Part 42 (1/2)

”I guess the best thing I can do is to move right around the sh.o.r.e of this island,” he reasoned. ”By doing that I am bound to strike one of the camps, sooner or later.”

He moved along as rapidly as the rocky sh.o.r.e of Moosetail Island permitted. He had to proceed with care, for there were many dangerous pitfalls.

At length his heart was gladdened by the sight of a rude log cabin, set in the trees a little back from the water. He hurried to it and found the door and window closed. Evidently the spot was deserted.

”n.o.body here,” he murmured, and his heart sank for the moment, for he could see that the camp had not been used for a long time. Then he went on, the rain in the meanwhile coming down harder than ever. The downfall made him think of the dam that was said to be weak. What if the present storm should make that structure give way?

”I wish we were all out of this,” he murmured. ”I wonder if it would do any good to call?”

He set up a yell and listened, and then he yelled again. From a long distance came an answering cry.

”Hurrah, that's somebody, anyway!” he exclaimed. ”I hope it was one of the boys!”

He stumbled in the direction of the cry. Then he yelled once more, and again came the answering call. But now Dave was sure it was a man's voice, and he was somewhat disappointed.

”Where are you?” he called out, a moment later. ”Where are you?”

”This way! Come this way!” was the reply, and soon Dave pa.s.sed through a patch of timber and around some rocks and reached a spot where there was a tiny cove, with a stretch of fine sand. Facing the cove was a neat log cabin with a small lean-to, the latter containing a tiny stove.

A tall, good-natured man stood in the lean-to, peering out into the rain. He watched Dave's approach with interest. He looked to be what he was, a camp-cook and general worker.

”h.e.l.lo!” he exclaimed, as Dave hurried in out of the rain and shook the water from his cap. ”I thought you were one of our crowd.”

”What camp is this?” questioned our hero, eagerly.

”Well, it ain't no camp in particular,” answered the man, with a grin.

”It's jest a camp.”

”But who is stopping here?”

”Three young fellers and myself.”

”Are their names Beggs, Lawrence, and Ba.s.swood?”

”You've struck it. Maybe you are a friend to 'em?” went on the man, inquiringly.

”I am, and I have come a long distance to find them,” returned Dave, and his tone of voice showed his relief. ”Where are they?”

”They left the camp right after dinner an' they ain't back yet. When you called I thought it was one of 'em, although they didn't expect to be back much before supper-time. But now it's rainin' I guess they'll come back sooner.”

”How long have they been here?”

”Most a week now, I guess. I didn't come till day before yesterday. I didn't have nothin' to do an' they give me a job, cookin' an' like that,” returned the man.

He invited Dave to make himself at home, and our hero was glad enough to go inside and take off the wet raincoat and also his shoes and socks. The baggage belonging to Phil and the others was in the cabin, and he helped himself to dry garments and a dry pair of slippers.

”We are all school chums,” he told the man. ”My name is Dave Porter.”

”Oh, I heard 'em talkin' about you!” cried the camp-worker, and then said his own name was Jerry Blutt, and that he was from Tegley, just across the Canadian border.