off and headed toward the great forest that stretched along the shore.

Frank looked at the vast woods and wondered whither they were taking him. Now for him those woods, so beautiful a short time ago, were full of terrors. In their dark depths all traces of a crime might be hidden away forever. If they carried him into the forest, would he ever come forth alive?

More and more he regretted that he had not made some kind of a stroke for his life, when he came face to face with Dugan, for now he was powerless to do anything.

Frank had some friends, good and true, but they were far away, and could not come to his aid. How he longed for the assistance of the powerful arm of Bruce Browning!

Would they ever know what had happened to him?

The boat ran into a small cove after crossing from the island, and soon the three were on shore. Again Frank was compelled to march before them, and soon they came to a path that led from the cove into the forest.

The great trees loomed above their heads. It was gloomy there beneath them, though the sun was shining so brightly.

After proceeding about half a mile, they came to an old wood road, and along this they marched till they reached a camp hut in the bosom of the great forest.

“We’ll stop here,” said Dugan.

They compelled Frank to march into the hut, opening the door for him to enter. The glass in the one small window was broken, and the place was none too light with the door standing wide ajar.

There were some barrels and boxes there, and Frank immediately decided that the hut had been used more than once to store goods smuggled over the border.

“We ain’t got no further use for this place,” said Dugan. “The officers have been watching it off and on for some time, so we ain’t been able to keep anything here. Which of the barrels has the powder in it, Huck?”

“This one,” said Jones, indicating one with a large bung hole in one end.

“All right. We’ll tie him to that.”

But the time had come when Merry was resolved to make a desperate struggle for life. He suddenly ducked his head and leaped forward, butting Jones in the stomach and bowling him over. But a most unfortunate thing happened to him as he tried to leap over the fallen man and dodge out by the door.

He tripped and was thrown headlong upon his face. He was stunned, and, before he could rise, Dugan was on him, pinning him to the ground.

“No ye don’t, you critter!” grated the man. “You can’t get away like that! Quick, Huck—give a hand!”

Gasping for breath, the other man assisted, and, in a very few minutes, Merriwell was bound with his back against the powder barrel. His last hope of escape seemed gone.

“There,” said Dugan, looking at him with a leer of satisfaction, “now you are all right. There is enough powder in the barrel to blow you to kingdom come and destroy the hut. You’ll be blotted out of existence in a wink, and your friends may search for ye as much as they like. They’ll never find a trace to tell what became of ye.”

Cold drops of perspiration started out on Frank’s brow, but he tried to remain calm in the face of the terrible danger.

“All right,” he said, his voice held steady by a great effort. “Go ahead with your evil work. But your time will come! Just as sure as the sun shines, there will be an hour of retribution.”

“Sounds like some of your preaching, Huck,” said Dugan. “Can’t you offer up a prayer for his soul before we touch him off?”

“I won’t waste my breath!” snapped the other man. “Go ahead with the funeral!”

Dugan produced a fuse from his pocket. It seemed that he had brought it along with a view of using it there. One end of the fuse he thrust down through the bunghole into the barrel of powder. Then he took out a match and deliberately scratched it on the leg of his trousers.

The match flared up, and then the man touched it to the end of the fuse!

Hiss—splutter—flare!

The fuse was burning!

Instantly both men turned toward the door, Jones hurrying out in advance. As he reached the door, Dugan turned to say:

“In one minute the fuse’ll reach ter their powder! Good-by!”

Then he went out, and Frank Merriwell was left in a situation of frightful peril.

CHAPTER XVI.

A SHOT FOR A LIFE.

For a moment after their departure Frank remained in a sort of stupor. They had closed the door behind them, and the only light came in by the broken window. Out there was the open air, freedom, life; in the hut was a boy on the brink of eternity.

Death was close to Frank Merriwell then. He knew it. A prayer welled up to his lips.

“God help me!”

He was frightened, but still he controlled his nerves and did not utter a single cry of terror. He knew it was useless, and he would not give those ruffians the satisfaction of hearing him shout for help. If die he must, he would die without squealing!

But he did not want to die. He was young, and life seemed good to him. It was an awful thing to be blotted out of existence in a fraction of a second—to be utterly destroyed in all his health and strength.

He felt weak and unable to move so much as his head. Had he been free he would have fought like a tiger even though he were facing odds that meant certain annihilation in the end. But it was soul-crushing to be destroyed thus, utterly helpless, without the ability to lift a hand to save himself.

He twisted his neck about and looked over his shoulder at the fuse, seeing the smoke rising behind him, seeing the spark of fire creeping steadily and swiftly toward the powder that would blow him into eternity.

Then he tried to reach it with his teeth and tear it from the barrel. He tipped far back and grasped at it, but missed it. With frantic haste he tried again, for the fuse was growing short with fearful swiftness. In a few more moments it would not be long enough for him to reach with his mouth.

A shadow darkened the window; a voice called:

“Mr. Merriwell, are you there?”

“Here!” gasped Frank. “Quick—save me! The fuse—the powder! It will——”

Crack!—a revolver spoke. The person outside had fired through the window, and the bullet had cut off the burning end of the fuse just as the fire was about to run down into the barrel.

Then the door was torn open, and Hilda Dugan, flushed with excitement and exertion, sprang in. She was dressed in a short hunting skirt, with leggings of russet leather to her knees, and on her head a cap was jauntily set. In one hand she carried the rifle, while the other held the still smoking revolver.

With a bound she reached the barrel and knocked the bit of burning fuse off the end. A moment later she whipped out a knife and began to cut the rope that held Merriwell helpless.

Soon Merry was free, although it scarcely seemed possible to him that he had escaped death. And he owed his life to the daughter of Dugan the smuggler!

“I was waiting for you,” she said; “but I realized that father and Jones were watching for you also. I induced father to give me the rifle, and here it is. I told you I would help you recover it. I have kept my word.”

“And saved my life in the bargain!” cried Frank, clasping her hand. “I shall never be able to repay that!”

“I followed them across in my canoe,” she said; “and that is how I came to reach here in time.”

“You have been my good angel, Miss Dugan! Never as long as I live shall I forget what you have done this day!”

“We must get away. If they heard my shot——”

She stepped to the door, and then a cry of fear escaped her lips.

“They did hear it. They are coming. We must run.”

Frank followed her from the hut, but they were confronted by Dugan and Jones, who were running along the road. When he saw Merriwell free, the leader uttered an oath and fired at him with a revolver that he had drawn as he ran.

The girl saw the movement of her father, and, in an attempt to stop him, she flung herself in front of Frank. With the shot, she staggered and dropped into Merry’s arms.

Frank’s rifle had fallen to the ground as he caught her, but, with an awful cry of rage, he snatched the revolver from her relaxing fingers and returned Dugan’s shot.

He did not shoot to kill the man, but broke his wrist with the bullet.

Dugan’s revolver fell, and the man stood staring at his daughter, who lay on Frank Merriwell’s arm.

“My God! I’ve killed her!” he groaned, not seeming to realize that he was wounded.

But she recovered. She stood erect, swaying slightly.

“Miss Dugan, where are you wounded?” palpitated Frank.

“Here—in the side. I don’t think it is much. Oh—go! I will cover your retreat. They will kill you if you do not. Follow this wood road. It will take you into the regular road that leads to Danforth. Get as far away from here as possible, and get away quick. Your life will not be worth a straw after this if you remain. Go!”

“Good-by! I’ll never forget!”

“Sometime—somewhere—perhaps we may meet again.”

“I fear you are badly wounded. I will not leave you!”

“I tell you I am not hurt much! You must go! Jones is dazed now, but he will recover. Father is wounded, and I must stay and take care of that hand. It is my duty. If it were not, I would show you the way.”

Still Frank hesitated.

“If you will write me something—a line, a word, just to let me know how much you were hurt.”

“Where?”

“Yale College, New Haven.”

“I will.”

“It seems cowardly to leave you this way.”

“You must. Good-by! I don’t know—perhaps—you may never see me again alive. You won’t think any worse of me—will you—if I ask you to—to kiss——”

She stopped, abashed, confused, ashamed. Then, with his arm about her, he kissed her.

“You are my hero!” she whispered. “I shall always think of you as that! I shall dream of you! I shall pray for you! Good-by, Frank!”

“I will think of you,” he responded. “I will pray for you! Good-by, Hilda!”

He hurried away, carrying the silver rifle that had led him into such fearful peril, and, as he went, he heard her ordering one of the men to drop his rifle, declaring she would shoot him dead if he fired a single shot at Frank. No shot was fired.

When Frank met his friends in Mattawamkeag, he triumphantly held up the silver rifle. But when he told them what adventures and perils he had passed through in recovering it, he aroused them to a high pitch of excitement.

“Well, hanged if you don’t have the luck!” grunted Browning. “You have all the fun! I’d given a cent to have been there! Oh! if I could have obtained a crack at old Dugan! Why didn’t you salt him for keeps while you were about it, Merry?”

“I didn’t want his life on my hands,” said Frank; “but I would give almost anything to know how severely Hilda Dugan was wounded. It was an awful tramp through the woods, but I got out to Danforth that night, and here I am.

“Yaw!” said Hans, gravely; “but you didn’d come near bein’ here uf I toldt der truth apout it. Dot bowder parrels britty near sent you high sky ven it tried to exbloded you ups. Mine gootness! I hat rudder peen seek a ped indo in Prownville than to half a parrel tied to me so I vos in danger uf exbloding und plowing it up. Yaw!”

“Well,” observed Hodge, “I think we have seen enough of the Maine woods. If we stay in this part of the State longer I’ll have nervous prostration.”

CHAPTER XVII.

FRED FOREST, OF HARVARD.

“Frank Merriwell of Yale! Frank Merriwell—here in this region! Am I dreaming? Is this an optical illusion?”

“I am Frank Merriwell of Yale,” laughed Merry himself, standing on the platform of the railroad station at Mattawamkeag, in the State of Maine. “You are right about that. But you—you cannot be Fred Forest, the Harvard man!”

“I am, just as hard,” laughed the other, a stout, healthy-looking youth of nineteen, roughly dressed in woolen clothes, a red sweater, blue cap, long-legged boots, with trousers thrust into them, while he wore no coat at all. “But you, the famous fullback of Yale, the great pitcher on the college ball team—you are the last person I could have dreamed of seeing here!”

“And you, the most elegantly dressed man of Harvard, the favorite in the swell society of Cambridge, whose apartments were said to be the most luxurious student rooms in this country, with a single possible exception—you here, in this rig! I am the one to be astonished.”

“It seems to be a case of mutual astonishment. Sure you have me daffy, old man. I can’t believe my eyes even now.”

“No more can I. Why, you are the man they said would not even take the trouble to strike a match to light your own cigarette if your valet were within call. As for dressing yourself, it was said you had never been compelled to perform such a menial task. And now I meet you here—in such an outfit! I am the one who is dreaming! I shall awaken in a moment!”

Fred Forest laughed heartily in a well-bred manner, grasping Frank’s hand and shaking with a truly aristocratic movement, which showed he was sure to “do the proper” wherever he might be.

“It’s no dream as far as I am concerned, my dear boy,” he assured. “I am here, in the flesh—and in this outfit.”

“Are you going into the woods on a sporting trip?”

“I assure you not! Quite the contrary. But how do you happen to be here?”

Frank explained in a few well-chosen words, making clear without telling a long story just why he was in Mattawamkeag.

“I just came down to the station to see about purchasing tickets for Bangor,” he finished. “I was astounded to see you step off the train as it came in.”

“So you are on your way down the river, and I just came up. And you and your friends have planned to go down to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Better stop over till to-morrow. I’m here on business. We’ll have a jolly good time talking over the great games and races between our respective alma maters. You’re in no particular rush. Say you’ll stop.”

Frank hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he said, slowly; “I wouldn’t mind. Some of the others might growl. But you haven’t told me how it is you are here—in this rig.”

“It’s a pretty long story, but I’ll cut it short and make it clear in a few words. My father is dead. He was supposed to be very rich, but, when he died, his property was found to be involved. He was engaged in the lumber business, and he owned large tracts of forest up here in this State. Every winter he cut a great amount of timber, which was brought down the river in the spring. He died early last spring, and, when it was found that his affairs were involved and he was not as rich as supposed, everything came to a standstill. There seemed to be no one to carry on his business, and so not half of his timber was run down the river. When I realized just where I had been left in the world, I set about trying to straighten father’s affairs out. It took some time to get, so I could see through anything, but, at last, I found out about how things stood. There was a chance of pulling things out and putting the business on its feet with good management. But where was the manager? Then I decided to give up college and take up my father’s business. The creditors kindly agreed to give me time, and that’s about all there is to be told, save that I am trying to get the timber down the river, even though it is out of season. The price of lumber has advanced, and I can make a big strike toward squaring things if I can get the logs out. The river is not as low as usual at this season, and I am running the logs, although it has cost me much more to get them out than it would have cost last spring. I’ll have to give up getting a drive off the East Branch, but I have brought one down the main river, and there is another somewhere this side of Twin Lakes. It should be at Melway by this time. It is the largest drive of any, and I am going down with it. That’s all. Now you understand why I am here, dressed in this rig.”

Frank’s eyes shone with admiration and sympathy.

“Old man,” he said, seriously, “I admire your grit! It’s plain enough you are made of the right stuff. You have never been brought up to work, and yet, when the time came, you showed you were ready to do your duty.”

“Well,” smiled Fred, “some people who have always known me are dazed by the change. They always said I was spoiled—I would not amount to anything. When father died and it was learned that he had not left his affairs in very good shape, great sympathy was expressed for my mother. They said it was so hard to be left a widow with no fortune and a worthless son to support. They are beginning to change their minds about the worthless son, for they have discovered that he can wear common clothes and work as hard as any man. And I’ll live to pay every dollar my father owed, and I will support my mother in absolute comfort the rest of her life.”

“You’ll do it!” cried Merry, enthusiastically. “I see it in your face! You are all right, Forest! Sometimes it takes a great calamity to bring out the manhood in a fellow. Yours has been shown by the death of your father and the condition his affairs were left in. I believe you will become a smart, capable business man. This very misfortune may result for the best so far as you are concerned. Fred Forest, I am proud of you!”

“That is somewhat different from some of my former friends,” laughed the young lumberman.

“How do you mean?”

“After father’s death I went back to Cambridge to gather up my personal property. Somehow the news got ahead of me that I had not been left a fortune, but was poor. Ha! ha! ha! You should have seen how some of my former friends gave me the marble heart! They cut me dead.”

“The cads!” cried Frank, in disgust.

“Yes,” Fred went on, “some of them who had drunk my wine and borrowed my money did not know me at all. Not one of them offered to pay back a dollar of what he had borrowed, or even mentioned that he would pay it some time. Those things rather upset a fellow’s trust in human nature.”

“They tend to,” confessed Merry; “but we mustn’t let them. I have a theory that as soon as a man loses confidence in human nature he blots out a great element of satisfaction in living. I have been deceived many times by those I firmly believed my friends, but, on the other hand, I have found occasionally that an enemy who seemed to be a thorough rascal was a decent sort of fellow at heart. These things have led me to be slow about judging my fellow men.”

“That’s all right enough, Merriwell,” nodded Forest; “but I can now see that a certain element of our college life tends to make cads and snobs of men.”

“That is true,” agreed Frank; “but, at the same time those chaps have naturally caddish inclinations. Their surroundings simply bring out their true nature. At the same time, the colleges turn out manly men by the thousands, about whom there is nothing caddish.”

“Oh! well, we won’t discuss that now. Come on over to the hotel. I have a proposal to make to you. It may not meet your approval, but——”

“Wait till I see about those tickets.”

“Never mind the tickets now. You can see about them when you decide to go down the river by rail.”

“I have decided on that already.”

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

“Why should I?”

“You are up here looking for sport.”

“Sure.”

“You are roughing it?”

“Yes.”

“Why not stay and go down the river with me?”

“How?”

“With the drive.”

“But I don’t understand. How would we travel?”

“On the raft.”

“What raft?”

“The one that follows the drive. We would drift down the river. The raft is composed of a lot of logs bound together to carry the cook, cookee and their outfit. There are some little huts on it, and it is tied up every night. The men sleep in the huts and in shore camps.”

“What is done with the raft when a bad rapid in the river is reached?”

“It is sent through if the rapids are not too bad. If they are too bad, it is broken up and sent through, then bound together again below. You will enjoy the drift down the river, if you are not in a hurry. What do you say?”

“It’s worth considering,” said Frank. “If the rest of the fellows are willing I’ll go with you. Let’s go over to the hotel and see them.”

So they left the station together.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ARRIVING AT A DECISION.

Browning, Hodge and Diamond had heard of Forest, whose extravagant style of living had made a sensation at Harvard, but Merriwell was the only one who had met him before. Fred was introduced to them all, as they were found lazily lounging about the hotel. Hans Dunnerwust was also introduced, and endeavored to make himself agreeable.

“You vos glat to seen me,” he said, shaking hands with Forest. “But I don’d understood vot makes you holdt my handt so high up und viggle id like dot. Dot peen a vunny vay to shook handts.”

“Excuse me,” laughed Fred, blushing, but not showing offense. “I forgot I was not at Cambridge, and I was shaking as my former friends would shake.”

Of course it was necessary to make an explanation of Forest’s presence in that town, and the boys expressed their sincere regret on learning of his misfortune. Not even Diamond, with all his aristocratic Southern notions, showed that he considered Fred any less a gentleman because he had become comparatively poor and found it necessary to give up his former style of living. Jack’s life in the North had wrought a great change in his views, so that he was now willing to acknowledge that a man could be a gentleman even though he worked at day labor. He was surprised by the intelligence of the common laborer in the North, and he had found woodcutters and even coal heavers who were well informed, well educated and well read.

Of course, the Virginian held himself as above a coal heaver, but he marveled much that men of intelligence should do such work. The explanation that the poorest man in the North may be and almost always is ambitious, seeks knowledge, reads the big daily newspapers, and can see nothing degrading in almost any kind of honest work, was not sufficient to fully satisfy the Southerner. The fact that such men had families to support, and often had cosy, comfortable little homes, for which they were paying with the earnings of their labor, which spurred them on to accept almost any kind of occupation when better employment could not be obtained, did not seem to fully satisfy Diamond; and he continued to marvel over the social condition in the North.

There was nothing more nauseating to Jack than sham aristocracy, and he could easily see that some of the common laborers of the North were the peers in many instances of wealthy men who looked down on them with supreme contempt. That this should be so was what amazed the observing Virginian.

Diamond was astonished when he learned that Fred Forest had given up his luxurious ways of living, left college for good, and was endeavoring to repair the wrecked fortunes of his dead father. But what was more surprising was that Forest should dress in the clothes of a common laborer and come up the Penobscot to oversee the work of getting the cut timber down the river.

This was explained to the boys by Forest himself, who told it without hesitation and without the least show of embarrassment or shame. Indeed, Fred seemed glad that the old life of luxurious extravagance was past and gone and now he was a man among men, striving to hew a path to success.

“The closer a man looks after his own interests the better off he is,” said Forest, when he had explained everything. “That’s why I am here. Mike Sullivan, the boss on this drive, is a good man when he lets liquor alone, but he will have his jamborees, and he lets everything go to the wind when he breaks away. I had to rush men up the river in a hurry, and it was a bad season to get drivers, so I was forced to take Sullivan. But I decided to come up and look after the drive myself. Now, if you gentlemen would like to go down the river with me on the drift, I shall be glad to have you. It will cost you nothing but your time, and you will see a feature of life that is new to you.”

“Will there be any excitement?” asked Bart Hodge, his dark face showing his interest.

“I should guess yes!” laughed Fred. “There will be excitement and perils, unless it is an unusually lucky drive. The watershed of the Penobscot River, which drains one-half of the State of Maine, it is said, has witnessed more deeds of heroism, and been the scene of more valorous acts than any other area of its size on the North American continent.”

“Aren’t you putting that rather strong?” grunted Bruce Browning, who was lazily puffing away at a fragrant cigar.

“Not a bit,” declared the young lumberman. “Of course the greater perils are encountered far north of here, but there are rapids below us, and many a poor fellow has gone down to his death between here and Milford.”

“Oxcuse me!” gurgled Hans. “I pelief I vill valk der rifer down pefore I vill let dot raft ride me down. I don’d vant to peen drownted.”

“Oh! there will be no danger for you,” assured Fred. “It is the river driver who lives a life of constant peril and hardship. The story of his sufferings, his heroic acts, his marvelous deeds of daring, has never been told.”

“That is singular,” said Merriwell. “I should think the field would be a good one for the story writer.”

“It is a great field,” asserted Forest; “and it has scarcely been worked at all. For half a century the reading public has been fed with tales of mining camps and frontier desperadoes, while brave engineers and hardy sailors, who have made the love of life subordinate to duty, have been praised in song and story. New England authors have crossed the continent to gain a local coloring for their fiction. All this time the noblest sacrifices and the greatest tragedies the world has ever known were being enacted within three hundred miles of Boston Common.”

Forest’s face showed his earnestness, and Frank Merriwell wondered still more at the marvelous change in the youth. At the same time, Merriwell was greatly interested, feeling within himself a growing desire to see and know something of the men and the life of which Fred was speaking.

“That is stronger still,” said Diamond.

“It’s a pipe dream,” muttered Browning. “Here, Forest, have a cigar to soothe your nerves. The weed is all right. Didn’t buy it here; brought it with me.”

He took out a case and offered Fred a selection.

Forest drew back, lifting his hand.

“Thank you,” he said; “I do not smoke.”

“What? Why, you were said to have all sorts of habits at college.”

“I think I did have them all, but I have quit smoking, drinking and spending money foolishly for anything. It was necessary to economize, you know.”

“I’ll be hanged!” snorted the big fellow.

Frank Merriwell nodded his approval, and, more than ever, he felt that Fred Forest was built of the proper material to make a success in life.

“Fellows,” said Merriwell, “I believe we will make a mistake if we do not accept Forest’s offer. We may never have another opportunity to see what the life of a river driver is like.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Hodge. “Let’s drift down the river with the drive.”

“It’s too much trouble,” grumbled Bruce.

“Yaw!” said Hans; “und I might drownt dot rifer in.”

“It will be a pleasant excursion,” declared Merriwell, quickly. “The weather, is all anybody could ask, and we shall not suffer anything from exposure. I am for going. What do you say, Diamond?”

“I will go.”

“I thought we had found enough excitement to last us a while,” muttered Bruce, in an unsatisfied manner. “I feel like getting back on board the White Wings.”

“Well,” said Frank, “you can take a train and go down to Bangor that way. We’ll join you there.”

“I won’t do that,” exploded Browning. “I’ll hang by the party. If the rest decide to go down the river on a lumber raft, count me in.”

“And you, Hans?”

“Vale, I sticks der crowt py, but I vos sure to drownt dot rifer in me, und then I vill peen sorry you didn’t gone der odder vay.”

“Then it is settled,” said Frank. “We will wait here for the drive, and go down the river with it.”

CHAPTER XIX.

AT A COUNTRY DANCE.

That night Merriwell and Diamond went out to stroll around the village. Forest was tired, and he had gone to bed early. Browning and Dunnerwust also turned in shortly after supper, and Hodge, in one of his unsociable moods, was “flocking by himself.”

The sound of music from a building attracted Frank and Jack, and, on inquiring, they learned that a public dance was taking place there.

“Let’s go in,” laughed Merry.

Diamond drew back.

“I don’t think I care to go in there,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Think of the class of people we are sure to find there.”

Frank laughed.

“My dear boy,” he said, “that is the very reason why I wish to go in. It’s life, and I like to study life wherever I find it.”

Still Jack hesitated.

“Think of the rabble,” he said. “If we go there, we put ourselves on a level with that crowd.”

“Not necessarily. We can drop in and look on. We need not dance. I am going, whether you do or not.”

“Oh! well, I shall stand by you, Merry; but something tells me we had better keep out of that place.”

Laughing at this, Frank linked his arm with Jack’s, and they climbed the stairs to the hall, paid the price of admission, and went in.

The hall was not large, and it was well filled. A contra dance, “The Lady of the Lake,” was taking place. The hall was poorly lighted with kerosene lamps. On a small stage at one end of the hall sat the musicians, three in number, a fiddler, a cornet player, and a chuck-headed youth who was pounding out chords on an antiquated piano that was sadly in need of tuning. The harmony of the music was not all that could have been desired, but what they lacked in harmony the musicians made up in noise and energy. The fiddler was sawing away at his instrument as if it were a stick of wood, the cornet player was purple in the face from his exertions, and the youth at the piano thumped the keys as if he were driving spikes.

Frank and Jack found a chance to sit down on a long bench that ran along the wall, and then they surveyed the remarkable scene.

The floor was almost crowded with dancers, and they were the strangest set Diamond had ever beheld. The female portion was attired in everything from a faded silk several years out of style to a brilliant pink calico with flowing sleeves and blue trimmings. The ladies wore their hair in “frizzes,” and bangs, and coils, and flowing ringlets, as suited their fancy. One old lady between fifty and sixty was prancing up and down the center with her partner in a kittenish manner, grinning in a fashion that betrayed the fact that she was minus several teeth, although she was well supplied with corkscrew curls, which bobbed and flapped about her face.

Some of the “gentlemen” wore their Sunday best, with a “boiled shirt” and paper collar. In many cases the paper collars were beginning to wilt, and, as he sat down, Merry saw one young man tear his off ruthlessly and fling it down on the floor, where it struck with a spat like unto that of a mud cake hurled against the side of a shed.

Not a few of the male dancers wore rough, every-day clothes and cow-hide boots. Some men were frisking around in moccasins, one of them, being uncomfortably warm, having removed his coat and vest and let down one suspender.

There were two red-shirted men in the hall who wore long-legged boots, into the tops of which their trousers were tucked. One man had a full black beard and a swarthy face. He was nearly six feet tall, but was so stocky that he did not look his height by three inches. His hands were big and thick, and his general appearance was that of a man possessing enormous strength. His eyes were red and his face flushed, while his manner told that he had been drinking. He was dancing with the prettiest girl in the hall.

The other red-shirted individual was wiry, slender and dark, with eyes set near together and seeming shifty and restless.

Merriwell immediately set him down as a French-Canadian.

Frank laughed softly as he watched the musicians and the dancers.

“What are you laughing at?” muttered Diamond.

“The whole business,” answered Frank. “By Jove! this is a circus! Aren’t you glad you came?”

“Don’t know that I am,” came sulkily from Jack.

“Well, I am,” declared Merry. “Wouldn’t have missed this for anything. I have seen all kinds of dances, but I think this takes the first prize.”

“Cattle!” growled Diamond.

Immediately Frank grew sober.

“I will guarantee there are brave men and true here,” he said, seriously. “Their ways are rough, but their hearts are all right.”

“Only cattle could enjoy anything like this,” declared Jack, stiffly.

“You are altogether too narrow, my boy. Look at the face of that girl with the big red-shirted fellow. Isn’t she pretty? By Jove! Dress her in fine clothes, possibly give her a few lessons in refinement, and she would put to blush some of your city belles. Why, her face is really handsome!”

Jack stared at the girl in silence for some moments, and then he said:

“She is out of place here.”

“She seems to be enjoying it.”

“That is what surprises me,” confessed the Virginian; “for I am positive that that girl is far above her surroundings. Why, she is positively handsome!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank. “Now you are growing enthusiastic. That’s more than I expected of you.”

“But I know the girl is out of her element. She is young, too. She is innocent! Her face shows that. It’s a shame!”

Merriwell laughed again, but Diamond scowled and watched the girl, who interested him in a wonderful manner. After a little the Virginian shook himself angrily and looked away.

“Nothing but a country girl,” he thought. “I mustn’t let myself become interested in her.”

The dance came to a sudden termination. Some of the “gentlemen” escorted their partners from the floor, and some left them on the spot. Those who were left did not seem to mind it.

The big red-shirted man with the pretty girl walked with her to a seat and sat down beside her. By chance they were close to Diamond, and Jack heard him say:

“Ef yer dance with Bill ter-night, Jennie, thar’ll be trouble. I don’ stan’ ter see that feller shinin’ up ter you.”

The girl gave her head a toss.

“I do not think you have a right to say whom I shall dance with,” she retorted, and the Virginian was surprised to discover that her voice was not harsh, but was soft and musical, in keeping with her pretty face.

The man showed anger.

“I come fifteen mile ter be here at this dance,” he muttered, fiercely; “fer I knew you’d be here, and I knew he’d be here. You know what I’ve done, an’ your dad says we’ll be married in the fall. Now, I want yer ter keep away from Bill. Ef ye don’t, it’ll be ther worse fer Bill. That’s all.”

Then he got up and walked away.

Jack’s hot blood was beginning to boil, for he was not accustomed to hearing a man talk to a lady in such a manner, and it stirred the chivalry of his nature. He felt like offering the girl his protection, but he had not been introduced to her.

“Next dance is a plain quadrille,” called the fiddler.

Then there was a rush for partners, who were dragged upon the floor in a most unceremonious manner.

Frank Merriwell caught the eye of a good-looking girl, smiled at her, received a smile in return, and then, seeing there was no floor manager, lost no time in introducing himself and asking her to dance.

Jack was left alone, with the prettiest girl in the hall sitting near him.

A young man in good clothes and looking rather intelligent approached the girl and said:

“Aren’t you going to dance with me once, Jennie?”

“Oh! Bill, I don’t dare to!” she exclaimed.

“Don’t dare?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He is here, and he says——”

“I don’t care what he says!” exclaimed the young man, fiercely. “I’m not afraid of him!”

“But I am, and I will not dance.”

It was useless for Bill to coax, for she remained obstinate. At last he went away, attempting, out of politeness, to conceal his anger, although Jack could see he was furious.

The girl slyly pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and all Jack’s sympathy was aroused.

“I’d like to hit that big red-shirted brute with a club!” he thought.

The girl’s handkerchief slipped down to the floor. He picked it up and returned it to her in his politest manner.

A smile broke over her face, like a burst of sunshine through a cloud.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“You are very welcome, miss,” murmured Jack, who was dazzled by the whiteness of her teeth and her rare smile.

“Here—one more couple here,” called a voice, as a young man came rushing round the hall. “Fill up this set—you two. Come on and fill it out.”

He was speaking to Jack and the pretty girl. Diamond gave her a glance, and she smiled again.

“Shall we dance?” he asked.

She bowed. He rose instantly, and she accepted his arm. Frank Merriwell nearly “dropped dead” when he saw the haughty Virginian lead the girl onto the floor.

CHAPTER XX.

THE FIGHT.

The figure of the dance was new to Jack, but the girl was perfectly acquainted with it, and she piloted him at first, till he caught on, for it proved simple enough.

She was a graceful dancer. Jack found opportunities to converse with her. At first she was rather reticent, but he drew her out, and he was surprised to find her an agreeable and intelligent talker. He introduced himself, and she told him her name was Jennie Wren. She said her father had been to Virginia to get out ship timber, but she had never been farther away than Boston.

“Boston is a splendid city,” said Jack. “I haven’t been able to spend much time there.”

“I spent several months there,” she declared.

“Indeed! You were fortunate.”

“I think so, but you see I earned all the money to pay my tuition.”

“Your tuition?”

“Yes. I took a course at the Boston Conservatory of Music.”

Diamond nearly dropped. For some moments he was dazed and could not say a word. This girl had attended the Boston Conservatory of Music, she was pretty and seemed refined, and she was to be married to a big, bewhiskered, hulking, red-shirted ruffian who proclaimed his ignorance by his general appearance, as well as his talk.

Diamond pitied her, for he had heard enough to know she was being forced into the marriage against her wishes. It was plain she really cared for the respectable-appearing young man named Bill.

When there was another opportunity to talk, the girl said:

“I taught school a long time to earn the money, but I’ve never regretted spending it as I did.”

“That’s nice,” murmured Diamond, stupidly, for he was at a loss for words now.

“Sometimes,” pursued the girl, “I’ve regretted that I came back here, but my father has been very good, and I could not leave him.”

“Of course not.”

Jack could not talk. He understood the situation now, and his brain was in a whirl. Through his head flashed wild schemes for rescuing this girl from the red-shirted ruffian and giving her to the one she loved. The thought that she might be forced into marriage with the big brute in the red shirt caused the Virginian to grind his teeth.

Diamond longed to talk to her of this, but he knew there was no way of doing so on such short acquaintance. After a time he recovered enough to talk of music, upon which he was posted and in which he was interested, and this subject proved a sympathetic bond between them.

The girl was pleased with Jack, for she saw in him the perfect gentleman, who treated her with as much courtesy as if she had been the finest lady in the land.

The dance was almost over when she shyly asked him if he waltzed. He did. She said it was not easy to find partners for the waltz, and then she blushed furiously and laughed to cover her confusion. Jack asked her to waltz with him.

“The next waltz?” she murmured.

“Of course.”

“I will. They will have a waltz after this dance, I think.”

When the quadrille was over, Jack escorted her to the ladies’ dressing room, and waited outside for her to reappear.

Barely had she entered when the big red-shirted man rudely pushed past Diamond, threw open the door of the room and entered, regardless of the fact that he had no business in there.

Jack hesitated, more than half tempted to follow. While he was hesitating, there came a shriek from the room.

With one bound the Virginian flung open the door and plunged in, beholding a spectacle that aroused him to such fury as he had not felt in months.

The man had the girl by the neck, and he was shaking her in a most brutal manner.

With a shout and a bound, the Southerner was on him. He struck the brute behind the ear, and hurled him against the wall with the force of the blow. Then he caught the half fainting girl in his arms.

But Diamond had made a mistake in thinking the blow, which would have knocked out an ordinary man, must settle the ruffian for a time.

The man recovered in a twinkling, and then, with a snarl of fury, he lunged at Diamond, tearing the girl from Jack and sending her staggering into a corner.

The Virginian felt a grip of iron close upon him. He tried to twist about, but it was not possible to do so in that clutch. Then he realized that the man had the strength of a Samson.

“Cuss ye!” grated the big ruffian. “I’ll fix ye!”

Holding Jack with one hand, he struck at him with the other. The Virginian dodged his head to one side, and the blow missed. But this simply served to make the ruffian still angrier.

However, before he could strike again, another person came rushing into the dressing room.

It was Frank Merriwell.

Merry instantly saw his friend was in a bad scrape, an he flew at the red-shirted man.

Once more the ruffian received a frightful crack under the ear, and Diamond was torn from his clutch at the same moment.

“Look out for the girl!” came from Merriwell, and then he followed the man up.

Frank Merriwell was a scientific fighter. He did not propose to let the brute get a clutch on him, for something told him the man had wonderful strength.

Before the man could recover, Merry hit him again and again; but the blows did not seem to have any great effect, for, with a roar of rage, the wretch recovered and came at him.

Instantly Merriwell bounded backward and out through the open door, knowing it would not do to be cornered in that small room.

The man followed.

There were screams in the hall, hoarse shouts and the rush of feet.

“A fight! a fight!”

That was the cry.

“Mike will kill ther kid!” shouted a voice.

Diamond came lunging out of the dressing room, eager to stand by Merriwell. He sought to get at the ruffian, but he was grabbed by the other red-shirted fellow, and a voice jabbered:

“You no do dat! I take de han’ in dis. Levi Pombere he look out for you. How you to like dat?”

Then he struck Diamond with his fist.

It was the French Canadian, who was evidently a friend of the big man who was trying to smash Merry.

By this time Diamond was like a wildcat. He went at the fellow with such fury that the “Canuck” fell back, vainly trying to defend himself from the shower of blows which stung his face, beat on his eyes, flattened his nose and bewildered him generally.

Diamond followed up every advantage. Never in all his life had he fought with such frenzy. The Canadian could not stop him, and soon the fellow’s face was cut and bleeding in several places. Then Jack knocked him down, waited for him to get up, and knocked him down again. The astounded and damaged man, who had fancied he was dealing with a boy he could handle easily, scrambled on his hands and knees toward the stairs, reached the head and rolled clean to the bottom.

Around the hall men and girls were standing against the wall, with their feet on the bench, watching the fight. Not a few of them had witnessed a fight at a country dance before that, but this one was a revelation, for they saw two beardless lads whipping two men who seemed able to eat the boys, and who had the reputation of having cleaned out a dozen men.

The fight between Merriwell and the big man was fully as fierce as the one between Diamond and the Canadian. Frank took care not to let the ruffian get hold of him. He dodged under the man’s outstretched arms, hitting him in the wind till the big fellow was doubled up. Then Frank forced the man back. When they were about ten feet from the door that opened out upon the stairs, Frank struck the ruffian a fearful blow, sending him staggering back and back till he passed out through the door and went crashing to the bottom of the stairs, landing on the Canadian, who lay there groaning.

Some men went down and found both men at the foot of the stairs, completely knocked out. Then they were carried away.

The news was brought back into the hall, and Merriwell and Diamond were surrounded by an admiring crowd. All the men wished to shake hands with the wonderful fighters, while some of the girls actually expressed a desire to hug them.

“Do you know who you whipped, young man?” asked one of the male witnesses.

“I know I did my best to whip a big brute,” answered Frank, quietly.

“Well, that big brute, as you call him, has the reputation of being the worst man on the Penobscot. Why, he’s Mike Sullivan, and he’s known from the Allaguash to Bangor.”

“Mike Sullivan!” exclaimed Frank. “Isn’t he a river driver?”

“He is; and he’s boss of a crew that’s comin’ down the river with a drive. He came on ahead to be at this dance.”

Frank turned to Jack.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Mike Sullivan is the boss of Fred Forest’s crew!”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” said Jack. “He deserved all he got—and more.”

Then he went away to search for the pretty girl he had defended.

The boys were urged to leave the hall, for it was said Sullivan and Pombere would return as soon as they were patched up; but they showed no fear, and they remained.

Jack danced with Jennie Wren twice, and, when he left, near midnight, he had the satisfaction of seeing her waltzing with Bill.

CHAPTER XXI.

FOREST LEARNS THE FACTS.

After a good night’s sleep, Fred Forest rose at sunrise, having ordered an early breakfast, as he was to start up the river as soon as possible.

He was standing in front of the hotel, breathing in the pure morning air, and wondering if Merriwell and his friends would turn out in time to go with him or would wait for the drive to reach Matawamkeag, when he was astonished to see Mike Sullivan, his foreman, come out of the door.

Sullivan was no less astonished to see Forest, and he would have dodged back into the hotel, but he realized that he had been seen and it was useless to dodge.

“What in the world does this mean, Sullivan?” demanded Forest, sharply.

The foreman muttered something, quickly pulling out a colored handkerchief and trying to conceal the battered and bruised condition of his face under pretense of wiping his mouth.

“Why are you here?” asked the young lumberman.

“I thought you might be in town, and I came down ahead of the drive ter see ye,” said the foreman, thickly.

“But what’s the matter with your face? You have been fighting.”

“Man has ter fight sometimes.”

“But I know your propensity. You had rather fight than eat. You have been drinking, too. You had no business to leave the drive and come down here. Your place is with the men.”

Sullivan was silent.

“You know your agreement when I hired you. You were not to drink while on the drive.”

“A man has ter have something somtimes when he gets wet through,” half growled the foreman.

“That argument may go in the spring time, when the water is cold, but it is summer now, and it will not hold. It’s plain you have been on a tear. Who did you fight with?”

“Oh, a gang pitched onter me an’ Pombere last night. There was about twenty of ’em, and we was thumped pritty hard, but——”

Sullivan stopped short, muttering an oath, for at that juncture Frank Merriwell appeared in the doorway, looking as fresh as a morning-glory.

Forest saw Sullivan staring toward the door, his face working with fury, and he turned about.

Frank came down the steps.

“Curse ye!” snarled Sullivan.

To Forest’s astonishment, he saw that his foreman was about to make a dash at Merry, his fists clinched, his whole appearance indicating great rage.

Fred caught Sullivan by the arm, crying:

“Stop! That is my friend!”

Frank had paused with his hands on his hips, smiling quietly.

“Let him come if he wants to so bad, Forest,” he said. “I’ll give him another dose of the same medicine I gave him last night.”

“If you dare attempt to touch him, Sullivan, I’ll discharge you!” came sharply from the young lumberman.

That caused the foreman of the drive to drop his hands, muttering to himself.

“So you had an encounter with him last night, Mr. Merriwell?” said Fred. “I don’t see that you bear any marks.”

“I was fortunate enough to escape without receiving any,” smiled Frank.

“Sullivan says a gang of about twenty men jumped on him and Levi Pombere.”

“I think he stretched that somewhat.”

“How many were there in your party?”

“No one but Diamond and myself.”

“What?”

Forest was astounded.

“That is straight,” nodded Merriwell.

“And you two fought Mike Sullivan and Levi Pombere?”

“We had to fight them.”

“It’s hard to believe!”

“Don’t believe it,” snarled the foreman.

“I can prove it,” declared Frank, quietly. “It was at the dance last night, and all those in the hall witnessed the little disturbance.”

“But Sullivan has whipped five good men at once.”

“I can’t help that. I knew nothing of his reputation as a fighter till the trouble was over, and then they told me he was the champion bad man of the river.”

“What have you to say about this, sir?” demanded Forest, turning on the foreman.

“I was drunk, that’s all—Pombere was drunk. We couldn’t see ter fight. Sometime, when I’m sober——”

“What?”

“I’ll settle with this smart young chap.”

“If you do try that while you are on the drive I’ll discharge you without notice. Mr. Merriwell is my friend and my guest. He is going down the river on the drift, and, as long as you remain with the crew, you will use him with the utmost courtesy. I want you to understand that. I shall be with the crew, and I’ll see all that goes on.”

The foreman was furious, but he was obliged to suppress his rage.

“We start to join the drive immediately after breakfast,” Forest went on. “I shall expect to find you and Pombere on duty when I get there. You may go.”

Giving Merriwell a savage look, Sullivan turned and walked round the hotel, disappearing from view.

Fred Forest surveyed Frank Merriwell from head to feet.

“Well,” he slowly said. “I have heard that you could fight as well as you could do anything else, but I swear I did not think you could whip that kind of a ruffian! Why, what you have done should make you famous on the Penobscot.”

“Well,” smiled Frank, “I was forced into it.”

“Tell us about it.”

Frank did so. When he had finished Fred grasped his hand.

“You are a fellow after my own heart, Merriwell!” he cried. “Sullivan is a good foreman, but he’s a brute, and I’m glad he was whipped. But you must look out for him. He may try to get square.”

“Oh, I shall keep my eyes open,” declared Frank.

CHAPTER XXII.

THOUGH IT COST A LIFE.

It is generally believed by people who have not visited the State of Maine that it is a country of great pine forests. School geographies and popular histories call Maine the “Pine Tree State.” Four score years ago this was applicable, and it was then that the State seal was adopted. Since then there has been a wonderful change. On the shore front and extending far inland are tillage lands, pastures, villages and cities. Once that country was covered with mighty pine forests.

Out of about five hundred million feet of timber cut in Maine, as shown by the last census in 1890, three hundred million feet were spruce. Pine came second, with hemlock third. More than half the timber cut in Maine is spruce, and Maine furnishes over half the spruce used in New England. This being the case, it has been suggested that the State seal should be made over, the spruce tree should be substituted for the pine, and Maine should be called the “Spruce Tree State.”

The black spruce of the Maine forest furnishes pulp for paper, lumber for houses, and chewing gum for boys and girls. It is a sub-Arctic tree, and thrives best and reaches fullest maturity on the rocky sides of high hills and mountains in the northern part of the State.

There are but three pulp and paper mills of any size within fifty miles of the great spruce belt of New England, and so, before the logs can be manufactured, they must be driven down many crooked and turbulent streams and over numerous wide lakes.

This is where the river driver comes in. He must launch the logs from the shore, boom them across ponds and lakes, and, in the northern streams, send them singly through narrow channels, pick them out of eddies, prevent jams from forming, break jams, and do a thousand and one things that test his skill, strength, nerve and endurance.

Fortunately for Fred Forest, a great deal of his timber had been “started” before the death of his father, which brought a sudden end to the work. Still at least a fourth of the amount cut had been left inland where it would be impossible to move it till the spring freshets another year. As it was, Forest was getting out as much timber as he could, the advance in prices making him sure of a good profit, for all of the extra expense of moving the logs at that season of the year.

Being determined to see Jennie Wren, Mike Sullivan had hurried on in advance of the drive, which was strung out for a distance of ten miles along the river. The morning following the encounter between the Yale lads and the loggers the first sticks of the drive were beginning to appear at Mattawamkeag, and it was certain the main drive was not more than ten miles away.

Sullivan did not wait for breakfast after being ordered by Forest to join the drive and attend to his duties. He aroused the Canadian, and, shortly after, the two men were seen riding away on the horses that had brought them into the village.

The appearance of the scattering timber in advance of the drive told Forest it was nearer than he had thought. Still he made preparations to hasten up the river right away after breakfast. After having a talk with Frank, it was agreed that Merry had better remain in the village and see that his party was all ready to go aboard the drift immediately below the falls.

Thus it came about that Frank and his friends did not join the drive till late that afternoon.

In the meantime, Jack met Jennie Wren at one of the village stores and had a short talk with her. Diamond was enthusiastic in relating to Frank what had passed between them.

“She is a dear little queen?” declared the Southerner. “She was very grateful to us for what we did last night, but she says her old brute of a father will force her into marrying that ruffian Sullivan. It’s a shame! Why, she is good enough for any man!”

Frank laughed outright.

“Take care, Diamond!” he exclaimed.

Jack blushed furiously, but quickly said:

“Oh! there is no danger. I’m simply interested in Miss Wren, for I did not dream of finding such a girl amid the rabble of a public dance in this town.”

“You are still prone to misjudge the people of Maine, I see,” said Merry; “and, as a result, you are meeting with many surprises. This Jennie Wren is not the only one of her kind. There are others.”

“Well, I feel that I’d like to do something to help this one.”

“What can you do?”

“That is the question. I’d like to free her from any danger of being forced to marry that brute Sullivan.”

“You might assist her to elope with Bill.”

“She can’t do that—or she will not.”

“Why not?”

“On account of her father. He is an invalid, and she will not leave him alone. It seems that Sullivan has some influence over old Wren, who used to work under him.”

“Well, if you can’t help her that way, I don’t see but you will be forced to challenge Sullivan and kill him in a duel.”

The Southerner’s face actually lighted with a gleam of satisfaction and approval.

“I might do that!” he cried. “Never thought of it. But do you suppose he would fight with pistols?” he asked, doubtfully.

“Ha! ha! ha!” merrily rang out Frank’s musical laugh. “I was joking, old man. Such a thing would not do down this way. Besides, it is certain Sullivan would not meet you.”

“How could he refuse if he were challenged?” asked Jack, gravely.

“There you go! You are forgetting you are not in the South. It is not the man who refuses to accept a challenge who is ridiculed in this part of the country; it is the fellow who sends the challenge.”

The Virginian shook his head.

“No,” he confessed, “I am not used to such a condition of affairs, and I forget how the people of the North look on dueling. Well, I can’t help the girl that way.”

“Wait; perhaps your time will come. We are going down the river with the drive. No one can tell what may happen.”

Jack looked at Frank queerly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“I do not mean anything in particular, but I have noticed that fate sometimes works in wondrous ways. Jennie Wren is not married to Mike Sullivan yet, and she may not be forced to marry him. If her father should die, she could do as she pleased.”

“And if Sullivan should die——”

“Exactly.”

The two lads looked at each other; they understood each other. It is possible that in the heart of each was born a wish that Jennie Wren might be freed to follow the inclinations of her heart, even though it were at the expense of a human life as worthless as that of Mike Sullivan; but if either thought such a thing, neither expressed the thought in words.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HANS TURNS RIVER DRIVER.

It was afternoon before the lads joined the drive below the falls. The raft had been partly broken up in running through, but it was soon restored again.

Some of the men had shot the falls on the timber, and it was exciting sport to watch them.

Hans Dunnerwust was delighted.

“Dot peen petter than blaying pall!” he cried. “Dot vos shust as easy as nefer vas! You could done dot myseluf!”

“Do you think you could ride through there on those logs?” asked Merriwell.

“It vas a kinch!” declared the Dutch lad. “I vos goin’ to peen a rifer trifer, und dose logs vill haf lots uf fun ridin’ me down der streams. Yaw!”

The wangan boat, used by the cook and cookee in distributing food to the drivers, was put into service in setting the boys on board the raft, which was a great floating mass of timber, securely bound together, with three little cribs, or huts, on it. The cook’s outfit had been taken ashore and carried round the falls, but was brought on board the raft again in quiet water below.

When at last they were floating down the river on the great raft, the boys set about taking life easy and enjoying themselves as they might.

There were many strange sights to see. Along the shore men were fending off loose logs with pick poles. Occasionally a driver mounted a log, standing upon it as if his feet were planted on the solid earth, keeping his balance when it rolled by walking against the motion, and sailed away down the river as unconcerned as if he were on the deck of a four-masted schooner.

It was this sort of a spectacle that excited Hans Dunnerwust. The drivers did the trick so easily and gracefully that the Dutch boy began to feel certain it was not much of a job.

“Uf I don’t peen a rifer trifer pefore this trip is done mit me you vos a liar!” he cried. “I pet any vun uf dose logs can ride me!”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” grunted Bruce Browning, who was stretched on some hemlock boughs, making himself comfortable beneath the shade of a canvas awning. “That’s what I’d imagine would happen.”

“Hey?” squawked the Dutch boy. “Vot do I mean ven you said dot? You vill show me if I can’t ride britty queek.”

No one paid much attention to him then, but about an hour later, there was a sudden cry of astonishment, and Hodge jumped up, pointing and shouting.

“Look there! The chump will be drowned!”

All looked in the direction indicated, and they were amazed to see Hans, with a pick pole in his hands, pushing off from the raft on a log that had floated up against it.

The fat Dutch lad was balancing himself on the log with some difficulty, but it was plain he had resolved to ride a log, for he did not hesitate about leaving the raft.

Frank started to shout to him, but suddenly realized that it might attract Hans’ attention and cause him to lose his balance, so he refrained.

“He’ll be in the water in a minute,” said Merriwell. “We must get into the wangan and pick him up.”

Then Frank, Jack and Bart hurried to man the boat and shove off. As the boat was on the wrong side of the raft, they used every exertion.

The success of the Dutch boy at the start intoxicated him.

“Who toldt you I vasn’t a rifer trifer!” he crowed to himself. “Dhis log can ride me! Yaw! Py Chorch! id peen more short than dodchin’ pullets, as dot fellers uster said. Dhis log veels shust like id couldt dance on me.”

And then he tried to cut a pigeon’s wing, or something of the sort, and, like a flash of lightning, the log shot out from under him, letting him disappear into the water with a “plump.”

When he came up he gave a howl and grabbed at the log, but it promptly-soiled over, and under he went again.

Again he came up.

“Hel-lup!” he squawked, gurglingly, again grabbing at the log.

This time he caught hold, and he howled:

“I vill gif somepody a sellever tollar to bull der varter out uf me perfore I drowndt id! No rifer trifer vos efer cut oudt vor me! Hel-lup! Come kvick und—— Ow—ugh—gug—guggle—gug!”

Again his hold slipped from the log, and he took in enough water to make him think the river must have lowered at least a foot. He made another frantic scramble to get out, caught hold of the log, and tried to climb upon it. Every time he attempted to get upon the log it rolled over and soused him under again.

“Vot vos der madder mit dot logs?” he spluttered. “Efry dime id tries to got onto me I act so pad id—— Uggle—guggle—gug—guggle! Shimminy Gristmas! I von’t van a trink of vater again a year vor! I must haf more as sefendeen hundret hogsheadts der inside uf me on alretty!”

Once he succeeded in getting upon the log, but it rolled over immediately, pitching him off on the other side. When he grabbed it again, he spurted water like a whale coming up to spout.

“Dalk apoudt your pucking bronchos!” he gasped. “Vale, they nefer peen in id a minute mit a log. I hat sooner ride der pest proncho Puffalo Peel’s Vild Vest shows in than tried to ride dhis log. Uf I don’t keep sdill, I vill drowndt dot log pefore long. Oxcuse me uf I don’d viggle so much.”

Then another log, carried by an eddy of the current, swung round and butted Hans from his hold once more.

When he came up this time he was growing weak, and he found it difficult to reach the log.

“Id pegins to look britty pad vor Hans,” he muttered. “Uf somepody don’d hurry up you vos a goner.”

Then the three boys came round the rear end of the raft, and Merriwell shouted for him to hold fast.

“Dot vos a plamed easy thing vor you to said!” snorted Hans, in disgust; “but I pet you nefer dried a log to ride der whole uf my life in.”

However, he kept still till the boys reached him, and then he let go of the log and grabbed at the boat, coming very near tipping the trio into the river.

“Keep still!” ordered Frank, sternly. “If you don’t, you will drown us all! Wait till we can take you in over the stern.”

“Dot vos all righd!” muttered the Dutch boy, weakly. “I peen aple to done dot a liddle vile ago, und now I velt like I haf vet dis vater all over me enough alretty.”

After much trouble, Merriwell succeeded in getting the dripping Dutch boy into the boat.

“There,” said Hodge, “I don’t believe you will try to play river driver again.”

“Uf I do, you vos a pigger vool than I think!” was the emphatic retort.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FUN IN CAMP.

At dark that night the raft tied up to the bank. It was necessary to let the loose logs go through the night. In the morning they would be found strung along the banks of the river for miles upon miles. The raft would be started immediately after breakfast, and would get well down into the midst of the timber by the time the men along shore could push all the logs from the banks and get them into the current.

But that night the tie-up had been made near some camps, and the tired men had a place to eat and sleep in comfort.

The cook took possession of the camp, and it was not long before he had served a meal of boiled pork, baked beans, hot biscuit and molasses.

The beans steamed and sent out an odor that was quite enough to make a hungry man feel ravenous, and the drivers, the most of them soaking wet, gathered about the table.

Forest had offered Frank and his friends a chance to eat at the first table, but Merry declined, saying the drivers should have the first opportunity. The men appreciated this, and it served in a great measure to make them feel that the boys were not intruders.

It was a spectacle to watch those men “stow away” the pork and beans, washed down by boiling hot tea. They ate like starving men.

Sullivan was among them. He did not even look at Frank Merriwell, and he made no talk at supper, save to growl in a surly manner at the cookee, a boy of seventeen.

The foreman had been in an ugly mood all day. No one dared ask how he had received the scars and bruises on his face, but in some manner it became rumored among the crew that Sullivan and Pombere had been whipped in a fight at Mattawamkeag. Then it was reported that they had been whipped by two beardless youths, and the victors were two of Forest’s guests who were going down the river with the drift. This latter statement, however, was not believed, for Sullivan was the terror of the river, and the drivers were certain he could whip the whole of Merriwell’s party with one hand tied behind him.

When the crew had eaten there was still plenty of hot beans and biscuits left, and the cookee soon arranged the table for Forest and his friends.

Every lad felt that he could eat with a relish, and soon they were doing their best to clear the table of food. Never before had baked beans tasted so good. Even Jack Diamond, who had a distaste for beans, admitted that they were good enough to eat.

While they were eating, Forest asked one of the drivers to sing a song, and then said to Merry:

“We’ll have a chance to hear a typical lumberman’s song from that old fellow. The old-fashioned songs of the lumbermen are like the old-time songs of the sailors. Nearly always they are sung in a certain tune which seems to fit them all, and they tell a story that is strung out in from fifty to a hundred stanzas. The tune of the sailors reminds one of the wind and the waves; the tune of the lumber camps is suggestive of the dark forests and their tragedies.”

The old man needed some urging, as there were strangers present, but, after a time, he consented to sing. Before he began, the men filled their pipes and found comfortable positions on the “deacon’s seat” and around the camp. As Frank and his friends said smoking would not disturb them in the least, Forest told the men to “fire up.” So the drivers began to smoke as they prepared to listen.

Two kerosene lamps lighted the strange scene, which was one never to be forgotten by Frank. The faces of the rough, weather-beaten men were studies for him.

At last the old driver was ready, and he started into the song, which told of the hard heart and imperial sway of John Ross, a local lumber boss. There never was another such man as John Ross. He faced storms and floods, and defied fate to gain his ends. If he wanted more men he went from house to house for them, and when they heard him coming every male member of the families arose and went to the woods to do his bidding without a murmur, not daring to refuse. He took the newly-wedded bridegroom from the embrace of his weeping bride, and he tore the son from the feeble father who could not live to see the snows of winter pass away with the coming of the spring sunshine. But gradually the song goes on to show the better points in the man’s character, telling of his courage and charity, and, in the end, everybody is compelled to own that, in spite of his many eccentricities, John Ross is a decent sort of man.

By the time this epic was ended supper was over and the table pretty well cleared. Then somebody proposed “congregational singing,” and the men took their pipes from their mouths and prepared to “limber up.”

Then the songs came in floods. Some one started in with “Nellie Gray,” and, with few exceptions, every man joined in the chorus. Then came “John Brown’s Body” and “Marching Through Georgia.”

“Old Black Joe” was followed by “Annie Rooney” and “Down Went McGinty.” But it was on the chorus of “Nicodemus” that the singers “bore down hard.”

“There’s a good time coming,

It’s almost here;

It has been long, lo-ong, lo-on-ng,

On the way.”

As they roared forth this chorus, the men clapped their hands, stamped their feet and threw back their heads. A cloud of dust filled the room, the lanterns swayed and burned dimly, and the rough rafters seemed to bulge outward with the volume of sound.

Then Merriwell, Diamond, Browning and Hodge, forming a quartet, sang the college songs so familiar to them, but most of them absolutely new to the ears of the river drivers. They were heartily applauded.

Then Merriwell told of Hans’ attempt to become a river driver, making the story so humorous that the men roared with laughter.

“Vot vos I laughin’ ad?” demanded the Dutch boy, his face flushing. “I don’d like dot. Some odder dime mebbe I vos aple to drife a log der rifer down.”

“No man ever gits to be a regular river driver till he has been properly initiated,” grinned one of the men. “Arter that he’s all right, an’ he can ride a log with ther best of ’em.”

“Vot vos dot kernishiated?” asked Hans, eagerly. “How you done dot?”

“Oh, it’s easy enough. It’s called ‘Ketchin’ the Wild Hoss.’”

“I don’t knew nottings apout no vild hosses, but if dot vill fexe me so I peen aple to ride a log on I think berhaps I petter took him, ain’d id?”

“It would be a good thing for you,” declared the man, looking inquiringly toward Merriwell, who was recognized as the leader of the party. “Perhaps some of your friends wouldn’t want ye ter be initiated?”

Frank scented sport.

“They won’t hurt him,” said Forest, laughing, as he saw the men grinning at each other and indulging in sundry nudges. “If he wants to be initiated, let them run him through the mill.”

“Perhaps you had better take the degree, Hans,” laughed Frank. “Go ahead, if you want to.”

This was all the encouragement the Dutch boy needed. He jumped up immediately, crying:

“All right! Go aheadt mit dot kernishiated peesness.”

Frank nodded to the men, and then two or three of them suddenly hurried out of doors, while others seized the Dutch lad and stripped him to his thin underclothing. By the time Hans’ outer clothing was removed the men who had gone out returned with a spruce pole that had been stripped of the bark. This pole the cook quickly rubbed with grease, making it very slippery.

“Now,” said the leader, addressing Hans, “you must mount that pole straddle an’ hold on. You must keep right side up, no matter what happens. Till you can do that you’ll never be wuth a darn at river drivin’.”

The fat boy looked doubtful, but he would not back out then, and he immediately got astride the pole, which took his feet off the floor. He slipped and fell off, causing a shout of laughter to go up. But he jumped up, crying:

“Vait! vait! Dot hole vasn’t done mit me yet avile. I can done dot britty kervick.”

Again he tried, with a like result.

“I am afraid you’ll never make a river driver, Hans,” said Merry, laughing.

“Vot?” squawked the excited lad. “Who toldt you dot? I pet you your life I vill! Vait! vait!”

Then he made another attempt. This time he was desperate, and he managed to balance himself on the pole with a great effort. He uttered a shout of triumph.

“Didn’d you toldt me so!” he cried. “Oh, I vos——”

Just then somebody struck him on the head with a bag stuffed with hay, and over he went in a twinkling, hanging head downward, while all the men shouted:

“Grapaud!”

“Hey?” squealed Hans. “Somepody took me down! Somebody took dot hole avay kerveek!”

He held on till he was forced to drop. Then he rose to his feet and stared around.

“Vot vos id I hit me against?” he demanded, fiercely.

“That’s part of the initiation,” was the explanation. “You must look out for that and keep your balance.”

“Vos dot id? Vale, shust let dot try me again.”

Then he pluckily made another attempt, and again he was struck on the head and sent spinning wrong end up, while a second time the shout was heard:

“Grapaud.”

“I don’d knew vot dot means,” gasped the Dutch lad; “but I pet you your tollars id vos a lie!”

Then he fell upon his back.

He was pretty well winded when he arose, but he was urged to get on the pole once more, and this was kept up till he was utterly exhausted and gave up in despair.

“Vale,” he gurgled, “I don’d vant to peen a rifer trifer. Oxcuse me, shentlemen!”

This sport being over, one of the men brought out an old fiddle and got it into tune. Several pieces were played, and then Frank suggested to Forest that Diamond be given a chance to play something on the instrument.

At Fred’s suggestion, the fiddle was handed over to Jack. The Virginian put the instrument into as perfect tune as possible, and then proceeded to play the “Last Rose of Summer.” Jack was an artist with the violin, and never before had such sweet sounds been drawn from that old instrument. The men were silent now, listening with hushed breathing to the melody. When it was finished all seemed to give a sigh of mingled regret and relief.

“Give us ‘Ben Bolt,’” urged a man.

Jack complied, and the fiddle actually seemed to sing the words of the pathetic and beautiful song. The eyes of more than one rough man were misty.

Immediately Diamond struck into a lively jig, and, out into the middle of the floor jumped the cookee, who began to “spank her down” in a manner that brought cries of applause and delight from the men. Faster and faster went the bow over the strings and faster and faster flew the feet of the dancer, while the men clapped their hands and stamped their feet.

“Good boy!”

“Whoop ’er up!”

“Hooray!”

“That’s the stuff!”

“Wake up, snakes!”

The delighted men roared their approval.

At one side sat Mike Sullivan, scowling and seeming ugly. The cookee cut a fancy figure and stepped on the foot of the boss.

With a roar of rage, the man jumped up and grasped the dancer by the neck.

“You clumsy cub!” snarled Sullivan. “I’ll make ye keep yer eyes open!”

He drew back his hand to strike the boy.

Like a flash Frank Merriwell sprang forward and confronted the enraged man. Merry lifted one hand warningly, and spoke in a calm, even tone of voice:

“Don’t hit him, Sullivan!”

The boss turned and his eyes met Merriwell’s. The spectators gasped, for they expected to see the man drop the cookee and leap on the foolhardy lad who dared face him thus. Profound silence reigned in the camp, while two pairs of eyes fought a battle. Then came the greatest surprise of all, for Sullivan lowered his head, muttering:

“Ther fool wants to be careful not ter tread on my feet.”

Then he sat down.

CHAPTER XXV.

CRACKING A JAM.

“There is a jam forming in the rapids below.”

It was near noon the following day when this information was brought up the river. As the rapids were not considered very dangerous, save near the east shore, it had been arranged to cut the raft in two sections and run it through. Now, however, on learning of the threatened jam, Forest immediately gave orders to get the raft up to the bank and make it fast.

During the night a lot of logs had gathered in the rapids near the eastern shore, where the rocks rose close to the surface. Had the collection been seen at the start a jam might have been prevented, but the messenger from down the river said it looked now as if there would be a jam, despite the efforts of the men.

“This will cause delay and expense, Merriwell,” said Fred Forest, “but it will give you and your friends an opportunity to witness the breaking of a real jam.”

“It’s an opportunity we will not miss,” declared Frank.

“Oh, I don’t know,” grunted Browning. “How far down the river is it?”

“Five miles.”

“How do we get there?”

“Walk.”

“Then I don’t believe I’ll go.”

And it proved useless to urge him.

The others, however, were ready enough to go, and soon they were on their way.

“I don’t miss dot!” declared the fat Dutch boy, as he puffed along with the others. “Dot jam peen goin’ to take a look at me. I pet dot jam can broke me uf id tried.”

“I think you have had quite enough experience as river driver,” laughed Frank. “You had better let some other person break the jam.”

“Possibly you do not know the danger of breaking a jam?” put in the young lumberman.

“How vos id done?”

“With dynamite, sometimes.”

“And der odder dimes?”

“With an ax.”

“Vale, I could use an ax.”

“The man who breaks a jam of logs with an ax stands about one chance in three of reaching the shore alive.”

“Py Chorch! I don’d toldt you dot!”

“And whole crews have been wiped out by the use of dynamite.”

“Vale, I don’d belief dot jam vill broke me!”

Forest spoke no more than the simple truth. Before dynamite was used, one man would go out on the front of a jam and cut the key log with an ax. The moment the log began to bend, the chopper made a dash for the shore. About once in three times he reached the shore unharmed, but the chances were against him. Many a good man has gone down under the logs, ground to a shapeless mass by the crashing timbers as they came piling over each other, some of them whirling end over end.

In later years, as a rule, five or six men go out on the jam and cut a big hole into the heart of the tumbled timbers. Then a cartridge is inserted, the fuse lighted, and a scramble for safety follows. Men who have heard the old “rebel yell” in war timers declare the foreman’s cry of “Shore! Shore!” when uttered under a jam of logs, is the most terrifying sound their ears have ever heard.

Diamond was as eager as anybody to see a jam. He felt that the sight of a breaking jam would fully repay him for the trip down the river on the raft.

Hodge said nothing, but strode along with the others.

It was a hard tramp down the river, but they reached the jam before the men had been able to break it. In fact, it was afterward reported that Sullivan had acted exactly as if he had no desire to break it, but was anxious to have the logs pile up in as nasty a manner as possible.

There was a big mountain of logs on the eastern shore, and when Forest saw it he was angry, for more logs were coming down and blocking upon the others.

Between the end of the jam and the western bank the water poured with express speed.

“Why don’t you have the men keep those other logs from jamming in there, Sullivan?” demanded Forest. “They might be sent through the opening over yonder.”

“Where be ther men ter send them through?” growled the boss.

“You have plenty of men here, if you will place them right.”

“Mebby you know more about this than I do.”

“I don’t like your tone of voice, sir! Put the men out on the jam and have them fend the logs off as fast as they come down, running them round the end.”

“All right,” muttered Sullivan, and then he did as ordered.

For two hours the men worked like beavers, and, with the exception of a few logs, there was no great addition to the jam. At last, only an occasional stray log came down, and then Forest told Sullivan to prepare to break the jam.

“How be ye goin’ to do it?” asked the ugly foreman.

“With dynamite, of course.”

“We ain’t got no dynamite.”

“No dynamite? How is that?”

“Well, I didn’t expect another jam after gettin’ down this way, and so I ain’t prepared.”

Forest was thoroughly angry, and he gave Sullivan the “dressing down” that the man deserved, ending by ordering him to go out and break the jam with an ax.

Without a word, Sullivan went. He picked out a log and cut it in two. When it cracked, he dropped the ax and hustled ashore. But the jam did not give way.

The foreman swore.

“You cut the wrong log,” said Forest, grimly. “Try it again, and don’t lose an ax unless the jam breaks.”

So Sullivan went out again, but with no better success.

“I believe I could pick out the key log,” declared Frank Merriwell, who had been watching proceedings.

The foreman’s face grew purple, and he suppressed a torrent of angry words with an effort.

“We’ll have ter send to the nearest place fer dynamite,” he said. “That’s the only way ter do now.”

Then Forest gave orders for a man to be dispatched for the dynamite without delay.

The afternoon was slipping away, and it did not look as if the jam would be broken before dark. Forest was impatient at the delay.

“I’d like to try a crack at it,” said Frank, gazing out upon the mountain of logs. “I believe I could do it.”

“It would be suicide if you did,” said the young lumberman. “You could not get ashore.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll chance it.”

Sullivan heard the words, and laughed scornfully.

“Better let him try it, Mr. Forest,” he sneered. “There’s no danger that he’ll disturb anything, and he’ll never git hurt unless the jam starts of its own accord. He kin show what he knows in short order by goin’ out there.”

Frank did not permit himself to be ruffled in the least, but cheerfully retorted:

“I might show what you didn’t know. So, for your sake, it is possible I hadn’t better try it.”

“Rot!” growled the big foreman. “That’s a good way ter squeal. You’d make a holy show of yerself!”

“I’ll wager something that I can break that jam,” said Frank.

“I’ll go you my pay fer ther drive ag’in a dollar that ye can’t,” exclaimed Sullivan.

“Done!” snapped Frank. “Forest, I want a pair of boots and an ax. I’ll have a crack at those logs.”

“Not on your life!” exclaimed the young lumberman, turning pale. “I wouldn’t think of letting you try such a thing when expert drivers can’t crack the jam.”

Frank smiled in a quiet manner.

“I don’t see how I can back out now, old man,” came calmly from his lips. “If I did, it would be the first time in my life, and that would spoil my record.”

“Record be hanged!” cried Forest. “Those are my logs, and I say you can’t try such a foolish trick!”

“Oh, he wouldn’t durst to try it, anyway,” sneered the foreman. “If ye let him alone, he’ll back out.”

The young lumberman turned angrily on Sullivan, threatening to discharge him if he opened his mouth again. The foreman became quiet, but he gave Merriwell a look that stirred all the blood in the latter’s body.

“Forest,” said Frank, with the same apparent calmness, although he was seething internally, “I never took water in my life, and you are no friend to me if you put me in such a bad light now.”

The drivers had gathered around, all of them hearing what had passed. Forest saw some of them grinning in a manner that plainly said they doubted the earnestness of this quiet youth who appeared to desire attempting such a feat.

That was enough to anger Forest more than ever. He opened his mouth to say something to the men, and then he suddenly remembered the stories he had heard of the remarkable deeds of Frank Merriwell. He turned and surveyed Frank steadily for some seconds, and when he next spoke it was to order some boots.

“Here,” he said to one of the men, “your boots will fit him. Take them off.”

The man did so at once. A few moments later Merriwell was pulling the boots on.

Both Diamond and Hodge knew it would be useless to attempt to change Frank’s determination to go out on the jam, and they did not try.

Diamond shook his head, but Bart looked confident.

“He’ll do it,” declared Hodge, speaking in Jack’s ear.

“He may,” confessed the Virginian, “but he is sure to be killed.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He can’t escape. It takes a skillful river driver to do that.”

“He has been through too many dangers to be killed by a pile of logs.”

“The time comes for every man.”

“You are a fatalist.”

“Yes.”

“Then, if what you believe is true, he will not be killed unless it is his time to die. If it is his time, nothing can save him.”

“That is just the size of it.”

“Then he may as well make the attempt.”

Jack was not cold-blooded, but he seemed to have imbibed some of Merriwell’s coolness now.

Having drawn on the boots, Frank took off his coat and vest and cast them aside, throwing his cap upon them.

“Bring me an ax.”

One was quickly furnished him.

Diamond longed to shake Frank’s hand, but he knew Merry would not like a scene, and so he refrained.

Hans Dunnerwust had not said a word, but his appearance seemed to indicate that he fully realized the danger Frank was going into.

With the utmost deliberation, Merriwell started out upon the jam, springing lightly from log to log, despite the heavy boots.

The crowd on shore watched him in silence.

Twice Frank, stopped to examine the formation of the jam, and Sullivan, unable to keep still longer, sneered:

“He’s tryin’ ter make somebody believe he knows somethin’ about it. It’s more’n even chances he’ll cut one of his own feet open with that ax ther fust clip.”

“He’ll break that jam, whether he ever reaches shore or not,” said Jack Diamond, savagely.

“Rot!” grunted Sullivan.

At last Frank stopped. He did not begin chopping at once, but again he seemed to be examining the formation of the jam. Then he surveyed the distance to the shore.

“Bah!” muttered the foreman. “He’s goin’ ter back out!”

Then Frank was seen to brace himself and swing the ax in the air. In a moment the chips were flying before the lusty blows.

“Vale,” grunted Hans, “dot don’d look so much like he vos goin’ to back oudt, did id? You don’d knew so much as I thought I did, Mister Man.”

“Well, he’s a fool ter chop on that log,” declared Sullivan. “That ain’t ther key.”

“Wait and see.”

The men on shore were surprised at the skill with which the lad swung the ax. He did not appear much like a novice, and, after that look toward the shore, he did not survey the distance again.

Breathlessly the spectators watched the work go on.

“He must be pretty well through the log,” said some one.

Then there was a thunderous crash, and the jam broke.

CHAPTER XXVI.

HANS GETS HUNGRY.

“There she goes!”

A great shout went up from the shore.

“He’s a goner!”

The jam had broken with startling suddenness, amazing everyone, unless it was Frank Merriwell. At first it seemed that Merry had been overwhelmed by the rush of logs, which suddenly came tumbling over each other, some great trees turning end over end.

And then——

“There he is!” screamed Diamond, unable to keep cool any longer.

In the midst of the rushing swirl of timbers, a form was seen leaping from log to log and making for the shore.

“He’ll never get ashore!”

It looked as if Frank was doomed, for the whole mass of logs had seemed to start at the same instant. The sound of the timbers grinding and crashing together was frightful.

Once a great tree whirled in the air and seemed to strike straight at Merriwell with its huge butt end such a blow as must have blotted him out of existence in a moment had he been hit.

But Frank leaped just in time, and he was not touched.

Two or three of the drivers started to cheer, but the shout died on their lips, for the peril of the daring lad was so great that it took away their breath.

For a moment the water seemed to break a channel through the logs between Frank and the shore.

“He’s cut off!” gasped Forest, in horror.

Then the great mass closed in again, and where the channel had been a second before Frank Merriwell was seen running over the timbers.

This sight brought a genuine cheer from the river men, who admired courage and nerve.

Mike Sullivan and Levi Pombere did not cheer. The Canadian muttered something in French, and the foreman swore under his breath.

“He be keeled yet!” hissed Pombere, getting close to Sullivan.

“He will unless the devil helps him!” grated Sullivan. “It’s ther derndest luck that he’s kept up so fur!”

Those two men longed to see the brave lad go down amid the swirling timbers.

Still Merry came on, not even seeming to be in the least bewildered by the peril of his situation.

“He’ll make it!”

“Good boy!”

“Well done!”

“Hurrah! hurrah!”

The men began to shout encouragement now, for Frank was getting near the shore. They ran down the bank, for the moving jam had carried Merriwell with the current.

Bart Hodge was in advance. He ran to the very edge of the jam, and, as Frank bounded forward, caught hold of him and drew him ashore. Then Hodge grasped Merry’s hand and wrung it in a manner that told how overjoyed and thankful he was, although his lips were unable to utter a word.

Diamond was next, and, in his impetuous manner, he actually embraced Merriwell.

“We thought you were gone!” said the Virginian, his voice shaking.

“Yaw,” spluttered Hans, wildly, “you thought I vos gone dot time, didn’t id?”

“Merriwell,” said Forest, his voice also showing deep emotion, “that was a wonderful trick, but I wouldn’t let you try it again for ten thousand dollars right in hand! My God! I thought you could not escape!”

The refined Harvard man was not in the habit of using such vehement language, but it was pardonable under the circumstances.

Following Merriwell’s friends, the river drivers came up to shake hands with the lad who had cracked the jam. They praised him and declared it was a great feat. One veteran of the river told Frank he was a natural river driver.

Of the entire crew, Sullivan and Pombere were the only men to hold aloof. They stood at one side, seeming busy talking together in low tones.

Sullivan was gray with anger and chagrin, but he dared not show it, and was urging the Canadian to keep quiet.

“Wait,” said the villainous foreman, “he beat me on the bet, but he’ll never live to collect his winnin’s!”

“What you do?” hissed Pombere. “You put ze knife een heem?”

“No, you fool! I’m not going to take such a chance of spending the rest of my days in Thomaston prison. But I’ll find er way ter fix ther critter!”

“How?”

“I don’t know yit. Wait.”

“I like to steek him wiz ze knife!” softly snarled the vicious Canadian.

“If ye do, you’ll git life fer it. Don’t be a chump!”

Then Sullivan turned and came toward Frank, saying sourly:

“Well, you beat me, though it was a big streak of luck fer you. You shell have my wages when I’m paid off.”

“I don’t want your wages, man,” said Merriwell, quietly, “and I will not touch them. I had to break that jam, or squeal—and I broke it. That’s all. Keep your wages, and forget we made such a bet.”

This generosity brought murmurs of approbation from the men, but, for some moments, Sullivan was silent, his face flushed.

“You won ther bet,” he muttered.

“Neither of us put up anything,” smiled Frank. “If you will forget such a bet was made, you may be sure I shall not remind you of it.”

“But that means you’ll take ther money if I offer it ter ye?”

“It means nothing of the kind. I will not touch it under any circumstances.”

“Thankee,” said Sullivan, and turned away.

The men now went to work fending the logs off from the shore, and the whole of them went through the rapids in a hurry.

Nightfall was not far away, but the delay at the jam had prevented the men from reaching a camp further down the river, where they had expected to spend the night.

Sullivan consulted with Forest about a stopping place, and word was sent up for the raft to be started and sent through the rapids before dark, if possible.

Frank and his friends were eager to shoot the rapids on the raft, and so they made all haste to meet it some distance up the river. They did so, and were taken on board in the wangan boat.

The raft had been cut in two before they were taken on, and it went through the rapids in two sections, being kept in the deep water near the western shore.

It was sport to shoot the rapids, but it was not quite so exciting as the breaking of the jam.

Away below the falls the raft was brought together again, and then was tied up at a favorable place.

The cook built a rousing fire on shore and set to work making coffee and getting supper ready, while the tired men came straggling in one by one.

Hans Dunnerwust was hungry.

“I veel like I vos all gone avay mit der insides uf me,” he declared. “You never velt so empty, all my life in. Yaw. I pelief a raw tog could eat me.”

Among the stuff brought in to the temporary camp was a box containing some long brown-colored cylinders. Hans went nosing around the box and saw the cylinders.

“I vonder vot dot could peen,” he speculated. “Id looks goot. I don’d pelief I vould hurt id uf id should eat me.”

He took one of the cylinders in his hand and examined it still more closely.

“Shimminy Gristmas!” he speculated. “I pet you your life I could eat dot whole lot mitoudt a sdruggle. Yaw. I vonder uf dot peen petter uf id vos poiled, roasted, ur fried?”

The cook was busy a little distance from the fire, upon the coals of which, raked out for the purpose, the great coffee pots were steaming.

Hans took out his knife and cut off some slices from the cylinders.

“I pelief id vill roast me pefore you eat id,” he murmured.

Then he found a stick and split it so it would hold one of the slices. A few seconds later, the Dutch boy was calmly toasting it over the coals.

“I pet nopody don’d ged ahead uf me britty soon alretty,” he chuckled. “I vill half a lunch pefore der rest.”

Just then Fred Forest came up and saw what Hans was doing.

“Here! Stop that!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Shust vanning oop a liddle lunch vor myseluf,” calmly answered the Dutch boy, giving the slice a turn.

“Great Scott!” cried the young lumberman. “You can’t eat that.”

“Vot vos der madder mit dot?”

“It’s dynamite!”

“Tynamite?”

“Yes, and you will be scattered all over the State of Maine in less than a minute if you don’t stop it!”

“Py Chorch!” gasped Hans, turning pale.

Then he dropped the slice into the fire!

“Run!” yelled Forest.

Hans did so, and there was a general scramble to get away from that fire. Before they had gone twenty rods the burning logs leaped into the air with a sharp explosion, after which it rained splintered wood and cinders for five minutes.

Hans was thrown down by the shock of the explosion, and he sat on the ground staring toward the spot where the fire had been. When he could command his voice, he gurgled:

“Uf dot don’d peat der pand! I thought dot vos some kindt uf polona sausage!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE FALLS OF DEATH.

The last dangerous rapids of the river had been reached some days later. Frank and his friends had enjoyed the drift hugely, but they were not really sorry the strange voyage was almost at an end, for they were anxious to get back to the blue waters of Penobscot Bay and the White Wings.

The raft must be broken up to go through the rapids and over a fall. No man had ever “ridden timber” over the falls and come out to tell the tale. Several had been drowned there.

It was nightfall when the quickening water above the rapids was reached, and again the raft tied up. In the morning it was to be broken up and sent down.

Merriwell’s party, Forest, the cook and the cookee slept in the little brush huts on the raft.

On shore a brush camp was made, and the men made merry, for the end of the drive was near, and they were expecting to have “high old times” in Bangor after they were paid off.

Sullivan and Pombere had sulked all the way from Mattawamkeag, and they drew aside by themselves and took no part in the merry making this night.

Of course there was singing; of course the old fiddle was tuned up.

But Sullivan and Pombere talked in low tones, with their heads close together.

“Dat ees ze treek!” whispered the Canadian. “They nevare know eet till eet be too late to save themselves.”

“But what if some of ther men find ther ropes cut?” asked the foreman, doubtfully.

“Eef we go away zey nevare know we do eet.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Eet is ze last chance. You say dat Merriwell nevare live to get down de rivare. Prit’ soon eet be too late for you to keep dat word.”

“That’s so,” acknowledged Sullivan. “I’ll do it!”

Then they both got up, and Sullivan said:

“There’s a dance over to ther corners, Mr. Forest, an’ me an’ Levi’s goin’ over.”

“You hadn’t better go,” said Fred. “We get to work at daybreak, and you will not get any sleep. You’ll need rest.”

“Oh, we’re tough enough ter stan’ it, so we’ll go.”

“Well, you must be on hand and ready for work by three o’clock.”

“All right. We’ll be here.”

Then the two men started out, quickly disappearing in the shadows.

It was past midnight, and there was very little light, save when the moon peered duskily through a rift in the clouds, when two dark forms skulked back into the camp.

The men were sleeping in their blankets about the smoldering fire, but they were tired, and none of them awoke.

The two forms slipped down the bank and boarded the raft. They seemed to know just what to do, for they began working without a whisper passing between them.

The wangan boat had been partly drawn up on the rear end of the raft, where it lay with its stern in the water.

With keen knives the two men cut the ropes that held the raft to the shore. Then they pushed it off gently and worked it out into the current.

Not a sound came from the little huts. Evidently the sleepers were undisturbed. Now and then the moon would shoot a white bar of light down upon the surface of the river, and that light was enough to show the current was running strongly.

But the two villains kept at work till the raft was moving swiftly, and they could hear the roar of the falls in the distance. They were endeavoring to make sure that not one on the raft should escape alive.

“This be far enough,” whispered Pombere, at last.

“A little farder,” came back the voice of Sullivan. “We can git off in the boat any time.”

So they made sure the raft was fast in the strong current so there was no possibility of the intended victims awakening and getting it back to the shore.

“There,” Sullivan finally whispered, in savage satisfaction, “now we’ll take ter ther boat.”

They turned to the boat, but it was gone!

Just then the moon broke through an opening in the clouds, and they saw the boat some distance away, being carried down swiftly in the powerful current.

For a moment they were stunned. Then in a twinkling both realized what had happened.

A cross current had caught the stern of the boat and pulled it off the raft.

All at once the voice of Sullivan hoarsely cried:

“Turn out—turn out inside! Ther raft’s adrift, an’ we’re bein’ carried over ther falls!”

He knew the only chance was to arouse the sleepers and try to work the raft in toward shore without a moment’s delay.

But the only answer he received was the sullen roaring of the falls, sounding like the knell of doom.

Again he shouted; again there was no answer. Then Pombere ran into one hut after another and tore at the blankets. Not one of the huts contained a living being.

“Where are they?” yelled Sullivan.

“Gone!” answered Pombere.

Then a wild cry of despair broke from the lips of the foreman, a cry that was heard far away on the shore by the ones who had escaped death by a piece of rare fortune.

The foreman began to strip off his clothing and his boots. Pombere saw what he was doing. The Canadian could not swim a stroke.

“You to go an’ leave me now?” he screamed.

“Yes,” snarled Sullivan. “Look out fer yerself now! You got me inter this! It was your plot!”

“You nevare go!”

With that the Canadian leaped upon Sullivan, who rose and grappled with him. The foreman thought to handle his partner in the attempted crime with ease, but Pombere was like a maniac, and Sullivan had not counted on such furious strength.

Round and round they whirled, swaying, bending, panting, the moon came out again and shone upon the raft, where that frightful struggle was taking place.

“You—nevare—go!” panted the Canadian.

“Let go!” snarled the other.

“Nevare!”

“Then I will——”

The threat was not completed, for, without knowing it, they had reached the edge of the raft, and over they went into the water with a splash, the cry Pombere uttered being choked in a gurgling sound that ended almost before it began.

The river carried the raft on over the falls, where it was smashed into thousands of pieces. And neither Mike Sullivan nor Levi Pombere were ever seen or heard of again.

In the morning the men searched for the bodies below the falls, but their search was unrewarded.

“Hans,” said Frank Merriwell, earnestly, “you did one bright thing this trip, even though you did try to roast dynamite. You caught enough of the conversation of those two villains to suspect that they were up to deviltry, and your warning saved our lives. Had we slept on the raft, not one of us could have escaped.”

“Vale,” said Hans, proudly, throwing out his chest and strutting, “I alvays knowed you had a great head on me. A lots more vos dot head in than I know apout.”

“Why don’t you use insect powder?” suggested Browning.

“Oh, vot vos der madder mitt you!” exploded the Dutch boy, fiercely. “You don’d ask any fafors uf me, do I? Vale, vy don’d I shut up!”

“You’re touchy.”

“Gentlemen,” said Fred Forest, “I believe we all have much to be thankful for, as we are still living. Mike Sullivan was a bad man, and he has gone to his just deserts.”

“And there is a pleasant side to the taking off of Mr. Sullivan,” said Diamond, with undisguised satisfaction. “I believe it was the hand of Heaven that reached out and cut his wicked life short by bringing him to the doom he had planned for others.”

“I know whom you are thinking about, Jack,” smiled Frank.

“I am thinking of the little girl up at Mattawamkeag,” confessed the Virginian. “She need fear Sullivan no more, for her father cannot force her into a marriage with the wretch now. She is free to marry Bill, the one she loves.”

THE END.

No. 29 of THE MERRIWELL SERIES, entitled “Frank Merriwell’s Struggle,” tells the story of a fine summer vacation, and has some stirring incidents that will delight all those who like to be out in the wilds.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

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Table of Contents

Frank Merriwell in Maine OR, THE LURE OF ’WAY DOWN EAST

CHAPTER I. A LIVELY TIME.

CHAPTER II. DIAMOND’S ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER III. HANS GOES FISHING.

CHAPTER IV. HANS DUNNERWUST SHOOTS A DEER.

CHAPTER V. MOOSEHEAD EXPRESS.

CHAPTER VI. AN UNPLEASANT SITUATION.

CHAPTER VII. A BIT OF MYSTERY.

CHAPTER VIII. JOHN CARIBOU PROVES HIMSELF.

CHAPTER IX. SOME SHOOTING.

CHAPTER X. THE STOLEN RIFLE.

CHAPTER XI. IN PURSUIT.

CHAPTER XII. FRANK TO THE RESCUE.

CHAPTER XIII. THE SMUGGLER’S DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER XIV. WORDS OF WARNING.

CHAPTER XV. FRANK’S FRIGHTFUL PERIL.

CHAPTER XVI. A SHOT FOR A LIFE.

CHAPTER XVII. FRED FOREST, OF HARVARD.

CHAPTER XVIII. ARRIVING AT A DECISION.

CHAPTER XIX. AT A COUNTRY DANCE.

CHAPTER XX. THE FIGHT.

CHAPTER XXI. FOREST LEARNS THE FACTS.

CHAPTER XXII. THOUGH IT COST A LIFE.

CHAPTER XXIII. HANS TURNS RIVER DRIVER.

CHAPTER XXIV. FUN IN CAMP.

CHAPTER XXV. CRACKING A JAM.

CHAPTER XXVI. HANS GETS HUNGRY.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE FALLS OF DEATH.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE