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Oakdale Boys in Camp

CHAPTER I.
THE CAMPING PARTY

The afternoon of a lazy midsummer day was waning as an old white horse drew a heavily loaded, creaking, complaining farm wagon along a crude, seldom used road which wound through the depths of a silent stretch of timberland. A sleepy looking, tow-headed boy with round apple cheeks sat on the wagon-seat and held the reins. Behind the wagon five more boys straggled along on foot, stumbling over the rocks and “cradle knolls.” The party, with the exception of the drowsy driver, who had been engaged to transport the camping outfit from Pemstock, the nearest railroad station, was bound for Phantom Lake, the objective point of the expedition.

As originally planned, the company had been made up of four Oakdale lads, Phil Springer, Sile Crane, Ben Stone and Rodney Grant; but, listening to their talk of the sport they would have on such an outing, Sleuth Piper had become inspired by a longing to join them, and almost at the last moment he had succeeded in securing permission of his parents. The five mile jaunt from Pemstock to Phantom Lake followed a journey of twenty odd miles by rail; but, despite the dust, heat and bad roads, the enthusiasm of the boys showed no symptoms of waning.

Carrying a double barreled shotgun and wearing an old leather-banded cowboy hat and a belt supporting a sheathed hunting knife, Piper followed close behind the writhing wagon, peering with an exaggerated air of caution and keenness into the timber and bushes on either hand. The rustling of a running chipmunk, the distant chatter of a red squirrel, or the cawing of a crow, lazily wheeling overhead, was sufficient to cause Piper to halt with quickly uplifted hand and the pose of one who sensed an impending danger.

“Oh, what’s the matter with yeou naow?” drawled Sile Crane in exasperation, as he finally stumbled against Sleuth’s heels. “Yeou couldn’t shoot anything if yeou saw it, and, anyhaow, the old gun ain’t loaded.”

“Hush!” sibilated Sleuth. “We’re in the enemy’s country, and peril menaces us on every hand. Who knows that the chatter of yonder squirrel or the sudden cry of the soaring crow does not betoken the near presence of some prowling varmint? There may be bloodthirsty redskins lying in ambush for us, and, unless we preserve extreme caution, perchance our scalps tonight will dangle in the wigwams of the Wampanoags.”

“Oh, go on with yeour dinged fol-de-rol,” snorted Crane. “Yeou’ve read so many of them cheap Injun stories that yeou’re half nutty. Between them yarns and the detective stuff yeou sop up, yeou’ll go clean off yeour base if yeou don’t look aout. Come, pudge along.” He ended by giving Sleuth a vigorous shove that nearly sent the smaller lad sprawling.

“Careful, Sile,” begged Ben Stone. “Have you forgotten that it was Sleuthy’s clever work which practically saved me from the stigma of a crime? If you have, I haven’t, and I’m not liable to forget it.”

Piper gave his champion, a stocky, square built, somewhat unprepossessing lad, a grateful look.

“I guess I opened their eyes some that time, didn’t I, Ben?” he grinned proudly. “I made the fellers that had been poking fun at me sit up and take notice. I had them all spellbound in court when I told my story and gave my deductions.”

“Yes,” chuckled Phil Springer, who was wearing a canvas suit that crinkled and rustled at every step. “It was so still in the court room that you might have heard a gum-drop.”