Chums of the Camp Fire Part 15

"I'll tell you what I'm m-m-meaning to do," said Toby, "after we get d-d-done the breakfast d-d-dishes. F-f-frogs!"

"Oh! I see, you're worried about all that chorus work they kept up last night, and mebbe you think there were some who sang off-key, which bothers your musical ear, so you want to pick 'em out, and even things up," and Steve grinned as he said this, because he did not have as high an opinion of Toby's accomplishments in the line of music as he might.

"I'm not pretending to have any such c-c-cla.s.sical n-n-notion," the accused one indignantly declared; "it's a c-c-case of dinner with me. I l-l-like frogs' legs, and they l-l-like me first-rate; so when things agree that way, what's the sense of k-k-keepin' 'em separate?"

"No use at all, Toby," admitted Steve, as though he had seen a great light, "and if you feel like growing a pair of frogs' legs in place of the ones you've got now, why, I wouldn't throw a thing in the way. Only I warn you it would be dangerous practicing singing frog songs by daylight."

Toby did not answer this thrust, only sniffed, and turned away.

Each of the others had a number of things scheduled for attention on this morning. The camp was in pretty good trim by now, but there always seems to be something that can be done in order to make it more cheerful; and Max was one of those fellows who like to potter around, making improvements.

Steve wanted to wander over in the direction of the farmhouse, and tried to find some good excuse for going; but the milk supply promised to hold out for the day, and they certainly would not need more eggs until the next morning.

The fact of the matter was he had heard the accounts of how Max and Bandy-legs had been so splendidly treated by Mrs. Ketcham with more or less envy; because it happened that Steve was pa.s.sionately fond of doughnuts of the old-fas.h.i.+oned New England cruller kind; and he hoped the farmer's wife might still have a nest of the same in her big stone crock.

He even suggested that possibly Bandy-legs might like to go with him, so as to take a picture of the big watchdog that had given him such a lively time, in order to keep the adventure green in his memory. But having other things laid out for that morning to keep him busy, the other chum respectfully but firmly declined to be coaxed into making a four mile tramp, when there was really no need of it.

So poor disappointed Steve had to give up for that day his hope of obtaining any of those choice doughnuts.

"And chances are," he was heard to mutter to himself as he started to get busy with something or other, "they'll be clean eaten up by another day; but that's always my luck when doughnuts are around. It's too mean for anything."

However Steve was too good-natured a fellow to remain gloomy very long at a stretch, and in ten minutes they heard him trolling a comical ditty as he worked away, showing that his "doughnut fever" had calmed down sensibly.

Meanwhile Toby after awhile made ready to wander over in the direction of the pond where that frog chorus inspired him with high hopes of reaping a bountiful harvest.

He had arranged a long stout pole, with a short line and a hook at the small end. This latter he ornamented with a piece of bright red flannel some two inches square and supplied by Max, which he was wise enough to tie securely to the shank of the hook, well up from the barb, but so it concealed the point.

He also carried the trouting basket slung over his shoulder by the canvas strap, and made sure that his hunting knife had a good edge to it, for he meant to fix the frogs as he took them, thus saving himself more or less of a burden in carrying the useless portions along with him.

"Steve, would you m-m-mind doing me a g-g-great favor?" Toby asked, as he stood there all ready to make a start.

"Sure I wouldn't mind, Toby; what is it?" the other asked quickly.

"I'd like to c-c-carry your g-g-gun along with me," said Toby.

"Not to shoot frogs with, I hope?" remarked Bandy-legs, in high scorn.

"K-k-keep out of this, p-p-please, Bandy-legs," the other told him.

"Steve knows I wouldn't be g-g-guilty of doing that. But you see, a feller can't tell what he might run up against these d-d-days, when there's some k-k-kind of mysterious animal p-p-prowlin' around. D-d-did you s-s-say yes, Steve?"

"You're as welcome to the little Marlin as flowers in spring, Toby,"

Steve told him; "and here, put several more sh.e.l.ls in your pocket.

Remember I've got a couple with buckshot loaded in the barrels right now. If so be you _have_ to use the gun, be sure you know what you're banging away at, because they'd have you up for murder if you hit a poor man with that charge."

"Oh! I'll be careful, sure I will, Steve; and t-t-thank you ever so m-m-much for lending it to me," with which the overjoyed Toby shouldered the weapon, and started forth.

"Sure you know where the pond lies, do you?" asked Max; "and don't forget that the camp is due southeast of the same. When you start home take your bearings, and if you're in doubt even once, give us a whoop.

Sometimes its possible to get lost in the woods, and that means a heap of trouble, don't it, Bandy-legs?"

"Well, if you change that to a swamp I can say yes, all right, because I have been there, and know," was the answer the query brought out.

But Toby had no such fear. He had spent considerable time in the open, so that he had learned many useful lessons, though he sometimes did allow himself to grow more or less careless. The pond was not so very far away but what he could make those by the campfire hear if he wished to shout; and surely a fellow must be a fool who could get lost under such conditions.

He made a bee-line through the woods, as nearly as the nature of the undergrowth would allow such a thing. Before long he had arrived in sight of the pond, which he was pleased to see covered many acres, and had the appearance of a splendid haunt for great big greenbacked frogs.

He could hear them grunting in various places, and this made Toby's heart beat high with hope, for he was especially fond of the sport; though not cruel enough to have indulged in it just for the sake of killing the high jumpers; but the thought of the feasts to come spurred him on to do his best.

It is not always the easiest thing in the world to circ.u.mvent a shrewd old grandfather frog who has long grown suspicious of everything that walks on two feet. To crawl up close enough to him to softly push your pole far out, so that the red lure dangles in front of his nose and within a few inches, often requires considerable labor, and necessitates more or less skill as well.

Toby soon became intensely interested in his work. He would stand the gun up against a certain tree while he ranged the immediate sh.o.r.e, and possibly made several captures. It was not long before he was sorry he had bothered fetching the firearm at all, because there seemed no reason for doing so, and it made him many unnecessary steps.

His success was phenomenal, and for an hour he kept moving around the edge of the pond, the banks of which were heavily wooded for the most part.

By that time he had almost two dozen "saddles" in his trout creel, and it was beginning to bother him by feeling heavy; as well as slipping forward while he crept along on hands and knees, in order to get close to some monster who seemed suspicious, and had to be approached carefully.

Finally Toby fell into the habit of leaving the basket along with his gun. When he made a capture he would immediately kill the frog, and toss him over to where these things lay, if within throwing distance. Then, when ready to move further on it was his habit to dress those victims he had gathered meanwhile, after which he allowed himself to be tempted to proceed "just a little further." That is always the way when frog-hunting; one may decide that he has really obtained enough for the time being; but then the conditions may never be as good again; and some of the spoils can easily be kept over until another day by immersing them in cold water.

So Toby toiled on, creeping, sliding, crawling, and doing about everything an active, ambitious hunter might, in pitting his powers against a wary species of quarry that had only to make one big jump in order to baffle all his plans.

Finally he knew that the creel would not hold many more of those big "saddles," and accordingly Toby promised himself that he would surely stop when he had taken just five, in addition to those already bagged.

Three times he tossed a victim over to the bank, where he could see the gun and the basket. A fourth fell into his hands after a long steal through some reeds, and having put an end to the victim's struggles, Toby turned to throw him to the bank, after which he would look for the very last frog he meant to take.

He did not throw that defunct jumper, however, although his hand was drawn back to make the cast. Instead Toby stood there staring, a wrinkle stealing between his eyes just above his nose, as it always did when the boy was puzzled.

"Now, what's that m-m-mean?" he grumbled to himself, as he started post-haste toward the bank. "Mebbe Steve's come out to s-s-see how I'm doing, and he's j-j-just snuck my b-b-basket away for f-f-fun. There's the g-g-gun aleanin' 'gainst that tree all right, but where's my b-b-bully lot of f-f-frogs, I want to know?"

And indeed it was just as Toby said; for the shotgun could be plainly seen where he had laid it, against the base of a tree-trunk; but the trout creel filled almost to the lid with the delicious white meat "saddles" of his many victims had mysteriously vanished!

CHAPTER XIII

THE SECRET OUT

When he presently managed to reach the spot he was aiming for Toby was pretty much all out of breath. He had been forced to exert himself considerably in order to get that last victim; and then came this sudden call upon his energies.

He stared all around him, but could not see any sign of mischievous Steve. The trees were for the most part too small to very well conceal any one behind their trunks, it being every bit second-growth timber.

"Steve, l-l-let up on that f-f-foolin', and b-b-bring me back my b-b-basket of b-b-bully f-f-frogs' legs, won't you, please?"

Toby called this out fairly loud, having by now managed to partly recover his lost breath. He waited, and hoped to see the laughing face of his chum thrust itself into view; but nothing happened.

Then Toby began to grow alarmed. He reached down, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun from its resting-place alongside the tree-trunk; after which he pulled back both hammers with trembling thumb, while he scanned his surroundings. His eyes were distended, and there was an anxious glow in them; just as though the boy half expected that a savage striped jungle tiger would suddenly make a leap from out the branches of a pine tree near by, and seek to pounce upon him.

But although he scanned each neighboring harbor of refuge earnestly he saw not a sign of a yellow form lying on a limb, and watching him hungrily.